Simms, William Gilmore, 1806-1870 [1853], Marie de Berniere: a tale of the Crescent City (Lippincott, Grambo and Co., Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf685T].
To look up a word in a dictionary, select the word with your mouse and press 'd' on your keyboard.
Main text
-- -- p685-010
MARIE DE BERNIERE; A TALE OF THE CRESCENT CITY.
[figure description] Page 013.[end figure description]
CHAPTER I. THE FRIENDS—FIRST VISIT TO THE CRESCENT CITY.
It was in the winter of — (it does not matter about
the year) that I made my first visit to the Crescent
City, as New Orleans has been fancifully and felicitously
called. It was not then the wondrous business
metropolis that we now behold it; but sufficiently
stately, magnificent, and populous, even then, to turn
the head of a simple backwoodsman like myself.
Until that period, I had never beheld a city deserving
of the name—had never, in fact, been much beyond
the little village, in West Tennessee, which
constituted the nearest market-town to my father's
plantation. In brief, I was but a humble rustic,
without any of the advantages of travel, and but few
of education. Thus ignorant, at eighteen years of
age, I descended the Mississippi to the queen of cities,
seated at its mouth. I had for a companion, on this
expedition, a young friend, something older than
-- 014 --
[figure description] Page 014.[end figure description]
myself, however, who, besides, had enjoyed a much
larger experience. Frederick Brandon was a Tennessean
also. He had seen something of our American
world—had been once among the Eastern States
and cities, and had passed more than once before
over the route which we now pursued. He knew
every headland, every plantation, and, as it seemed
to me, every person along the river. He was about
five years my senior, and had been better taught than
myself in almost every possible respect. I necessarily
deferred to him; I was pleased and proud to do
so. I had every confidence in his affection, and his
superior knowledge and judgment, and felt that he
could enlighten me on a thousand subjects, of which
my information was distressingly small. He was the
person to do so without mortifying my self-esteem,
having as little vanity and arrogance as I ever met
in any person whose claims were so considerable. To
him, New Orleans was no novelty, though always a
great attraction. He had a sister who had been married
some seven years before to a wealthy Creole of
the city, and frequent visits, and an occasional residence
with her, had made all its places familiar. He
was the man, over all others, to spy out all the secrets
and explore all the haunts of a great metropolis. He
possessed a lively curiosity, with an unexcitable temperament—
a rather rare combination—and was prompt
and active always, without showing either eagerness
or hurry. His nerves seemed to be wrought of steel.
Sternly resolute, even as a gladiator, he was yet not
easily ruffled. A man of great muscular power, he
-- 015 --
[figure description] Page 015.[end figure description]
was yet slow to anger, and preferred always, where
this was possible, to excuse or to escape annoyance,
rather than, with unnecessary haste, to construe it
into an impertinence, which no person was more ready
to resent. With this temperament, at once cool and
curious, New Orleans had few mysteries which he had
not contrived to penetrate. Its walks and cafés, its
theatres and hells—for at this period the Crescent
City could boast of quite a number of licensed gaming
establishments of the most gigantic dimensions—were
all familiar to his footsteps. He seemed everywhere
to carry with him that spell of character, which is an
open sesame, throwing wide to the seeker every avenue
to the most secret recesses of social morals and of
the practices which mostly tend to lay bare, and render
active the secret susceptibilities and propensities
of the erring nature. Not that he himself was
either dissipated or vicious. On the contrary, he
never played, and was singularly temperate in all his
indulgences. I look back after a lapse of near thirty
years upon his character, as I knew it, with almost
the same degree of admiration now, which I felt for
him at first. His powers of caution, of circumspection
rather, of endurance, resistance, and subjectivity, were
indeed wonderful; and it is to their influence I
owe it, that I so soon learned to navigate the mysterious
avenues, and penetrate the doubtful abodes of
the great city, without suffering from its snares and
pitfalls, I could tell some queer stories about our
desultory wanderings and strange discoveries—but
these may serve a turn hereafter. Let it answer now,
-- 016 --
[figure description] Page 016.[end figure description]
that, in the course of a few weeks, I had acquired
such a perfect carte du pays of the municipal and
social world into which I had thus, for the first time,
penetrated, that I too might have taken up the business
of the cicerone, in the goodly city, without greatly
discrediting my master.
CHAPTER II. SOCIETY IN NEW ORLEANS—NEW PARTIES.
Through Brandon's sister, Madame de Chateauneuve,
I obtained my entrée to society. By this word
society, however, must be understood that only of the
Creole or native population at that early day in New
Orleans, when the city numbered some thirty-five
thousand people only. Scarcely any other social
world was recognized. The Anglo-American population
were neither sufficiently numerous, nor in sufficiently
good repute, to form an extensive or an ample
community of their own. The Gallic-American circles
were not easily accessible. They were composed
of a proud aristocratic people, possessed of an equal
share of jealousies and refinements. They regarded
the Anglo-Americans as mere intruders—adventurers
by no means representing the better classes of their
people—traders equally unpolished and reckless, having
no aims that did not lie within the narrow compass
of the sovereign dollar! They despised them accordingly;
and soon learned to detest, even as cordially
-- 017 --
[figure description] Page 017.[end figure description]
as they despised, when they found these adventurers,
as competitors, in trade, unrestrained by the conventions
of a customary society, undiverted from the one
purpose by any sense of grace and luxury, and whose
superior energies—the result, in some measure, of
their deficient refinements and inferior tastes—were
rapidly undermining their prosperity, and wresting
from them hourly the profits of a trade which the
Creole had rather carried on as an amateur than as
a professor.
It would not, I think, be easy to understand, at
this latter day—now that everything is somewhat altered
in these respects—the wholesale aversion with
which the natives of Louisiana, at that period, regarded
the strange population. They made some distinction,
it is true, between members of the same race,
engaged in agriculture, and those employed in trade,
which were greatly favorable to the former class.
Thus, as I was the son of a planter, and destined to
become a planter myself, I was necessarily recognized
as a gentleman—though still after the Anglo-Saxon
formulæ. It did not matter that my planting interest
was a petty one. It was quite sufficient that its
tendencies were recognized as calculated to raise the
social nature, and elevate the tastes of the individual
to a rank very far superior to those which were usually
ascribed to trade.
In consequence of this distinction, my social position
was freed from the usual disabilities of my race
in New Orleans, and Madame de Chateauneuve kindly
achieved the rest. She found for me a sufficient
-- 018 --
[figure description] Page 018.[end figure description]
passport. Under her wing, I went the visiting rounds,
and became incorporated with that circle in which
she moved without impediment. She was a calm,
strong-minded person, very much resembling her
brother; and, like a sensible woman, she swayed her
husband's household, without mortifying his amour
propre.
Monsieur Philip de Chateauneuve was a merchant
of the old school—a class, by the way, quite as well
known to the history of trade among the English, as
among their Gallic neighbors. He was a large importer
of French and German wines, and was properly
interested in his business, without suffering his appetite
for gain to render him heedless of the demands
of society—a nice and difficult distinction which the
Anglo-American has yet justly to appreciate. He
contrived, in other words, to maintain together the
character of the trader and the gentleman—was contented
with moderate profits and a moderate business,
and did not fancy that his sole destination in life lay
in his day-book and ledger. He was thus enabled to
devote some time and study to literature and the fine
arts, of which he was passionately fond; and his collection,
though on a small scale, would have refreshed
the connoisseur, as his gallery was not more petit than
recherche. He had some pictures, picked up during
a twelvemonth's visit to the continent of Europe, and
a correspondence with friendly amateurs in Italy,
which he had been careful to nurse and keep alive.
Monsieur de Chateauneuve was considerably older
than his wife, whom he professed to treat rather as a
-- 019 --
[figure description] Page 019.[end figure description]
child than a woman. To all this she yielded with a
deference seemingly the most implicit, being quite
satisfied to wield the essentials of power, without disputing
about its shows. Her brother was quite a
favorite with her Baron, and in some degree I succeeded,
after a season, to his favor also. But these
details are unnecessary. Enough, that the freedom
of his house afforded me that of several of the oldest
native families, the very families, representing an order
of things rapidly dying out, but which, in numberless
respects, deserved to survive their disabilities,
which, of all things, I should have most desired.
With a very slight smattering of French, which
was sufficiently imperfect to encourage my friends
to correct me graciously—a task which my fair
companions always performed in such a manner as to
make the correction agreeable—I made my way into
society with tolerable success. Though something of
a rustic, I was lively and good-natured, and my equal
simplicity and animation were serviceable to me in a
condition of the social world which if highly sophisticated,
had never yet lost its frankness. I flattered
myself that I grew rather popular, and Brandon
assured me that such was the case. Invitations,
accordingly, poured in upon, and kept me busy. An
incessant round of parties—morning, noon, and evening
reunions—made me something of a gallant; and
I, who had lately worn moccasons and leggings, was
now well satisfied to believe that I had never danced
in anything more grotesque than French opera boots,
and Poniatowski pumps!
-- 020 --
[figure description] Page 020.[end figure description]
One delightful morning in January found Frederick
Brandon and myself eagerly engaged in discussing our
habits for the bal masque of Madame Marie de Berniere.
This lady was a belle and a fortune. She was
the youthful widow of the once notorious Col. Eugene
de Berniere, a sugar planter and a famous swordsman.
He was one of a school now nearly extinct, who
prided himself on his reputation as a fire-eater. He
had been emphatically un mauvais sujet, one of the
most malignant of a tribe whose malignity assumed a
type of fanaticism little short of insanity, and who
seemed anxious to distinguish themselves by a sort of
general warfare against humanity. A fierce, dark,
savage man, ungenial and morose, he had been a domestic
tyrant, and was equally feared by his family,
and loathed by society, which he nevertheless contrived
to bully into the appearance of respect and
certainly into forbearance.
Marie Prideau, now de Berniere, was some twenty
years younger than himself. She had been forced
into his arms when but a child of sixteen, by the
perverse avarice of her needy mother, who very soon
learned to deplore the folly of which she had been
guilty, the cruel fruits of which she was yet not compelled
in her own person to endure. These enured
wholly to the unhappy victim, her daughter. Col.
de Berniere soon taught her an experience in torture
which might have afforded some lessons to the Spanish
Inquisition, in the day of its maturer tyrannies. He
soon grew jealous of the fidelity of the beautiful
creature delivered into his hands, assured as he was,
-- 021 --
[figure description] Page 021.[end figure description]
by the infallible convictions of his nature, that there
was nothing in himself at all calculated to secure or
influence her affections. But his jealousy was wholly
without cause.
The virtues of Marie de Berniere were beyond reproach.
Her prudence, however, was at fault. Of
a high spirit, a frank and ardent temper, she could
not conceal the disgust and aversion which his brutalities
provoked. His treatment of her was harsh and
brutal, amounting at times to violence; and his death,
which happened suddenly, was a grateful relief from
the most cruel of all bonds. She felt it so, and affected
none of the regrets which she could not be
supposed to feel. She was at no great pains to convince
the world that she was unconsolable; still, she
offended against none of the proprieties. She clad
herself and household in the usual habits of mourning.
She abstained from the gayer circles of society; she
violated none of its rules; and her conduct was held
not merely unexceptionable, but, among those who
knew her history, exemplary in a high degree. And
thus she continued till the period of our narrative.
It was now nearly two years since the death of her
tyrant. Her weeds were all discarded; she had resumed
her place in society, and was now preparing to
give her first grand entertainment. All the world,
to employ the superlative idiom of the French, was
agog for the occasion. They knew her story; they
felt her charms; they had not forgotten the great
wealth, which the sudden death of her husband, without
heirs, had secured without restraint to herself.
-- 022 --
[figure description] Page 022.[end figure description]
The public mind was greatly excited, and indulged in
glowing expectations. Conjecture and rumor were
busy in describing, in language the most exaggerated,
the delights and glories which we might anticipate.
The young widow was about to revenge herself for
her long forbearance; and the prediction was confident
and universal that we were soon to enjoy a
festival more brilliant, picturesque, and charming than
had been seen for many years before in our American
Paris. Great preparations for the event were known
to be in progress, and all the auguries were propitious
and all the prophecies were grateful. Anticipation,
however, if I may dare to say so, did not go quite far
enough. The spectacle may have had a self-exaggerating
effect in eyes which, like mine, had not been
familiar with such displays, and which, accordingly,
were without the just standards for determining upon
them, but there is still a considerable circle in the
Crescent City, as it was some thirty years ago, who
will long remember the bal masque of Madame de
Berniere, not less from what actually took place,
than by what was so glowingly promised to public
expectation.
-- 023 --
CHAPTER III. PREPARATIONS FOR THE BAL MASQUE—EXPECTATIONS.
[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]
I need not shame to say that the event, the anticipations
of which had occasioned such a complete
bouleversement among the fashionables of New Orleans,
turned my head also. I was an eager boy; this was
my first appearance on such a scene, and I was in a
tumult of pleasurable excitement. I had heard of the
masked balls among the Europeans—of their motley
crowds, their wild splendor, their ever-changing aspects
and ever-fruitful provocations to pleasure; the
humors which they elicited, the curious blunders
which they occasioned and developed; their dramatic
éclaircissement—the felicitous fancies and unique
tastes which made their inimitable contrast; the merriment
and wit which flowed or flashed in the keen
encounter of well-chosen characters; and more than
all, the romance of their intrigues, and the results,
as grateful to the heart as to the fancy, which sometimes
sprung from the happy exhibitions which they
made equally of heart and fancy.
These were my thoughts and dreams, leading me
to the encouragement of the wildest expectations, far
beyond the possibility even of what I was really to
enjoy. The romance of the thing appealed to an imagination
only too eager and impetuous, always and
forever on the wing. That indescribable halo with
-- 024 --
[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
which the fancy invests the creature of the hope or
the thought, far beyond anything in the capacity of
man to realize, had borne me aloft into that ideal
land of anticipation, where all the aspects that encounter
us are of such stuff only as make the visions
of the inexperienced boy. But the human sense was
present, to give body to the glad and wandering
sentiment. To confess a truth, I had some vague
notions of personal adventure; of some romantic encounter
with beauty in a disguise which I was decreed
to penetrate—beneath which I was to discover charms,
and sensibilities, and affections, which were to be the
more valuable as they had already learned to find a
value in myself. In brief, I was to be made happy
by a happy conquest. Oh dreams! dreams! But
not the less precious that they are nothing more.
CHAPTER IV. BRANDON'S PASSION.
Brandon had his expectations, also, not less pleasant
than mine, and resting on far better foundations.
He did not withhold them from me, though he revealed
them now for the first time. His were hopes and expectations,
rather than mere dreams. That portion
of my romance which ensued from the mystery, did
not belong to his calculations. These he did not suppress.
He had a passion actively working in his
heart, the object of which was no less a person than
-- 025 --
[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]
the fair widow herself. Of her he had never spoken to
me before; and her home was almost the only one, of
all within the range of his sister's circle, into which I
had not gone in his company. But he had gone thither
alone. This he now revealed to me. He had long
known her, and had loved her even before the death of
her husband. Speaking of him, he had but a single
word—“Brute!” which he repeated with singular
emphasis. From him I now received her story.
Brandon then revealed to me his own relations with
the widow.
“If woman,” said he, “were always her own mistress—
were she not too commonly influenced by what
is called the world, and what she considers its friendships—
I might easily persuade myself to indulge in a
hope which might seem to others unbecoming. But
to you, William, I frankly say that, if I do not greatly
deceive myself, I have a place in Marie's heart. I
loved her when she was the wife of another, though I
knew not the fact myself. Then I saw her but infrequently,
and we had no opportunities for speech together.
But she must even then have seen the earnestness
with which I watched her; and I have a thousand
times fancied since, when endeavoring to recall the
past, that her eye, even then, frequently distinguished
me from among the crowd. Since she has opened
her doors to society, I have availed myself of my
sister's intimacy, to see her frequently. We have
also met when none were present; and I feel my advances
have not been made in vain. I confess to you
-- 026 --
[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
frankly, that I love her beyond any woman I have
ever yet beheld.”
“But how will you overcome the difficulty in regard
to religion? I heard your sister last night say, that
she was something of a devotee—quite a wild spiritualist,
and a little too much under the influence of her
ghostly father.”
“She is spiritual only because she is imaginative.
She is religious and a devotee, only because hers is a
very earnest and enthusiastic nature. Her religion,
I fancy, will be no difficulty with me, if mine should
suggest none to her. She is a Catholic, and I, if anything,
am an Episcopalian. There are really no vital
differences between the two creeds, except in respects
which rather concern society than the individual.
The great effort of Protestantism in England was
rather to strip the state of its religion, than the man.
In that country, now, the established church is simply
an instrument of state, one of the political agencies
for the maintenance of a system. I am tolerant. I
do not feel that my faith has any right to quarrel
with the forms of another, which admits her to be
pure, fond, and faithful, simply because it obeys certain
prescriptive modes in its exhibition. My wife
may pray at any altar that she pleases, so that she
really does pray, and always puts me forward in her
prayers. For me, I think it likely she will suffer me
to worship where I please, always provided that I
make no other living woman my madonna.”
I laughed. I had no doubt of his success, and I
told him so. I felt sure that few women could
-- 027 --
[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
withstand him. Few men were in possession of more
decided or superior attractions. Something has already
been said of his character. His personal claims
were not a whit behind those of his intellect. A more
manly fellow never left the mountains of Tennessee.
A more graceful person never trod in the palaces of
nobility. Brave, generous, and frank—a splendid
rider, a famous wrestler, a deadly shot—he had yet
other attractions. He could pace a galliard like a
prince, and hold his ground with Hoyle and Phillidor
at whist and chess. Besides, his literary tastes had
been cultivated, and were of a decided character.
His information was large, and of that sort which
society most needs and most desires. He could suggest
a plan for draining a meadow, reclaiming a desert,
improving a crop, and designing a cottage; and, without
obtruding his art, he could frame a sonnet to a
sentiment, or compose the song for a favorite strain
of summer music. It is true that Frederick Brandon
had little wealth; but what of this, if that of Marie
de Berniere could suffice for both? I felt sure, and
spoke confidently of his success. He heard me patiently.
“I do not certainly underrate my hopes,” said he;
“but I am very sure that I do not overrate my fears.
I foresee much difficulty before me, from a cause which
is scarcely visible to you; nor can I now explain it
myself. Enough, that I have a severe struggle before
me, which will test all my strength and ingenuity.
But hither comes my sister. Not a word more. Let
us look now at the visors.”
-- 028 --
CHAPTER V. MADAME DE BERNIERE.
[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
That very morning, under the auspices of Madame
de Chateauneuve, I made my first visit to the lovely
Marie de Berniere. She received us very graciously,
and was, I fancied, particularly solicitous of the favorable
regards of Madame de C. Nor had I any reason
to complain. Benevolence and sweetness were apparently
the most distinguishing traits in her composition;
and she very soon put me quite at ease beside
her. When I left her, I felt as if she were an old
acquaintance. I have said that Marie de Berniere
was a belle. She deserved to be so, and would have
had friends in spite of all her fortune. She was but
twenty-two at the time of which I write, and possessed
all the frankness, the delicacy, and freshness of a girl
of seventeen; with the additional advantages of a contemplative
mood derived from a premature experience.
Never did a more beautiful or princely creature glide
through the measured majesty of dance. Her form
was rather above the middling size, but eminently
symmetrical. Her carriage was at once dignified and
unaffected. So much grace and simplicity, with so
much elevation and nobility, were never before united
in the same person. Her features were by no means
regular. Regularity of features, indeed, is seldom
consistent with real or remarkable beauty—but hers
-- 029 --
[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
were so perfect in themselves, and each so perfect by
itself, that their combined expression was irresistible,
and readily served to divert the eye from any too
close analysis of details, which might have resulted in
an unfavorable decision upon the whole. In brief,
you were touched, and made to sympathize with the
object, before you could begin its study, and then all
farther examination was prosecuted under a bias which
left the judgment no longer free. You were not allowed
to perceive a deficiency in charms which had
already dazzled the glance and warmed the fancy;
and the mind yielded with the eye, and the heart submitted
at the first summons, to a nameless influence
which was sufficient to prejudice, in its behalf, the
severest purpose of the critic. Such was the effect of
the beauty of Marie de Berniere on most persons. In
this way, perhaps, had it won the young admiration
of my companion. He admitted that he had yielded
without resistance, at a mere glance, when he first
came to New Orleans; but he insisted that the first
impressions of his eye had been confirmed by the subsequent
experience of his mind. We shall see. At
all events, I was not prepared, or indeed, at all disposed,
to question the propriety of his feelings or the
wisdom of his tastes. My first interview with the
beautiful widow awakened in my own heart a warm
and genial attachment for her; not of love, remember,
but of such a kind as to make it easy to understand
how it should be love in the bosom of my friend.
Still, I am disposed to think that, prudent and cool
in all other matters, Frederick Brandon had hurried
-- 030 --
[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
into this attachment with all the impulse of the boy,
just freed from the leash at twenty-one. All men
have their rashnesses, and this was his. Admitting
all the charms of Marie de Berniere, there were some
peculiarities about her that never entirely satisfied
myself.
These, I was more sensible of, during a quiet evening
at Madame de Chateauneuve's mansion, preceding
by a few days the bal masque, and where I saw her
for the second time. On this occasion, I studied her
with much more freedom and particularity than before.
That she was a person of many and imposing
beauties, such as must infallibly make themselves
admired and soon beloved by thousands, almost at a
glance, I could easily perceive and will cheerfully
admit. It was the style and manner of her beauty
that did not satisfy me—that startled me, in fact,
and made me to fear, in some degree, as well as to
admire. I felt that there was something unnaturally
powerful in the very intensity of her glance. Nothing
could have been more brilliant than her eye. But it
was fascination, no less than splendor. The effect was
rather to dazzle and confound, than to persuade. If
it had the brilliancy of the diamond—its purity and
clearness—it seemed to possess its hardness also.
The lady had a habit of looking on you, fixedly, into
your very eye—a habit which very seldom pleases
or attracts; her own glittering all the while, with a
piercing shaft-like directness, of the intensity of
which she seemed to be nearly entirely unconscious.
It happened, not unfrequently, while she was thus
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
looking through you, as it were, that your remarks
would utterly fail to fix her thoughts or command her
attention. Her mind seemed, at such moments, to be
wandering; her faculties absorbed in musings and
contemplations as widely remote from what you were
saying, and even from yourself, as if she were wholly
in another world and presence; and when, by an evident
effort of will, she would recall her consciousness
to the things about her, it was with a seeming restlessness
of mood that robbed the features, for awhile,
of all expression. These were peculiarities which I
did not conceive to be pleasant ones. There was yet
another. There was a something in the occasional
quivering of her thin lips, which produced an uncomfortable
sensation; and she had a habit of drawing
in her breath, at moments of pause, in the conversation,
with a slight sobbing sound, such as an infant
gives out after having cried itself to sleep. This was
another peculiarity which, I confess, tended somewhat
to qualify my admiration of her charms. They
seemed to be so many proofs of an hysterical tendency,
and to betray, also, the weight of some secret
sorrow or anxiety, which we do not relish should
appear conspicuous in the case of youth and feminine
beauty. I doubt whether Frederick Brandon perceived
these peculiarities at all, or they may have
seemed to him only so many additional beauties.
Of her features a brief sketch will suffice. Her
hair was of a light brown; her eye was hazel; her
complexion dazzlingly fair, and distinguished by the
most delicate peach-blossom that ever kindled the
-- 032 --
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
virgin cheek to loveliness. Never was mouth more
sweetly yet expressively fashioned. Her nose was
Grecian; the eye large and eminent; the chin full,
but delicately rounded; the forehead high rather than
massive; the neck long and white, arching beautifully,
and the throat broad and very fair, and worthy of
the well-fashioned bust from which it rose. Of her
figure and carriage I have spoken.
Such was the result of my observations during my
second interview with Madame de Berniere. They
must not be thought unfavorable. Perhaps I sought
for defects, in order to prevent myself from becoming
too much pleased. I must add that, personally, I had
no reason to be less satisfied with her on this than
on the previous occasion. Her attention to me was
quite as friendly as before. She evidently treated me
with special favor; and I was not vain enough to
ascribe this treatment to any cause but the high degree
of favor which my friend enjoyed in her estimation.
But, let us hurry; the masquerade approaches.
CHAPTER VI. THE BAL MASQUE—THE TWO EGYPTIANS.
The bal masque might well have been a native of
the Crescent City. It is here more at home than in
any other portion of the Union. Here it belongs to
the original sources of society—the creation of a
Provençal and Andalusian parentage. It accords with
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
the flexible mood of the people, their social readiness,
the felicity of their humor, its play, and liveliness.
It is also characteristic of a nature that loves to turn
aside to regions of its own, to dream, and indulge in
fanciful wanderings. It is grateful to the South; it
belongs to starlight and flowers, and appeals to tastes
and sensibilities, which, in consequence of the very
intensity of the native passions, prefers to disguise
the over-earnest impulses, and to mask from exposure
the too eager susceptibilities. That it is a dangerous
recreation, as calculated to promote intrigue, is perhaps
only true of it among a colder and more calculating
people. I doubt if it is employed for any
such purpose in New Orleans. It is simply one of
the sports which constitute the romance of society,
and divert it from its passions. It belongs rather to
the play of the people than to their appetites. It
brings out ingenious resource in conversation; exercises
the subtleties of small social diplomacy; enables
a bashful lover, perhaps, to declare, under a monk's
visage, what he would not venture beneath his own;
but seldom goes a fraction farther. It is the colder
and more deliberate nature that plans and contrives
such an agency for the promotion of more dangerous
and deeper purposes; a prurient and vicious mind,
that forever broods over its mere appetites; nursing,
by means of thought, those characteristics which
properly belong only to the sanguine impulses. The
passions of the warm South, once aroused, would
break through and fling aside all disguises. It cannot
often employ hypocrisy for the purposes of passion;
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
and is as far as possible from any cold calculations in
respect to it. These belong really to regions where
the blood is never too warm for the control of the
intellect; and where, accordingly, the intellect itself
is made use of to stimulate the ardor and the fervor
of the blood.
But a truce to these preliminaries. Let it suffice
that the bal masque of Madame de Berniere was one
of the most splendid affairs that had ever taken place
in New Orleans. It was decidedly beyond anything
that I had ever dreamed of as likely to occur in our
time and country. It realized all my fancies of what
might happen in foreign lands, where wealth, art,
taste, and luxury combine for the gratification of the
senses and the delight of the imagination.
The mansion of Madame de Berniere was a huge
antique double establishment, situated in the rue de—,
the “court” precinct in the old French city.
Its dimensions were sufficiently ample even for the
vast entertainment which it now afforded.
We came at an early hour. The place was illuminated
gloriously, from basement to attic; the lights
disposed in wreaths, in stars, in crescents, upon the
windows, making deep night in that narrow street
emulous of noonday. The long treble line of carriages
which filled the avenue, even at the early hour
of our coming, declared, as certainly as any other
sign, the sensation which the affair had occasioned
among the ancient aristocracy of this the American
Paris. The broad passage-way, through which the
dwelling was entered, was crowded ere we came; and
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
it required a struggle to secure ingress, through the
multitude. I was dazzled and bewildered, and but for
Madame de Chateauneuve, must have been lost. What
with the glance of lights, the confusion of tongues,
the splendor and variety of costumes, the blaze of
jewels, and the frequent bursts of a full and noble
orchestra, I was completely taken from my feet. My
eyes wandered from subject to subject, with an absolute
consternation. I began to fancy myself in some
famous European palace, amongst crowned heads and
nobility. There they were, looking like the life.
There were kings and princes; popes and cardinals;
dukes, and lords, and knights; jongleurs and troubadours;
Cleopatra, with her basket of asps and apples;
Anne Bullen, followed by the headsman, and a wondrous
array of other famous individual characters from
the days of Solomon to those of Louis Quatorze, and
later. But mine is not a catalogue, and the reader
must conceive for himself the assortment of distinguished
personages, such as would be likely to make
their appearance on an occasion so grateful to aristocracy.
We struggled as we could, through the dense and
shifting masses, until we reached the dais of reception,
where, until a certain hour—until the guests, in fact,
were all assembled—our fair hostess sat in a modest
state, unmarked, and in ordinary ball costume. Here,
in simplest white, with one pale rose just blossoming
in her hand, Marie de Berniere shone as a star of the
first magnitude. I had the honor to present Madame
Chateauneuve, while Frederick Brandon followed us.
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
I felt very much like falling upon one knee, as to
royalty, and making my profound obeisance to the
beautiful sovereign, who, looking so much like Una,
the mistress of the snow-white lamb, as described by
Spenser, seemed to be now entirely without defect—
a perfect creature of delight. Her beauty, I confess,
at this moment, seemed completely pure, and without
qualification. She was really in her element.
What was the delight of my friend, I could readily
conjecture, though I am sure, even had his visor been
lifted, that no one could have suspected the fervor of
his fancy, or the depth of his attachment, in that
calm white brow, and that sweet repose and gentle
satisfaction which rayed out modestly from his great
blue eyes. I watched both the parties as he drew
nigh to make his bow, and fancied that the smile
with which she welcomed him was one of peculiar indulgence.
That she knew all of us, though we came
in character and masks, was the natural consequence
of the arrangement for the ball, by which she possessed
an advantage over all her guests. It was one
of the modes adopted for securing the company from
the intrusion of improper or uninvited persons, that
each expected guest was required to apprize her of
the costume in which they would appear. His card,
with her signature, could alone secure admission to
the mansion, which was guarded by a strong police of
gens d' armes.
This plan gave her a key to all the characters present;
and I could see that her eye lingered earnestly
upon the erect form of my friend, shrouded as it was
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
in the flowing garments of the Egyptian magian.
But we were compelled to give place to other personages.
The preliminaries of reception may have consumed
an hour, when, without signal, Madame Marie de
Berniere disappeared from the circle, in which all was
now life and animation. When she again returned,
it was only to be lost among the thousand masks of
which nothing could be known except by conjecture.
The music timed all our proceedings, whether we
danced, walked, or took refreshments. We had a numerous
range of apartments on an upper and a lower
floor. A piazza in the rear of the building was inclosed
with canvas, artfully arrayed with festoons and
flowers, and draped with shawls and curtains. This,
in turn, conducted, by a flight of steps, into the loveliest
court, where every variety of flower and shrub
was congregated to give softness and sweetness to the
scene. In that warm latitude, even in February, it
was sometimes pleasant to glide into the cool porches,
and inhale the fresh breathings from the cisterns of
the night. All was privilege and pleasure, within the
bounds of propriety and taste. Now we grew together
in groups, interested by the attractive and
spirited dialogue of masks which were doing more
than common justice to the characters they had assumed;
and now we lingered over the prophecies of
some saucy gypsy, who used truth like a winged arrow—
as, by the way, it always is —sure to hit some bosom,
however randomly sent; and now we followed,
laughingly, after the ludicrous antics of some clever
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
Arlecchino, who might have earned his bread in Italy
where his art is more native than with us.
It was not long before, on every hand, the usual
silly preliminary of “I know you!” had given way to
settled dialogue, and, if the phrase be not an absurdity,
of serious conversation. The groups were now pretty
much broken up into pairs, each drawing aside with
him that mask which promised him most pleasure,
most excited his curiosity, or most gratified his vanity.
Of my own adventures and successes I shall say but
little. It needs not even be told in what costume I
appeared on this to me the most memorable of all
my social experiences. My fortune, I must admit,
was neither a very promising nor highly prominent
one. I may have flirted with a maid of honor, or
fancied that I felt a more than usual interest in a
Sicilian shepherdess—or squeezed, more tenderly than
was prudent, the fingers of a Hebrew damsel who
sighed over her virginity in the character of Jephtha's
daughter. You may conjecture what you please. I
shall make no confessions. It is my friend's story,
not my own, which I have promised you, and we shall
soon get to that. Certain it is, that for my own part
the proceedings were by no means satisfactory. I had
my vis-à-vis, true—and changed her, often enough;
more frequently, perhaps, than was complimentary to
her or profitable to myself; but I made no conquests,
and escaped scot-free myself. I strove, but did not
succeed, in persuading any of them to remove their
masks, though but for an instant, and was rather fatigued
than satisfied, long before anybody else was ennuyée.
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
Such, however, was far from being the case with
Frederick Brandon. He came to me a little after
midnight. The clocks throughout the house had all
been silenced; and, half wearied, I was stealing a
glance at my watch concealed within the folds of my
vest, when he laid his hand upon my arm. I turned,
with a guilty consciousness, and he saw what I was
doing.
“Fie!” said he, “looking at your watch. What
a barbarian—what a Tennessean! Beware, you must
not suffer our hostess to see you at such a provincialism.”
“She! Where is she? In what habit?”
“Hush! She is not far off! See there—there, as
Zenobia. Is she not a queenly creature?”
“She is, indeed.”
“How the habit suits her! She approaches.”
At these words, Frederick turned, and advanced
towards her. She took his arm promptly, as soon as
offered, and they disappeared among the groups. This
proceeding spoke favorably for my friend's success.
It would seem that they understood each other. I
followed their forms with my eyes, until a group of
masks, loud in merriment, drew nigh, and I shrunk
back from their clamors, into the recess of a window
half shrouded by rich curtains of blue and crimson.
There I threw myself upon a pile of cushions, gradually
losing myself in reverie; in great degree unseen
myself, yet able to see every passing costume. While
I mused, a shadow filled the space. I looked up and
saw the Egyptian habit of my friend.
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
“Ah, Frederick! So soon returned?” Such were
my words, to which he gave me no answer; but,
wheeling quietly about, he turned away. I rose to
follow, intending to say that I was really monstrous
weary, and meant to seek out his sister, in the hope
to find her similarly disposed to escape; but, just
then, a huge peasant woman of Savoy, followed by an
officer of the “Old Guard,” with a long train at their
heels, interposed, and arrested my progress. Before
I could extricate myself from this multitude, my
Egyptian had disappeared. I had just given up the
pursuit, and was turning again to my recess and cushions,
when I was surprised to find him at my elbow.
He came forward hurriedly, and from a different
quarter of the apartment from that where I had lost
him. I plucked him by the sleeve.
“This time I have you! Well—you have been
with her, and, let me say, you seem to understand
each other. Is it so? Does she smile?”
“Truly,” said he; and I could see that he spoke
with a slight agitation of manner which was quite unusual
with him. “Truly, she does. I have gained
something; but, just now, there's a curious mistake
which has taken place, and which troubles both of us.
Do not be out of the way, William; I may need your
assistance.”
He disappeared at these words, but soon returned,
when I gathered from him the following strange particulars.
He had joined Madame de Berniere, as I
had seen, on his first leaving me, and they had retired
into an alcove together. There, she had proceeded, as
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
if resuming a conversation which had been interrupted.
What she said was of a character particularly interesting
and grateful to my friend. Her remarks—
her manner of uttering them—and the nature of the
communication, were such as to impress him with the
conviction that she entertained the most lively interest
in himself and fortunes. All this was grateful
enough. But there was this one difficulty about the
matter, which struck and staggered Brandon, and it
was that what she said indicated a foregone conclusion,
and seemed to have reference to some recent
dialogue which had already taken place between the
parties. Her remarks, in fact, were so many responses;—
all of which would have been grateful
enough to my friend, but for the fact that she appeared
to have anticipated the very things which it had been
his purpose to speak to her. He hesitated about declaring
this difficulty, and, for a moment, was persuaded
that he should be content with the favor which
he had found, without troubling himself as to the particular
influences which had drawn it forth; but a
moment's reflection convinced him of the error into
which he should fall by having any subject of mystery
unexplained between them, and, somewhat hesitatingly,
he proceeded to tell her of the difficulty which
troubled him. Spoken in the most delicate and cautious
manner, she was yet shocked and terrified. She
recoiled from him.
“What mean you, Monsieur Brandon?”
“Do not doubt, dear Marie, that what you say is
grateful to me in the last degree. It gives me what
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
I have long wished to sue for—a hope; it encourages
me to speak my dreams—my desires—but—”
“But what, Monsieur Frederick?”
“But truly, this is the first moment when you have
spoken with me on the subject!”
“Ha! What! You forget?”
“On my honor, no! I forget not a word you have
ever spoken to me. Your words have always been
too precious to me to lose. But, until now, we surely
have exchanged not a syllable this night in regard
to—”
“Ah, Monsieur Frederick! how can this be so,
when, but a little while since, we were interrupted
by that ever-troublesome Parisian, who would be a
Count Poniatowski?”
“You have been deceived, Marie. I was not present
at any such interruption.”
“Impossible!”
“It is true! This is the first time to-night that
I have been honored with your conversation.”
“Ciel! and to whom have I spoken?”
It was a reflection to horrify a sensitive spirit, that
a secret so precious to a woman's heart and dignity
should have been committed to a stranger, in the full
conviction that it was unfolded to the only person in
whom she really felt an interest.
The insidiously mysterious manner in which the
confession had been drawn from her, oppressed her
with a strange yet undefinable sense of terror. Brandon
himself, though profoundly indignant at the baseness
of the manœuvre by which she had been imposed
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
upon, restrained the warmer expression of his own
feelings, and sought by every means in his power to
soothe the agitation under which she so visibly labored.
But his efforts did not wholly succeed. Her subsequent
responses showed that her mind still dwelt fearfully
upon the incident; and when, at length, the
interview terminated, her last lingering glance was
overshadowed with a sad and mournful presentiment
of coming evil.
CHAPTER VII. THE SECRET INTERVIEW—ALARM AND MYSTERY.
This was the substance of what I got from Brandon,
of what had taken place between Marie de Berniere
and himself. It is probable I should not so
soon have been permitted to know the progress he
had made, had it not been for the present difficulty,
in which my assistance was required. I told him of
the Egyptian whom I had accosted, and confounded
with himself—of his not noticing my address, and
eluding my pursuit.
“He, then, is the intruder,” was Brandon's reply;
“for I certainly have not been near you, not even
in the room, since we parted, when I left you looking
at your watch. You must join me, William, in the
search after him. Let us separate for this purpose.
You take one route, I the opposite. If you find him,
stick by him till I find you.”
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
We were just about to separate, each turning for
the purpose, when, at the same moment, we caught a
glimpse of the very mask that we prepared to seek.
His habit seemed the fac-simile of that of Brandon.
His person, in bulk and height, was precisely like.
No wonder that Madame de Berniere had been deceived.
There, too, might be seen a triangle hanging
from his left arm, while his right hand grasped
a scroll of unrolled papyrus; items not necessary
to the costume, but about which I remember to
have observed that Brandon was particularly solicitous.
To note these things did not consume a
second. Meanwhile, we made up to the intruder.
Brandon instantly approached him. His anxiety, in
regard to the lady of his love; the doubt lest she
should be in any way compromised; the vexatious
reflection that the other had listened to a precious
confession, meant only for his own ear; nay, the
painful conviction that the stranger, himself, in the
character of Brandon, had drawn forth this confession—
these considerations had all combined to warm my
friend with resentments which none but he could have
so well suppressed, and which were struggling energetically
for utterance within his bosom. They made
him equally prompt and decided. He tapped the
stranger on his shoulder. The other turned quietly
without a start, with the air, indeed, of a person by
whom the salutation was expected. Brandon led him
aside, I following closely.
“A word with you, sir.”
“A dozen, if you please, sir,” was the reply, in
cold monotonous accents.
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
“You are accommodating. It may require as
many. Suffer me then to ask, sir, who you are, and
by what right are you here?”
“Really, venerable brother, you challenge my
rights as if your own were exclusive. I might return
your question with some propriety. But go to
Madame de Berniere—she can better reply to your
question.”
“The evasion will not serve you, sir. It is by her
that I am commissioned to make the demand.”
“Ah! it is by her, then! Well, sir—go to her,
and say that if she desires it, I will unmask for her
satisfaction, in her presence. But, mark me, in her
presence only.”
“Enough! — William, do you remain with the
stranger. See that he does not escape you.”
This was said in a whisper; and without the pause
of a second, Frederick disappeared. Our simulacrum,
meanwhile, was in no way disquieted. Our proceedings
had not been so quietly conducted but that they
had reached other ears, and curious eyes were beginning
to peer about us. Meanwhile, Brandon had
sought his mistress. She received him with an
eagerness proportioned to her anxiety. He communicated
what had taken place between himself and
the stranger.
“Insolent!” was the exclamation of the haughty
beauty, now thoroughly aroused.
“Say but the word, dear Marie,” was the whisper
of Frederick Brandon, “and I will fling him from the
window.”
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
He was the person to have done it without a word.
But the fair hostess declined his proffered service.
“No! no! Frederick,” she answered, with a delighted
smile; “no; that would only spoil the assembly.
Besides, it may be some friend or acquaintance—
some one recently arrived in the city—who knows
me well, and who should have been invited. There
may be some mistake. I grant him the interview.
Conduct him to the opposite apartment, to which I
will lead the way. You will wait upon us, Frederick,
at the door.”
The instructions were not given unheard. By the
time that Brandon got back to the spot where he had
left me with the stranger, there was quite a smart
little excitement in the assembly. We were the centre
of a ring—the observed of all observers; though,
by the way, the excitement was mostly due to the
opinion, generally entertained, that this affair was
only the beginning of some new surprise—something
dramatic—which had been devised by our ingenious
hostess, for the amusement of her guests. I was not
a little disquieted, you may be sure, by the novelty
of my position; not so with my Egyptian. He remained
in a state of the most perfect composure,
neither seeming to see, nor to feel, the increasing
curiosity and numbers of the circle around us. Those
of us, myself among the number, who did not believe
him to be a part of the entertainment, began now to
consider him some old friend of the family, who had
just arrived from the river, and had found his way to
the mansion, designing a pleasant surprise to its
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
mistress. The coincidence of costume was a trifling
difficulty only, which a single moment of conjecture
easily overcame. At length Brandon made his appearance,
and relieved me of my trust. He communicated
to the stranger the consent of Madame de
Berniere to receive him in private, and with no more
words, they proceeded together in the direction of the
chamber assigned for interview. I followed close
behind the two, and was followed, in turn, by some
dozen others, curious to pry into the mystery, and to
retail it to the multitude. When we reached the door
where Madame de Berniere awaited the stranger,
both himself and Brandon entered the room. The
door was instantly closed behind them, and locked;
the key being taken into my hands. In a moment
after, however, a tapping from within caused me to
open it, and Brandon came out; the stranger having
positively refused to unmask as long as he was present.
My friend was anxious and uneasy—that I
could perceive only, as he did not once look upon me;
but he suffered his emotions to be seen in no other
way. We could hear the soft, dignified tones of
Madame de Berniere within, for a few sentences
apparently; but the words were undistinguishable.
These were followed by a subdued manner. A pause
ensued, and the murmuring sounds were renewed. A
single word apparently, spoken by Madame de Berniere
rather loudly, then engaged our attention; and
Brandon turned quickly to the door; but paused, in
consequence of the silence that followed. This was
broken once more by a brief murmur, which the
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
voice of our hostess was heard to interrupt by the
single exclamation—“Oh!” which we distinctly caught
without. The murmuring continued for several seconds
and suddenly subsided; the pause might have been
for half a minute—a deep silence—broken by such a
shriek from Madame de Berniere—a shriek of horror,
of agony, and of the wildest terror, such as I hope
never to hear again. This was succeeded by a grating
sound, the noise of a falling body, with the rattle and
crash of a chair which seemed to have been crushed
in the same instant. The whole thing was over in a
moment, and, in the next, not waiting for me to open
the door, Frederick Brandon drove it from its fastenings
with a single application of his foot. We rushed
in, followed by a crowd, and there lay the beautiful
Marie de Berniere, prostrate, senseless, with her face
prone upon the floor. But the Egyptian was nowhere
to be seen! How had he escaped? The windows
were all closed; he had not passed by us, that was
certain. There was but one other door to the chamber;
and that led into the ball-room, and was locked, with
the key withdrawn. There was some strange and
terrible mystery! We turned for its solution to the
lovely hostess. She was already raised and supported,
in the arms of Brandon. Not a word escaped him,
and but for the pallor upon his cheeks, and the great
blue corded vein upon his forehead—swollen to a deformity—
and but for the close compression of his
lips, none would have thought that he suffered any but
the most ordinary emotion; his calls for help were
so calmly spoken—his orders so deliberately given
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
—his nerves so firm—his strength so entirely unshaken!
He raised and bore the fair victim to a sofa.
Her lips were livid—bloodless quite—her eyes open
wide, and glaring upon us, but set and glassy, with a
terrible vacancy of gaze, that declared, much more
emphatically than any speech, the degree of terror
and affright to which she had been so unaccountably
subjected.
Some hours elapsed before she recovered her consciousness,
during which period it was for some time
doubtful if life remained or not, within her heart.
Meanwhile, the company had departed—all but one or
two near kinswomen, and Madame de Chateauneuve
and Frederick Brandon, who refused to leave her until
she had recovered consciousness. This she did, about
daylight; but more than a day elapsed before she had
recovered her reason.
What remains of our story must be resumed for
other and perhaps longer chapters.
CHAPTER VIII.
We resume our narrative. Our readers, we trust,
will not have forgotten the condition in which we left
the lovely Marie de Berniere. Her reason had quite
returned to her in the space of the twenty-four hours
immediately following the mysterious fright from
which she had so singularly suffered; but her strength
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
was recovered much more slowly. For a long time
she remained an invalid. Her system had received
a shock against which her elasticity of mood offered
but feeble resistance. Meanwhile, her friends gathered
about her with fond solicitude. Among these, as a
matter of course, and most conspicuous, were Brandon
and his sister. These were constant in their attentions,
and deeply interested in the progress of her
recovery. Her physician, one of the most skilful in
that day and city, could afford her but little assistance.
It was the mind which had received the blow.
The sufferings of the body arose only from the ailments
of the soul. She herself felt this, and it was to her
priest, rather than her physician, that she looked for
succor chiefly. Father Paulo Roquetti was frequently
beside her couch. He was an Italian; a grave elderly
man, of mild, benevolent manners, and broad great
forehead, which had been smoothed quite as much by
thought and study as by the tonsure. He was a
learned man, a Jesuit, possessing a profound knowledge
of human nature, and with just the capacity to
try and fathom the most secret sources of mental excitation
and anxiety. Under his guidance, from her
childhood the spiritual guide in her mother's family,
the ardent nature of Marie de Berniere had become
greatly schooled and counselled. Her imagination,
eager and lively always, inclining however to religion,
had been tinctured somewhat with supersition, and
the will of the woman, which was in all other respects
strong and impulsive, was, where matters of faith and
the church were concerned, as easily persuaded and
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
pliant as could be wished by the most exacting of
spiritual fathers.
Paul Roquetti did not show himself very imperative
as a guide and teacher; but he was not the less powerful
because he did not seem greatly inclined to use
his authority. He was a profound master, who knew
how much safer it was to shape and to conduct, than
to endeavor to compel the mind; and he had long
since discovered that the temper, which only showed
itself stubborn under the opposition of another will,
might be rendered sufficiently ductile if persuaded that
it simply obeyed its own. His power over his flock
was prodigious, if for no other reason than because
he appeared to be so wholly unconscious that he possessed
any; and this secret, in connection with his
unquestionable resources of thought and knowledge,
left his authority almost without limit among the
more religious of his followers. Marie de Berniere
was one of those who most readily acknowledged his
influence. He had been to her a mild and indulgent
father, exhibiting a gentle sympathy which had won
her affections, and a patient judgment which had
schooled her conduct from the first hours of her girlhood.
If she had anything for which to reproach
him, it was that he had counselled obedience to those
commands of her mother, which had allied her to a
man whom she did not love, and subjected her to a
tyrant who could provoke no other feelings than
disgust and fear.
Her present condition naturally drew him to her
bedside, and he became very soon the counsellor to
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
whom she most deferred. We shall see the natural
reason for this hereafter. Her other friends gradually
withdrew, assured of her continued improvement,
while regretting that it should be so slow. There
were sufficient motives for Madame de Chateauneuve,
the sister of Frederick Brandon, lingering after all
the rest, in attendance upon her suffering friend. But
even she discovered, after a little while, that the unhappy
widow yielded only a reluctant ear to worldly
concerns, preferring altogether those of a solemn and
spiritual nature. She felt this apparent slight, but
had no reproaches. Her duty to her brother required
that she should not seem to perceive what she could
not help but feel. Her visits, in turn, became less
frequent, and it was only occasionally that she made
her appearance in the chamber of the invalid; and
this, too, quite as frequently in compliance with the
requisition of Frederick, as because of her own desires
or sense of duty.
Meanwhile, the little world of New Orleans was
full of reports in regard to the cause of terror which
had dismissed the guests at the bal masque of the
fair widow, in such “admired disorder.” Who was
the Egyptian, whose personation of my friend's costume
had enabled him to compass his affaire de cœur
with Madame de Berniere—who had visited her with
such a mortal fright, and had finally disappeared so
unaccountably? The town had its solution of all the
mystery, but, though it would not exactly anticipate
our own, we must forbear to give it. Enough, that a
most frightful story was in circulation, which furnished
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
equal material for scandal and supersition. I suppose
I heard the story quite as soon as anybody else,
and with much more disquiet than the crowd. I
had already broached the subject of the bal masque,
and the fright, to Frederick, but he either was unwilling
or unable to give me any clue to the mystery.
He had been permitted a private interview with
Madame de Berniere, yet neither that nor those which
his sister had enjoyed, had resulted in any discoveries.
The unhappy object of this mystery shrunk from all
explanation, and her health was quite too delicate to
permit even the least scrupulous curiosity to press the
inquiry upon her. But there had been long and undisturbed
conferences between herself and Father
Roquetti, and, in all probability, she had fully revealed
herself to him. It is certain that, for some
weeks after the affair, nothing was known, positively,
to Frederick Brandon or his sister, calculated to
satisfy their doubts or make them confident of their
knowledge.
In all this time, Frederick Brandon was sufficiently
miserable. I conversed with him frequently, anxious
to feel, yet without seeking to probe, the condition of
his mind. But his unwonted taciturnity spoke volumes,
when I remembered his character and disposition.
He had been latterly suffered to see Marie de
Berniere on several occasions, but for a brief space
only at every visit. At such periods there were always
other persons present; the priest, his own sister, or
some of her kinswomen. At these times her treatment
of Frederick had been distinguished by a marked
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
regard; though she spoke but little with him, and
then only on indifferent topics. Frequent sighs broke
from her during these interviews, and her eye perused
him always with fondness, and dwelt with a sad and
significant earnestness on the deep, devoted glances
which spoke from his. All this was enough to trouble
my friend; but his mind, if disturbed and unhappy,
was by no means disordered. It never once lost its
balance.
He said to me, returning one day from a visit to
the dwelling of Marie—
“I may as well confide to you, William, that I was
engaged to her. She consented, the very day of the
night of the bal masque, and in the very apartment
in which she received her fright. Since that time,
we have not once had an opportunity of speaking in
private together, and, hitherto, she has evidently
sought to avoid such an interview. At this juncture,
I dare not remonstrate against this. I must submit;
without complaint, or even expostulation. Her life is
quite too precious, and her condition too perilous, to
suffer me to annoy her by a reference to any exciting
matter. But, from what I see, my instincts persuade
me that she is preparing to free herself from our engagement.
I do not mean by this that she is at all
anxious to do so. On the contrary, it is no idle vanity
that assures me of the extreme reluctance with which
she will submit to what appears an inevitable necessity.
She will defer it for some time longer—to the very
last moment; and the very suspense—the anxiety—
this constant brooding over the one purpose—will
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
prolong her infirmity, and keep her suffering as well in
body as in mind. But that she is preparing to come
to this determination, I foresee; and I am strengthening
myself, as well as I can, against the shock.”
“But what has she said to lead you to this apprehension?”
“Not a syllable; but words are by no means necessary
in such cases. I see it in her looks, and feel it
as the consequence of her actions. My presence
brings her equally pain and pleasure. Her eyes fill
as I approach her, and she wrings my hand with the
grasp of one who takes a farewell. There are a
thousand indefinable things which enable one who
feels quickly and keenly, to understand; and that
which I tell you I believe, I almost feel that I know.”
“And you will submit to lose her?”
“I have not said that! But you will perceive that
her determination must be occasioned by the events
of that fatal night. Now it is important that we get
at a solution of that mystery. What my argument
will be, must depend upon her revelation; for which
I wait impatiently. It will come soon. If she loves
me truly and deeply, as I believe, she will tell me all.
This she will feel as due to me, and to herself, particularly,
for her own justification, if her purpose be
to discard me. But I have broached the subject to
you for a special reason. You spoke, yesterday, of
your purpose to return soon to Tennessee. This you
must not think of at present—not, at least, until my
affair is fully settled. I feel that I shall want you.
I have suspicions of foul play in this business, and I
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
need the assistance of a friend in whose fidelity I can
put every trust.”
“Foul play, Frederick! Whom do you suspect?”
“Not Marie, of course. But all these stories about
town, and which find supernatural solution of this
mystery, are pure absurdities. But they are not the
less credible among the greater number. It is understood,
of course, that this Egyptian is at the bottom
of the affair. To discover who he is, is the first important
matter. I take for granted that he is an
enemy of mine—most probably he is an admirer of
Marie. Do you remember his manner when we first
encountered him? His haughty carriage—scornful
gesture—the cold insolence of his tone—the dry
brevity of his answers—all full of defiance? These,
at the moment, struck me as evidence of hostility.”
“I remember! And you regard him as a rival?”
“Surely, what else? He has evidently a design
upon her, and it is equally apparent that he possesses
a strange power over her. What is this power, and
who is he? I have been vainly racking my brain for
an answer. I know the fate of all those who aspired
to her hand. She dismissed Bonneville; she slighted
and despised De Castries. Miravent was not more
fortunate. I can recall no more. None of these are
now in attendance upon her. Bonneville has gone
north, De Castries is in France, and Miravent visits
the house no longer.”
“May not one of the two former have returned?”
“I should have heard of it. It is more probable
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
that there is some new candidate in the field. And
yet, how any such could have wrought such results?”
“Could they have slandered you to her?”
“Very probably; yet I fear nothing from this
quarter. If they had, it would have provoked her
scorn—her indignation only—and not her terrors.
Besides, she would have instantly told me all. No,
no! There is something more than this. It is very
strange, certainly; but I shall soon hear from her,
and then I will fathom the mystery, if there be any,
so help me, Heaven!”
Here our conference ended for the time. The very
next day, my friend was summoned to an interview
with Marie de Berniere. We must reserve the rest
for another chapter.
CHAPTER IX. THE INTERVIEW.
Frederick Brandon eagerly obeyed the summons
of his mistress. He was fortunate in finding the lovely
invalid alone. The meeting was evidently designed
for him. She was still feeble, and apparently quite
as great a sufferer in mental respects as ever. She
received him in her chamber in tears and silence.
He grasped her hand and held it without speaking.
Thus, for a while, they both remained, both seeming
equally reluctant to begin the work of explanation, and
waiting, as it were, for some happy inspiration to
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
shape the course of an interview which promised to
be full of embarrassments. The reluctance of Frederick
arose entirely from his sympathy for her situation.
He dared not add to her distress by urging his
own anxieties. She felt the delicacy of his consideration,
and, at length, though with a very decided effort,
she began the conference—
“Frederick!—”
“Dear Marie!”
She proceeded:—
“I have summoned you, dear Frederick, to an
interview which could not always be deferred. However
painful to myself, I owe it to you to come to an
explanation with you. In giving you my heart, as I
have done irrevocably, and in consenting to be your
wife—I gave you a right to know all that concerns
me, and all with which my heart is troubled. And
yet, I shrink—oh, Frederick, how I shrink and tremble
at the necessity which compels me—though my
heart breaks under it—to tell you that we must rend
apart and forever the links which bind us, and which
every feeling of my soul would only persuade me, in
spite of all necessities, to bind and rivet more surely
and more tenderly than ever!”
“Marie—dear Marie—oh! wherefore this necessity?”
“Ah! you may well inquire. I shall speak fearlessly
now. It is with no shame, dear Frederick,
that I confess to loving you, as I never thought to
love mortal man; as I never loved mortal man before.
You will—you must—believe me; even though I make
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
this avowal at the very moment when I implore you
to forget me; and when I propose that we should
sever the sweet ties that we so fondly strove to unite
forever.”
Seeing that she paused, Frederick replied:—
“I can only wonder, but not answer you, dear
Marie. To believe in your love for me, is absolutely
necessary to the feeling which I entertain for you.
It is too precious a faith for me to surrender easily.
I will not make vain professions, Marie; but, in truth,
you must be well assured that no affection in my
bosom rivals in any sort the devotion which it brings
to you. It is for you to say, why, with both hearts
thus united and devoted, there should be a necessity
for tearing them asunder. What is this necessity—
what this terrible mystery which is to prevail against
our hopes and happiness?”
“Terrible, indeed! most terrible! Were it not so,
dear Frederick, would I have the courage, the heart,
the strength for this!”
“Marie—I cannot doubt that you have been the
victim to a great terror! I have witnessed your fright—
your agonies—and the overwhelming affliction which
left you insensible for hours in these arms!”
“Was it in your arms that I lay then, Frederick?”
she asked tenderly.
He answered by pressing her hand within his, and
the tears then gushed from her eyes as from a fountain
suddenly relieved. For a few moments he was silent,
subdued by a sympathy which he found it difficult to
keep from the exhibition of a feminine weakness like
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
her own. But the strength of the man prevailed.
He resumed—
“I knew your courage, Marie—your energy, resolve,
and spirit; and yet I saw how suddenly and
how completely they were prostrated and overthrown.
I can conceive how great must have been your terror;
but I see not why it should operate against that union
which might secure you against any such annoyance
or suffering hereafter.”
“Ah! if it could! If it could!” was her reply.
“And why should it not? Do you suppose, dear
Marie, that, once mine—my wife—any ruffian would
dare, or daring would escape?”
“Hush! hush!” she exclaimed, looking round her
with shows of expectation and terror in her countenance:
“Forbear, Frederick, you know not what you
say, or whom you threaten. Oh! I know your
strength and courage. I well know that, under your
guardianship, no mortal would ever venture to wrong
or to offend me. But it is no mortal danger that I
dread! Frederick, do you not believe that the spirits
of the dead may reappear on earth—may seek
those whom they have known—may speak words of
rebuke and warning and terror to the living—may
threaten and denounce—may decree, as in my case,
that hearts shall be torn asunder, and hopes be trampled
into nothing—hopes, the fondest and sweetest
that ever dawned upon the soul of woman!—Frederick,
do you believe all this?”
He remained silent as she paused, closely observing
her features, which were almost convulsed; her lips
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
white and trembling—her eyes glaring rather than
gazing into his own—yet, with such a strange union
of fondness with terror—such devotion with such
despair—that his own heart beat with increasing passion
(rather than with such fears as her words might
have inspired) to behold the affection which was so
evident in hers. His silence disquieted her.
“Speak!” she cried; “speak to me, dear Frederick,
and tell me if you believe these things.”
“Marie—to answer you, I must be calm! I see
that this mystery is somewhat deeper than I had
reason to believe it. Let me entreat you to be
soothed—do not hurry yourself; yet tell me all your
secret, before you demand my answer!”
“Oh! I must speak hurriedly if I would speak at
all! Frederick, dear Frederick—that Egyptian—”
“Ha!”
“Was Colonel de Berniere—”
She fell back gasping. Frederick supported her
head, and his lips were pressed tenderly upon her
brow. She pushed him from her.
“I forget! I forget! Oh, Frederick, this was forbidden.
My love for you was forbidden. I am conmanded
to fling every mortal affection from my heart—
to deny you—to deny myself—to forego all hopes
of human happiness—every dream that ever spoke to
me of joy on earth!”
“And who could deny you this? What is the
power to decree in this sort—to pass such a doom, to
utter such a judgment?”
“He it was—the Egyptian! He said it! He!
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
The spectre of my deceased husband. He knew all!
He told me all! Our vows, our engagements, our
meetings, when neither of us dreamed that eye beheld
us—in the dim shadows of the evening, and we had
no doubt of our security, and no feeling but that of
bliss!”
“And yet, Marie, all this knowledge might be possessed
by mortals like ourselves! Excellent friends
may have been upon the watch—jealous rivals—
slanderous and suspicious neighbors! A shrewd
guesser, with some slight knowledge, might plausibly
conjecture more; and you remember, dear Marie,
that, believing this Egyptian to be myself, you spoke
freely to him of this very matter.”
“Oh, were these all! But he knew more—he told
me more. Told me, Frederick, of things of which you
knew nothing. Laid bare to me secrets of my own
soul—miserable secrets, such as I fondly imagined
were safely locked up in the closest places of my own
bosom.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, alas! and this brings me to another painful
necessity. These secrets, Frederick, shall be yours
also. You shall see how much I love you—how
entirely—even at the moment when I feel called upon
to expose such secrets as may perhaps change your
affection into loathing!”
“Never, Marie!”
“Ah! we shall see! I will show you things which
I had thought never to breathe even to yourself; and
which, probably, but for this event, I had carried with
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
me to the grave unspoken. But I owe you all that
is in my heart, though it humbles me to the earth to
be compelled to lay bare the story of its wretched
crimes and weaknesses!”
“Crimes, Marie!”
“Alas! Crimes! For the meditated crime is for
us a crime already committed, Frederick. It is
enough that the heart should entertain the guilt; it
needs not that the hand should execute it also. I
have been guilty, in purpose, of a dreadful crime;
and though my hand forebore the meditated act, it is,
nevertheless—I feel it so—a crime to be repented of
in ashes and in sackcloth; a crime to make me quite
unworthy an affection such as yours!”
“Alas, my Marie! If these high standards of
self-judgment must prevail, who is worthy? I have
my crimes also, Marie.”
“But not like mine, Frederick. Hear me, for I
shall relate the whole, and tell it truly. I will withhold
nothing.”
“Nay, Marie, speak not, I entreat you. I would
rather not know. If we are to be torn asunder—
which I will not yet suffer myself to believe—I would
prefer holding you enshrined in my memory—as you
already are in my affections—as the pure and perfect
being that I thought you first.”
“But this is now impossible, Frederick! Have I
not already declared myself guilty? Your thought
will brood over this confession, and you will suspect
me of crimes of another sort than the real. It is
needful that I should tell you all. You must listen
-- 064 --
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
for my sake. It is needful that I should show cause
for my faith in this terrible visitation; and for the
submission with which I receive its commands.”
Long and sad was the interval of silence which
succeeded before she spoke again. She sunk back
upon the couch and covered her eyes with her hands,
as if to shut out from contemplation the necessity
before her, and to recover the needed strength for
the task which she had declared her resolution to
perform. Frederick, meanwhile, with his elbow resting
upon the pillow, had shaded his eyes also. He
was in deep and anxious contemplation—suffering
greatly from misgiving of various kinds, and brooding
upon what he had already heard. He had already,
in some degree, prepared his mind; and his future
purposes had also, though vaguely and entirely a
shadow, been presented to his vision. At length the
silence was broken by his companion. Marie de
Berniere raised her head and gently laid her hand on
the wrist of her lover. He still remained silent, his
eyes tenderly fixed upon her, with a sort of paternal
sadness—that seemed to deplore the self-delusion of
the beloved object—fatal to itself—yet against which
he had no argument of strength for safety. His
eyes declared fully his belief that she labored under
a delusion; yet showed the sorrows of one who,
at the same time that he felt this conviction, lacked
the necessary means of making his conviction hers.
She discerned the meaning in his glance.
“You think me a foolish creature, Frederick—
deceived by my own fears and superstitions. I wish I
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
could persuade myself to think as you do. Believe
me, I have nothing but pain and sorrow in the task
before me; and nothing but hopelessness in the future
which lies beyond. And next to my prayer for
pardon, is that which implores that the penance be a
short one. But hear my story—hear me, and decide.
I shall unfold it all; and hope, at least, that when
you have heard my sufferings, you will see some little
apology for my guilt. If it should forfeit me the
love you gave me, at least it will not rob me of your
pity.”
He took her hand tenderly within his own, and
she began her narrative as follows:—
CHAPTER X. THE REVELATION.
“You know my early history, Frederick, as much
of it as need to be known in connection with my present
narrative. You are aware that, when a mere
child, I was condemned to marry a man twenty years
older than myself, and for whom I had no feelings
but indifference and fear. At first, this feeling was
indifference only; and in the end it became dislike as
well as fear. I was quite too young when I married,
properly to understand the obligations of marriage,
of its peculiar interests, its duties and desires. Had
I known, the marriage vows never would have crossed
these lips, in relation to the person who was then
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
decreed to be my husband. I was taken from school,
almost from the baby-house and doll, to become a
bride. My poor mother, of whom I would say no
evil, was one of those persons, of whom the world
always has its multitude, who regard wealth as the
something all compensative, for which any sacrifice is
justifiable. She knew not any affections that could be
put in opposition to the show and splendor which it
promised; and, believing that I had beauty and
talents, her chief solicitude was to find for them a
market. Of her purposes I knew nothing, until the
moment when I learned that she had procured for me
a purchaser. In this light I certainly did not regard
him then. Col. de Berniere I had frequently beheld
before, but I had never bestowed a single thought
upon him. His person I knew by sight, but I had
always regarded him with indifference. I thought no
more of marrying than I thought of him, and had no
definite conception of the condition until after I had
become a wife. I had been accustomed to submit
implicitly to the will of my mother, and I did so on
this occasion, as on all others, with but little inquietude
or doubt. She bade me prepare to receive Col.
de B. as a husband, long before he had been at any
pains to persuade me that he was a lover. Required
to marry him, the indifference which I had felt for
him before, he soon contrived to ripen into a stronger
sentiment of aversion. This feeling, which I did not
seek to subdue, it became the business of my mother's
life to rebuke and to conceal. She silenced all my
childish complaints; she schooled my love into
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
submission; she trampled down every resistance that my
young heart ventured to offer to her will. I went to
the altar with fear and tremblings which were ominous.
But my fears were of a vague character, and I
did not certainly dream of the dreadful tyranny under
which I was about to fall. At that early dawn of my
misfortunes, it was dislike and doubt which I felt,
rather than dread or apprehension. Any conjectures
of what the future was really to produce, were totally
absent from my mind. But I was soon tutored by a
stern experience. I cannot go through the details of
this experience. I dare not. How I suffered, how
vain were my appeals, how equally vain my performances—
my submission, my resignation, the entreaties
which I offered, the efforts which I made to disarm the
brutality of my master, or to bear partially his yoke.
Col. de Berniere was at once the most scornful and
the most suspicious of living men. He quarrelled
with all his own friends, and mine. He drove them
from his house. With more than one of them did he
fight, under no provocation but that suggested by his
own brutal humors—by jealousy and intoxication;
and, on each occasion of his quarrel with others, I was
compelled to endure my portion of his caprice and
violence. My hope was not allowed to grow. My
spirit was broken in repeated conflicts, in which even
the most complete submission did not disarm the tyranny.
I seldom left the house, and never cared to
leave it, as I was sure of the most cruel abuse when I
returned. My mother soon became aware of my situation.
She knew not half, but quite enough to make
-- 068 --
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
her expostulate, with maternal interest and warmth.
Alas! She soon found that though she had the power
to bind, and had fatally exercised it, she no longer
possessed the power to loose. Her expostulations increased
the evil. He drove her from his dwelling with
ignominy, and not only denied her entrance, but denied
that I should seek or see her. For three months
did I submit to this cruel denial, until she fell sick.
Her illness proved fatal in the end; but when I heard
how dangerously ill she was, I stole away to her bedside,
just in time to receive her dying prayer and
breath in my bosom. I fondly fancied that this event,
which had taken from me the nearest relative I had
on earth, would commend me somewhat to the pity of
my master. I never dreamed that I should receive
censure and abuse for a disobedience to his commands,
at so extreme a juncture; and hastened home to entreat
his attendance at my mother's house, and his
care of her remains till buried. I met him in the
great passage below, and in few words, but with many
tears, I told him my painful news, and made my humble
request. He had been drinking—I am now prepared
to do him the justice to believe that he knew
not well what I had related—understood nothing, perhaps,
but the simple fact that I had visited the house
which he had interdicted. He seized me by the hair
of my head. He smote me to the earth. He left me
where I had fallen, insensible, with the blood gushing
from my mouth and nostrils, and hurried forth once
more, not to seek the house of mourning, but to join
certain comrades in a midnight revel.”
-- 069 --
[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
Here Frederick Brandon, with a fierce ejaculation,
started to his feet and paced the apartment. A pause
ensued. He drew nigh, resumed his seat beside her,
and took her hand silently within his own. He
schooled himself with a firmness perfectly astonishing;
for his heart was like a volcano, ready to flame and
overflow. She continued:—
“How long I lay in this condition, stunned, stupefied,
or in convulsions, I know not. For weeks I
scarcely knew anything, but, in the mean time, a dead
infant was born, prematurely sent into the world, and
perishing under the brutality which nearly proved
fatal to myself. Of all this I knew nothing. Nature
had kindly accorded to my mind a degree of insensibility
which perhaps saved my life. Had I been conscious,
anger, indignation—rage that was impotent—
would have destroyed me. As it was, when my senses
returned to me, and I could remember all that had
taken place, the awfullest of passions possessed my
soul. A terrible feeling took possession of my bosom,
and here, O Frederick, my crime begins. Before
this period, I can really accuse myself of little that
could be considered guilt—childish follies there were
doubtlessly enough. I was a child, and frequently an
erring one. I had been guilty of a weakness rather
than a crime, when I took the solemn vows of marriage
at the altar; and this weakness was one to be excused
under the circumstances; for how, with such a will as
my mother possessed, could I think of exercising a
will of my own? But I had been dutiful and submissive
to my husband. I gave up all my friends, all
-- 070 --
[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
society, at his requisition; and it was only when my
parent lay on her dying couch that I ever disobeyed
his commands. To the period when he smote me to
the ground, I feel that I have few causes of self-reproach—
regarding my duties as a wife and daughter.
But from that dreadful moment, Frederick!—Then!
Then!”—
She paused, and Brandon was conscious that her
hand, which had previously lain upon his own, now
grasped his fingers convulsively. He looked into her
face. The eyes were shut and the lips quivering. He
began to be alarmed. “Marie!” he exclaimed, in
accents of apprehension.
“Nay, Frederick, fear nothing. I am only trying
to muster all my strength. Turn your eyes away,
dear Frederick. Humble me not by your looks, while
I am unfolding the dreadful purposes which have once
possessed my soul. Oh! how rapidly in that day did
I then think and resolve! With what a faculty did
memory bring before mine eyes the long history of my
sufferings and sorrows; all that I had lost—all that
I had sacrificed—all that I had endured. Never did
such an array of bitter, dreadful, and humiliating experiences
rise before one poor human imagination,
without maddening the mind, and setting all the passions
in a flame—all concentrating, as it were, in one.
A dark desire for revenge—for escape from my thraldom—
seized upon my soul! I felt called by my
mother's voice, night and day, to take the life of my
tyrant. The fancy became a fixed desire in my mind.
More than once I thought to seize upon a knife and
-- 071 --
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
stab him as he sat before me at the table. I secreted
a knife for this purpose. I was haunted by the memory
of that fierce and cruel woman in Scripture, who
drove the nail into the head of the man who sought
the hospitality of her dwelling. I secreted a nail,
intending to emulate her crime. But it was in proof
that conscience was busy to keep me from the deed,
that I was continually seeking to change the mode of
its execution. I abandoned all these modes. I remembered,
finally, that there was a deadly poison in
the house, which he himself had employed to rid the
garden of the cats which infested it. I knew where
this poison was kept. It was convenient; in that very
closet. It was a dark whitish powder, the name of
which I did not know. `Poison for cats' was the inscription
upon it, and I had heard him remark that a
few grains only would prove fatal to any life. I procured
this powder, and secreted it for days—so tenaciously
did this deadly purpose harbor in my mind!
At length, I absolutely mixed it in a bottle of the wine
which I that day expected him to drink.”
Here she suddenly caught both of Brandon's hands
within her own, and bent round eagerly to look into
his face. As she beheld its expression, she cried—
“Oh! thanks! Thanks, my Frederick. I see you
do not loathe—you will not hate me?”
“Hate you? Ah Marie!”
“Yes, Frederick, I conceal nothing. In that closet
did I mix the fatal potion.”
He turned in the direction pointed out, fixed his
-- 072 --
[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
eyes curiously upon it, but said nothing. She continued—
“But God be praised, the voice of my heart at
length spoke audibly to my mind. I repented me, in
season, of the terrible thought. I thrust the deadly
purpose from my soul. I flung the poisoned liquid
from my hands almost as soon as I had mixed it. I
hurried to yonder window, and emptied the bottle into
the garden. Then, beside this couch, I threw myself
upon my knees, and implored the blessed Virgin for
succor to banish all such feelings from my breast. I
found the requisite strength in prayer. Never again
did I harbor a sinful purpose against him. Never did
a hair of his head come to harm through me.”
“Then what have you to fear, dear Marie; and
with what, above all, can your husband now reproach
you?”
“Alas! dear Frederick, who shall say when he is
received to mercy—when he is acquitted of his guilt—
and when his penance shall suffice for atonement?”
“Marie, this argument is not your own?”
“I confess it. It is the suggestion of Father
Paulo.”
Brandon smiled slightly, quietly remarking—
“It struck me as coming from a theologian.”
She proceeded—
“But it was the assurance of Col. de Berniere,
himself, that other sacrifices were required at my
hands before my atonement could be complete! This
is the decree which is brought, referring to the awful
crime which I meditated against him. For this, it is
-- 073 --
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
required that I should deny you now—deny myself—
and rather shroud myself in a convent, devoted to
God, than to think of any other human love!”
“Ha! Impossible! How know you, Marie, that
this Egyptian was a spectre—that he was—?”
“Alas, Frederick! did he not show me those awful
features, but too well remembered, at once of death
and life?—features known too soon, and feared too
long, to be easily forgotten? Besides, Frederick, did
he not unveil to me my own terrible secret—the
meditated crime, which was to precipitate him from
life to judgment, and which my lips had never before
confided to any mortal keeping?”
She paused, and sank back upon the couch exhausted.
Brandon again rose from his seat and paced
the apartment in silence.
“You are sure, Marie,” after a pause, “that you
never once breathed this secret to any ear?”
“Oh, sure! Oh, sure! It was too terrible!
And now—”
Brandon approached and whispered to her. She
answered quickly—
“Ah! that was sin upon sin! I reserved that from
all the rest.”
She would have continued, but he arrested her.
“No more on this point, Marie; I have a reason
for it.”
She remained silent, and he continued to pace the
floor; his eye seeming to wander about the chamber
in a manner which at length struck the attention of
Marie de Berniere, and filled her with new anxieties.
-- 074 --
[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
But he motioned her to continue, and she suddenly
resumed—
“How could I question this visitation? I felt the
guilty consciousness of crime, and here came to me the
spectre of the one against whose life I entertained it.
He lays bare to me my criminal heart. He commands
me to deny myself to man and to society, and to live
only for penitence and God! How can I doubt this
mission? He reveals to me the secrets which none
but myself could know, of all the living, and thus
confirms his right to decree and to denounce. I must
submit to this decree. You see for yourself, dear
Frederick, that we must part—”
“A moment! but a moment!” was the response.
“Did this spectre—this Egyptian—unfold any particulars
of your meditated purpose? Did he only
state the fact, or did he exhibit such a knowledge of
details?—”
“All! all! It was in this very chamber that I
mixed the fatal potion—in that closet. There, said
he, could that closet but speak, which beheld you prepare
the poison—that mantle which saw you place
the bottle upon it, in readiness for the dinner-hour—
that casement from which you finally cast it forth—
those plants below which received it, or that pillow
which heard your ineffectual prayer for pardon! Oh,
Frederick, he knew every movement of my soul!”
The eye of Brandon brightened, and he muttered
to himself—
“Every movement of your person, rather. The
-- 075 --
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
spectre only proves that he knows too much!” She
did not distinguish what he said.
“Speak to me, Frederick! Oh! speak,” was the
exclamation of Marie de Berniere. “See you not
that it is all hopeless?”
She knew not well what she said herself. But as
he continued to walk the floor in silence, her agony
of soul became too great for endurance, and raising
herself from the couch, with a strength which was due
wholly to her excited feelings, she darted forward and
seized him by the arm, arresting his further movement
almost by violence. He took her tenderly in
his embrace, and carried her back to the couch.
When she was again composed, he began—
“It is not to be expected, dear Marie, that I, who
have loved you so long and so fervently, should give
you up without a struggle. I have built too fondly,
too profoundly, on your love for me, to be satisfied to
forego, in a single moment, every hope, every dream
of delight, which my fancy has been painting for my
heart! A long future is before me—is probably before
us both. We are both young, and I dare not
doubt that affection in you, which I feel so earnest in
myself. Are we both to live, and live desolate?
Shall the long years, in prospect, be uncheered by
any sunshine? Shall no love blossom and brighten
for our future? Must the years move on wearily and
slowly—cold, unlighted from those sources of happiness,
of which blessed glimpses have been vouchsafed
to us already—and which the benevolent Father of
mankind seems never to have denied to any of his
-- 076 --
[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
creatures? Can I easily persuade myself, or suffer
you to believe, that He has especially denied to us
what He accords usually to all. I cannot bring myself
to this. You must give me time to reconcile my
thoughts to this necessity—to school my heart to this
privation—to accommodate my nature to this cheerless
future of isolation which is to make us both prematurely
old.”
“Ah, Frederick, but this isolation need not be
yours! You are young and ardent. You will be reconciled
to my loss. Other women will compensate
you.”
“Never! dear Marie,” was the sad, but subdued
reply. “I am no changeling. My heart yields
slowly to the charms of others, and becomes fixed as
soon as it becomes fond. Believe this assurance. I
will not asseverate. It is not my wont. But, I say
to you, on the honor of a heart that has long been
satisfied to seek yours only, that if I lose you I can
gain no other—will seek no other. I must bury myself
in the solitude of our old forests, and, perhaps,
become useful, or useless, where I no longer expect
to become happy. Suffer me, then, for a while, the
selfish struggle against your isolation. Give me time
to examine our mutual situation, and only permit me
to see you, at occasional periods, alone. You may
deny me your hand—you may refuse to make me
happy;—this may be the final decision; but, in the
mean time, permit me, sometimes, should I desire it,
to see you and speak with you. This privilege will
not prejudice your determination; and, when you
-- 077 --
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
reflect, Marie, upon the sacrifice you call upon me to
make, this, probably, is quite as little as you could
grant.”
“Alas! Frederick, is this wise in you to ask?
Will it be wise in me to grant? Will not such meetings
be adverse to our mutual peace?”
“And is the doom before us now so very favorable
to our mutual peace, Marie?” was the somewhat reproachful
answer.
She was silent.
“At all events,” said he, “suffer me to see you to-morrow,
and once or twice afterwards. In the mean
while I will devote all my thoughts to the consideration
of what you ask, and what I am required to surrender.”
He pressed tenderly the hand which she gave him;
and when he had disappeared, a passion of tears relieved,
temporarily, the sorrows of the poor heart,
that, suffering grievously before, was compelled, in
secret, to admit that its worst miseries were never
felt till now.
CHAPTER XI. STRATAGEM AND COUNTERMINE.
The particulars of this remarkable interview were
given to me by Frederick that very night. I may as
well mention that the story, in a great degree, confirmed
the truth of the common rumor about town. It
-- 078 --
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
is astonishing how such things leak out, or by what happy
instincts the great multitude conceive the particular
causes of trouble, in the affairs of their neighbors.
There were, it is true, many conflicting conjectures,
in regard to the circumstances of terror which
had dissolved the assembly at the masquerade. But
that which gained most currency, insisted that the
Egyptian was the husband; and this led to a farther
charitable suspicion that he had been unfairly dealt
with—a suspicion which had no other foundation in
the public mind than a very general knowledge of
the brutal tyranny which he had exercised over his
wife, and which was commonly thought to have been
quite sufficient to justify almost any mode of redress,
or escape, which long suffering and resentment might
think proper to adopt. There were a few even less
charitable, who fancied that the husband's failings
were of the most harmless character, and hurt nobody
but himself; that the wife was evidently a Tartar,
and had, no doubt, got rid of her allegiance,
rather than of her tyrant. A few of the would-be-philosophical
scouted the idea of spectres in all
periods, ancient and modern; but even these were
found quite busy in giving circulation to the story.
But these need not divert us from our narrative.
“And what think you of all this, Frederick—does
it stagger you?” was my involuntary question as he
finished giving me the preceding details. I confess,
they had greatly staggered me.
“To speak plainly, William, I regard it as an ingenious,
but monstrous jugglery.”
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
“Indeed! did you tell her that?”
“Oh, no! I knew better. That would have been
the very way to defeat my own object, perhaps, of
finding out the clue to the mystery.”
“But, if it be a piece of jugglery, Frederick, how
do you account for the ghost's possession of Marie's
secret?”
“That gives me as little trouble as any of the rest.
Indeed, it is in that part of the story that I fancy
the clues are to be found by which the imposture is to
be detected. We shall see—as there is a living God,
William, and as I am a living man, I shall penetrate
the mystery.”
“But how?”
“Oh! I see not yet the way, nor can I tell you,
just now, what are the steps I propose to take. I
must think, think strenuously, wrestle with thought
as with an angel—wrestle alone, without food, and in
the depths of night and solitude. I shall need your
help, William, as I warned you; and shall, probably,
have to call in other agents.”
“Does Marie know your objects—your suspicions?”
“No! they occurred to me during the recital of
her narrative; but I felt that every step must be
taken with great caution; since, if there is jugglery,
the best method for its detection is, to be careful to
give it no alarm. A part of my suspicion is, that
every movement of Marie de Berniere is watched, and
that every word she utters, reaches other ears than
those for which she designs them.”
-- 080 --
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
For a long time that night, until the short hours,
we conferred together. Our conversation was of a
character at once deeply interesting and solemn. It
canvassed very equally the separate provinces of the
human and spiritual world—their certain relations,
hopes, and dependencies—their possible communion;
and much of our conversation became practical in
connection with the case immediately before us. But
as much of this discussion was necessarily renewed
between Frederick and Marie de Berniere, I forbear,
in this place, to bring it forward, and will not anticipate
any of the schemes or philosophies of my companion.
We separated for the night, at length. He
refused to sup with me; denied himself everything
but cold water, and, taking the bath in his chamber,
retired, as he had declared his purpose to do, within
himself, and upon thought and prayer wholly. In
the morning I found him wearing an appearance of
greater cheerfulness, and speaking in tones of more
than usual elasticity. I remarked on it.
“It is because I have work before me, and have
already conceived the plan of operations, that I am
so much livelier than usual. One dies more easily in
action than he possibly can in repose. Effort of any
kind, to a soul-seeking performance, is a sort of joy.”
He gave me only a few minutes.
“I shall be busy all the morning,” said he, “and,
in the evening, I must see Marie.”
I strolled about town, listless but anxious, and saw
nothing of Frederick till next day. In the mean time
he had again seen his betrothed, as he had promised.
-- 081 --
[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
He found her alone, as sad, probably, as before, but
something calmer, and in better strength for the interview.
“Marie,” said Frederick, “I have brought you a
letter from my sister. Read it; it will, perhaps, speak
to your heart quite as emphatically as myself.”
“Ah! can you think so, Frederick?” was the reproachful
answer, as she received the letter. She
opened it with a deep sigh and began reading. Frederick
sat beside her; as she read, his eyes alternately
gazing upon her and upon the vacant walls of the
apartment. The letter was, in reality, his own. He
had his motive for making a statement aloud which
was at variance with the fact. It ran thus:—
“Start not, dear Marie; nor, if possible, exhibit the
least surprise or emotion as you discover the writing to
be mine, or note the character of its contents. At all
events, make no remark on what you read, and let
your answer be in writing also, and addressed to Madame
de Chateauneuve, though really intended for
myself. There are reasons, believe me, for all these
precautions. In brief, dear Marie, I have come to the
conclusion, after deep study and long reflection, that
you are the victim of a cunning and monstrous imposition,
to combat which, successfully, requires the utmost
vigilance, and a distrust even of the walls of your
chamber. So well am I persuaded of this, that I feel
it unwise to whisper to you here the several processes
of reasoning by which I have reached these suspicions,
or to urge my inquiries farther towards a discovery of
the truths. My purpose, therefore, is to entreat that,
-- 082 --
[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
if you really love me, if you really desire my happiness,
as well as your own, and, if you would really revolt
at the idea of being deluded by a most audacious piece
of jugglery, you will contrive to give me a meeting at
my sister's to-morrow morning at 11 o'clock; when I
will unfold to you the whole progress of my conjectures.
In consenting to this arrangement, I must
warn you to suffer no person to know your intentions,
not even your servants. Do not order your carriage,
but wait for that of Madame de Chateauneuve, who
will call for you, a little before this hour. Let me
implore you, dear Marie, to accede to this application.
Your health will now admit—nay, require some such
exercise; exertion, and the fresh pure air of these
pleasant days will exhilarate and strengthen you.
Supposing even that the decree which you have heard
is really the voice of an almighty Providence, His benevolence
will not be offended, nor His sense of authority
outraged, if you resort to all reasonable and proper
means to be assured of its divine origin. Scripture
itself counsels us that the world shall be full of false
prophets and false signs in these latter days—and there
are spirits of evil as well as of good—perhaps a far
greater number, who are still permitted, for purposes
of mischief, to hover around the habitations of earth.
You owe it to me, dear Marie, no less than to yourself—
to my future and my heart as well as your own—
not to yield to a decree which threatens the wreck of
both, until it has been narrowly searched by every
probe and principle which human reason has ever invented
or conceived for the detection of error, and
-- 083 --
[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
the discovery of truth. As this revelation appears
to be so entirely miraculous—so far beyond all the
ordinary events of life—it requires that it should be
scrutinized in proportion to its eccentricity, and in
just degree with the vital interests which depend upon
its execution. Yield to this entreaty, dear Marie, even
though you should persist, finally, in the cruel resolution
to hearken to no other from the lips of one whose
every prayer will still eternally be yours.
“F. B.”
The quick, intelligent mind of Marie de Berniere
readily understood the necessity of caution, if she
regarded the desires or the objects of her lover; and
the first sentences of the letter schooled her sufficiently
to the effort at self-possession, which it was,
nevertheless, very difficult to make. Her emotions of
surprise were apparent upon her cheeks, in their
varying hues, and the restless and sudden vivacity of
her eyes. But his will prevailed. She drew the
writing-materials to her side, and penned a single
sentence, addressed to Madame de Chateauneuve,
which Frederick conveyed, without reading, to his
pocket. She suffered him, at the same time, without
seeming to note the action, to gather up and conceal
the billet which he had brought. The scene was further
enlivened by a dialogue, which we do not think
it necessary to repeat, in which the lovers found but
little difficulty in discoursing of their affections, and
discussing their denial—as if it were now a thing
unavoidable—without suffering their conversation to
-- 084 --
[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
exhibit any doubts of the supernatural origin of that
decree which had been pronounced against their union.
It was long before they separated; and Frederick
fancied that he had gained something towards his
object, when he left Marie in much better spirits than
before, and with something like a hope glistening in
her eyes, which her lips as mournfully persisted in
denying to his ears.
That afternoon Frederick came to me.
“Your services, William, are about to begin. To-night
you must look for me in a disguise. I have
prepared another for you. I have also found you
other lodgings. Inform your landlady that you will
be absent for a week or ten days from the city, and
burden yourself with none of your traps. Leave
everything as it is. I will find for you a wardrobe,
with everything necessary, where we go.”
Sure enough, when the night had fairly set in, I
was waited upon by a middle-aged gentleman of the
old school, in costume and manner. This was Brandon.
His disguise was admirable. I complimented
him upon his skill in masquerading.
“So much,” said he, “for the habits of us wandering
youth in New Orleans. But we have had recent
proof that there is one person who is a better masquer
than myself.”
He was followed by a porter bearing a trunk,
which contained a sufficient wardrobe for us both, but
adapted to our new change of habit. I at once proceeded
to make my toilet, with my friend's assistance,
and with old-fashioned coat and pantaloons, a massive
-- 085 --
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
wig, broad-brimmed chapeau, and all the usual et
cetera—to say nothing of a great gold-headed cane—
I found myself, after the labor of half an hour,
translated from a state of full-blooded dandyism and
youth into a state of full-bottomed seniority, with the
bulk and general appearance of a senator from one of
the country parishes. Brandon was at great pains
with me, and we set forth, the porter carrying the
trunk. We proceeded to an obscure hotel in C—
street, where our employee was rewarded and dismissed.
The trunk was put into the bar-room, while
we went into supper, of which I was the only consumer.
Brandon ate nothing. He disappeared while
I was smoking a cigar in the bar-room, and was gone
for half an hour. He brought with him, on his return,
another porter, to whom the trunk was given in
charge. Our score settled, we left the hotel, and in
a little space of time we reached the very street and
neighborhood in which stood the antique habitation
of the De Bernieres. At the door of an old dwellinghouse,
on the opposite side of the way, we stopped and
hammered. We were admitted by an elderly lady,
who looked quite as much the German as the French
woman. She evidently expected us. Our trunk was
dispatched to a chamber, and the porter dismissed.
A few words with the old lady, and her two venerable
lodgers retired to their apartment. This looked over
upon the street. Brandon soon drew me to the window,
which was small, and furnished with heavy blinds.
“Look,” said he, as he threw open the shutter;
“there is the dwelling of Madame de Berniere
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
obliquely opposite, and at a reasonable distance. You
are now established, my dear William, in the honorable
capacity of a spy. Here, for a few days, if you
really desire to serve me, you will maintain a patient
watch, which must be unwearying. I shall sometimes
relieve you. But it is highly important to see what
persons enter that dwelling; and, not less so, perhaps,
to see by what persons her servants are approached.
This you can only do by day; for the night I have
made other provision. A few days will probably suffice.
In particular, keep an eye upon the old mulatto
fellow, Andres. I have made the discovery that he is
hostile to me, and is really reluctant that I should
visit the house of his mistress; particularly since
the affair of the masquerade. This is one strong argument
against the ghost of the colonel, since it is
scarcely to be thought that the supernatural world
would find it necessary to make an alliance with the
African. Enough! I will leave you now, but will
return again by midnight. Adios!
CHAPTER XII. PHILOSOPHY OF THE SUPERNATURAL.
I resume my narrative, passing over numerous
small occurrences which may be noticed hereafter.
Of the long and serious conversation which I had
that night with Frederick Brandon, I shall say nothing;
as much of the material was necessarily
-- 087 --
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
employed the next day in his conference with Marie de
Berniere. To this conference let us now proceed.
At the appointed hour, the carriage of Madame de
Chateauneuve stopped suddenly at the door of the
fair young mourner's habitation. The door was instantly
opened to receive her, and she was soon
welcomed to the embraces of her friend. Marie
was already dressed to receive her; but habited so
plainly, and in a style so unusual for the street, that
none of her servants dreamed, when she was making
her toilet, that she was preparing or designing to go
abroad. In this proceeding, by a just instinct, she
consulted the unexpressed objects of her lover. Her
attendants were quite taken by surprise when she
ordered her bonnet and cloak. Her maid, indeed,
expostulated with her with that earnestness which duty
and affection may be suffered to indulge in; first, in
regard to her health, sudden exposure to capricious
weather, and all that sort of thing; and, next, in
relation to her style of dress, which the Tabitha asseverated,
was by no means fit to be seen by fashionable
eyes. But Marie silenced the officious damsel by
a word, which was sufficiently positive without being
harsh or stern. She herself, by the way, took the
initiate in all the proceeding, and spoke to her visitor
as if the proposed drive was altogether an extemporaneous
suggestion of her own.
“I am so rejoiced that you are come,” said she,
“for somehow, I feel to-day, for the first time, like
taking a little sunshine and fresh air. Everything
looks so gloomy here. You shall give me a seat, dear
-- 088 --
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
Ninine (a pet term of endearment to her friend), and
talk to me as we ride, and cheer me, if you can, into
better spirits. I am so glad that you are come.”
And, hurrying her toilet, and wrapping herself
closely up in the ample territory of a shawl of Thibet,
she took her friend's arm and eagerly led the way to
the carriage.
“If the Father should come?” was the apparent
question of the old dark mulatto servant-man, Andres,
as, with a hesitating and reluctant manner; he opened
the door.
“Tell him that I have gone out to ride, Andres;
that I want fresh air and sunshine. Say that I am
gone with Madame de Chateauneuve.”
Nothing more was said, and the carriage, with its
precious burden, was soon out of sight of the porter,
who yet lingered at the door. The drive, by Madame
de Chateauneuve's instructions, was purposely a circuitous
one. It led at first directly out of the city,
but when a certain distance had been reached, the
carriage was wheeled about, and, after wending its
way through other parts of the city, was at length
brought to a stand before Madame de Chateauneuve's
dwelling. The friends alighted and entered the house,
where Brandon was in waiting to receive them. He
saw them approaching from the window, but did not
dare to descend and assist them, as he was unwilling
that any watchful or suspicious eye might detect his
presence on this occasion. His plan of operations
was one which must fail without the nicest precautions,
and, as he observed to me the night before,
-- 089 --
[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
“Whether I am to play against man or devil, it is
evident that my opponent is an old and adroit manager
of the cards. We must beware that he does not
get the deal.” The impatience of Madame de Berniere,
when they encountered, left him little time or
occasion for preliminaries.
“You have provoked my doubts and curiosity,
Frederick, to such a degree that I could not sleep last
night. It is not that I believe it in your power to
shake my faith in what I have seen and know. But
the bare possibility that I may have been deceived,
which your view of the case has suggested—my great
respect for your judgment, which is confessedly so
cool and so sagacious—my own present dissatisfaction
and discontent—in short, the total loss of that peace
of mind which should undoubtedly have followed my
complete resignation to that fate which required that
I should make every sacrifice of self; these all combine
to make me eager to hear anything—even though
it be against my hope—if it will only silence my
anxieties. Tell me, then, Frederick, what is it that
you know, or wherefore and whom do you suspect?”
“I have said, Marie, that I regarded you as the
victim of a most cunning and shocking imposture. I
am not the man easily to delude myself, and until I
am assured, myself, I am not the man to attempt to
delude others. I have listened patiently and thoughtfully
to the curious and startling narrative of facts
which you have given me. Startling they are—and
they would be terrible indeed, were there not certain
peculiarities in the history of this affair, which seem
-- 090 --
[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
to me to divest it of all its supernatural elements,
and reduce it to nothing more stupendous than a well-conceived
and cleverly played scheme of a practised
and subtle juggler.”
“But that face of death, Frederick—those fearful
and glassy eyes, which stared into my own, freezing
me to my very soul; that voice, so entirely the same;
that ghastly aspect, and over all, the revelation of
that terrible secret which I had fondly imagined was
buried and obliterated in the insane thought in which
it had existence.”
“Stay, Marie; suffer me to proceed. In particular,
let me request that you do not allow your imagination
to become once more the ally of this superstition.
It has done some mischief in this manner already.
It was in some degree the knowledge of this susceptibility
of yours that first persuaded the ghost-raiser
to an experiment upon your fears, in which he has
hitherto been only too successful.”
“But do you, then, not believe at all in ghosts,
Frederick?”
“I have no knowledge of the subject, Marie. I
have never seen a ghost; but am rather more inclined
to believe in them than otherwise, since I believe in
the immortality of the soul—since I know not where
or how the soul is employed after it shuffles off its
earthly garment; and since I can easily believe that
there are many cases, where, for specific purposes
of mortal benefit, the Deity may permit the freed
spirit to resume its habit and reappear in the ancient
places which it has long abandoned.”
-- 091 --
[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
“Well?”
“You would contend that this is one of those very
cases, but I confidently say, `No.' Indeed, it would
be one of those cases which, by showing to me what
monstrous crimes might be committed under such a
sanction, would be almost conclusive, to my mind,
against the whole doctrine of pneumatology. I am
not unwilling to believe that the spectre may be permitted
to reappear for warning and counsel—in order to
succor the innocent whom no help could otherwise reach—
or to baffle the meditated guilt to which there is no
means of earthly opposition. But how can I persuade
myself that the Deity will yield such privilege to the
spirit who seeks only to mortify and affright; to the
guilty spirit also: one who, in life, was himself a
criminal—brutally regardless of the nature which he
outraged! Should he be permitted, in both lives, to
exercise a power of wrong? Shall he, after death,
be suffered to renew his outrages to the mortal terror
and prolonged suffering of his former victim?—to
her public shame and exposure?”
“Alas, Frederick! but I too was guilty!”
“Not to him! You meditated a crime against him,
it is true; but as you did not execute your offence, as
he did not suffer from it, your real crime was against
the Deity. To both did you endeavor to atone. You
repented of your evil purpose almost as soon as you
conceived it; certainly in season to prevent its execution.
It was a guilty thought only, which better
thoughts have sufficed to eradicate. He surely has no
work of vengeance to execute!”
-- 092 --
[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
“But he may execute the vengeance of the good
God, Frederick?”
“Scarcely! How can we suppose that the Deity
will employ against the offender the agency of a far
greater criminal? How suppose that he will leave to
the spirit of malice to execute the decrees of justice?
This would be to put into the hands of the aggressor
the means of further aggression. Of course, we cannot
pretend to sit in judgment upon the will and purposes
of God. But it is not denied to us that we
shall exercise our best modes of thinking—our human
faculties of reason—according to the usual standards
of mortal judgment. We know that the unfortunate
person whose spectre you suppose yourself to have seen
was a heinous criminal—a bold blasphemer—a brutal
tyrant—a man who died literally with curses upon his
lips! That he should be in a situation to receive miraculous
power from the Divine Father of Good—that
he should be chosen as the special agent for the prosecution
of omniscient judgment—is scarcely compatible
with possibility, according to any of those laws and principles
which a merely human reason recognizes as characteristic
of propriety or justice. If we are to regard
this as a supernatural visitation, how much more
reasonable to ascribe it to the malicious dispensations
of a Power of Evil, rather than one of Good! This
power, it is quite probable, from all that we see and
learn, is as active and present now, in malignant
hostility to the interests of earth, as it was five
thousand years ago. It may work its miracles also;
and the mission which it is thought to execute, in the
-- 093 --
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
present instance, is of a kind rather to proceed from
a cruel and envious than from a benevolent original.
What does it seek? To vex and separate the hearts
that love would unite; to disturb the repose and destroy
the happiness of that being to whom it allowed
neither peace nor happiness in life; to continue, beyond
the grave, a persecution which it delighted to indulge
while living; to mar the harmony and order of society;
to fill our souls with vague terrors—with a constant
sense of insecurity—with the dread of evils ever at
the elbow—and to inspire horror in scenes the most
sweet and peaceful! And all for what? Because of
ancient offences—meditated and not performed, and
amply repented, if not wholly atoned for. Are we to
suppose that all our thoughts are thus watched by
malignant spirits, in order that we may be tormented
by their capricious hate and tyranny? Why was
this revelation never made to you before? Why was
this terrible rebuke to your hopes left unadministered
so long? Why, if the purpose had been to adjudge
you unworthy of all future happiness, such as the
natural affections of youth bestow, why were you not
counselled to the proper preparation for this sacrifice,
that you might wean your thoughts from every but
immortal attachments—taught sternly, at an earlier
season, that, for the meditated crime of your heart,
you were to make that heart expiate by a dark and
gloomy isolation for its single unhappy fault? This
warning was doubly necessary at an early period, to
prevent you from involving other destinies with your
own! You do not say that your spectral visitant
-- 094 --
[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]
warned you against me? He did not say to you that
I did not truly and tenderly love you—that I had
not built largely and with confidence upon the hopes
with which my love for you had inspired me? He
did not say that I was unworthy of you, or that we
were unfit for each other?”
“No! no! Frederick, no!”
“Why, then, am I to share your punishment? I
was certainly in no way privy to your offence. If I
truly and tenderly love you—if I am guiltless of this
crime; if the prospect be a reasonable one, that we
should be happy together in the bonds of marriage—
what are we to think of that benevolence or justice
in the Father of all blessings—whom we are taught
to honor chiefly because of his fast attributes of benevolence
and justice—if he shall forbear his judgment
upon the guilty until he can sweep, with the same
doom, the innocent also? Allowing that this messenger
of evil comes from the grave, it is impossible that
I can persuade myself that his mission is from God!
Rather”—
“Forbear, Frederick, forbear! For my sake!”
“But in truth, dear Marie, he comes from neither!
He is but a vulgar ghost of mortal manufacture. You
perceive that he does not come at all until we are
engaged to be married. This is a fact of considerable
significance! For thirteen months has this ghost kept
quietly in possession of your secret. For that space
of time you too have been permitted to sleep quietly,
with all its weight upon your conscience. There was
no incumbent duty felt, in all this period, to awaken
-- 095 --
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
your guilty heart—to check and rebuke your enjoyments—
to school you with terrors of the future. You
might engage in dances and song—to wander through
the fascinating mazes of a gay society, on the brink
always of eternal dangers, yet without a word of
warning. It is only when you are in possession of
another secret, that the awful monitor wakes up to
chide you for the past and to warn you against the
future. Clearly, then, it is the marriage that disturbs
the ghost, and not your past offences. He leaves his
cerements, and revisits the glimpses of our moon, when
he finds that you are about to wed another. Was
your crime, upon which he now so much insists, of no
importance, and totally unmeriting regard? It would
seem so. One would say, reasoning from common
laws, that our excellent ghost has not so much desired
to make you a penitent, as to keep you a widow.”
The case was put with evident effect. A pause ensued,
in which Frederick Brandon appeared to await
her answer. She replied after a little interval.
“You are reasoning, Frederick, as men are apt to
reason in ordinary concerns. But how shall we sit
in judgment upon the means and processes, the agents
and creatures, by which the Deity thinks fit to work.
Lucifer, himself, we are told, is but a creature of his
will, who works in obedience to his manifestation.”
“I do not gainsay this. I say nothing against it;
nor do I propose, dear Marie, to reason for the propriety
of God's performances. But this is what men
call a begging of the question. This is really the
-- 096 --
[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
question. Is it the Deity who works, or is it the man,
or is it the devil? You assume the former, and I
deny it; and we have but one process left to us, that
of human reason (or it is our mockery only) to determine
upon our several opinions. Neither of us may
assume anything in the matter.”
“But the peculiar revelation which is made by this
messenger, Frederick?”
“To that I shall come directly. There are still
some preliminary considerations. Assuming that
Heaven has designed to influence your conduct by a
special messenger—and here, dear Marie, we must be
wonderfully cautious not to suffer the amour propre
too readily to persuade us of an importance in one
particular instance, which is to secure us this peculiar
consideration of the Deity—assuming, I say, that this
visitor is not only what he really pretends, but that
he is a special messenger from God—and the question
occurs, has he pursued a course which is consistent
with the usual workings of heavenly interposition?
The ministry of God, when he would work upon the
stubborn heart of man, is as really gentle and unobtrusive,
as silent and natural, as is the gentle falling
of the dews by night upon the feverish and famished
plant. Was the season chosen for this warning altogether
consistent with a divine and benevolent intention?
Would God delight, not only to counsel the
sinner, but to scare and shame him to confession by
a coup de theatre? Would he choose the scene of
revelry for such an annunciation? Were there not a
-- 097 --
[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
thousand other and better opportunities in the long
interval of thirteen months before—the still hours of
the night—the solitude of one's chamber—one of those
periods when the heart inclines to look back, and to
sigh and weep over the memorials of the past!—when
the mind is most free for contemplation and reflection,
and the conscience most susceptible to all teachings
which appeal to it through its consciousness of past
errors and mistakes? Is it not reasonable to conjecture,
from all that we know of the Deity, that he
would choose for such a purpose some such period of
self-security and solitude? But, on the other hand,
how natural for the vulgar mortal, conceiving the idea
of producing an impression by some cunning jugglery
(such as I take this to be) to execute his design just
at the period chosen—when there would be a great
and vulgar sensation in consequence—a town talk—
and when the superstitious terrors of the victim would
be necessarily heightened by the most cruel mortification
of her pride! How could we suppose that the
Deity would work through such a medium, or with
such motives? You remember the spectre in Job?
How a thing was secretly brought to him, his ear only
receiving it faintly and imperfectly at first. The hour
chosen was that of midnight—when the deep sleep
has fallen upon earth and all its living creatures. His
instincts promptly teach him to shudder even at this
little whisper. It is premonitory. It is sent to prepare
and strengthen him against what follows. He
feels the approach of the unknown presence, which he
does not see, which had not yet spoken audibly.
-- 098 --
[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]
Then he becomes conscious that a spirit stands before
him, vague, formless, indefinite—shapeless and featureless—
but looking a terrible power before his eyes.
The voice then follows. The burden of the speech is
spoken! How brief—how simple—how awful—how
utterly wanting in details—yet ample, as addressing
itself to a conscience already fully counselled by all
its instincts. And thus it is everywhere in sacred
history, that the Spirit of God reveals himself to the
objects of his interest. He awes, but he does not scare
them. He endows them with an adequate strength
to endure his visitation, and does not overwhelm them
with such terrors as threaten life. It is in this particular
that we find the conclusive difference between the
really supernatural visitation and the simulacrum. It
is in this particular that the art of the juggler fails.
That you should have been stricken into senselessness
almost to death, by the spectre, is to me conclusive of
the total absence of the supernatural. Look at all
the cases that occur in sacred history. It is with a
whisper that the Deity calls the boy Samuel, at midnight,
to his mission. He accommodates his voice to
the strength of the being whom he summons, and nowhere
leaves him without the strength to endure his
presence. It is thus that he enables his inspired men
to seek him in the lonely mountains, the multitude
being kept away—and they are never crushed by the
encounter. There is but a single instance that I can
recall, looking like an exception to this rule—which it
really is not—and that is the sudden, silent hand, at
the feast of Belshazzar, which wrote Heaven's
-- 099 --
[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
judgment upon the wall. Awe and fear possessed the
hearts of the spectators, but not an utter death-like
prostration of the faculties. But it was in secret only,
in the ear of Daniel, that the mysterious signification
of the writing was made known. It is one of the
wondrous features which distinguish the operations of
the Deity, that they are so quiet, so unobtrusive, so
wholly unostentatious. Were it otherwise, his visitations
would utterly wreck the reason of men; and a
miracle, instead of being what it is, a special advent
of truth, would be only a visitation of death. Ours
is a day of human marvels, and science performs for
the ignorant her full amount of miracles. In the
spectre that we now discuss, I fancy that I can discern
some of the workings of human science, and quite as
much of a human art. Let us look to some other
particulars. I am very sure that the features of which
you speak, as distinguishing the spectre—the glazed
eyes, which yet see—the wan cheeks—the whitened lips—
the general aspect of the grave and death, which it
wore, are all rather due to chemical agents than to
the spiritual world. But, then, you recognized a
striking resemblance to the features of the late Colonel
de Berniere?”
“I certainly did.”
“Now, then, if it were important to the mission of
the spectre that you should see and recognize his
features, and that they should so strikingly resemble
those of the person of whom it claimed to be the
spirit, why should they wear the appearance of death,
also, as well as life? If the spirit were living, why
-- 100 --
[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]
voluntarily assume the features of the grave, when it
was the object to impress you with the recollection of
the living man? Why, on the other hand, if the aspect
of the grave were to be worn—of absolute death—
why is it that the exhibition was not one of that
complete corruption and decay which we know to be
inevitable after a thirteen months' burial? The spectre
tries to do too much. He does not rely upon his supernatural
endowments so much as upon your memory
and your conscience. He shows himself in a doubtfuldouble—
at once the spirit of a dead and a living
man, without wholly or correctly representing either!
But there is a still more striking difficulty in this personification.
Colonel de Berniere seems to have grown
a number of inches since his burial. Nobody who knew
him in New Orleans—and everybody did—but must
remember that he was of under-size—I think he could
not have been more than five feet four or five inches
high; and yet you will remember that the ghost was able
to impose himself upon you, in my Egyptian costume,
and yet I am fully five feet eleven. I myself remarked,
when I conducted him to you, that the appearance
was not only very like, but that he was just of
my height. We stood side by side, for a moment, at
the entrance, and our shoulders were on the same
level. I noticed one difference, that my simulacrum
stooped a little, which I do not; this would prove him
to be even taller than myself. Now, Colonel de Berniere
not only did not stoop, but was remarkable for
his erectness; throwing himself back rather, as is common
with persons consciously small, who are
-- 101 --
[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]
necessarily compelled to do so if they would seek the eyes
of their neighbors. You, I suppose, dear Marie, were
quite too much frightened to have discriminated these
things, else how could you suppose the Egyptian, at
one moment, to be me, and, in the very next, Colonel
de Berniere?”
Marie seemed to admit the charge by her silence,
her head drooping, but her eyes dilating—her soul at
sea—at strife, in that deep interest which her lover
had provoked in the singular and now dubious question
which he had raised. He resumed—
“Now, Marie, it is one way to defeat a supernatural
mission, which seeks only to impress warning and
convey command, so to terrify the mind of the person
receiving the visitation, as nearly to rob him of life
and reason. We are bound to assume the condition
in which you were left, as rather against than in favor
of the supernatural pretension of your visitor. Such
results never are known to follow a genuine spiritual
visitation. But terror is easily inspired, even
to death, by the blundering cruelty of mere vulgar
agents among men. I have glanced already at the
reason for this, but the point is one of too much importance
to the argument to be passed over lightly;
and I dwell on it the more particularly as one of the
most famous metaphysicians of the age has adverted
to the subject, arguing against the supernatural altogether.
It is Coleridge who contends that no mortal
could survive the presence of a real ghost; and he gives
an anecdote of two youths, one of whom endeavored
to frighten the other, who coolly mocked his
-- 102 --
[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]
pretensions, and, being armed with a loaded pistol, warned
him that he would fire if he persisted. But the
former, having secretly drawn the bullet, persevered,
and fearlessly stood the shot. The other, when he
found his bullet of no avail against the spectre, swooned
instantly, and finally died. The argument of the
`old man eloquent' is not urged with his usual ingenuity
or profundity. He overlooks one element of
the subject to which I have already adverted. The
mortal might well frighten to death the mortal who
relied wholly on carnal weapons, and offered merely a
general sentiment of incredulity to a philosophy which
has baffled the most thorough investigations. We, however,
are to assume that the power which decrees the
advent and the duty of the ghost, will so provide that
his object shall not be rendered ineffectual. We must
not doubt that he will prepare the mind of the spectator
with a supernatural strength adequate to the encounter.
His instincts, as in the case of Job, will
become his premonitors. Coleridge's student had
none of these premonitions, and his death was the
consequence of an instantaneous transition from a blind
and boyish incredulity to an equally boyish belief in
the reality of the spectre! The solemn purposes of
the Deity will not suffer to be baffled by the infirmities
of the flesh, when it is so certainly in his power to
succor and sustain the shrinking nature of humanity
by a provision as mysterious as that by which it is
assailed. That your Egyptian, in his first contact
with you, myself, and others, should have inspired no
such mysterious doubts and sensibilities as oppressed
-- 103 --
[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]
Job—and such as seem, in all cases, to have attended
the approach of the supernatural guest—is sufficiently
against his pretensions. That he should have frightened
you into convulsions is not more conclusive in
his favor than is the attainment of the same result
by the trick of the brutal juggler, when he seizes upon
the unprepared and superstitious child, and overwhelms
him with a terror against which, if from a divine intelligence,
the spectator is always measurably armed
and protected.”
CHAPTER XIII. RUSE DE GUERRE.
It must not be supposed that Frederick Brandon
was allowed to pursue this long analysis without frequent
interruptions from his fair companion; frequent questionings,
doubts, and suggestions occurred during his
progress, which we have not thought necessary to
put on record. Nor must the reader fancy that the
lover was, at any time, so abrupt in his expressions,
as, in our anxiety to contract our narrative to certain
dimensions, we may have suffered him sometimes to
appear. His philosophies compassed, also, a much
larger province of thought than it has been within our
desire or ability to exhibit. Many things were said
in order to soften suggestions which might have startled
the superstitious nature; and much soothing was
employed to pacify the timid in her superstitious
-- 104 --
[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]
fancies. In all his conversation, Brandon was properly
heedful of all her feelings and distresses. He had
schooled his mind to progress, and, calm himself,
mentally—whatever might be the emotions feverishly
working in his heart, he had been able to address
himself to the woman whom he loved, with a care that
never once forgot the physician in the philosopher.
He had succeeded, certainly, in awakening in the mind
of his hearer some of that skepticism which had justified
his own. This was indicated in her enlivened expression
of countenance—in her anxiety that he should
proceed—and in a certain resumption of her former elasticity
of mood, which at one time had rendered her quite
as volatile and gay as she was susceptible. He was
at no loss to follow up the train of opinion and argument
with which he had begun.
“All this,” said Marie de Berniere, after a pause,
speaking in low tones—scarce breathing, indeed, from
excitement—“all this is certainly very strange, and
very strongly urged. But your argument, Frederick,
with some exceptions, relates only to general speculations
upon the merely probable or possible in such an
affair. In these respects you have made your views
plausible; but how are you to overcome the one great
fact touching the secret revelation?”
“Forgive me, Marie, if I claim to have dealt in
something more than generalities. These I have
employed as subsidiary only to positive arguments
bearing upon decisive points in the case. For example,
the appearance of the spectre, looking neither
-- 105 --
[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]
like the living nor the dead, partaking of both in some
degree—a spirit shrouded in corruption—”
“But we are not to know what are the characteristics
of such an apparition—with what purpose
designed—from what condition suffering—under what
necessities made active.”
“You have not examined my objections thoroughly,
Marie. I object that the spectre was, at once, too
much and too little specific; that he showed too
many and too few details; that he so mixed the aspects
of both conditions, of life and death, as properly
to represent neither. But, I pass this particular over.
There is one point which seems a staggering one:
that Colonel de Berniere, who in life was six inches
shorter than myself, should, as a spectre, be my superior
in height; a matter scarcely consistent with the
necessity which he seemed to acknowledge of appearing
to you, as he did, at the first hour of his demise.
Whether a spectre may dilate in one region and not
another, grow in height and not in bulk, is a question,
to determine which we have no absolute criteria.
But, according to all vulgar human thinking, the case
would be an exceedingly anomalous one; and I repeat,
one is at a loss to account for any supernatural necessity
to exhibit the features of the spiritual man, or
living man, at all, in a case of supernatural visitation;
since, in such cases, it is evident that the spectre has
only to rely upon his mission, to find all your instincts
friendly to his recognition. There was no
necessity to appeal to you for the recollection of features
which look like neither death nor life; nor stare
-- 106 --
[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]
at you through eyes fixed and glassy; nor speak to
you through lips blue and clammy with corruption.
It would not so much offend our sense of propriety,
that he should appear to you entirely as he did when
alive, or entirely as he did when dead; or not to appear
to you at all, except in a vague outline formed
by cloud and vapor. As he appears to you, it does
not seem that he resembles either condition, that of
the dead, the living, or the spiritual; but as a something
made up of all three. This seems to me to
have been the error of a mountebank, rather than a
ghost.”
“Frederick, you confound me.”
“I do not aim at this, Marie. My desire is only
to enlighten you, and to free you from one of the
most monstrous impositions that cunning ever attempted
upon credulity. The juggler who pulls these
wires, built quite as much upon your imaginative susceptibilities
as upon his own adroitness.”
“I confess myself greatly impressed by what you
have said; but when I remember that dreadful revelation—
that cruel secret—”
“This seems to me scarcely more difficult than any
other portion of the mystery. I little doubt that you
yourself have betrayed this secret a thousand times.”
“How, when, where, to whom?”
“To the night, to the air, to the silence, to the birds!
Persons of the sanguine temperament are continually
talking aloud, particularly in their sleep. This is certain,
where the mind is an imaginative one. It never
sleeps. You have never deliberately designed telling
-- 107 --
[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]
this secret. Nay, you have watched your lips with
sleepless anxiety, lest they should prattle unadvisedly.
Yet the very anxieties of that watch have probably
forced you into speech the moment your observing
faculties were at rest; and you have soliloquized the
apprehensions aloud in respect to the grievous burden
which lay pressing at your heart. Nature has revenged
herself in sleep for the constraints which you
put upon her when you were awake; and your unconscious
lips were compelled to unclose their portals,
nightly, for the escape of that prisoner whom you kept,
during your wakeful hours, under such heavy bonds.
A secret, in this condition, is the most restless of spiritual
things. The deplorable necessity which such a
captive imposed upon the barber of King Midas, you
have not forgotten. The keeper of it, weary of his
task, gladly seeks to transfer his captive to some
other's keeping.”
“But supposing this conjecture to be justly founded;
supposing me to talk in my sleep—which I believe I
do, for I dream a great deal—who is there to watch
the appearance of the prisoner, and take possession
of it when it leaves its captivity? Colonel de Berniere
evidently never knew it while he lived. For months
before his death we slept in separate apartments. In
all that time, and even since his death, I have invariably
slept alone, my maid occupying an adjacent
chamber, in which she could only hear my bell. She
could not, by any possibility, have heard the murmurs
of my voice while I slept, or anything less than my loudest
summons, when awake. That Colonel de Berniere
-- 108 --
[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]
never knew or suspected my meditated offence when
alive, I am very sure. He had never spared me the
discovery, the shame, and probably the punishment
due to my unhappy error. And, for my maid—can
it be supposed that, if she had made the discovery, I
should have been able to escape her assumptions in
consequence, and in due degree with the importance
of the secret?”
“My dear Marie, neither Colonel de Berniere nor
your maid effected the discovery. I am very sure that
the latter knows nothing of this, though she may be in
possession of some other secrets not wholly disconnected
with it; and as for the former, whether he
knows now or not, I am quite as sure that he is altogether
innocent of the offence of troubling you. But
if you spoke not your secret in your sleep—if you
suffered or summoned no confidant while you deliberately
revealed it, it is yet most probable that your
own lips have in some way made the revelation first.
You say that you withheld it wholly from the confessional?”
“To my shame and sorrow I did!”
“You have spoken it in your prayers in your
closet, when you fancied you had no other auditor
than God himself, and when you invited him to listen?”
“Surely, Frederick, I have so prayed and so spoken
in my prayers.”
“How easy, then, to suppose that you were heard
by other than spiritual ears.”
“Ha! How?”
-- 109 --
[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]
“Nay, I am prepared to believe that you were seen
when you compounded the poison with the wine!”
“Impossible!”
“Not more impossible than the ghost! Nay, Marie,
we are only to believe the ghost, when all human
agencies are shown to be unequal to the mystery.
The miracle is such only, when it is totally beyond
the ability of mortal to achieve. Hearken to me, now,
for this brings me to another of the arguments which
persuade me that you are the victim of a fraud. In
your statement to me, of all the particulars, you
mentioned that when the poison was mixed, and in
your hands for use—when the medicated wine was
about to be placed in the way of Colonel de Berniere,
your better thoughts came to your aid—your soul revolted
at the crime; and with the firmness of a spirit
totally emancipated from the snares of Satan, and
shuddering to have been so far seduced to sin, you
cast away the fatal liquor, and fell upon your knees
in penitence and prayer to God. This was in your
chamber—in your closet—and when you fancied yourself
utterly alone?”
“The door was locked!—what reason have you
to think that I was not alone?”
“The very best of reasons; which I gather from
the revelations of the spectre himself. You may remember,
while telling me of the event, that I asked
you, cursorily—led to the inquiry by a sudden suspicion—
whether the spectre showed an intimate acquaintance
with the details of your meditated crime—
whether, in other words, he distinctly named your
-- 110 --
[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]
offence, and showed such a knowledge of the particular
facts, as proved that he did not rely upon a vague
suggestion, made at random, rather with the view to
surprising a guilty conscience of which he had suspicion,
than with the design to chide and denounce for
offences fully known?”
“Yes—and I then told you that he betrayed the
most surprising knowledge of all the particulars;
described the poison; named it (and I myself did not
know the name before); mentioned where I procured
it; how I mixed it; what I did with it; when first
mixed; where I threw it from the window; and of the
prayer which I made by the bedside, prostrate upon
the floor; the very words I spoke; the very tears I
shed!”
“Precisely! Now, then, Marie, this very particularity
assured me that your Egyptian was no ghost;
certainly, none dispatched from heaven. When you
first told me of these details, I could scarce desist
from the exclamation aloud, that he knew too much!
at all events he said too much. He proved to me,
not that he was a prophet, but that he had been a
witness. For why should the spectre do more than
appeal to your conscience for the sufficient proof of
his charge? Are we to suppose that the direct
minister of Heaven, assured of what he says, would
doubt, for a moment, his power to compel your faith
in his mission by a simple general statement of the
guilty act which you had meditated? What need had
he to say more than—`Woman, what hast thou done!
What didst thou design against thy husband's life in
-- 111 --
[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]
the moment of his debauchery and security! How
didst thou mingle the deadly potion with his drink,
meaning to dispatch him to judgment with all his sins
upon his head! And wouldst thou now wed another?
Retire thou, rather, into the shades of the convent,
and there deplore thy sins in sackcloth, that thy soul
be not forfeit forever!'—What more would have been
necessary to strike the guilty heart into confession?
and it would have been enough for you! But our
ghost was not content with this; secure in his facts,
he was not satisfied unless he could overwhelm you
with them. He thought you might be stubborn. He
allowed too little for conscience. He aimed to do that
which the true prophet does not think necessary to
attempt—to prove to you the things which your own
soul knew needed no proof whatsoever! The ghost, as
I said before, proved too much. He proves to me, dear
Marie, that he was a living witness of all your proceedings—
all, at least, which were connected with your
meditated offence!”
“Impossible! Oh, Frederick! impossible!”
The nice sensibilities of the woman shrunk at the
idea of a surveillance so audacious and unmanly, as
left her no security even in the sacred recesses of her
chamber.
“Solemnly, dear Marie, I say and believe this to
be the truth. I have labored intently to reason out
this mysterious affair. I may not satisfy you, but I am
myself satisfied. The progress of my inquiry has
brought me, step by step, to these several conclusions:
that the Egyptian is an impostor—that his purpose is
-- 112 --
[figure description] Page 112.[end figure description]
to separate us—nay, not only to prevent your marrying
with me, but to prevent your marriage altogether,
and with anybody—that he has fathomed your secret
by merely human means—that he has employed
merely human agencies; however obscure and difficult
this may seem to you, in imposing upon you the appearance
of Colonel de Berniere—and (a vital particular
in the future prosecution of our inquiry) that he
had acquired, within your chamber, all the knowledge
which he possesses.”
“In the name of Heaven, Frederick, what is it that
you suspect?”
“That your dwelling is pierced by secret passages,
and that your chamber is accessible from without by
avenues which you do not dream of.”
“I will have it instantly pulled down.”
“Nay, nay; softly: by no means. That would certainly
enable us to prove the facility with which your
chamber might be penetrated, but would leave the
rest still doubtful, to trouble your thoughts with
future misgivings. Besides, it would probably defeat
all our efforts to discover the impostor.”
“But who can this be, Frederick? I see that you
have your suspicions of him, also.”
“I confess it, Marie, but must plead with you to
allow me, for the present, to keep this one conjecture
to myself. It is not improbable, however, that I shall
lead you to him hereafter, by irresistible conclusions.
But let me proceed. It has been one of my frequent
subjects of reverie, the construction of houses for defence
and security, upon plans at once satisfying the
-- 113 --
[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]
rigorous selfishness of the feudal Baron, of Gothic
periods, and the no less selfish, but more voluptuous
fancies of the Eastern Caliphs. I must premise,
by telling you that constructiveness is, perhaps, my
most prominent phrenological development. In exercising
it in my dreams, I have indulged in the most
mixed, various, and wonderful problems of architecture;
and, at one time of my life, in the deep shades
of our forest domain in Tennessee, I had planned the
most audacious experiment in castle-building, with the
very materials out of which we frame the common loghouse.
I had towers and bastions, and wings and
keeps, donjon and drawbridge. The wall was, on
one side, to be incorporated with the dwelling, and on
another side the towers were to overhang the dear
little Indian lakelet of Istahkapah, upon which my
infant eyes first opened to the light. I had gardens
of rare luxury, with verandas leading into them, and
these so embowered with vines, fruit, and foliage, that
the memories of Bagdad, and of the great Haroun,
should be forced, irresistibly, upon the mind of all
who entered them. A vast area was to be inclosed
by the fortifications and flanking towers of the castle,
in which I was to practise a thousand sorceries, for
the delight and wonder of the twin spirit whom I
should beguile into my forest empire. Of these dreaming
structures, these wild schemes of a restless fancy,
I trust, dear Marie, that I shall yet be permitted, in
spite of our ghost, to unfold to you, as part proprietor,
the wondrous history; at moments when your heart
shall most easily incline you to forgive the builder for
-- 114 --
[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]
his boyish follies. At this moment, however, I have
only to say—as suiting a present purpose—that one
of my favorite studies was the contrivance of secret
passages through the walls of the castle; and stair-flights,
entrances, and facilities for escape, such as
should blind the sharpest conjecture, and baffle the
most vigorous pursuit. You can have no idea of the
degree of perfection which I attained in the prosecution
of these fancies—how admirably I contrived my
avenues in spaces inconceivably small, which I yet
contrived to gain from wall and chimney without leaving
any apparent region unaccounted for; how artfully
I introduced passages into apartments, and sections
of apartments, where it was beyond common
conjecture that such could be; and with what happy
ingenuity I contrived modes of opening the secret entrance
into the apartment, making it easy and difficult
at once—easy of use to him who knew, and when the
emergency required it, and difficult of detection by the
stranger, even where its presence was suspected.
Thus my domains were penetrable or impenetrable,
as I myself thought proper; and my privacy might
be guarded by material agents, whose prompt efficiency
was comparable to such as are usually ascribed to
spells of magic. Thus could I escape unseen into the
forest, and from the forest find my way back, equally
unseen, to any quarter of my castle. Vaulted passages
beneath the ground, connected with a secret
stairway in one of my flanking towers, conducted me
out to slopes and gentle swells of earth, which I was
never to clear of umbrage, and my opening from the
-- 115 --
[figure description] Page 115.[end figure description]
vaulted passage into the ample sunshine was itself a
discovery and an invention, which, were the subterranean
a more desirable realm for the habitation of the
great body of mankind, I hold to be of so much value,
that I should certainly guard its profits by a patent.”
Marie was beguiled into a smile. Her lover proceeded—
“These studies naturally made me observant of
the susceptibilities, for similar purposes, of the ordinary
dwellings of the citizen; and, whenever I was
left to my musings, in a strange house, I caught myself
meditating the dimensions of the walls, the spaces
between them and the chimneys, the depths of fireplaces,
the wainscoting, any apparent inequalities, or
unnecessary enlargement of parts, any want of symmetry
and proportion or adaptation—in short, a thousand
minutiæ which might either provoke doubts or
furnish suggestions of the subject. It will surprise
you, as it did me, to learn that such schemes as I had
only planned in thought, were comparatively common
in practice, and that, in numerous instances, in almost
every large city, human ingenuity has wrought out the
secret passage, and opened the mysterious outlet,
through the walls of the ordinary citizen. Many
houses, thus perforated, I am satisfied exist in this
very place. I suspect several, and have discovered
my conjectures to be right in some instances already.
But I never seem to have thought of the matter when
in your dwelling—having my thoughts always more
gratefully employed; always—until the moment when
the subject flashed upon me, as a direct consequence
-- 116 --
[figure description] Page 116.[end figure description]
of that statement of details, which the Egyptian
made, when he unfolded to you your painful secret.
It appeared to me conclusive of a human witness
rather than a supernatural visitant, and seemed to me
just the sort of testimony which a person would be
likely to afford, who had been actually present at the
scene. How could he have been present? A single
glance around the apartment led me to the conviction
that it was admirably riddled with secret avenues. I
knew it to be an old Spanish structure, and from its
size and massiveness, I thought it not impossible that
it had once been employed for government or religious
purposes. Tradition may have told you something
on this subject, but the matter is by no means
important. The secret passages are unquestionably
in the dwelling, very possibly connecting all the
apartments; and now the question occurs—how are
we to penetrate the mystery without being discovered
by the enemy, or alarming him in his hiding-places?
It is important not only to discover how your house
is haunted, but by whom. Are you prepared, dear
Marie, to facilitate my examination—which can only
effectually be done by yielding yourself to a series of
regulations, the value of which I have already discussed
to my own satisfaction, though it is probable I
shall not be able, in the case of some of them, to furnish
reasons which will be satisfactory at present to
yourself?”
Marie proposed to be docile, and her lover proceeded
thus—
“You will again ride forth to-morrow with Madame
-- 117 --
[figure description] Page 117.[end figure description]
de Chateauneuve. We shall again meet here on further
consultation. You will express no suspicions,
and show none. I believe that your servants are
spies upon you. I know that old Andres, your porter,
is hostile to myself. If they are in the employ
of another, your absence to-day will occasion them
great uneasiness and curiosity, particularly as you
disclosed nothing of your purpose previously. Continue
your reserve. Say nothing of your ride to-morrow,
but come—will you not?”
“Will I not, Frederick?”
“There is something further. Make up your mind
to retire for a time into the country—to your plantation.
It will be a sufficient plea, for doing this, that
a change of air is essential to your recovery, and a
change of scene necessary to your peace of mind.
Let your preparations go on openly. It is possible
that some one will come and counsel you against it.
Mark that person. If you persist, it is possible some
person will recommend to you a female companion.
Mark that person also. But among these preparations,
there is one that is to be made for me. Here
is a small case that has the look of a dressing-case.
It contains, however, nothing but a few folds of cloth
thickly coated with an impressible wax. Contrive to
send out your porter on some business that will keep
him a couple of hours absent. When he is gone, suddenly
dispatch your maid to my sister, who will detain
her. You will instruct her to wait for an answer to
your note, which may be written on any pretext you
please. When they are withdrawn, take the
-- 118 --
[figure description] Page 118.[end figure description]
impression of all the keys in your house, leading to every
chamber, in the waxed cloths, and restore them to
the case, which you see has a curious lock. It is one
that cannot be tampered with. Here is the key.
Keep it in your bosom unseen. The task of taking
the impressions, I beg that you will execute between
the hours of nine and eleven to-morrow morning.
Your servants will return by twelve, and, at half-past
twelve, my sister will come for you. You will take
the box with you into the carriage.”
“But why this, Frederick; and why are you so particular
about the hours of nine and eleven?”
“The first question I will readily answer. When
you are in the country I will take possession of your
house, through keys that I will have manufactured
from the impressions in wax. They will give ingress
at any hour. You must pardon me if I decline, for
the present, giving an answer to your second question.
All shall be explained hereafter. Do you trust me,
Marie?”
“Oh, willingly, Frederick. I have no doubts of
you.”
“Something further, then, Marie. Here is a letter,
addressed to yourself, written with my hand and
sealed with my initials. But the seal, as you perceive,
is broken. You are to take it, place it in your
bosom, allow yourself to be seen with it by your servants,
and then lock it away in your desk. You are
by no means to read it. It is written, and thus confided
to you, as a snare to any one who may tamper
with your cabinet. It contains matter totally un
-- 119 --
[figure description] Page 119.[end figure description]
known to you, which is, however, so expressed, as to
seem to originate with yourself. If your ghost pries
into your secret places, he will probably possess himself
of the contents of this letter. If so, you will hear
of him again. The bait is one that he will fasten
upon fiercely, if he be the impostor I suspect. In
this case, he will revisit you within the next fortyeight
hours—do not be alarmed—for he will then only
approve himself to you as as impostor, for he will
charge you with that of which you know nothing,
showing, clearly, that he gathers his intelligence
from any but spiritual sources. But if he be a sagacious
ghost, he may make you hear rather than see
him. He will avoid endangering his first impression,
by a repetition of the experiment. Still, this is possible.
At all events, I am confident that he will, within
the space I have mentioned, revisit you in some guise.
Even without this letter, he will have reason to seek
you—your movement to-day will have alarmed him,
particularly as you have gone forth with my sister.
It will be naturally conjectured that you have seen
and been with me. It will be apprehended that, with
recovering health and spirits, you are losing the impression
of terror, the wholesome effect of which was
to decree me to banishment, and you to widowhood.
A fear lest his victim should escape him, lest his design
should be defeated, will make the enemy anxious
and active. I repeat my convictions, that you will
either see or hear of him. In that event, it is another
argument against his supernatural pretension, since it
is so easy to predict his movements. Yours, I feel
-- 120 --
[figure description] Page 120.[end figure description]
very sure, are regularly watched and reported. I,
too, have my spies upon the alert, to ascertain if this
be the case. If it be, it affords us another reason to
doubt the ghost's honesty. But, we must spare no
pains-taking, to render our proofs ample for conviction.
You will see, from what has been said, how important
it is to watch every movement, every word,
every emotion, lest anything escape us to make the
offender vary, and to awaken his suspicions that ours
are aroused.”
I have really only given the heads of this long and
important conference—just enough to show how thorough
were the investigations of Brandon—in what
way he was preparing to work—how cool were his
speculations—with what severity he probed the argument—
and what determined earnestness distinguished
his character. I have forborne all that was digressive
in the interview between the parties—the varying
emotions of Marie de Berniere, and the tender solicitude
of her lover. The expressions and passages of
affection that took place, are equally suppressed.
The reader will conjecture them from a first appreciation
of Brandon's manliness, and of the warmth and
soul of Marie. It is enough now, if I add that the
result of the conference was to awaken in the fair
widow suspicions not dissimilar to those of Brandon,
in regard to this mystery. His ingenious analysis
seemed to prove already that she had been made the
dupe of her fears. Her indignation was greatly
awakened by the idea that a gross and brutal imposition
had been practised upon her senses; and the
-- 121 --
[figure description] Page 121.[end figure description]
gratitude which she felt for him who had done thus
much for her enlightenment, added greatly to the
strength of those sympathies which she had felt for
him before. She frankly promised to obey him in all
respects, and with a last exhortation to be wary, to
show no eagerness or agitation, and express no suspicions,
he assisted her to the carriage, when she was
accompanied by Madame de Chateauneuve to the
dwelling within whose walls harbored the whole secret
of her painful and absorbing mystery. To this, it is
probable that a few more chapters will afford us all
the clues.
CHAPTER XIV. MARIE DE BERNIERE.
While Frederick Brandon was thus conferring with
and counselling his mistress, I had been doing the
small part which he had assigned me. Never did
lover keep more vigilant watch over the dwelling of
his lady-love, than I over the gloomy and antique
mansion of Madame de Berniere. I have stated, I
believe, that when the fair widow took her departure
on her unexpected morning ride, Andres, the mulatto
porter, stood for some seconds watching the carriage
until it had turned the corner. He was joined in this
watch by the Betty of my lady, her pert and officious
chambermaid. These two conversed together for a
few minutes with great apparent interest. The result
-- 122 --
[figure description] Page 122.[end figure description]
of their conference seemed to be some mutual arrangement,
in the performance of which Andres thrust
his porter's key into her hands, re-entered the house,
appeared soon after with his hat and cane, and, after
another brief conference, hurried away. Of course,
I noted the direction which he took, at the same time
not losing sight of the chambermaid. She loitered
at the entrance for a little while, having a word to
say to more than one person passing, and would probably
still have loitered but for a sudden call from
within. She looked round hastily, and my eyes at
the same moment detected a man's arm, in black
sleeves, thrust without the door. I saw only as far
as the elbow. She obeyed the summons, for such it
was, hastily re-entered, and closed the door behind
her. Some other particulars, slight enough, occurred
during my watch throughout the day; of none of
which was I unmindful, though, of their importance,
to the objects of my friend, I had serious misgivings.
I expressed this doubt to him when he returned that
afternoon, and for a time relieved me of my watch;
but he was of a different opinion. The direction
taken by Andres, when he left the chambermaid in
possession of the house, seemed to confirm his conjectures;
and when I told him of the man's arm from
within, he rubbed his hands with satisfaction.
“Impunity has made the fellow incautious!” he
exclaimed.
“What fellow?”
“Never ask me now. Wait, mon ami, till the
game further unfolds itself. I will not trust a
-- 123 --
[figure description] Page 123.[end figure description]
conjecture out of my keeping, lest it shall deceive others
as well as myself. Enough that, thus far, my suspicions
seem in a fair way to be confirmed. But give
me something to eat; I am famishing.”
He looked so. His face was very pale, and his
eye was at once heavy and vacant. His mind had
been under a severe tension for many hours, and his
frame felt the affliction. I poured him out a goblet
of wine, a huge one, which he swallowed at a single
gulp. He ate voraciously of the food put before
him; and when satisfied, he proceeded to put me in
possession of the substance of the matter which I have
already narrated.
“If she has firmness,” he proceeded, “I have every
hope of success. But I tremble for her strength
to-night. She will probably be subjected to a terrible
trial, and one, too, which will result from my own
proceedings. That is, if my conjectures are well
founded. If she stands it—if she does not fail, or
forget, all must go right. I have done all I could to
fortify her against the trial. The enemy will suffer
checkmate, unless—”
He paused, and strode the chamber for awhile;
then resumed—
“There is but one escape—one means of evasion
from the effects of that letter. It is not possible, in
a matter of this sort—so much of which depends upon
the imagination—to guard every point of the game.
There is but one—but one—and that is one which
may lose me every advantage. But—”
This was so much soliloquy, I could not then
-- 124 --
[figure description] Page 124.[end figure description]
comprehend the particular subject of his solicitude, and
he vouchsafed no explanation. He may have seen
that I was a little piqued, for he suddenly turned to
me and caught my hand.
“William, my dear fellow, friendship must serve
without questioning, at times. There are exigences
which demand it. If you know me well, you will not
doubt that you may see into my whole heart at any
moment, when it really becomes desirable. Believing
that I know you, I have no fear that your self-esteem
will overthrow your sympathies. Be content with me,
and wait for the proper hour of discovery. Now, I
can show nothing. It is only in the performance of
what is absolutely essential to the duty before me,
that I can talk at all. The development of the problem,
thus far, in the only secure way, has left me
without strength for any more. I must have sleep
for an hour or two. At all events do not suffer me
to sleep for more.”
He threw himself upon the bed, and to my surprise
was asleep in less than five minutes—sound asleep—
not even seeming to breathe. I hung over him with
concern for a moment, half fancying that he slept his
last. Before the end of two hours he awoke of himself.
“I was resolved not to sleep a moment longer than
two hours, and the animal has succumbed duly to the
will which governs it.”
These were his first words on awaking. He sprang
out of bed on the instant, as if with a new life; his
tone perfectly restored.
“My nerves are right again,” he added; “I feel
-- 125 --
[figure description] Page 125.[end figure description]
the capacity for work once more; but I have lived
twenty years, William, in this last month. In all
probability, in another month, you will find my hair
absolutely gray. Oh, what a trial! But it is for
her! I am content to perish, to save her from such
a fate!”
He left me a little after. Night had fallen, and my
watch was remitted.
“But,” said he, “with the hour of nine to-morrow,
pray resume your place at the window. I will relieve
you as soon as possible. It is to-morrow which shall
relieve me of all my fears, or crush my hopes forever.
CHAPTER XV.
I must continue as a raconteur; my own agency, at
this point, being of little interest, and, perhaps, no
importance to the action. At nine o'clock in the
morning I had duly resumed my place of watch at
the window. There was soon a movement at the
dwelling which I watched. But a few moments after
I had taken my station, the outer door was thrown
open, and Andres, the porter, appeared, with hat on
head, and cane in hand, ready to go forth. The
maid-servant came to the door with him; there was a
short confabulation between them, when he took his
departure, she closing the door behind him. Ten
minutes more elapsed, when she reappeared, shawled
and bonneted, and sallied out also. The door was
-- 126 --
[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]
then reclosed by some one within, whom I did not
see. More than an hour then passed, before either
of these parties returned. They showed themselves
nearly at the same moment; Andres, the porter, first,
and while he knocked, the maid-servant was seen approaching
from below. He seemed somewhat surprised
to behold her; and the two, having joined at
the entrance, talked together with some earnestness.
Suddenly they paused, and drew apart, and, in the
next moment, the portals were opened by some person
from within. At twelve o'clock, exactly, the carriage
of Madame de Chateauneuve drove up; the
knocker resounded; Andres reappeared, and the lady
visitor descended and hurried into the dwelling.
There she remained not long. When she came forth,
she was accompanied by the fair widow. I stared, as
intently as possible, in the hope to see her face, but
unprofitably. It was covered by a thick veil. But I
could see that she suffered from some deep and painful
emotion. She fairly tottered as she walked, and I
observed that Madame de Chateauneuve supported
her to the carriage with a most careful solicitude. They
were soon housed within it, the door closed, and the
vehicle was whirled away, in a few moments, from
my sight. As on the day before, Andres immediately
took his departure also, the maid-servant, for the
time, taking upon herself the charge of the establishment.
He returned in the space of an hour, and, at
three o'clock, precisely, the carriage returned also,
the widow being again supported by Madame de Chateauneuve,
who entered the dwelling with her, and
-- 127 --
[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]
remained within for a couple of hours, the carriage
driving off and returning for her at the end of that
time. The two probably dined together. These were
the events as I witnessed them throughout the day.
Night closed at length, and my watch was ended.
It was eight o'clock in the evening when Frederick
came, and I saw immediately that much had taken
place, in the mean time, of a definite character. He
brought with him a bundle and a box, which for the
time he consigned to the security of his trunk. He
showed me the contents that very night. He was
more quiet and composed than usual, by which I knew
that he was not dissatisfied with events; but he exhibited
no exultation. It was with some impatience that
I waited for his narrative, which he seemed in no
hurry to unfold. He first supped with me, and when
all was cleared away, and we had smoked a cigar each,
I gathered from him the following particulars, which
I report in the manner of a witness.
Madame de Berniere, having been driven to the
house of Madame de Chateauneuve, at once retired
to her chamber, where she remained for a while in a
state of extreme distress, not weeping nor moaning,
but seemingly in despair, and utterly disconsolate.
At length she was persuaded to see Frederick, who
waited for her in the parlor. She descended to him,
and he received her with a degree of composure,
which, considering her distress, appeared to her
rather unfeeling. She seemed to reproach him with
it.
“You seem not to know how much I suffer,
-- 128 --
[figure description] Page 128.[end figure description]
Frederick. You little know the tortures I endure to satisfy
you. Alas! Frederick, I have learned enough to
satisfy us both, even you, who are naturally so skeptical.”
She spoke this with a fearful shudder.
“You wrong me, Marie! It is because things
have gone precisely as I expected, that I am so composed.
I see that my calculations are about to be
verified.”
“Indeed! I know not what you expected—what
your anticipations were. You will be disappointed.”
“I think not, Marie. I expected you to be again
visited by your tormentor, and I see that I was right.”
“Ah! Should that satisfy you? Is it that which
leaves you so composed, while it tears me to pieces?”
“Nay, Marie, do you not perceive that if I am
able to predict the reappearance of the ghost, he is
somewhat under mortal influence?”
“One may guess successfully at times, and prove
nothing by doing so. You could scarcely guess everything
Frederick.”
“That is to be seen, Marie! That will depend on
what you tell me.”
“And do you require that I shall go through the
terrible narrative! Must I describe the horrors of
the last night.”
“If you believe that my love deserves anything at
your hands, Marie—yes! If you desire to satisfy me,
as you yourself appear satisfied, of the truth of a
terror which I too must believe to be legitimate before
I can give you up! You know my doubts.
-- 129 --
[figure description] Page 129.[end figure description]
Believe me that they are now stronger than ever—certainly
quite as strong. That you would be again
visited by your tormentor, I was well assured. I
warned you of it. Nay, I felt that his visit would be
necessary, and that you should endure it, in order to
afford us the opportunity to detect the imposture.
Painful and terrifying as it would be to you, I confess
for this reason, I desired it. Had the ghost not again
troubled you, I might have been staggered in my doubts.
As it is, I am confirmed. That I should so successfully
guess, Marie, shows that I have successfully
reasoned upon the matter.”
“That he should reappear, I myself have expected,
for the last month. I, too, looked for him
last night.”
“Yes! as you have looked for him every night
since his first appearance. But it was only last night
that I predicted his appearance. He did not come
in obedience to your fears, Marie, but to my will. I
required him to come, and he came.”
“You! O, Frederick, this is mere vanity.”
“Let us see, dear Marie—tell me.”
“Frederick, Frederick—of what use to repeat? I
tell you that this powerful being knows my very
thoughts—not only what I have done, and would have
done, but what I have only lately thought to do—what
yesterday I thought to do.”
“I too,” answered Frederick, with a smile—“I too
Marie, claim to know your thoughts quite as well as
the spectre. Love looks into the very heart of the
-- 130 --
[figure description] Page 130.[end figure description]
beloved object, and needs not any look out of the eyes,
any utterance of the lips.”
“Do not mock me, Frederick.”
“Mock you, Marie! Mock anything or anybody,
Marie, when both of our hearts are at stake! Do
not think it. Do not suppose that I do or ask anything
in mere curiosity, with the love of experiment,
or because of a childish humor. The affair is too
serious for both—too terrible for you—of too life-long
necessity and care to me. But, let me entreat you
to unburden yourself. Tell me all as it happened.
Omit nothing; for things, however seemingly small,
in such a case as this, may be of the most real and
absolute importance. In the first place, did you comply
with all my instructions? You sent away the
servants, I know; did you succeed in taking the impressions
of the keys in the wax?”
“I did.”
“Are they here—have you brought them?” he
eagerly demanded. At a sign from Marie, the box
containing them was handed him by his sister, while
Marie, herself, delivered to him the little strangelooking
key which opened it. Frederick, at once,
examined the contents of the box, and seemed satisfied.
He relocked it and secured the key.
“This is so far well, Marie; and now—”
“Oh! why relate? Why strive? All is useless,
Frederick! The being who haunts me is too certainly
from the other world. Take my word for it, Frederick,
and spare me the revelation.”
-- 131 --
[figure description] Page 131.[end figure description]
“Not a word of it, Marie; for I am sworn to save
you from the arts of this accursed juggler!”
“Hold, Frederick.”
“Forgive me, Marie! But when I know how completely
you are the victim of his arts and your own
imagination, I cannot easily restrain myself. Let me
entreat you to narrate all that has happened. Let me,
at least, judge of the affair also. You have promised
me this already. Do not regard me as wantonly
heedless of your feelings, if I conjure you to the fulfilment
of this promise. He came!—as I told you he
would come. Well! Did you again see him, or did
you only hear him?”
“I heard—I saw nothing.”
“If I remember rightly, I told you that such would
be the case—that it would not be his policy again to
show himself, and that he would probably appeal to
one of your senses only. Had you slept before you
heard him?”
“Not a wink! I could not sleep! I could only
think of what you had told me, and to look for him
and wait for him.”
“My poor Marie! Your nervous excitability facilitates
his arts. But as you were awake, and of course
particularly conscious, you must have observed whether
his coming was announced or preceded by any circumstances
calculated to arrest your attention. Pray recall
these if you can, and let me hear. It is important
to the affair.”
“Everything was still. It was after midnight.
The room was in utter darkness, for, as you had
-- 132 --
[figure description] Page 132.[end figure description]
counselled me, I extinguished the light—though I never
could sleep well with a light in the room—and my
desire for sleep was such that I would have extinguished
my candle even without your instructions.”
“Well?”
“My attention was first caught by a low sighing
sound, which seemed to rise just beside my bed.”
“Was it momentary only, or continued?”
“Continued, for a few seconds.”
“Did it rise and fall, or was it broken, or did it
continue evenly as it begun?”
“As it begun, I think. I did not notice any variation.
At the same moment, or soon after, I experienced
again that cold breath, as if from the grave,
which accompanied it before.”
“Ah! that cold breath—yes!”
“Oh! it had a deathly faintness, chilling me to the
heart, and as I felt it spread over me, I trembled at
what I had to expect. That, alone, Frederick, proved
the approach of something unearthly.”
“Nothing worse than the opening of a door, Marie!
But, go on.”
“Ah! Frederick, this incredulity is dreadful. But
it will be silenced when you hear.”
“We shall see. You heard then a rustling sound?”
“I did—and then the voice.”
“Exactly; but before you tell me anything more,
let me know if you disposed, as I told you, of the
opened letter which I gave you?”
“I did.”
-- 133 --
[figure description] Page 133.[end figure description]
“Did you leave it where it might be seen, while you
were at dinner with my sister?”
“In the toilet-box—of course, I forbore to look
into it myself.”
“And you have not done so since?”
“Surely not.”
“It remained on your toilet all the afternoon and
night?”
“Yes; during the whole time.”
“And you kept as much out of the chamber as
possible?”
“Avoided it almost wholly until I retired for the
night.”
“Good!—Have you brought the letter with you
now?”
“I have it here;” touching her bosom.
“Very well. And now, dear Marie, let it remain
there for awhile, and go on with your narration. The
visitor spoke to you at last?”
“Believe me, Frederick, it was exactly the voice of
Colonel de Berniere!”
“Of course! That was to be expected. That was
what you expected. You are to assume that the
imitation was as perfect as possible!”
“It was his very voice! And he adjured me
against my doubts—O! very solemnly, very forcibly,
very eloquently.”
“But this was surely very unlike Colonel de Berniere
in his lifetime. Do you not think that, if his
voice undergoes no change, there should be also as little
change as possible in his style and manner of speech?
-- 134 --
[figure description] Page 134.[end figure description]
But, let me not interrupt you. He exhorted you
against your doubts, and was particularly earnest
against your suffering the wholesome effect of his
first visit to become impaired?”
“That, in truth, was what he said.”
“You see, I can interpret for the ghost. Let me
state further, that he again brought before your eyes,
with fearful distinctness, the alleged crime which
gives him power over you. He was terribly impressive
in the picture which he drew of your meditated
guilt; and awful were his assurances that it could only
be atoned for by a life of self-denial?”
“He certainly said that, also, Frederick.”
“See you not, then, that he leaves the grave only
to repeat things which poor living mortals can say
just as well?”
“Ah! if that were all, Frederick; but what if he
read my secret thoughts?”
“That were something, Marie, if, indeed, you
have any secret thoughts. But that is doubtful.
There are few natures so wanting in secretiveness as
yours. You are possessed of as few reserves as any
living being. It is not in your nature to be secret,
Marie; were you more secretive you would be more
suspicious, and less easily deceived. You are frank
and impulsive, and are very apt to exhibit on your
face what is swelling and striving in your heart. But
what were the especial secrets, known to no living
person but yourself, which the visitor yet made known
to you?”
“You are very skeptical, but you shall hear; and I
-- 135 --
[figure description] Page 135.[end figure description]
cannot hope that you will be able to explain away
what I am now going to tell you. You must not take
it amiss, Frederick, if, compelled as I am to show you
everything that was said to me, I reveal to you those
thoughts and purposes of my own, which I had otherwise
never spoken of to you. You must know, then,
that, among other things, the being said thus—I give
it nearly in his own language: —
“You are even now meditating,” said he, “to bestow
a fortune on the man for whom you feel a passion.
You propose to confer upon him a property of
forty thousand dollars! What right have you to this
property? None! You forfeited all right to it by
your crime. You are, yourself, but a pensioner.
Shall you presume, you who are a convict in the sight
of God, if not in your own eyes, to deal in magnificent
gifts. Even were the property yours, in your
own right, and not that of the husband whom you
have wronged, it would require all of it, ay, and much
more, in prayers, penance, solitude, the utter abandonment
of the world, the utter resignation of your
whole being to a religious life, to atone for your terrible
sin. Beware, Marie de Berniere, of what you
do! Beware that you do not close against yourself
all the doors of mercy. Let not your passion for
this new lover become the means for prolonging your
punishment—for making it of eternal duration.”
“And had you meditated this bounty, Marie?”
asked Frederick, in a subdued voice.
“Forgive me, Frederick, but I had, more than a
month ago; and when I felt that there was an
-- 136 --
[figure description] Page 136.[end figure description]
impassable gulf between us, I came to the resolution to
do so. Nay, the very amount which this being indicated,
was the very amount which I had designed to
convey to you.”
“And you said nothing of this purpose to anybody—
to my sister, to your solicitor, to your confessor?”
“To no one!”
“And did you think, Marie, to compensate me with
this money for the loss of yourself? Did you believe
that my affections could be bought off with a fortune?
Did you suppose that I would accept this money,
Marie?”
“Oh! why not?”
“Enough, that it could not be so; that your bounty
would have been tendered in vain. I am not wealthy,
Marie, but I am not a pensioner. Wronged by you,
in the privation of yourself, I could have taken nothing
at your hands. But, it needs not that I should dwell
on this. And this revelation of your ghost, you conceive
conclusive of his mysterious and supernatural
mission?”
“What else can I suppose?”
“Ah! Marie, you have still to learn how powerfully
subtle is the capacity of the cool philosopher to
penetrate the secrets of the human heart.”
“But how should he know, Frederick, that I had
designed to convey to you this property?”
“How should he know? How should I know the
same thing?”
“You?”
“Yes! Ask my sister. She will tell you that
-- 137 --
[figure description] Page 137.[end figure description]
three days ago I told her the same thing; and that
was two days in advance of your ghostly revelation.”
“Impossible!”
“True!—But I did not leave it to her testimony
alone to establish the truth of what I said. Now take
from your bosom the letter which I gave you, and
about which I gave you such special directions. You
will see that it has served its purpose. It will show
you the mysterious source from which your ghost
picked up your secret.”
Madame de Berniere hastily snatched the letter
from her bosom, and rapidly perused it, with signs of
extreme astonishment as she did so. It had been artfully
prepared, as if after a conference with herself,
and was a seemingly ingenious disclaimer, on the part
of Brandon, of the fortune which (it was alleged) she
had proposed to bestow upon him, while declaring her
purpose to retire from the world. The very amount
thus asserted to have been proffered, forty thousand
dollars, was stated in figures. “As if forty thousand
dollars, Marie”—such was a part of the language—
“could reconcile me for your loss. As if I, revelling
in your wealth, could remember with satisfaction, that
you are in solitude, and dooming me to an even worse
solitude than your own. No! no! Marie, I cannot
receive your money in lieu of yourself!”
There was much more in the same vein, but it needs
not be given here.
“How could you know, Frederick, that I had any
such design?”
-- 138 --
[figure description] Page 138.[end figure description]
“From my knowledge of you and your character—
your heart, your generous impulses.”
“But the very amount, too—how could you happen
on that?”
“A good guess only, founded upon what you had
voluntarily told me, long ago, of the extent of your
possessions, and a knowledge of the persons, Colonel
de Berniere's remote kindred, for whom you have
hitherto provided, and for whom you would consider
yourself still bound to provide. I thought it just as
likely as not, that you would endeavor to force upon
me at least half of your fortune.”
“And so I would, and such was my very purpose.
And you suppose that the contents of this letter became
known to my visitor?”
“It was prepared for him! And if you still entertain
any doubts that he has possessed himself of its
contents—that from these, alone, he has derived his
knowledge of your purposes, there is one circumstance
that should remove all doubts from your mind.”
“What is that?”
“You say that you meditated this purpose more
than a month ago; yet, you see, that he has not conceived
it essential to warn you against it in all this
interval. He has waited until the evidence was actually
embodied by the hands of another. In plain
terms, he knew nothing of your secret purposes until
I wrote them out in a good broad, bold English hand,
and placed them in the treacherous guardianship of
your cabinet, in your own hands and chamber.”
“Father in heaven! to what am I exposed.”
-- 139 --
[figure description] Page 139.[end figure description]
“To the arts of a most pernicious and cunning impostor,
whom we shall detect and expose fully, if you
will only be resolute, and do not suffer your impulse
and your imagination to become the involuntary allies
of his frauds.”
“What further shall I do, Frederick?—save me,
save me! Convince me of what you suspect, dear
Frederick, if you love me, if you would in truth preserve
me for yourself.”
He caught her in a fervent embrace.
“I will save you, Marie! You are too precious to
my heart and hope to lose.”
The conversation was continued much longer; but
its results will suffice our purposes, contained in the
closing directions of Brandon.
“You are watched here, as far as is possible, at
every step. Your mulatto porter, Andres, and your
chambermaid, are both spies upon you. It is possible
that your cook and coachman are both in the league
against you. To guard against all of these, and other
persons, have all my precautions been taken. My
training as a woodsman has taught me a sort of forest
strategy which has been very useful to me in city life,
strange as it may appear. I, too, have my spies upon
you. Scarcely ever do you leave your house, but
Andres disappears also. He goes ever in the same
direction. He visits, on such occasions, always the
same person.”
“Who is that?”
“Not yet! It is not yet time for you to know,
But such is the case, and I know that Andres and
-- 140 --
[figure description] Page 140.[end figure description]
your girl have an understanding in regard to this
matter. I thought it likely that the ghost would find
some human allies who would openly approach you
with exhortations against me and my sister. But, it
is evident that they feel the ground to be too dangerous.
They will attempt nothing openly, and we have
only to guard against their secret operations. They
will now hardly oppose directly any of your purposes,
if expressed boldly on your part, as purposes entirely
determined. You must now prepare for a visit to
your plantation. Go for a week. Let your servants,
and all others who seek you, hear of your design.
Have no reserves about it. Your health has suffered—
you need change of air—you will recruit for a week
or so in the country. Set out as soon as possible.
Carry all your servants with you. This will in some
degree satisfy the ghost of the safety of your movements,
since these are, all of them, the spies which he
keeps upon you. He will look to them to report of
the first danger arising from your meeting with me.
We will not meet; and the better to disarm their suspicions,
you will exhibit to them the most invariable
despondency and affliction. This is what they look
to see as the proper fruits of their operations. Before
you go, however, you must sign this paper which I
have prepared. Read it. You will see that it contains
a full authority for me to take possession and
have the charge of your house during your absence.
It is barely possible that I may have to assert this
authority and to show this paper. I will not do so
unless it shall become necessary to justify myself for
-- 141 --
[figure description] Page 141.[end figure description]
being found there; an event which I will do my best
to guard against.”
Here the conference ended; the parties soon separated;
and in two days after, Marie de Berniere suddenly
left town for her plantation residence.
CHAPTER XVI.
Meanwhile, Frederick Brandon was busy making
all the necessary preparations for the further object
which he had in view. As soon as Marie de Berniere
had left the city, he came to me.
“This very night, William, we begin our explorations.
I feel that they will not be in vain. Our antagonist
can do nothing to prevent us now. It is
only necessary that we choose our time with reference
to his employment elsewhere; and, fortunately, I am
in a situation to know where he is at certain moments.”
“But who is he, Fred?”
“Wait, William. We shall know something more—
perhaps all—this very night. Look at these keys.
They give us access to the dwelling of Marie. See
this box and bag. They contain my probes and instruments
for penetrating secret places. I pride
myself on my faculty that way. You must assist me
in carrying my tools. You will take the bag and I
the box. At nine to-night we must enter our new
lodgings. My adversary is anxious, but he can do
nothing more.”
-- 142 --
[figure description] Page 142.[end figure description]
“How do you know that he is anxious?”
“By instincts, such as ordinary people too much
undervalue, but which were never given to us in vain.
I feel that he is anxious. I know that he is now disarmed.
Perhaps I conjecture his anxiety by the deportment
of his agents. I saw old Andres, and the
chamber-maid of Marie this morning as they followed
their mistress. They did not see me, and I could
watch them at pleasure. They had the look of persons
thoroughly bewildered. Marie whispered to my
sister, just as they were about to separate, that she
was earnestly urged not to leave town. But the dear
woman was firm. They fear that we shall meet elsewhere—
they feel, or rather their secret tutor feels
that, out of that house, he can no longer raise the
ghost at pleasure.”
After a little further conversation, which I need
not report, Frederick once more disappeared. With
dark, he returned, bringing some small articles with
him, which he did not show to me. He was in excellent
spirits. Doing or contemplating work, he had
the energy and eye of an eagle; and his conversation
rose frequently into passionate bursts of eloquence.
A wonderful capacity for labor and a rare enthusiasm
of temperament were his great secrets, in connection
with a quality of calm, calculating thought,
which is quite as rare in such association. At the
appointed time we sat out for the region devoted to
exploration—I carrying the bag, he the box and
some small bundles, all concealed under our cloaks.
The night was sufficiently dark to cover our
-- 143 --
[figure description] Page 143.[end figure description]
movements. It was cloudy, the streets were imperfectly
lighted; this was not a trading portion of the city;
and, in the short space between our house and that
of Madame de Berniere, we met nobody. The key
was applied to the outer door and fitted to a charm.
We were soon sheltered within the gloomy and mysterious
edifice, which I have already described as a
double house, large, lofty, and of antique character.
It was probably one of the very oldest fabrics of this
already ancient city. Having secured the door behind
us, we laid down our burdens, and prepared to
strike a light; an operation which, in these days of
locofocoism, would be pronounced a very tedious one,
working, as we did, with the old implements, flint
and steel, and tinder-box. We had with us a dark
lantern, which soon gave us a certain, though a feeble
guidance. As soon as the light was fairly kindled,
and before taking another step, Frederick proceeded
to thrust a steel awl into the wood of the outer entrance,
just above the bolt of the lock, so that nobody
could enter from without even if in possession of a
key. Our key we had taken out of the lock as soon
as the door was made fast.
“We must provide, in this way, that no one shall
surprise us.”
The same precautions, I may as well mention, were
taken in regard to every door through which we
passed.
“The communications between the several rooms,”
said Frederick, “may not be by secret avenues. We
-- 144 --
[figure description] Page 144.[end figure description]
must guard against the enemy coming upon us through
the ordinary passages.”
We found ourselves, as soon as the lamp was lighted,
in the great hall of the building, constituting the first
entrance from the street. It was a long, rather broad,
and lofty passage, at the lower end of which the stair-flight
wound upward through the building. The floor
was of dingy white-marble slabs, not a little worn.
Frederick made me remark the fact that the wall was
lined and panelled throughout with black cypress, instead
of being plastered; the panelling was heavy,
with great massive mouldings of wood, while the
stair-flight left no space beneath, but was closed in,
and seemed to form a spacious closet, or series of
closets, all of which was done in a heavy panelling,
the same as the wall. We tried at these apparent
closets, and found one of them partly open. It was
a crypt, employed for hanging up cloaks, hats, umbrellas,
&c.; the pegs still bore some articles, apparently
of servants' clothing. There was evidently
space for several other closets, though we found but
one more, and that was locked.
“We may examine these hereafter,” said Frederick.
“How deep that closet may go, is a question. But,
though we see, apparently, all the space accounted
for, yet it is surprising how much may still really be
concealed from the most inquiring eye, unless submitted
to tests of actual measurement. Let us first secure
this back door, and then ascend to the chamber.
It is there that we must seek the secret.”
We drove another little spear of steel over the bolt
-- 145 --
[figure description] Page 145.[end figure description]
of the lock, so as to prevent its motion, and then
moved up the massive stairway. It creaked beneath
our steps, and the slight sound, suddenly made in the
silence of that dim, ancient, and (as alleged) haunted
habitation, stirred my heart with a disquieting sensation.
But we went forward boldly, and as rapidly as
we could under the guidance of our dark lantern. On
reaching the second floor, Frederick bade me observe
that the walls continued to be heavily panelled as
below; but we did not linger to examine them. My
companion, at once fitting his key, led the way into
the chamber of Marie de Berniere. It was a spacious
and beautifully furnished apartment, hung with great
mirrors, and graced with several old cabinet pictures,
all French, and from the hands of eminent painters.
Our light did not suffice for their examination, nor
had we the leisure for this purpose. But it was evident
that Frederick surveyed the scene with a deep,
as with a silent, interest. The mirror before which
the beloved object attires and adorns her person, the
bath which purely receives her pure and lovely form,
the couch on which she dreams of innocent happiness—
these can never be beheld by a noble-hearted lover,
without awakening the most sweet and touching emotions.
Frederick held up the lamp and looked around
him without a word, but with evident curiosity and a
full heart. At length, he spoke—
“My poor Marie! What has she not been compelled
to endure in this place—a place in which luxury
and taste have equally striven to secure her happiness.
It is for me, and because of me, that she has
-- 146 --
[figure description] Page 146.[end figure description]
been made to suffer so much. I would die to relieve
her of this sorrow, William. She loves me—that I
feel. Here, she has prayed for me, wept for me,
dreamed of me.”
His voice faltered. I fancied that I could see a
big tear gathering in his eye, but he turned from me
at the moment.
“Love,” he continued—“tears—are not inconsistent
with manhood. I feel that I am a strong man;
yet, as I love, I am more assured of my manhood
from the earnestness and strength of the passion of
tenderness which fills my soul whenever I hear her
name, whenever the tender thought tells me of her.
How weak is the heart which cannot love. It confounds
a brutal insensibility with strength, and is only
coarse and unfeeling—not, in fact, human—when it
fancies itself strong.”
We now proceeded diligently to our task. Our bag
and box were opened. They were filled with a variety
of instruments, such as I had never before seen, and
the uses of which, at first, I did not know. Some of
them were instruments for measurement; others were
slender steel probes for sounding and penetrating
cavities. There were compasses, and squares, and
saws of particularly delicate make, such as the surgeons
use. There were also long and broad knife-blades, of
singular thinness, which could be made to pass between
the joints of planks without widening their
crevices. The uses of all these I had occasion to learn
as we proceeded.
“This, if you recollect, William, was the chamber in
-- 147 --
[figure description] Page 147.[end figure description]
which the Egyptian first made his appearance. That
night, Marie must have transferred her couch to an
upper room. This apartment was partly given up to
the guests. It was probably designed as a retiring
room for the ladies. That door, which opens behind
the stair-flight, and conducts, through a closed passage,
to the chief saloon, was locked, if you remember,
when we tried it, fancying that the Egyptian might
have escaped that way. It leads, also, through the
same passage, to a door which opens on the veranda,
as well as to the one that conducts to the saloon.
The veranda was closed in with canvas, and we
entered it through the door of the passage, but only
from the opposite apartment. There is a private
stair-way, I fancy, leading from the same passage.
It was through the door which we entered to-night,
that we followed the Egyptian into this chamber. I
am satisfied that he did not escape by the passage.
We must look elsewhere for his mode of disappearance.”
“Always supposing that he was no ghost.”
“Of that I am quite satisfied,” was the cool response.
He continued,—
“Now see. His approach is always announced by
a sound of sighing, and by a cold breath of air. You
see where her bed stands. She can hear this sighing
sound where she lies; she also feels the cold breath in
the same place. It follows that the door which opens
upon her, the draught from which she feels, must be
tolerably near. It might be from the passage, yet, as
that door was fast locked, and the key on this side,
-- 148 --
[figure description] Page 148.[end figure description]
when the Egyptian escaped us, I take it for granted
that the sighing and breathing do not come from that
quarter. It is most likely to arise from the opposite
side, on which the chimney stands. The distance from
the couch to this wall is about ten feet—an easy
distance. The fireplace, you perceive, is one of an
ancient fashion, very deep, and designed for enormous
wood fires. But deep as it is, and broad, you will
yet perceive that it bears no sort of relation to the
immense breadth of surface which the chimney itself
occupies. There is a space here, on one side, you
perceive, of more than two feet; on the other, of little
more than fourteen inches. Why this difference?
Let us now measure the depth of the fireplace, which,
you see, is very great, and must have consumed a very
enormous and unnecessary quantity of fuel. You see
the depth? Compare this depth with that of the walls
on each side of the chimney. They are not one-half
as much recessed, yet the outer wall of the chimney
must necessarily be panelled with that of the rest of
the house. Assuming this panelling to be directly
against the bricks, and the thickness of the wall far
exceeds any that we build in modern times, involving
a prodigious waste of material, and quite unnecessary,
unless the purpose was to build a fortress, and prepare
against cannon. This is not likely. This wall is
hollow. Now, walls should be made hollow in a moist
climate. It might be well, as a matter of charity,
that free avenues should be given to the rats. I think
it only good taste to have rats in a large, old dwelling;
but the hollows here are quite too large, and the first
-- 149 --
[figure description] Page 149.[end figure description]
laws of art require the recognition of economy of
space and material as vital principles. There is no
hodman so obtuse as not to know this. Here, then, in
this immediate neighborhood, lies our mystery. Let
us now examine this heavy panelling, which you perceive
is richly wrought in black cypress, with heavy
mouldings, extending not only over the whole face of
the wall, but from the mantle up to the ceiling, over
the whole front of the fireplace. Let us see if there
be anything peculiar in this moulding. What do you
perceive?”
I looked with all my eyes; but everything seemed
uniform. I could see no part which differed from the
rest.
“The joinery,” said Frederick, resuming—“has
been well done. But the design of the panelling, you
will perceive, is clumsy and tasteless, showing a striking
contrast between the merits of the plan and the
execution. In other words, the person who could
execute such neat work, ought to have designed a
more pleasing form of panelling. You will perceive
that the sections of the panels are oblong and rather
narrow, while the dividing plates between each pair of
panels are broad and massive. You will also note
that there is but one grand horizontal dividing line of
plate, belting the wall, and separating the panels;
making two sets only in a wall fully twelve feet high.
Thus, we have the panels about two feet in width, to
six feet in height. There is, as you see, no wainscot,
unless the central belt of plate, which is six feet from
the floor, can be so considered. Now, then, if we could
-- 150 --
[figure description] Page 150.[end figure description]
open one of these panels, we should find the aperture
to be just about six feet high, by two feet and a few
inches broad, a width quite sufficient for the passage
of any ordinary man. If there be such an opening,
it must open inwardly, the plates dividing the panels
effectually preventing it from opening outwards; besides,
such a mode of opening would reveal seams and
hinges. As good taste and beauty have not been subserved
by this plan of panelling, we must look for some
other motive. I have shown you one. I am persuaded
that these plates cover a secret door, and that it is in
close proximity to this chimney. The question now
is, how to find it out?”
“How will you proceed?”
“The laws are quite simple in all such cases. To
find the whereabouts of a secret passage, closet, case,
or drawer, you have only to find a certain space which
is obviously unemployed and unaccounted for. To
look for obstruction is the next object. If there be a
door here, of the dimensions I speak of, it must be independent
of the lower and the upper plates crossing
the panels. The lower plate, as you perceive, runs
along the floor, forming its moulding; in other words,
the washboard. It is to be remarked that the paint is
uniform throughout. The common practice is to give
the washboard a different color from the wall. But
this, being a legitimate part of the panelling, has been
justifiably excepted from the rule. Now this door,
wherever it is, must work freely of the washboard and
of the upper plate, six feet above. If much used,
unless the work were admirably done, it might, under
-- 151 --
[figure description] Page 151.[end figure description]
a better light than ours, betray its seams; but our
easier course will be, not wasting time and eyesight,
to probe our way along with our instruments.”
We did so. I held the lantern; and, with his thin
spatula, my friend, on his knees, proceeded to insinuate
the blade between the heavy plate-moulding, and
the rest of the panel. He commenced at the fireplace,
working backwards, to the rear of the building.
After a few moments, he said—
“It is here! I was sure of it! I have not been
mistaken! It is the very first panel adjoining the
fireplace. You see, William, as I pass the knife
down to the floor a depth of six inches, the width of
the lower plate, or washboard, I find no obstruction
the whole width of the panel?”
I noted the proceeding.
“Now,” said he, “let us mount these chairs, and
probe the corresponding plate above. If that offers
no obstruction, we may be assured of what we seek.”
This was done. The result corresponded entirely
to what we had discovered below. The spatula worked
free of obstruction.
“Now, then, our difficulties begin. We must now
find out where the hinges are, and how the door is
secured in the rear. In all probability, it is connected
with some spring, which may be beneath the floor, or
in the side of the fireplace; possibly in the wall, concealed
somewhere in the panelling. What are the
conditions of such a secret? The first is concealment.
The second is facility. It must be of such a nature
as not readily to be found; and yet it must be
-- 152 --
[figure description] Page 152.[end figure description]
convenient to the hand, or the foot, of him who seeks
egress. Such springs are usually small, and they are
correspondingly feeble. To work efficiently, they must
be as near as possible to the door upon which they
operate, and whose hinges they influence. If we can
find the hinges, we can find the fastenings. They
must be opposite to the hinges. If we find the fastenings,
we know in what direction to look for the secret
springs.”
Thus saying, Frederick proceeded with a large
spatula to feel his way along the perpendicular lines
of panel.
“A secret which is suspected to exist,” said he, as
he worked, “is already more than half revealed. Take
this knife into your hand. Press it as I do. Do you
feel the hard obstruction here?”
“I do.”
“It is the upper hinge. There are probably three.
Come down to the middle one; or—let me have the
knife, and hold the lantern. I am more practised in
this sort of experiment.”
It was not long before the knife was again held by
the obstruction. I again felt it. It was evidently
metallic, and hard. I could make it sound, with a
slight effort with the blade. A third trial brought us
to the third hinge, which was probably a full inch
below the lower plate, or washboard.
“Here, then, we have the hinges. The fastening
is necessarily opposite, and against the chimney.
Now comes our most tedious scrutiny. It must be
concealed somewhere in the panelling of the
-- 153 --
[figure description] Page 153.[end figure description]
mantlepiece. It must lie within convenient reach, yet must
not attract the eye. It lies probably in some partially
apparent nail-hole, or in some seam near the corner,
or it may be among the tiles which line the side of the
fireplace. Our first process will be to feel for an obstruction
on the opposite side.”
His spatula was employed, but none was felt. But
it was quite enough for Frederick, that he found the
knife-blade to work with comparative freedom up and
down, everywhere, except in one place.
“You see,” he observed, “that it binds here. This
is about four feet from the floor, and tolerably convenient
to the hand. That we feel no other obstruction
than the binding of the wood, is conclusive to me
that the spring is in the rear of the door, working
like a bolt, against it. This leads me to the conclusion
that it is to be found by operating from the fireplace.
Give me the lantern.”
Throwing fully open the door of the lantern, so that
the light should be as ample as it could afford, Frederick
kneeled upon the hearth, never troubling himself
with fear of soot and ashes, and thrust his head
and light into the vaulted chimney-place. Here he
worked for some time with patience and in silence. At
length he called me.
“I fancy I have found it. Look you here. Here—
let me guide your finger. Do you feel a small cavity
like a two-inch auger-hole?”
I did. It was on the side of the fireplace next the
secret door, and just behind, in the angle of the crosspiece
of marble which ran directly over the fireplace.
-- 154 --
[figure description] Page 154.[end figure description]
“You perceive,” said he, “that once know where
the opening lies, and a person standing outside cannot
miss it. Stand without now, on the corner of the
fireplace, and thrust your fore-finger firmly into this
crevice.”
I obeyed him. A slight clicking sound was heard
as I did so.
“Look,” said he, “does the door open?”
It stood wide, but dark, before me, while the light
was still in Frederick's hands and up the chimney. I
saw nothing; and so silently had the well-oiled hinges
and the spring performed their office, that I had never
suspected the result. It was only when I attempted
to pass my hand over the panelling that I found the
vacant space. Frederick did not immediately leave
the fireplace after I made my report. He was employed,
with a probe, feeling the secret opening, and
examining the opposite side of the wall also. Certainly,
he was the most remarkably cool person in the
world, having, at the same time, such powerful passions.
He exhibited no sort of surprise at the result.
In fact, he had calculated on it as confidently as on
a solved problem. When he came forth, he proceeded
to inspect the opening, about which, as I had never
seen a secret door, or any similar machinery, I was
excessively curious. The lantern was thrust into the
recess, and Frederick—peering eagerly, all the while,
over his shoulder—examined it closely, looking particularly
to the flooring of the recess. The space
was just sufficiently wide for the entrance of a single
person. It was ample for this purpose. Kneeling
-- 155 --
[figure description] Page 155.[end figure description]
down, Frederick felt around the floor of the closet.
He drew my attention to the fact that it was separated
entirely from the walls around it; was separated
equally from the floor of the chamber, and from the
beams of the dwelling. He next showed me four stout
cords, fully an inch in diameter, working in grooves
against the chimney; and the opposite wall, which
was of plank, smoothed, but not panelled as in that of
the chamber. Standing upon a chair, he discovered
the tackle and pulleys above, and a stouter rope connected
with them, the end of which was passed down
through a central groove in the chimney, which, in
the centre, was perpendicularly recessed so as to afford
additional space to the person within the cavity.
“The rope,” said he, “finds its way to the lower
story, by which the ghost works his way up. This
accounts for the sighing sound which precedes his
appearance, and forms one of the spiritual influences
operating upon the imagination of my poor Marie.
The other mysterious influence is that cold breath,
which, you perceive, must be the draught wholly occasioned
by the opening of this door. You perceive,
William, that here we have a square box, in which a
good-sized man may comfortably stand. But, clearly,
there is much more space to be accounted for. There
is still some eight feet in length, from this partition
of plank to the outer wall, in the rear of the building;
as the walls of this and the other house necessarily
lie squarely and parallel to each other. This
being inevitable, it is probable that another door lies
in that plank partition. That must inwardly open,
-- 156 --
[figure description] Page 156.[end figure description]
and the fastening, therefore, must be on this side.
Let us look for it. Let me have the lantern.”
After a brief search he called to me.
“See here; the very hinges are apparent on this
side. The work has been rudely done. Indeed, the
whole machinery exhibits but a humble condition of
art. It would not long have baffled any individual at
all curious or accustomed to such investigations. Now
for the fastenings, which must lie somewhere in this
neighborhood.”
It required but little painstaking to discover the
thin bolt of steel, working in a groove of the plank,
which was employed to secure the door of the recess.
Barely passing his hand over the region where he
suspected it to lie, Frederick discovered and tried it.
The aperture at once unfolded itself to his gaze.
Thrusting the lantern into this closet, for such it was,
it was discovered to contain a small table, which completely
crossed the space, just leaving sufficient room
for the swinging of the door. Frederick passed into
the closet, and in a moment after said to me—
“Here is a discovery with a vengeance. Here is
the ghost himself. Here is his mask of death, the
frightful face of mortality and Colonel de Berniere—
here is the Egyptian garment with which the scoundrel
simulated me at the ball, and here are sundry
other matters, the uses of which I do not so readily
perceive.”
These were held up to me, one by one, at the entrance,
as the space would not suffer both of us to
enter. The secret was thus far conclusively discovered,
-- 157 --
[figure description] Page 157.[end figure description]
and the pretensions of the ghost thoroughly laid at
rest—so far as we were concerned. Frederick made
other discoveries, but we need not linger in detailing
them, as they were all simply dependent upon the
main facts in our possession. Emerging from the
inner recess, and carefully closing the door behind him,
Frederick paused for a few moments, as if for rest
and reflection. At length he said—
“It is now necessary that I should go below, and
see from what sort of Tartarus our afflicted ghost
emerges nightly. To do this, however, is not so easy.
It will give us some work, though I have provided, in
some degree, against the necessity. You perceive
that the ghost works his way up, planted upon this
board or floor, by means of these short ropes, which
hang within the grooves in the chimney. These four
smaller ropes are connected above, as you perceive,
with four slender arms of iron, which meet in the
centre, and are held up by a bolt and tackle fixed in
the ceiling overhead. The thicker ropes find their
way below, where they are fastened, until the ghost
ascends, when he brings with him that by which he
has worked his way, and secures it, until he desires
to return, by a loop (which is measured carefully in
the rope, so as to bring this footboard level with the
floor) to this iron spike, which lies, as you see, conveniently,
here in the corner. Now, as this great rope
is made fast below, the question is, how shall we get
at it, or in other words, be able to descend?”
For this difficulty I was utterly unprepared; but it
-- 158 --
[figure description] Page 158.[end figure description]
was otherwise with my friend. He smiled at the
blankness of my visage, and said—
“The process is a simple one—simply, by substituting
one rope for another, and shipping that by which
the tackle is worked at present.”
With these words he drew from his bag a small
coil of rope, suitable to the purpose. He had provided
against the contingency which he had fully anticipated.
Standing on a chair, which the floor of
the closet could barely sustain, he worked overhead
with the dexterity of a sailor. He soon fastened the
rope, which he brought, to the centre of the iron
arms to which the four smaller ropes of the machine
were suspended, passed the cords through the grooves
of the block, and threw the ends to me. Coming
down from the chair, we secured it, with proper tension,
to the spike, leaving the drooping ends below;
then reascending, he fairly divided with his knife the
rope by which the machine was formerly sustained.
But he did not suffer it to slide below. On the contrary,
his purpose was to splice it above, and once
more restore it, as it had been, as soon as his own
survey below was complete, and he had effected all
his objects. His arrangements made, he dropped the
ends of his rope through the groove in the chimney,
along with that in former use; and taking with him
the lantern, between his feet, standing upright, proceeded
to let himself down. There was now no obstruction,
and the machine gradually sank with him.
For the first foot of its movement, we heard the
-- 159 --
[figure description] Page 159.[end figure description]
sighing sound of the rope very distinctly. We heard no
other sounds, for it was now discovered that the face
of the wall, all around, had been lined with woollen
stripes, which effectually prevented the chafing of the
wooden frame against the sides. Once down, Frederick
drew up the platform, upon which I descended
in like manner. We found ourselves in a deep damp
cell, floored with brick, several feet below the basement
story of the dwelling; which, by the way, was
raised some three feet above the surface of the ground.
Immediately beside us, as we descended, we discovered
that the lower story was penetrable precisely as the
upper—a discovery which, as we were also easily
enabled to find the means of entrance from below,
made our future proceedings comparatively easy.
But our researches did not stop here. Pursuing them
with earnestness, we found an outlet, by an arched
way, under ground, conducting from the dwelling,
through the garden, and into the precincts of other
habitations. There we followed, through damp, dark
avenues, snails and worms lying in our path, and
glimmering upon the walls, which were coated with
damp and slime. Our discoveries were wonderful;
and we found that we could make our way into the
other dwellings, fully fifty yards distant, by means
precisely similar to those by which the ghost had entered
that of Madame de Berniere. Frederick took
good note of these avenues, which he conceived to
have been the work of the Spaniards, when they held
possession of the city, and that they showed traces of
-- 160 --
[figure description] Page 160.[end figure description]
the Spanish Inquisition.* But we must not linger.
Having followed our labyrinths as far as they seemed
to lead, showing us the connecting links between several
houses, we returned, and once more reascended
to the secret closet opening upon the chamber of
Madame de Berniere. While here, Frederick Brandon
said to me—
“You think we have seen all; but look here. Do
you not see that there is no brick wall connecting with
the chimney of the adjoining house? Do you not
perceive that the wall of the adjoining house, as opposed
to our eye, is of wood, and corresponds exactly
with that opening to the chamber of Madame de Berniere?
Be assured, it is penetrable in the same
manner, and we shall be able easily to find the fastening.”
He did so, and was about to press the spring, when
he paused.
“The adjoining dwelling is a school-house—a school
for young ladies. It is occupied by an ancient maiden
lady, who is one of the teachers. It will be an awkward
thing if I open upon her chamber; and should
she detect me, the presumption will be against us with
regard to the use of these secret passages!”
He paused for consideration, but after a little while
said—
-- 161 --
[figure description] Page 161.[end figure description]
“I will risk it. I must get all the clues to this infernal
machinery.”
He did so, and found himself in a school-room, filled
with desks and benches; books lay about confusedly,
and it was evident that the room had been only recently
employed for the purposes of instruction.
Nobody was to be seen. The house was wrapped in
the most death-like silence. Frederick did not pursue
his researches in this quarter.
“Enough,” said he, “for the present. We may
find it necessary hereafter to look further. We have
done work enough for the night. These two houses
were evidently built at the same time. They were
probably owned by the same proprietor. They are
very old—I should think among the oldest of the permanent
abodes of New Orleans. They may have had
a common purpose; but these are not proper inquiries
at this moment. We have now other matters to engage
our attention. But before we proceed further,
let us have some refreshments. I am positively
wearied.”
Our box afforded us some eatables and a flask of
wine. Frederick ate very heartily, and drank freely.
“I must eat and drink,” said he, “whenever engaged
on such labors as have lately troubled me. For
twenty-four hours at a time, when thus employed, I
can eat nothing; but the moment I reach a certain
stand-point in my progress, where I can look and feel
that my feet may be surely put down—when, in fact,
conjecture becomes conviction—then my appetite
-- 162 --
[figure description] Page 162.[end figure description]
comes back to me, and I have the vigor of a score of
Indians on a long scout.”
He did eminent justice to our repast. This over,
he said—
“Now, William, the question is, what is to be done
with this ghost? Simply to lay him, will not answer.
I confess, my feeling is such as inclines me rather to
lay him out! When I think of the suffering he has
caused my poor Marie, to say nothing of myself, and
of that base and selfish malignity which has made him
labor to destroy all our hope and happiness in the
future, I feel that I could put him to death with as
little remorse as I would crush the adder who awaits
me in the pathway. I have been thinking that it
would be a proper plan to take him in the very act of
villany, and make a ghost of him in fact. It seems
his ambition to appear one, and it would be retributive
justice only to make him so in reality.”
“But who is he, Frederick? You know him!”
“Yes, as well as I can know anything which, perfectly
assured of, one yet lacks the necessary proofs.
But the question is not, who is he? Let him perish, if
he so pleases, without a name. It is no crime, surely,
to kill a ghost. A crime is committed in the dark,
the criminal unseen, unknown; but the bolt falls truly,
nevertheless, since it is at the moment when his crime
is doing; and it is only when judgment is over, and
execution done, that you hold the light to his face to
ascertain whose dog it is that has been shot. Now
can I so arrange it that this scoundrel shall be taken
and executed at the very moment when he is about to
-- 163 --
[figure description] Page 163.[end figure description]
play the deceased husband in my lady's chamber—
the mask of death upon his face, the robes of the grave
about his limbs—tricked out to the full in all his ugly
and accursed devices? I could so manage the ropes
that he pulls, that he should draw the noose about
his own neck, inextricably, and lose all power of
escape with the very efforts which he makes to do so.”
“Can you do so?” I asked.
“Easily. I can work such a snare as shall halter
and hold him suspended in his secret closet.”
“Do it!” I answered thoughtlessly: “It will be
poetical justice, if not common law.”
But Frederick shook his head.
“He would deserve it, truly; and it would be only
an appropriate form of justice; but, as I think of
Marie, I dare not. The horror of such a sight, and
such a thought, even if she did not behold the sight,
would never depart from her imagination. It would
be a deadly spectre forever before her eyes. My
passions—could I think of myself only—would, I feel,
prompt me to something of the kind. But, remembering
her, I must content myself with detecting and exposing
the wretch!—Nay, I dare not even expose him—
except to herself, and possibly to one other besides
yourself.”
“Indeed! And why not?”
“For the best reasons. If my suspicions are rightly
entertained, the ghost is no other than Father Paul
Roquetti, Marie's confessor!”
“Is it possible!”
“I am sure of it! I felt sure of it from the first.
-- 164 --
[figure description] Page 164.[end figure description]
I knew that he was my enemy on the first occasion
when we met; and the proofs have been accumulating
ever since. Marie is a devout Catholic; will be slow
to believe even in the errors of some of its priesthood;
and will dread lest the world should confound him
with his church; an error of judgment of which the
world is too commonly guilty. I must guard against
giving her pain, and my discovery, though rendered
perfectly conclusive in her eyes, must yet forbear exposing
the offender to any unnecessary shame.”
“But you do not mean to say that the scoundrel
shall escape entirely?”
“Far from it. But I do not mean to punish him
myself, or to make him suffer the penalties of the law.
The secular arm shall not touch his head, if the ecclesiastical
authority will take up the matter honestly.
That the Catholic Church here is quite prepared
to do so, I am satisfied. The venerable head of it,
in this place, is too wise and too good a man to suffer
the offender to escape through any idle fear that his
sins will be visited upon the church to which he
belongs. Priests are but men. They err, like all of
us. They have the same passions and infirmities—
they are even more exposed to temptation. Heaven
knows what a host of priestly offenders are every day
published in our newspapers, from all the Protestant
churches in the country. But who thinks of charging
the faith with the faults of the priesthood?”
“And what now?” said I, seeing Frederick moving
to the secret passage.
“I will not snare him by the neck, William, but I
-- 165 --
[figure description] Page 165.[end figure description]
will so contrive my snares as to leave him without
escape. But I can do no more to-night. It nears
the small hours. I will but put things as I found
them, and pick up and remove my own traps. After
that, we will depart. We shall lodge together.”
eaf685n1* Subterranean passages, like those described, have been found
by the pulling down of houses, in New Orleans, within very few
years; and, by the press of that city, have been ascribed to this
origin.
CHAPTER XVII. CONCLUSION.
We reached our lodgings, carrying our bag and
box, without meeting anybody. We swallowed a
bowl of coffee each, on our return, and Frederick soon
after tumbled into bed. Spite of the coffee, which had
been made strong, he was instantly asleep, and slept
like a top. I remained awake for two goodly hours,
soliciting the friendly sleep in vain. But Frederick
was awake with the dawn, and off. What he did that
day I know not; but he was busy. At night he
came again; and again, that night, we penetrated the
dwelling of Marie, and the secret entrance. There,
and about the house, we worked with continued industry
for several goodly hours, making as little stir
as possible, and studiously avoiding noise and loud talking.
If we had occasion to use a hammer or to drive
a nail, we covered hammer, nail, and board with woollen
or cotton waddings. I need not now tell you what
was done. Enough that we put certain wires in motion,
by which to secure the ghost, though not to in
-- 166 --
[figure description] Page 166.[end figure description]
jure him. We also contrived secret places of hiding
for other parties, should these become necessary to
our purposes. All these proceedings were not effected,
however, in a single night. It took us several,
before we had finished our work; and much of the
work—all, in fact, that could be accomplished abroad,
was done elsewhere during the day. Frederick worked
like a hero; as none, indeed, but a hero or a genius
can work. His whole soul was in his performance,
and this is the one secret only which makes performance
successful. His cheerfulness amounted to enthusiasm;
so that, when most intensely at work, his
spirits seemed most happily at play, his fancy luxuriating
in the most grateful wantonness, and his moods
never once putting on the aspect of a care. And in
this temper lies the secret of the best work always.
It is the mule-nature that goes doggedly to its tasks.
Such a nature may suffice for turning a mill, but not
for glorious or great achievement.
All his preparations completed for the proper reception
of the ghost, the next step of Frederick
Brandon was to recall Marie de Berniere from her
plantation to her town residence; and then to compel
the spectre to reappear. To effect these objects, he prepared
to dispatch his sister, Madame de Chateauneuve,
on a visit to his betrothed. But watched as was the
latter, it was necessary that certain precautions should
be taken, even for this object, by which to avoid all
suspicion of what was in hand; and, in fact, to direct
the doubts of the enemy to a wholly different quarter.
Accordingly, Frederick set to work to compose a letter
-- 167 --
[figure description] Page 167.[end figure description]
to Marie, which I was permitted to read as he wrote.
It ran thus:—
“How I rejoice, dearest Marie, that the advice of
my sister has been productive of such beneficial effects—
that your health improves, and that your mind is
again recovering its freedom from the painful effects
of its strange unhappy hallucinations. I was well
assured, from the first, that a disordered imagination,
and a highly excited state of your nervous
system, were the true secrets of your suffering, and
that the vulgar trick of some artful and malicious
rival, co-operating with the diseased state of your
mind, has been the real secret of the unnatural events
which have disturbed you. You perceive, as I told
you, the pure air of the country has been in the last
degree beneficial. You have had no dreadful visions.
Your imagination has conjured up no terrible phantoms.
Henceforth, I doubt not that you will be entirely
free from annoyance. The privilege which your
love so generously gives me, of protecting you for the
future, with the sacred rights of a husband, while it
makes my happiness complete, will make your peace
secure. And shall we not both of us, dear Marie, be
eminently happy? Need I repeat to you the assurance
that I shall live mostly for this object? Need I
repeat the asseverations of a love which you should
by this time sufficiently understand, and your faith in
which prompts you now so graciously to consent to my
prayers and desire? You have made me happy by
this consent. Oh! dearest Marie, return soon to the
city, that our marriage may no longer be delayed.
-- 168 --
[figure description] Page 168.[end figure description]
My sister, who has just brought me your precious billet,
will bring you this. Let me entreat you, if your
health and composure be sufficiently restored, to take
advantage of her companionship, and return with her.”
Such was the tenor of the letter. I have only
given such portions of it as were written with an
object other than that simply of addressing the affections
and sensibilities of his betrothed. He designed
much of the preceding for other eyes than those of
Marie, and Madame de Chateauneuve had her instructions,
which were to be conveyed to the former, so to
dispose of the letter as that it should be quite accessible
to all or any of the servants. She was also to be
counselled to let several days elapse, after receiving it,
before she offered to act on its chief suggestion by
returning to the city.
“We must allow the enemy sufficient time. You
will perceive, William, that much depends upon our
being able to compel the ghost to reappear. We must
fully convict him.”
I thought he elaborated too much. I said so.
“You surely have sufficient evidence for this purpose
already—the secret door and passage—the mask
and death—the disguise of the Egyptian—”
“This is the too common error. People are too
apt to fire the train before they are quite sure that
the enemy is decidedly over the mine. Most failures
come from precipitance, and the feeble eagerness of
the parties. In all cases, particularly of this sort, the
proper rule is `to mak' sicker'—to guard against
every possibility of failure—to leave no contingency
-- 169 --
[figure description] Page 169.[end figure description]
unprovided for—to leave to the enemy no aperture
for evasion. It is scarcely possible so to secure any
game, where you contend against great ingenuity
working in secret. That we have so far succeeded, is
due entirely to the fact that we have worked in secret;
and that our first move was utterly to disarm the suspicion
that we worked at all. In dealing with an
imagination so vivid as that of Marie's, a nervous system
so susceptible, a spiritual mood whose native
tendency, earnest and enthusiastic, is to religion, we
are particularly required to meet every point of evasion
which an ingenious and subtle fancy might, by
possibility, suggest. Superstition, once in full possession
of the imagination, utterly possesses the understanding,
and precludes reason from entering at all;
and it is surprising, when thus possessed, how ingenious
it becomes in keeping itself in possession. Do
you not see that, if I use only the proofs which we
now have, we prove nothing really against the criminal:
we show that she has been deceived and deluded,
but do not show by whom; and nothing has been done
to drive this secret and powerful enemy from her
councils, where he has indirectly ruled for possibly
fifteen years—ever since her childhood? Besides,
my dear fellow, what should prevent the ingenious
superstition, and even the ingenious affection of Marie,
from saying: `Ah! Frederick loves me, and would
wish to cure me of my fears, to cure me for himself.
He has provided this death-mask—he has placed this
costume of the Egyptian here—he—' Who will
prove that we did not put them there?”
-- 170 --
[figure description] Page 170.[end figure description]
“But she cannot, by any conjecture, charge you
with the creation of this secret passage!”
“No! But she may possibly reason thus in respect
to this secret passage, still under the bias of a superstition
which is in full possession, and tenacious of its
hold: `Old houses, Frederick himself has told me,
are not unfrequently thus provided with secret passages.
He has suspected the presence of one in my
house, which is one of the oldest of the old city; one
of the most massive, and particularly susceptible of
use in this manner. His conjecture has been verified
by his search. But what then? This proves nothing
against the spectre, unless you can show that, because
a ghost is independent of such aids, he will scorn to
appear in a dwelling which offers him such unnecessary
facilities.' No doubt all this sort of reasoning is false;
but it is natural in all such cases. If the heart of
man is desperately wicked, the head is quite as desperately
ingenious; and it is by sophistications wholly
that superstitions can work upon cultivated minds.
With the ignorant the case is otherwise. The instincts
serve, and no argument is needed to prevail over the
understanding; but with the intellectual and accomplished,
subtleties, engendered by the mind—by education
itself—take the place of common sense; and a
false philosophy will clothe itself in the garments of
an angel of light—a Gabriel in golden armor, seemingly
impenetrable to any thrust from the Ithuriel
spear skepticism. I have thought of all that is needful,
I assure you, to make my case conclusive, and
perfectly to reach the convictions of Marie; I must
-- 171 --
[figure description] Page 171.[end figure description]
take physical hold upon the ghost—I must shake the
supernatural out of him—must take him, as Dunstan
took the devil, fairly by the proboscis, and so tweak
it as to make him roar like any ordinary mortal!
And I will do it, be sure, with sufficient unction, as
soon as I have a chance!”
“Well, if you will suffer me, I shall be pleased to
be present at the operation. This taking a ghost by
the nose, will be something of a novelty in our country.
But when did you get the letter from Madame de
Berniere, to which yours is the answer?”
“I have received no such letter. I expressly cautioned
Marie not to write. Nor is my letter so much
meant for her perusal, as for that of the ghost. That
I have assumed so much, in writing as I have written,
will be forgiven by Marie in consideration of the circumstances.
On this head, I think she properly understands
me; I have taken particular pains, in our conversations
before she went, that she should do so. Of
course, it is understood that her tacit acquiescence in
what I have written binds her to nothing. It is understood
that my proceeding is one designed for her
extrication, for her freedom only from the ghost, and
not her bondage to myself. It will be quite time to
discuss the latter subject, when we have settled the
former. But I have no fears of the result if I once
succeed in my discoveries, and succeed in satisfying
her. I have no doubt that the process of tweaking
the nose of the ghost will be conclusive in respect to
my claims to the hand of Marie.”
-- 172 --
CHAPTER XVIII.
[figure description] Page 172.[end figure description]
A week had fully elapsed after this conversation,
when one evening Frederick Brandon said to me:—
“My sister returned this morning to the city.
Marie comes back to-morrow. And now, what say
you to taking lodgings to-night with me at her house?”
“Agreed—to be sure.”
“But let me warn you. Once there, we must stay
there until the affair is over. We shall certainly have
to remain there for this and the ensuing night. It
may be longer. I cannot now venture the loss of a
single hour. I must be in waiting and on the watch.
I have contrived a hiding-place for both of us, where
we shall escape notice, and from whence we may
emerge at any moment. I have also laid in ample
supplies of meat and drink, so that we shall not suffer.
I have pass keys for every apartment. I can feel my
way along every avenue. My sister will give to Marie
all the necessary instructions. She has, as you are
aware, only to pull a button which links unsuspiciously
at the head of her bed, close against the wall, to
give the alarm, in a moment, if she hears or sees the
ghost. We shall have some wires to pull, the moment
after. All this you know.”
Under the cover of the night, loaded with provisions
for several days, we made our way without interruption
to the haunted dwelling. Our dark lantern was
not forgotten, nor extra supplies of fuel. We found
-- 173 --
[figure description] Page 173.[end figure description]
our way to an ancient lumber closet, beneath the stairs,
on the second story, which gave us a large recess,
blocked in by old trunks, bandboxes, and furniture—
a child's cradle, apparently of the time of Queen
Elizabeth, black with age, and of the most antique
fashion, being the prominent object. It had rocked
the infant form of that very Colonel de Berniere
whose sleepless spirit we had come to lay. Here we
lay, rather snugly—somewhat fettered in our movements,
but not uncomfortably so—and with the privilege
of stealing out, whither we pleased, as soon as
everybody was asleep. We adjusted our den in such
a manner as to afford us equal ease and security. The
place was one evidently which persons did not often
appear to penetrate. Before taking possession of it,
we went the rounds of the establishment—reviewed all
the secret places—all the avenues—saw that everything
wore its old aspect—tried all the keys to the
secret doors, and felt that we could find egress and
ingress when and where we pleased—and saw heedfully
to the operation of the wire which we had conducted
to the bedhead of the haunted lady. This
done, we returned to our den among the bandboxes,
opened wide the door of our lantern, so as to throw
its light wholly upon the recess, clapped it on top of
an old trunk looking inwards, and then proceeded to
look to the contents of the two provision baskets which
we had brought. These we stowed away in the cradle
of the ghost, i. e., when he was a mere mortal infant.
His spectre did not affect our appetite. We had a
good supply of red wines, which we used freely as a
-- 174 --
[figure description] Page 174.[end figure description]
substitute for tea and coffee, and with a couple of
cloaks and blankets we made out to sleep lovingly together,
with but little space for much changing of
position through the night.
We woke some time after daylight, but it was still
dark to us, except for the lamp-light, where we were.
The lamp we had to keep burning, and occasionally to
replenish. To strike a light, in the old times, when
friction-matches were not, might have endangered our
secret. A little after we had awakened, Frederick
ventured out, but soon returned.
“They can't arrive,” said he, “before mid-day,
and the servants and carriage will come first. Marie
will drive with my sister, and will bring her round in
the evening, and take tea with her. We may be at
ease till meridian. And now for our breakfast.”
We ate, and walked about for awhile, but towards
11 o'clock A. M., thought it prudent, like sagacious
rats, to take to our hole. We did so, and lay perdu.
It was mid-day—fully one o'clock—when we heard a
bustle below, and the loud voice of Andres, and the
pert voice of the chamber-maid. The back door was
then thrown open, and the cook went out to the
kitchen, but soon returned. A long confabulation
followed between the parties, the Betty of my lady
concluding at last by a loud outcry for something to
eat, declaring herself fairly famished, and utterly
miserable from the vile country fare to which for the
last two weeks she had been so cruelly and unnecessarily
subjected. Meanwhile, Andres seemed to have
absented himself. It was fully an hour before we
-- 175 --
[figure description] Page 175.[end figure description]
heard his voice again, and he came in just in time to
join in taking dinner with the chamber-maid. Of this
event we guessed the particulars from an occasional
clashing of plates, and the smacking of a cork, which
might have been porter, or, more probably, champagne.
Good tastes may be acquired in the cellar quite as
soon as in the parlor, and education, in a servant's
hall, may sometimes cast discredit, in more ways than
one, on the progress of civilization up stairs.
But feeding, like other good things, must have an
end some time or other. The bustle below stairs
ceased, and very soon we heard my lady's maid in
my lady's chamber. There she bustled about for a
goodly hour, her tongue earnestly engaged all the while
in seeming soliloquy, though that of Andres might be
heard as a sort of thorough-bass, giving force and
dignity to her affetuoso. At intervals we could hear
the movements of both the parties, with the drawing
of tables, the rattling of chairs, and the evident
scraping of the broom over walls and carpets. Our
ears, in the almost total suspension of the exercise of
our other senses, became singularly acute in our place
of hiding. Here we remained undisturbed, almost
unapproached. It was quite sunset by our watches
when Marie de Berniere came home, accompanied by
Madame de Chateauneuve. They went at once to the
chamber of the former, where tea was served them.
We could hear from our den the subdued murmur of
their voices for a couple of hours more. But Madame
de Chateauneuve at length took her departure. An
hour elapsed and the house remained perfectly quiet.
-- 176 --
[figure description] Page 176.[end figure description]
Then the tongue of my lady's Betty was heard once
more in the chamber. She was evidently assisting
her mistress in disembarrassing her for the night.
This duty seemed to be at length finished. The
chamber door was heard to close. We heard it locked
carefully within; and then the footsteps of the maid,
ascending the stairs over our heads, on her way to
her own sleeping-room in the third story. When this
sound had fairly ceased, we were conscious of a noise—
slight indeed, but to our keen senses sufficiently
obvious—again at the door of Marie's chamber.
“She is withdrawing the key from the lock,” said
Frederick, “as I counselled her through my sister.”
Frederick now carefully trimmed the lamp, shutting
the door of it as soon as it was done. In the brief
moments, when the light was cast upon his countenance,
I saw that his face was very pale, but all the
muscles were rigid, and the mouth was silently and
firmly compressed. We had still, in all probability,
some two hours to wait.
“Be patient,” said my friend; “according to rule,
ghosts have no right to revisit the glimpses of the
moon till 12 o'clock. Midnight is the dawning for the
spiritual world. What a reflection. They find life
and light only when our mortal world is dark, and in
a slumber that mocks the external attributes of death.
Well, we shall see! We shall hear! It is something
to reconcile us to such a tedious watch, that we may
fairly grapple with a ghost.”
“Should your conjectures and suspicions, after all,
-- 177 --
[figure description] Page 177.[end figure description]
prove unfounded—should there be a real ghost, Frederick!”
Darkness is wonderfully favorable to the marvellous.
Credulity grows in just degree with our ignorance and
incapacity. I should probably during the day, have
never entertained or uttered such a suggestion.
“Can you suppose it possible, after our discoveries?”
queried my friend. “Nay, it is possible, for I am not
prepared to deny the possibility, or even the occurrence
of the supernatural and spectral; but it surely is not
a probability in the present case. At all events, it
will not be very long before we are enabled to resolve
doubts. Let but Marie be firm enough to do as she
has been counselled, and only pull the wire, the button
of which is behind her bolster, and we secure the
visitor, shadowy or real. We shall be seasonably
warned by our little metallic monitor.”
He pointed to a little copper ball which hung
beneath the stairs just above our heads. This, by the
way, was connected by a wire with the button so conveniently
placed by the couch of Madame de Berniere.
The same button was connected by another wire, which
we had conducted into the secret crypt through which
the ghost was expected to enter the chamber. While
the first wire, acting upon the bell, warned us of his
entrance, the opposite wire was contrived in such a
manner as effectually to prevent the working of the
spring by which the ghost let himself out again—
effectually barring his egress from the apartment.
We had tried our machinery thoroughly, so as to
-- 178 --
[figure description] Page 178.[end figure description]
assure ourselves of its proper and prompt working at
the moment of alarm.
I was silent after this, and stretched myself out as
well as I could, leaning my back and head against the
partition. Frederick felt the movement.
“If you are drowsy,” said he, “indulge yourself.
You will probably have time enough. The bell will
waken you, and I can, at a moment, should it fail to
do so.”
But I disclaimed the desire, of which I was really
mentally unconscious, and roused myself up for awhile;
though now both of us remained silent. But nature
had been a little too much overtaxed, in my case, as
in that of my friend, and though sympathizing with
him fervently, and really extremely anxious about the
result, I yielded finally to that arch-beguiler, sleep,
and closed eyes and senses wholly to the external
world. I was awakened suddenly by Frederick's
grasp upon my shoulder, and by the subsiding tinkle
of the little bell within my ears. My faculties were all
in hand in a moment. Frederick rose, his movements
quite measured and necessarily deliberate. We both
moved with caution, he leading the way, surmounting
boxes and cradle, and without any casualty, we extricated
ourselves, and emerged from the closet. I
carried the lamp, Frederick the keys, and we proceeded
at once, along the passage to the door of Marie's
chamber. We heard a bustle as we proceeded; then
came the sounds of Madame de Berniere's raised voice;
but we heard no voice in reply. I opened the lantern
door; and Frederick applied the key to the lock. It
-- 179 --
[figure description] Page 179.[end figure description]
opened readily—we pushed in without pausing, and,
turning the key, relocked the door. We were fairly in
the sacred chamber of youth, beauty, and innocence.
The voice of Marie saluted us, something between a
cry and a speech. What she said then I know not;
but I saw her, sitting up in the bed, her eyes bright
as two unsunned jewels of the mine, and her hand
extended in the direction of the chimney. Then I
deciphered her words.
“Save me, my friends. He is here! My enemy.
He who pursues me. He has spoken to me—he has
dared to threaten. He is here—there—he spoke to
me from that direction.”
She pointed towards the secret door. I had held
the light towards it; but it was closed, and I saw
nothing. Frederick, however, coolly took the lantern
from my hand; and, going to the toilet, lighted the two
waxen candles which stood upon it. The room was at
once visible in every quarter. Still, I saw nobody.
Frederick's face was fearfully pale; but he said
nothing. His lips were rigidly caught by his teeth.
I readily conjectured all his emotions. Everything
depended upon this discovery. Should he have failed!
Should there be no detection—no human victim—all
the fancies, and the superstitions of the woman whom he
so much loved, would be confirmed, fatally, to all his
hopes. He seized one of the candles in his hand,
raised it aloft, saw that the secret door was fully fastened,
and at once proceeded to the chimney. A moment
after, he laughed aloud, somewhat hysterically,
and the next moment, thrusting the candle into my
-- 180 --
[figure description] Page 180.[end figure description]
hands, he stooped into the fireplace and drew down
the ghost, by a pair of very well-made mortal legs, from
the recesses of the chimney.
“Come out!” he said, with great deliberation.
“You can hide no longer.”
The spectre was reluctant. The vigorous grasp of
Frederick assisted his movements, and dragged him
from his hiding-place. He stood upon the hearth,
speechless, immovable; and when I thrust the candle
towards his face, the suspicions of my friend were all
confirmed. There stood the living embodiment of the
excellent father, Paul Roquetti!
CHAPTER XIX.
The good father, this time, wore no death's head;
but he carried it in his hand. He had evidently taken
it from his face in the moment of alarm, and was so
paralyzed by detection, that he had forgotten to drop
it. He was a woeful picture, not only of idiotic confusion,
but of soot and ashes. He wore motley for
the nonce, and hardly needed a mask for concealment.
He offered no resistance, as drawing a stout cord from
his pocket, Frederick prepared to secure his arms behind
him. But here Madame de Berniere interposed—
“Frederick, for my sake, spare him this—”
Frederick paused without answering, and looking
with searching eyes into the face of the culprit, seemed
to ask himself, by the brief examination, whether he
-- 181 --
[figure description] Page 181.[end figure description]
ought to, or could safely forbear the precaution which
he had meditated.
“He is an Italian!” said he to me, in an under tone,
but sufficiently loud for the Father to hear. The latter
raised his eyes for the first time, but they sank
almost instantly beneath the glance of my friend, as
beneath that of a master.
“And this,” said Frederick, “is one of a race that
boasted such names as Scipio and Cicero, Cato and
Julius Cæsar. How characteristics alter in a few
centuries. Soul yields to sense, courage to subtlety,
and the fearless and eager nature becomes the cold,
the secret, the timid and assassin-like. And yet all
these traits are found associated with genius and the
rarest capacity for design. It is a mystery. We
may trust him, I think”—looking searchingly into the
priest's face—“but not out of sight. Hither.”
The eye of Frederick seemed to indicate what he
wished as well to myself as to Paul Roquetti. I
opened the door of the chamber, and he followed me
out like a submissive spaniel. Frederick came behind
him, bringing one of the candles. The other
was left with madame de Berniere in her chamber.
She now rose to make her toilet. Frederick placed
his candle on the front window of the passage overlooking
the street. He touched his repeater. It was
two o'clock in the morning.
“We shall soon have visitors,” said he; “the light
is a signal.”
By this time, the servant-maid had hurried from
-- 182 --
[figure description] Page 182.[end figure description]
above in her night-dress, aroused by the unavoidable
bustle.
“In—to your mistress,” said Frederick, sternly.
“But first, go into that room”—pointing to the one
opposite Madame de Berniere's chamber—“and
bring us out some chairs.”
There was no questioning that eagle glance, those
stern simple tones with which he commanded her.
She obeyed promptly, without a word, looking awfully
distressed and inquiringly at the priest. She had
scarcely placed the chairs, and entered the chamber
of her lady, when we beheld Andres, the porter,
making his way up. At the sight of him, Paul Roquetti
looked towards him appealingly.
“Be seated, sir,” said Frederick, in tones of command,
rather than entreaty, pointing at the same
time to one of the chairs. The person addressed
obeyed instinctively. Meanwhile, Andres reached
the top of the steps, on the same platform with ourselves.
The fellow's face was dark with a savage
expression, and his eye scowled fiercely.
“Down, sir,” said Frederick, “and be in readiness
to answer the door.”
“I want to see my mistress,” said the fellow, insolently,
and continuing to advance.
“You do as I bid you—not a step further, I say.”
“I must see my mistress.” He pressed forward.
“See to the priest,” said Frederick, and with the
words, with but a bound, he sprang upon the mulatto,
grasped him by the throat, wheeled him about, and
plunged him headlong down the steps, just as the
-- 183 --
[figure description] Page 183.[end figure description]
scoundrel was drawing a knife from his bosom. The
act was so decisive, the power with which it was executed
so prodigious, that it seemed to operate upon
the priest and negro like a sudden thunderbolt falling
at their feet. Andres, prostrate for a moment on the
first landing or platform of the stair-flight, bruised,
half stunned, and rising slowly, was evidently cowed
into submission. But he glared up at us, with one
malignant flash of his dark and savage eyes, before
he picked himself up, and continued, more deliberately,
his downward progress.
“Bad blood, both. The mixture of the Spanish
blood with that of the African produces always a
malignant cross. We must keep a sharp eye on
both.”
At this moment the house-bell rung below, and the
mulatto porter, obeying habit rather than will, was
heard to open the outer door.
“It is my sister and Monsieur de Chateauneuve,”
said Frederick. “That candle has told them all.”
The next moment we heard their voices, and they
were soon on their way up stairs. Marie de Berniere
emerged from her chamber at the same instant, and
the parties met in the passage. Again Andres made
his appearance coming up, but the vigilant eye of
Frederick beheld him, and ordered him down again.
The fellow did not venture to dispute the order; the
taste which he had enjoyed of my friend's summary
mode of enforcing obedience, was of excellent effect.
Of course, all was curiosity and inquiry—congratulations
and exclamations. The impostor ghost sat
-- 184 --
[figure description] Page 184.[end figure description]
motionless with shame, in silence, a spectacle of loathing
and reproach. Monsieur de Chateauneuve addressed
him—
“So, so! good father, this is a beautiful game you
have been playing. Ah, well! what have you to say
for yourself?”
He was silent. Marie de Berniere then spoke, and
her words betrayed the conflict between her indignation
and sorrow.
“How, Father Paul, have I deserved this treatment
at your hands? You who blessed me at birth,
upon whose words I hung in childhood, to whom I
looked as to a father; to whom I listened—to whom
I made my confession.”
The guilty man looked up, and his eye gleamed
fiercely, as he replied, quickly—
“You did not confess!”
Monsieur de Chateauneuve promptly put in—
“And for a good reason. She had an instinct that
told her you did not need it. No one need tell anything
to the spy who steals all one's secrets. Satan!
You would be a ghost—I have a mind to gratify you
on the spot. If I only had a rope!”
We need not report all that was said on the occasion.
Enough now that we give the substance of the
events. A brief conversation aside, between Frederick
and Monsieur de Chateauneuve, sent the latter
off. He was gone about an hour. Meanwhile, the
two ladies had retired to the chamber of Madame de
Berniere, leaving Father Paul in the keeping of
Frederick and myself. The fellow, Andres, made
-- 185 --
[figure description] Page 185.[end figure description]
several showings of himself upon the stairs, but was
invariably arrested by the eye and voice of my friend,
and driven back. Frederick, finally, as he became
chafed at the pertinacity of the mulatto, pulled a pair
of pistols from his coat, and sternly assured him that
if he appeared again before he was summoned, he
should be rewarded with an ounce of lead. The fellow
respected the warning. Thus we remained for
more than an hour, when at dawn a carriage drove
up to the door. It opened, a bustle followed, and the
venerable Archbishop D—, of the Roman Catholic
Church—a person who united all the most amiable of
social traits, with all that was pure and becoming in
his station—who was equally beloved and honored by
all sects and classes—ascended the stairs under the
guidance of Monsieur de Chateauneuve. He stood
before the culprit, his face filled with the sternest
sorrow.
“Paul, you are guilty!”
The person addressed hung his head in silence.
The Archbishop then spoke to Frederick, whom he
had met before, and knew.
“Mr. Brandon, what is your wish and purpose?
This man is a double offender—against the laws of
the Church and those of the land. He is in your
hands. I have not a word to say in his behalf. Let
the laws of the land pronounce upon his offences.
The Church will pronounce its judgments also.”
But Frederick said, quickly—
“No, sir; he is in your hands. For this purpose,
it was, not less than that a full exposure should be
-- 186 --
[figure description] Page 186.[end figure description]
made to you, that your presence was requested.
Madame de Berniere would prefer, for her own sake,
and that of the Church, which his connection dishonors,
that the secular arm should forbear him. So
far as he is concerned, I have done my duty. If I
doubted that the Church would do its duty also, then
only, would I deliver him to the justice of the country.
But of this I have no doubt. Though not of your
faith, reverend sir, I am too well satisfied that it is
neither your policy nor wish to screen the offender. I
resign him to your hands.”
“Thanks, sir; you do me justice only. I thank
you for myself and for the Church, which has not
always been dealt with justly. Paul Roquetti, remain
here. You will return with me.”
At this moment, Madames de Berniere and Chateauneuve
both emerged from the chamber, and were
affectionately embraced by the venerable Archbishop.
The former lady requested us now to enter the room,
while Frederick laid bare the secret avenues within
and beneath its walls.
“You will be confounded,” said Frederick, “at the
extent of these ramifications, and the wonderful
power for harm which this man exercised.”
“It is wonderful,” said the Archbishop, “that such
a power should be desirable to one so old. But, the
love of power is, perhaps, the last of the passions to
leave us.”
We need not follow the party, as Frederick unfolded
the secret avenues, and showed all the clues.
“What a ghost story our friend has spoiled!” said
-- 187 --
[figure description] Page 187.[end figure description]
Monsieur de Chateauneuve, tapping his snuffbox, and
handing it to the Archbishop. When we returned to
the place where the culprit had been left, he was
gone!
The Archbishop was terribly angry, but his anger
was unavailing. Andres was questioned, but he knew
nothing. Frederick smiled, and said to the Archbishop—
“Do you know one Louise Porterier, living in the
street —?”
“Yes. She is a mulattress—”
“No—a Cuban. She is a fruitier, and has seven
children. She is the wife of Paul Roquetti.”
“Wife! Saints and angels, Mr. Brandon! what
is it you tell me?”
“Truth! I have not been employing myself in
vain for the last three weeks. I have fathomed this
man's entire history. This woman is his wife, though
she passes as a widow with another name. She is
wealthy. She has become so at the expense of your
flock, perhaps your church, and to the ruin of this
wretched man. Remarkably endowed as he is with
talent—Italian talent—a rare subtlety and some eloquence,
he is literally the mere creature and slave of
this woman. He has fled. The fellow, Andres, there,
assisted his flight. The woman will follow him with
all her children. Look to see the house vacant in
two weeks.”
“Pity, knowing these things, that you had not insisted
upon his being surrendered to the civil authorities.
We can—we will—degrade him; make him
-- 188 --
[figure description] Page 188.[end figure description]
perpetually loathsome and odious among our people;
but such a soul, so corrupt, will hardly suffer, as he
ought, from a spiritual sentence.”
“Perhaps not, and yet—”
Frederick looked to Marie. She smiled to him
gratefully. Base criminal as Paul Roquetti had
proved himself, at last, after a sixty years' reputation
of sanctity, Marie could only remember him as the
honored Christian teacher of her infant and youthful
nature.
The Archbishop did his duty. Father Paul Roquetti
was degraded—a sentence more heavy and terrible,
in a spiritual sense, than that of excommunication
even, was passed upon him. He was blotted from the
pages of the Christian church. As Frederick had
predicted, Louise Porterier disappeared, with all her
family, in two weeks after. No traces exist of any of
these parties, at least under these names. What
remains? Three days after the eventful discovery,
which concluded the claims of the ghost, Frederick
had an interview with Marie de Berniere.
“Frederick,” she said, “look at this. If you are
now willing to marry me, I am yours.”
She threw off the cap she had worn, and let her
long hair free. It fell voluminous and soft upon her
shoulders. But it was mottled with gray!
“See the agonies of one little month in this writing
of the grave!”
This was all she said; he opened his arms, and she
buried her face, sobbing audibly, in his bosom. Need
I say that they became one. With tearful eyes, and
-- 189 --
[figure description] Page 189.[end figure description]
broken accents, the excellent Archbishop himself
united them in the most precious and permanent
bonds of life. They were happy—lived happily as
one;—for what an indulgent manhood was his!—
what a devoted dependence, subduing all affectations,
formed the secret and the spirit in the love of her
fearfully tested affections. Friends! dear friends!
Is it possible that I see ye no more around that happy
board, which made all happy!
-- -- p685-187
THE MAROON; A LEGEND OF THE CARIBBEES.
[figure description] Page 190.[end figure description]
CHAPTER I.
The waters of the Caribbean Sea, subject to some
of the wildest vicissitudes that ever sweep the billows
of the western hemisphere, were never more placid
and lovely to the eye than on the morning of the
26th of August, in the year of grace one thousand
five hundred and thirty-two. The exquisite calm of
heaven—that delicious serenity and repose of atmosphere
which seem never so lovely or so perfect as in
those latitudes where the capricious winds may, at any
moment, lash themselves and the ocean into immitigable
fury, and where nothing is long secure against
their violence—appeared to rest, with the bosom of
the halcyon, upon the mighty deeps of sea. The sky
was without a cloud—the breeze, soft and spicy as if
borne fresh, on the very instant, from the aromatic
islands of the east, was gentle without languor, and
just sufficed to waft along, under easy sail, the high-pooped
Spanish bark that might be seen to form, as
it were a natural and becoming portion of the vast
-- 191 --
[figure description] Page 191.[end figure description]
and beguiling picture. She alone stood up, careering
over the watery waste, relieving its monotonous revels,
and looming out, beyond her natural size, in comparison
with the uniform smoothness of the waters. A
swift and well-built vessel of the time, was the Diana
de Burgos, named after a favorite beauty of old
Spain. She had taxed all the genius of the architect
of that day in her modelling, to do honor to her name-sake.
And he had succeeded—so perfectly succeeded,
that the emulous little bark had already acquired a
peculiar reputation, such as that enjoyed by the Baltimore
clipper of modern periods, for exquisite grace of
air, and unparalleled fleetness of foot. She was the
pride of the waters, and cleft them, or passed over
them, as if endued with all the consciousness of the
young and haughty beauty whose name had not been
taken by her in vain. Of her deeds, of her peculiar
employment, in the western hemisphere, we shall say
nothing. At that wild period, we know very well
what was the usual history in the New World, as well
upon the ocean as the land. “No peace beyond the
line,” was the common proverb of license among the
rovers of all the European nations; and our Diana
de Burgos carried within her graceful girdle all the
requisite resources for deeds of strength and violence.
Her loveliness of model did not conflict with her capacity
for fight; and a single glance upon the swarthy
groups that covered her deck, would satisfy any skeptic,
without farther search, that she had already enjoyed
no inconsiderable experience in the trade of
war. Could her polished decks have spoken out,
-- 192 --
[figure description] Page 192.[end figure description]
what revelations of blood and terror might they not
have made! But her past history is nothing to us.
It is enough that she still possesses sufficient materials
of interest for a startling and a touching narrative.
At the moment when we ascend her sides—in that
calm and lovely day—in that serene and delicious
atmosphere—with that broad deep ocean, as smooth
as it could well appear, to comport with the necessary
degree of animation which, to form a picture, such a
prospect seems to require, and, at the same time to
disarm every sense of danger in the bosom of the
most apprehensive—we shall find that no such calm
and serenity prevail among her inmates. We discover
them grouped about in small parties along her
deck, here leaning against her masts, there crouched
among bulk and cordage—variously placed in different
attitudes—a hundred sturdy seamen and soldiers,
speaking little—an occasional word or sentence only—
but all looking as if thoroughly informed and anxious
in relation to some matter of evidently increasing interest.
The broken sentences to which we listen—
the half-uttered inquiry, the faltering suggestion have
no meaning for our ears, though clearly of ready comprehension
by all around. Happily, a stir takes
place among them; they rise to their feet—the group
separate; there is a sudden show of restraint, as from
the approach of authority. A word has gone forth
which leads to expectation, and the eagerness, but
partially suppressed, which now, in every visage, follows
prompt upon its former simple look of doubt and
anxiety, may well encourage us to hope for the
-- 193 --
[figure description] Page 193.[end figure description]
gratification of our own curiosity. Patience, the door of
the cabin is thrown open!
The group which appears within is one to add somewhat
to the interest of expectation. In the foreground
appears a person seated in a chair, one of those
ancient high-backed fabrics used, about that period,
in all European countries which had reached any degree
of civilization. This person is a man of countenance
more striking than impressive. He is, we may
be permitted to say at once, the captain of the Diana—
Don Velasquez de Tornel—a personage, short and
corpulent, with great hands and limbs, a neck thick
and short like that of a bull, and of a face plethoric
and fiery red. His features are dark and fierce, and
marked by the signs of an angry passion, the appearance
of which he seems laboring to suppress. His
eyes are small, intense, and catlike of expression,
keen, vigilant, and cunning. His nose is short and
sharp, his lips thick, and marked, at moments, by a
slight quiver, which betrays the secret emotion. A
thin, but grizzly beard overspreads his chin and cheeks.
He would seem to be a person about fifty years of age—
a man of strifes and violence, of quick and irritable
temper, and of restless, unforgiving moods. His feet
are wrapped in bandages of flannel, and suggest the
true reason why he remains seated at a time when his
thoughts and passions would seem disposed to goad
him into the most eager exercise. Thus seated, he is
wheeled out upon the deck by his attendants; while,
slowly following him, appears a female, whose highly
expressive features and wildly peculiar beauty, make
-- 194 --
[figure description] Page 194.[end figure description]
her less an object of interest than study. Her person
is small, but highly formed; commanding, from
its ease of carriage, its erectness, the bold defiance in
her eye, and the imperious curling of her lip. The
style of her beauty is not of the noblest order. It
possesses but little of the spiritual, but is of a kind
more likely to secure admiration during an age, and
in a region, where the passions learn to triumph and
command in the absence of the sentiments. She
takes her place at a little distance in front of the spot
occupied by Velasquez. Her arms folded across her
breast, she preserves an erect posture, while her eyes,
neither gazing upon, nor averted from him, seem to
be filled with a twofold expression of wounded pride
and lurking anxiety. His glance surveys her keenly
and unreservedly. There is a mixture of tenderness
and suspicion in his gaze, while the sinister smile
which now curls his lips, gives to his whole countenance
the air of a brooding and sleepless malignity.
This silent watch is so prolonged as to be painful;
but her features never swerve; nor does her expression
alter. She looks as she did when she took her
first position. There is evidently a motive for this
inflexibility, which she maintains without faltering, so
long as his eye is upon her. But when he turns
away and summons the pilot to his side, then it is
seen that her breast heaves as if to throw off the oppressive
burden of self-constraint—then it is that her
cheek pales and lip quivers, and all her countenance
betrays a fear which it has hitherto been its business
to suppress.
-- 195 --
[figure description] Page 195.[end figure description]
But a few words are spoken by the captain to his
pilot; a question is asked—a command is given; and
while the latter is retiring, he is reminded—to “see
that all things are in readiness, and to keep a bright
look-out.” The pilot withdrawn, the eyes of Velasquez
once more, but slowly, address themselves to the
lady. But she has recovered from the momentary
emotion which oppressed her. Her features are once
more inflexible; her look is steady; she has nerved
herself to a resolute endurance of his gaze; and the
muscles of her face, like the strings of her soul, are
rendered tenacious by a will which his would vainly
endeavor to overcome. Failing in this sort of examination,
he addressed her—seemingly resuming a dialogue
which the previous scene had interrupted.
“You have answered clearly, Maria! It is well
for us both that you did so. It would have been a
grief to me that I should visit your head with my
wrath, even though it should be shown—Madre de
Dios!—that you had merited it by such a crime as
this. For, did I not pluck you from the accursed
gypsy—have I not made you a lady, and bestowed
my love upon you? It were a crime against God, if
you had been false to me!”
“I have answered you, Don Velasquez!”
“So you have, my beauty—so you have! But it
is not enough to answer. Must one look angry because
one is virtuous—eh?”
“But to be wrongfully accused—to be wrongfully
threatened!—”
“Oh! oh! one gets used to such things, if all
-- 196 --
[figure description] Page 196.[end figure description]
other things go right. Of course, I know that you
are innocent. But how did I know it then? For
you will admit, my life, that the affair looked very
suspicious. There was I, groaning in my agony with
this accursed pain, and where were you? Ah! well!
you were not with this whelp of a musician? You
did not sit looking up into his face, while he was
stretching his throat against the wind, and singing
nonsense to his silly guitar? You did not prefer listening
to him to tending on me, and, of course, Juan
must have been mistaken in supposing that you suffered
him—that you were willing that he should—ah!
never mind! It is not easy to speak of such things
without choking—but when this whelp of a musician
did put his arms about you, it was only his impertinence,
and you properly repulsed him—”
“Has not Antonio already assured you of this?”
demanded the lady, coldly.
“True—true!—”
“And Perez?”
“Very true—and Juan, I say, must have been mistaken.”
“He is a wretch!—”
“Nay, nay, do not abuse the child—my own sister's
child—has good eyes, too; but, nevertheless, did not
see—was mistaken—saw this Lopez presume—this
guitar-player—but did not see, as Antonio and Perez
did, that you resented this presumption—that you
frowned and threatened! But what an atrocious impertinence,
that such a poor, puny, beardless beast of
a boy should thus behave himself. Is it not
-- 197 --
[figure description] Page 197.[end figure description]
monstrous? But he shall sweat for it! should he not?
Can such an outrage be excused? What think you,
my life—should not this wretch of a musician suffer?—
Say? answer me!”
The lady replied by a vacant stare.
“Ah! I see! You feel the enormity of his offence.
You have not words sufficient to declare it. Well!
you will be better able to acknowledge the propriety
of the punishment I will inflict upon him.”
These words were accompanied by a hideous grin.
The tyrant readily conceived all the torture which he
inflicted. He watched eagerly the features of the
person he addressed, anxious to extort from them
some acknowledgment of the heart's inward suffering;
and seemed chagrined to perceive the steadiness
of aspect with which the woman bore his scrutiny.
“Truly, my life,” he continued, with less than
usual of that catlike play of feature which declared
his peculiar malice, “truly, my life, it pleases me to
perceive that you have no sympathies for this monster
of a musician. I did fear, I confess, I did fear—
that, though you might not have erred with him,
you might have been foolish enough, through some
misplaced sentiment of feminine tenderness, to have
interposed and pleaded against his punishment. That
would have been a weakness, my beautiful Gitano.
We must punish such enormous guilt. We must punish
it as it deserves! We must so punish such an
offender as that he shall never so offend again!”
He paused—and gazed steadily upon the woman!
But she too well knew the cool malignity of the tyrant
-- 198 --
[figure description] Page 198.[end figure description]
—his peculiar and unrelenting nature—to suffer herself
to be deceived by the obvious lure which he threw
out that she should implore mercy for the criminal
of whom he spoke. She also felt the importance of
maintaining the same settled indifference and coldness
of aspect as before. He allowed some lengthened
moments to intervene, and resumed, but with evident
disappointment—
“And you have nothing to say, my life?”
“Nothing!”
“Madre de Dios? But it is so precious to me,
that you so thoroughly acknowledge my justice. Ho!
there—Juan!—bring forth this vile singer, this wretch
of a guitar-player—this audacious musician! He
shall vex no longer with his midnight strummings, the
sweet quiet of our lady of Burgos—our chaste Diana—
whom he makes unhappy by his presumption. See
to it Juan! bring him forth quickly!”
CHAPTER II.
There might have been seen, for a single moment,
while the eye of Don Velasquez was averted, a convulsive
quiver upon the lips of the woman. Her arms
somewhat sank in that moment, and were clasped together
with a spasmodic intensity; yet the action was
too gently performed—the movement quite too slight—
to fix the regards of the person whose glance she
chiefly feared. In that brief moment—in those
-- 199 --
[figure description] Page 199.[end figure description]
slightly expressed emotions—it could be seen that
she felt her worst struggle was at hand. But it could
be seen, also, that she was possessed of wondrous faculties
for endurance. In what school she had acquired
this capacity, it needs not that we should ask—it is
enough that passion, too, has its power of self-restraint,
as well as virtue—and is never so intense, perhaps, as
when it is subjected, by its own will, to the check of
denial and delay. In the heart of the woman, this
power of self-restraint, once acquired, is perhaps far
more complete than in the heart of the man—if for
no other reason than that of her habitual subjection
to the will of a superior, and the habitual exercise
of a policy in society which is not necessary to him
by whom society is controlled or commanded.
The individual named Juan now made his appearance.
He was what is called, ordinarily, a handsome
youth; with smooth features, long, oily, and somewhat
curling locks, which evidently demanded much of his
attention—and a person which, though very slightly,
was yet very symmetrically made. But the intelligence
of his countenance was that of cunning rather
than of thought; and in his small gray eyes, there might
be seen a something of the malignant and catlike
expression which made so conspicuous a feature in
those of his uncle. He was showily habited, with a
gay cloak of silk, falling gracefully from his shoulders,
in addition to the ordinary doublet, which he also
wore, of a rich description of cloth, with slashed
sleeves, and a great ruff at either wrist. A heavy
gold chain about his neck, with a shining agnus dei,
-- 200 --
[figure description] Page 200.[end figure description]
ostentatiously displayed, rather discovered his love of
ornament than any very decided religious feeling in
his breast. But without detailing the several parts
of his costume, it will suffice to say that he was a sort
of a sea-dandy, thought well of his person, and, for
reasons of his own, was disposed to make the most of
it. His manner was full of consequence and confidence,
and, as he approached his uncle, it might be
seen that he possessed no small share of influence in
determining the character of the latter's counsels.
He drew nigh to him, and whispered a few moments
in his ear.
“Be it so, my son! be it so!” said the other kindly,
and with a sudden brightening of the features. Had
the eye of Don Velasquez, at that moment, been
directed suddenly to the features of the lady, he would
have been somewhat gratified, as well as informed, by
their frequent and excessive changes. On the appearance
of the youth, Juan, she had addressed to
him a single glance of equal bitterness and scorn;
and, while he stooped and whispered in the ears of
his uncle, her look was that of a loathing such as one
would naturally feel at contact, suddenly, with a reptile
equally hideous and dangerous. But her features,
under the control of a most watchful will, resumed
their look of icy indifference before her tyrant could
detect their changes.
The whispered dialogue with Juan over, the latter
drew nigh to the lady, and proceeded to whisper in
her ear also. She recoiled from him with unqualified
disgust.
-- 201 --
[figure description] Page 201.[end figure description]
“Beware!” he exclaimed, but in subdued accents,
Beware, Maria; you are on the eve of the precipice,
and a single word may incur for you the fate of your
favorite.”
“Assure me of that and I welcome it,” she answered,
with a sudden resumption of all the vivacity
which could be made to gather in an eye of unexampled
brilliancy and beauty.
The youth smiled spitefully, but said, “You are
wild! That fate would realize no hopes for either of
you. It would be death, and something worse than
death—denial to the grave, and, of course, beyond it.
But I am not now speaking of your death. It is
through me, Maria, that you live. Nay, you live—
need I tell you that?—because I love!”
“What if I proclaim you, where you stand, the
villain that you are?” answered the lady, in accents
similarly subdued with his own.
“It would avail you nothing! He would regard
it only as a mode of escape, which, in your desperation,
you seek to adopt. Does it need still that I
should prove to you how completely I control his ear
and fashion his will.”
“Alas, no! But what is the purpose, as he understands
it, of this whispered conference with me!”
“Ah! that is my secret,” the other answered with
a smile—“enough, that I speak of anything but
that! My true purpose is with you, and for you,
and myself! I will save this favorite of yours—save
him unharmed aboard the vessel, with probably no
greater penalty than close imprisonment, and”—he
-- 202 --
[figure description] Page 202.[end figure description]
spoke this with a grin—“perhaps a denial of his
guitar. I will do this, Maria, if you will become wise
as I would have you—if—”
“I understand you—but that is impossible! I tell
you, Juan de Silva, I loathe you too much to keep
terms with you. You have gone too far—you have
shown me too vile an aspect—too serpent-like a tooth,
for me to suffer your near approach, save as a most
hateful and hated enemy. I will brave any fate before
I suffer this!”
“Beware! your words but doom your favorite.”
“Be it so! Had he been the man I thought him,
it had never come to this. It had been your fate, not
his, or mine! He deserves all that he finds, failing
himself, and failing me, at the proper moment. Hark
you, the dagger which his fingers clutched, when your
felon hand rested upon his shoulder, was put into them
by mine; and the name which my lips uttered when I
gave it him, was that of Juan de Silva. And yet he
struck not, but tamely submitted, sacrificing himself
and me. Now, that you have heard all, judge for
yourself what terms there can be between us!”
The lofty, if not noble scorn which filled her features
at this narrative, heightened wondrously the beauty
of her countenance. Her companion, though evidently
moved by her words, could not forbear betraying,
with open admiration of his gaze, how much it
stimulated his passion. He spoke, after a brief moment,
lost in the absorbing pleasure of his gaze.
“I can forgive you, Maria, and adore you still.
That this Lopez was thus base and insensible, should
-- 203 --
[figure description] Page 203.[end figure description]
surely satisfy you that he was not meant to enjoy, or
to deserve, a heart like yours. Be mine, and all is
yours! I am here the master. I can save this creature—
will save him, for I fear him not, but—I must
have your assurance.”
“Never! Juan de Silva! Never!”
“Beware!”
“Never!”
“Once again, beware! You precipitate his fate!”
“I should precipitate myself upon a worse, if I
sought to save him upon these conditions. I loathe
and hate you, Juan de Silva; too much to endure
your smiles, your favors, the snake-like and revolting
coil of your venomous embrace.”
“You have doomed him!” was the sullen answer
from the scarcely parted lips of the youth. “His
fate is sealed forever!”
He was about to turn away.
“Stay!” was the eager whisper of the woman.
“Well.”
“What is that fate?” was the faintly spoken inquiry
that reached his ears.
“You will know soon enough. His hour approaches.”
“And I too am prepared for mine! I too can
perish!” were the muttered accents which reached the
retreating ears of the scowling Juan. He turned, and
fixed a simple glance upon her pallid but proud features.
The glance was one of equal hate and
mockery. It helped to strengthen her, and her high
spirit prepared itself for the worst.
-- 204 --
CHAPTER III.
[figure description] Page 204.[end figure description]
“I was right, sir,” said Juan aloud, as he returned
to the seat of his uncle, who had been watching with
some curiosity the progress of this conference, of
which he heard not, of course, a single syllable. “She
is prudent and sensible. She will not interpose with
prayer or argument to balk the ends of justice. She
will not meddle with his fate.”
There was something like disappointment in the
dark, malignant features of Velasquez.
“Yet did she seem exceedingly slow in coming to
her resolution?”
“By no means, sir. She was prompt enough; but”—
here the sentence was concluded in a whisper
that reached only the ears of Velasquez—“but it was
my policy to persuade her, if possible, that her entreaties
might avert his fate. Could I have succeeded,
it might have served to confirm and strengthen our
suspicions. But she is firm—she may be guiltless!
But of the guilt of Lopez there can be no doubt. She
denies not that.”
Juan had his own motives for this statement. He
did not despair, yet, of finally overcoming the resolution
of the woman. His passion, in this, somewhat
baffled his judgment. But of this hereafter.
“Well, there is nothing left but to punish the one.
Bring him forth.”
Juan retired—the anxious soul of the lady followed
-- 205 --
[figure description] Page 205.[end figure description]
his parting footsteps, but her eyes maintained a steady
and unfaltering gaze, as before, neither resting upon
nor absolutely shrinking from the countenance of
Velasquez. The pilot was again summoned to the
side of the latter.
“Well?” was the brief but intelligible inquiry. It
was sufficiently understood.
“We approach, Señor.”
“Good! see to your ship.”
The pilot disappeared—a bustle announced new
parties to the scene, and, preceded by Juan, a youth
came forward under the conduct of two soldiers. He
was manacled hand and foot, and moved with difficulty.
The rattling of the chains was heard. It smote upon
the soul of the woman, but she turned not once her
head. The eyes of Velasquez were upon her. A
savage grin lighted up his dark, satanic countenance,
and left no doubt in the minds of those who beheld
that he meditated a purpose of the deadliest malice.
The youth in bonds was of graceful person and handsome
features, but they were not those of a man of
character or courage. The cheeks were of a deadly
paleness—the lips quivered with apprehension—the
whole air and expression were those of one totally
unequal to the trial that lay before him. His eye
wandered restlessly and apprehensively to the countenance
of one or the other of the three parties to whom
the reader has been introduced, without daring to
encounter the gaze of either. Velasquez watched his
movements with the exultation of a cat in possession
of her prey. The face of Juan bore a similar
-- 206 --
[figure description] Page 206.[end figure description]
expression; while in the fine masculine spirit which made
itself conspicuous in the face of the woman, in spite
of all her efforts to subdue it, there might be seen a
strange conflict between tenderness and scorn.
“Unbind him!” said Velasquez.
“Oh, thanks! thanks!” muttered the victim, looking
appealingly to his tyrant. The scorn deepened in its
shadows upon the face of the woman.
“You know not yet for what you have to be thankful,”
was the sneer of Juan, as he busied himself in
undoing the manacles.
“Speak to me, Juan. For what am I reserved?
what may this mean if it be not mercy?”
“It means freedom,” was the response, still in a
whisper.
“Well—and that —”
“May be mercy,” was the ironical return of Juan,
as he withdrew from between Velasquez and his prey.
The latter now looked with features in which hope
and doubt were still at a lively struggle, upon the face
of his tyrant. He made a step toward him. The
uplifted hand of Velasquez arrested his approach.
“Lopez de Levya, were I to have thee drawn up
by the neck to yon spar, as the heretic English do
those whom they would destroy, it were no more than
thou deservest. But I am of a more merciful temper—
I have taken the chains from thy limbs.”
A lively gratitude overspread the features of the
person addressed; but he still trembled with a natural
anxiety and doubt. He knew his tyrant.
“I mean to set thee free!”
-- 207 --
[figure description] Page 207.[end figure description]
“Thanks! thanks!”
“Nay, I will do more for thee than this. I will
elevate thee to rare dignities. I will make thee a chief,
a prince, a sovereign of land and sea. Thou shalt be
able to stand up in thine empire, and none will say
thee nay.”
A pause. The culprit looked wildly at this language.
It was something more than apprehension
that shone in his face. There was no mistaking the
hideous malice of the speaker; there was no doubting
the ironical grin upon the lips of Juan; and the experience
of the ship had seldom found mercy or forgiveness
or generosity in either. The eye of the
woman was now fixed fully upon that of Velasquez,
her intense interest in what she had to hear making
her somewhat relax in the stubborn vigilance of
thought which had impressed itself upon all her features.
Velasquez resumed:—
“The quiet of this part of the Caribbean Sea, as
thou well knowest, is seldom broken by the prows of
Europeans. The savage steers his bark in other
courses, dreading its wild currents and fearful whirlpools.
Here, he who shall make his abode will be a
sovereign beyond dispute. It may be ages before he
will see upon his horizon, driven by hostile tempests,
the white sails of a Christian vessel. No empire could
be more secure from challenge—no state more certainly
beyond the danger of overthrow.”
Another pause, and a conviction of what was intended
at once passed into the soul of the woman.
Her hands were griped convulsively together, and the
-- 208 --
[figure description] Page 208.[end figure description]
paleness of her cheek increased. The culprit, to whom
Velasquez addressed himself, simply appeared bewildered.
Chains, confinement, terror, and probably
want of food and sleep, had rendered his faculties obtuse.
But Velasquez proceeded rapidly to his complete
enlightenment.
“Look out upon the sea, good Lopez,” and his hand
waved in the direction of the object to which the ship
had been sensibly approaching. At a league's distance
a little island was distinctly perceptible, though
seeming to be scarcely upheaved above the billows
which encircled it. Trees in groups might be seen to
wave upon it, the earth rose into moderate hills and
elevations as the eye penetrated the interior. Numerous
wild-fowl sailed in swift gyrations above it, and
gigantic birds strode majestically along its white and
sandy shores.
“That island, Lopez de Levya, I discovered for the
first time when I last traversed this ocean. I made
the discovery against my own will, being driven hither
by stress of weather. I little dreamed at that time
of its future usefulness; but when our weather-beaten
pilot, old Gomez, in beholding its solitude, declared
that it would be the spot, of all the world, in which
love would be most likely to find security, we called
it, in a merry jest, `The Isle of Lovers,' and when I
remembered that it was farther said, `One might be
a sovereign here without paying his tenth to any
crown,' then did I conceive how fitly I might reward
merit, by bestowing this island upon the deserving—
-- 209 --
[figure description] Page 209.[end figure description]
upon one who would desire security for his love and a
sovereignty beyond dispute.”
The eyes of the culprit were gradually enlarging.
He had slowly begun to guess the terrible destiny
which was before him, and the first feeling of overwhelming
apprehension necessarily kept him dumb.
He looked at his tyrant with eyes full of vacant terror.
The latter gave him but few moments for meditation
or doubt, as he thus proceeded:—
“Thou hast done me great wrong, Lopez de Levya.
Thou hast audaciously presumed upon the lady of my
love. For this wrong will I reward thee! We are
commanded, as thou knowest, my son, to forgive
those who do us injury. I will go farther than the
commandment. I will honor thee with wealth and
territory, and the highest distinction. Henceforth
shalt thou be a prince, an absolute sovereign, Lopez
de Levya, and as thy suitable empire behold the `Isle
of Lovers,' which I now bestow upon thee. There
shalt thou make music to the night, with no constraint.
None shalt say nay to thy strumming. If thou
shalt please no damsel's ears with thy song, thou
shalt at least offend in nothing the rights of others.
Thou shalt sing thy areytos to the stars, and find
them more gentle in thy sight than such eyes as
thou hast but too frequently offended with thy wilful
fondness. Am I not right in this, lady mine?” and
with a smirk quite as full of sarcasm as of tenderness,
the persecutor of both parties turned his gaze
from the face of the wretched man to that of the
scarcely less wretched woman. But he gained nothing
-- 210 --
[figure description] Page 210.[end figure description]
by the scrutiny. Her glance was fixed and obdurate,
and conveyed no meaning in it, such as that which
his jealous suspicions might have looked to see. He
watched her features for a few moments with a dissatisfied
expression, then resuming his former tones
and aspect, he addressed himself to his nephew,
Juan.
“Juan, my son, we trust we have sufficiently said
to make this excellent prince understand what honors
are designed him in requital for his evil deeds. It is
for thee to do the rest. Take the prince, therefore,
conduct him to the boat, and do thou see him safely
placed within the limits of his empire. Give him
provision for a month, in which space of time doubtless
he will be able to bring his subjects to proper
subjection and take his tithes of the produce of the
land. Give him a crossbow and a spear, that he may
coerce them should they rebel or fly, and see that you
forget not to hang his guitar about his neck, that he
may regale his hours of recreation and repose with
the precious ditties he so much loves to sing in other
ears. So shall he have pleasing recollections of one,
at least, for whom he will scarcely ever touch guitar
again.”
CHAPTER IV.
The doom was pronounced; the hand of the executioner—
the hand of his most bitter enemy, Juan
de Silva—was laid upon the shoulder of the victim;
but he refused to yield his faith to his own fears. He
-- 211 --
[figure description] Page 211.[end figure description]
still hoped against conviction—still shrunk from a
belief in that punishment which, to the timid and dependent
nature, such as his, seemed to involve terrors
much more extreme than any threatened form of death.
But when he at last yielded to the conviction which
had long been entertained by all around—unless, perhaps,
by the woman, his supposed associate in crime—
then the whole strength of his soul, feeble in its
best moments, seemed to give way on the instant.
Every show of manhood was forgotten. There was
no pride to keep up appearances; no struggle to
maintain a decent show of fortitude and firmness;
but the miserable culprit sank down into the most
lamentable imbecility, to the shame of all around him.
“Mercy! mercy! For the sake of the Blessed
Virgin, have mercy upon me, Don Velasquez,” he
shrieked rather than pleaded, when the determined
aspects of the men appointed to convey him to the
boat, and the violent grasp of Juan upon his shoulder,
silenced all doubts as to the real intentions of his
tyrant to carry out his sentence, in full, as it had been
delivered. The hard-souled sailors, as much in scorn
as in pity, recoiled from the piercing feminine entreaty
of the victim, and left him free for the moment, as if
in doubt whether Velasquez might not yield to the
supplications which were urged with such a humiliating
disregard to manhood. Falling upon his knees,
he crawled toward the spot where sat the arbiter of
his fate, glowing in the enjoyment of that bitter-sweet
morsel of revenge which is so grateful to the malignant
nature. In his eyes—had those of the victim not
-- 212 --
[figure description] Page 212.[end figure description]
been blinded by his own tears—had he not been too
base to venture to accompany his entreaties by a resolute
look upon the face of him upon whose word his
fate rested—he might have seen how hopeless were
all his pleadings. But he saw nothing—as he crawled
along the deck to the feet of the tyrant—but the terrible
danger which he was anxious to escape. Could
he have seen the inexpressible scorn which dilated the
nostrils and curled the lips of the woman—could he
have heard her bitter and only half-suppressed accents
of loathing—muttered between her gnashing teeth!
But they could not have changed his nature!
“Can he not die! Can he not die! Anything
but this! And yet,” she continued—herself unconscious
that she spoke—“yet how should it be that
one who had not the soul to slay his enemy, in the
moment when all that made life precious lay in the
blow—how should it be that he should aim the weapon
at his own bloodless heart, though to escape this
most loathsome tyranny.”
“Beware!” was the single word whispered close
beside her ear, from the lips of Juan de Silva. “Beware!
lest a worst fate befall thee even than his!
Wouldst thou peril life for such a reptile!”
She was silent at the suggestion. Not that she
had any fears of death; but, just then, her quick
thought and resolute spirit suddenly conceived its own
method for escape and vengeance. Other emotions
than those of scorn filled her bosom, as the whisper
of Juan, like the hissing of a hateful serpent, filled
her ears; and in their sudden consciousness, she
-- 213 --
[figure description] Page 213.[end figure description]
trembled lest her feeling should declare itself aloud, in
spite of the resolute will which she invoked to curb
and keep it in. The emotion which her lips did not
declare, was conspicuous for the instant on her countenance,
and remained unseen only in consequence of
the absorbing nature of the event in progress at the
feet of Velasquez. To this spot the abject culprit
had continued to crawl, unrestrained by the stern
command of his tyrant not to approach him. To his
knees he clung, though the latter strove to shake him
off, and to spurn him away with the members which
were too heavily swathed and bandaged to suffer him
to use them with any efficiency for such a purpose.
His pleadings, which were of a sort to move loathing
rather than pity, produced no feeling of either kind
in the breast of Velasquez. They provoked his merriment
rather. He grinned as he beheld the writhings
of the wretched creature before him. He had a sorry
jest for all his contortions. Verily, the Spanish adventurers
of that day in America, were a terrible
banditti! Of these, Velasquez was a proper specimen.
When his victim appealed to him for the sake of his
widowed mother at Segovia, he answered—
“I shall tell her of thy possessions, Lopez; she
shall hear of thy elevation. She was always a woman
of rare ambition. Did I not know her in her younger
days? Knowest thou not that she once disposed her
mantilla so that she might make a captive of me?
Had she done so, verily, it might have been mine own
son, for whom this Isle of Lovers hath been found. I
shall tell her of thy fortune, Lopez. She shall
-- 214 --
[figure description] Page 214.[end figure description]
rejoice in thy principality; and it may be, will find her
way out to thee, seeking to share in the wealth of thy
dominions. Enough now—take him hence, I tell thee;—
Juan, son, wilt thou not see the prince bestowed
upon his empire! I begin to weary of this gratitude.”
Again the officers approached, and again they hesitated—
all but Juan—as the cries of the wretched
imbecile rang through the vessel. The sailors would
still have suffered him to urge his prayers for mercy;
but Juan had no such yielding nature, and he knew,
better than they, how profitless were all entreaties.
He had resolved, for his own purpose, that there
should be no relentings in the brutal spirit of Velasquez.
He left the side of Maria de Pacheco, at the
summons of his uncle, and with his own hand, grappled
the victim, while giving the word to the sailors
chosen to assist him. But, rising to his feet, Lopez
dashed away from the grasp of his assailant, and
once more rushed in supplication to Velasquez. His
terrors gave him wonderful strength, and a faculty of
speech scarcely less wonderful. He was positively
eloquent. Never was prayer for mercy more passionate
or more pregnant with the best argument in behalf
of mercy. They touched all hearts but the two
alone which it had been of any avail to move. These
were immovable. Again were his entreaties answered
by scurrile jest, mocking suggestion, and derisive
laughter. The taste for the sports of the tauridor who
tortures the bull to madness before he bestows the
coup de grace, could alone afford any likeness to the
sort of pleasure which this sea-despot enjoyed in the
-- 215 --
[figure description] Page 215.[end figure description]
fruitless agonies of his victim. It was in a sort of
defiance, produced by very shame and despair, that
the culprit rose at length to his feet, and, folding his
arms upon his breast, submitted to his fate, from which
it was evident that no degree of humiliation could
possibly suffice to save him. A smile softened the
features of Maria de Pacheco.
“It is well!” she murmured to herself. “A little
sooner and the shame would have been spared to both!”
The victim seemed to hear her accents, though not
to understand them. He turned a timid glance toward
her, but her eye no longer sought his own. She
was conscious that other eyes were then keenly fixed
on both.
The boat was declared to be in readiness. The
month's store of provisions, accorded by Velasquez,
were thrown into her;—the spear and the crossbow followed;
and the hands of the seamen, appointed to convey
“the Maroon,” were fastened firmly on his shoulder.
He was now subdued to submission, if not reconciled
to his fate. He no longer opposed himself
to their efforts, and though he still spoke the language
of entreaty, it was no longer addressed to his tyrant.
“Oh! my countrymen—Antonio, Pedro, it is you
who do me thus; it is you, my countrymen, who help
to give me up to such a dreadful doom!”
Such was the touching appeal, made to ancient
comrades, which the poor wretch uttered at the parting
moment. They looked downward in silence, but
did not relax their hold upon him.
“And I am to perish on that desolate island;
-- 216 --
[figure description] Page 216.[end figure description]
and the people of my own land leave me to this solitude!
They hear the voice of my prayer, and shut
their ears against it! I am never more to hear human
speech—never more to look upon Christian face—nor
call any man brother or friend. Oh! Spaniards,
brothers, friends, countrymen!—will you doom me
thus—will you desert me thus to the solitude of the
sea, which is worset han any death? Christians! help
me—speak for me—save me!”
There was a moisture in the eyes of the weather-beaten
seamen who stood around him. At this moment
the woman advanced suddenly and stood before
Velasquez. Juan beheld her purpose in her countenance,
and whispered as she passed him, “Beware!”
She heard, but did not heed the warning.
“Velasquez!”—she spoke with firmness—“surely,
you have carried this jest far enough. You cannot
mean really to devote this wretched man to this place
of desolation?”
“Jest!” exclaimed the other; “jest, call you it?
By my faith, but you have very merrily described a very
serious ceremonial. Yet, if there be a jest designed
at all, I see that it hath been omitted. Ho, Juan,
bring forth the guitar of our prince. See you that
it be slung about the neck of Don Lopez. It hath a
band of crimson—truly the fitting collar for a sovereign.
It will help him to remember his old songs
when in the enjoyment of his new seigniory. He
shall have his ditty and jest together. It were cruel,
lady mine, to deprive him of that which hath been so
much his nightly solace! Eh! what sayest thou?”
-- 217 --
[figure description] Page 217.[end figure description]
The person addressed recoiled as if from the tongue
of the viper. She was silent, unless the thought
which moved her lips, but did not escape in words,
might be construed into speech.
“At all events—it is but death—but death, after
all! He hath weapons, and the sea rolls at his
feet. He hath but to will, and his exile ends in a
moment!”
We shorten a scene which was only too painfully
protracted. The victim was hurried to the boat. His
feet pressed the lonely islet of which he was mockingly
declared the prince. He stood erect, but not in the
consciousness of sway. His eyes were fixed upon the
vessel from which he was torn, and in which he saw
nothing but the country, the friends, the familiar faces
from which he was forever sundered. He was unconscious
of the mocking performance, when Juan de
Silva hung the guitar about his neck. The awkward
appendage was no burden to him at such a moment.
The faces of those who had placed him upon the sands
were turned away. The sound of their parting voices
had died away upon his ears. The boat was pushed
from the shore—yet he still stood, with a stare of vacant
misery in his aspect, upon the spot where they
had placed him. Long after the prow of the boat
had been turned for the ship, he could be seen in the
same place, with the ludicrous decoration upon his
breast, while, with still uplifted hands, he seemed to
implore the sympathy of his comrades and the mercy
of his tyrant. But of neither was he vouchsafed any
proofs. Mercy was none—sympathy was powerless
-- 218 --
[figure description] Page 218.[end figure description]
to save. Even she! But of her he dared not think!
She had been his fate; and though, in his soul, he
dared not blame her, yet when she rose to recollection,
it was always to provoke a sentiment of bitterness which
a nobler spirit never could have felt. He saw the boat
rejoin the vessel. He saw once more her broad sails
spread forth to catch the breeze. Gradually they
lessened beneath his gaze. The world which held his
soul and his hope, grew smaller and smaller, contracting
to a speck, which, at length, faded utterly away
in the deepening haze which girdled the horizon. Then
when his eyes failed any longer to delude him with a
hope, did he fall prostrate upon the sands, in a swooning
condition, which, for the time, wholly and happily
obliterated the terrible sense of his desolation.
CHAPTER V.
It will not be difficult with many persons, to comprehend
how a condition of utter solitude should not
necessarily produce a sense of pain. To the man of
great mental resources, and of a habit contemplative
and thoughtful, such a condition would be apt rather
to suggest ideas of complete security and repose,
which would be friendly to the enjoyment of a favorite
indulgence. To spirits whom the world has soured—
whom the greedy strifes of men have offended—men
of nice sensibilities and jealous affections, whose friendships
have proved false and wounded—as so many
-- 219 --
[figure description] Page 219.[end figure description]
deceitful reeds which have broken and pierced their
sides; to the heart of deep and earnest passions,
robbed of those upon whom all the heart's affections
have been set; these, all, might rejoice in an abode
from which the trying services, and vexing necessities,
and disquieting obtrusions, of social life, were shut
out and excluded forever. But Lopez de Levya was
not one of these! He was young, and handsome, and
hopeful, and this was his first trouble. The world
still loomed out before his vision, the gay and songful
paradise which youthful fancies describe it still. There
were warm passions and eager sympathies in his soul
still to be gratified; and though we may not regard
him as a person to whom affections of any kind were
very necessary, yet had he a bosom filled with those
which grow from an intense appetite for praise—which
could have their gratification only in a world of beings
like himself. It would be impossible to describe the
utter desolation which possessed the bosom of the unhappy
wretch when he did finally awaken to realize
the fact that he was left alone—utterly abandoned by
his comrades—upon an obscure islet of the Caribbean
Sea! It was a long time, indeed, before he could
utterly conceive his own situation—a long time before
he could persuade himself that the stubborn and unrelenting
spirit of Velasquez had absolutely resolved
that such should be his doom. For hours—until the
midnight came with its sad and drooping stars, looking
down mournfully upon the billows of the ever-chiding
ocean—until the daylight dawned, and the red sun,
rushing up from the eastern waters, rose angry and
-- 220 --
[figure description] Page 220.[end figure description]
fiery, and blazing down upon the little islet with the
fiery glance of a destroying despot;—for the first dreary
interval, from sun to sun—he still cherished the hope
that this was but a trial of his strength—a cruel experiment
upon his youth and courage;—and, recovering
from the first feelings of consternation, when, at
sunset, the dusky white sails of the vessel finally disappeared
from sight, the unhappy wretch still flattered
himself that, with the morning, he should hail her
outline once more upon his horizon, and catch the
glitter of her foaming prow coming to his rescue. And
with this hope he clung to the beach all night. He
slept not—how could he sleep? Even for one night,
how intense was the desolation of that scene. There
was the eternal sighing and moaning of the sea, which,
toward the morning, subsided into calm and slept on,
as if still dreaming of future tempests. And there
were voices all around him of strange animals and
wild-fowl—sometimes a chirp, as of an insect, and
sometimes the scream of some passionate bird;—and,
anon, a great plunge in the waters, as if of some
mighty beast leaving its place of sleep upon the land.
It was among the misfortunes of Lopez de Levya that
he was no hero, and all these sounds inspired him with
terror. Not less terrible to him were those wild, deep
mysterious eyes of the stars, slowly passing over him,
and looking down, as if to see whether he slept, in
their passage to the deep. Never was night and situation
so full of charm, yet so full of the awful and the
terrible. Beautiful, indeed, surpassingly beautiful and
sweet, was the strange wild charm of that highly
-- 221 --
[figure description] Page 221.[end figure description]
spiritual mingling of land and ocean;—that small and
lovely islet, just rising above the deep, so thoroughly
environed by its rocking billows, shone upon by that
wilderness of stars; breathed over by that pure zephyr,
gilding it with perfume and blessing from the South;
and haunted by unknown sounds, from strange creatures
of the sea and sky, who, in a life of perpetual
freedom, could never know the feeling of desolation
or of exile.
But the wild romance and the wondrous beauty of
the scene were lost upon the man who had no higher
idea of the possession of the intellectual nature than
such as could be drawn from association with his fellow.
The region, unoccupied by man, however beautiful in
itself, could bring no joy, no peace to the bosom of the
exile. Velasquez knew the real nature of his victim.
He well knew that Lopez had no sympathy with the
mute existences of sea and sky, of earth and air; and
of those more exquisite essences, which, in such a
situation, the imaginative nature would have joyed to
conjure up from the spiritual world, he thought only
with terror and reluctance. He did fancy that voices
came to him upon the night air;—the voices of men,
and in a strange, unusual language;—and he instantly
trembled with fears of the cannibal—the anthropophagi,
who were supposed, at that period, to be the
only inhabitants of these regions.
But the night passed over in security. He opened
his eyes upon another day, in the solitude of that
wild abode, ere yet the sun had warmed with his gay
tints the gray mansions of the East. He opened his
-- 222 --
[figure description] Page 222.[end figure description]
eyes upon the sea and sky as before. The billows
were rolling slowly away at his feet, in long low
courses, but slightly lifted by the breezes of the
dawn. Vainly were his eyes stretched out over the
watery waste, in the pathway of the departed vessel.
The vast plain of ocean spread away before him unbroken
by a speck; and when the sun rushed up
visibly into the heavens, and laid bare the whole
bright circumference of the deep, for many a league,
undarkened by an object, then the conviction of his
utter loneliness—his life of future loneliness—forced
itself upon the heart of the wretched youth; and
flinging himself once more upon the earth, he thrust
his fingers into the sands, and cried aloud in the depth
of his agony—
“Jesu! it is true!—it is true!—and I am left—
left by my people—to perish here alone!”
We spare his lamentations—his entreaties—as if
there were still some human being at hand who might
afford him relief and consolation—to whom he might
appeal for succor and protection. Prayer he had
none. The name of the Deity, of the Saviour, and
the Virgin, were sometimes upon his lips; but the
utterance was habitual, as he had been accustomed to
employ them in mere idleness and indifference. Three
days passed, in which despair had full possession of
his faculties. In this time he lay crouching upon the
beach during the day, and gazing vacantly in the
direction in which the ship had gone. At night, he
retreated to higher ground, filled with apprehensions
of great monsters of the sea—of the seas themselves
-- 223 --
[figure description] Page 223.[end figure description]
—lest, rising suddenly, endued with a human or a
fiendish will, they might gather round him while he
slept, and hurry him off, beyond escape, to their
gloomy abysses. A small clump of trees afforded him
the semblance of a shelter. Here he lay, from nightfall
to dawn, only sleeping in the utter exhaustion of
nature, and suffering, at all other times, from every
sort of terror. The stars, looking down through the
palm-leaves overhead, with their mild, sad aspects,
seemed to him so many mocking and malignant angels
exulting in his condition. The moaning of the sea,
and the murmurs of the nightwind, were all so many
voices of terror appointed to deride him in his desolation,
and impress his heart with a sense of unknown
dangers. The rush of great wings occasionally along
the shore, or the rustle of smaller ones in the boughs
above him—perhaps of creatures as timid as himself—
kept him wakeful with constant apprehensions;
and, at moments of the midnight, a terrible bellowing,
as of some sea-beast rising to the shore, or leaving it
with a plunge that echoed throughout the islet—struck
a very palsy to his heart, that, for the time, seemed
to silence all its vibrations. Let us leave the miserable
outcast, thus suffering and apprehensive, while we
return to the inmates of the vessel by which he was
abandoned.
-- 224 --
CHAPTER VI.
[figure description] Page 224.[end figure description]
He was not wholly abandoned. Maria de Pacheco,
the woman, who, like himself, was in some degree a
victim also to the will, if not the tyranny, of Don
Velasquez, was not the creature tamely to submit to
injustice, however she might prudently seem to do so.—
We need not ask whether there was any real attachment
between herself and the poor creature whom we
have seen “marooned.” It is probable that the degree
of regard which she entertained for him was small.
He was not the man to fix the affections, to a very
large extent, of a woman of so proud and fearless a
soul. The feebleness which he had shown had, probably,
lessened the attachment of a heart, which, in
the possession of large natural courage of its own,
might well despise that of one who had displayed so
little. But as little did she love the man of whom she
had become the slave—we may add—almost without
her own consciousness, and at the will of another, by
whom she had been sold at a very early age. She
was still comparatively young; but with advanced
intellect, and an experience that left it no longer immature.
Born under the burning sky of Andalusia,
tutored in the camp of the Gitano, though not of
Zingaro race, she had soon acquired an intensity of
mood which was only surpassed by her capacity of
subduing it to quiet, under a rigid and controlling
will.—Loathing the sway of her tyrant, revolting at
-- 225 --
[figure description] Page 225.[end figure description]
his person, she was as little disposed to regard with
favor the affections which had been proffered her, of
his more subtle and malignant nephew. The person
of Juan de Silva, graceful and showy as it was, could
not blind her to his heartless vanities, and that dangerous
cunning of character, which so admirably
co-operated with the mocking and fiendish coldness of
his soul. If she loathed Velasquez, she feared, as
well as loathed, De Silva; and feared him the more,
as, in possession of the secret of his infidelity to his
uncle, she was yet made fully conscious of the truth
of his boast, that any revelation of it, which she
might make to the latter, would avail but little against
him. But, though anxious, she was not the woman to
despair! She revolted too greatly at her own condition
of restraint, bondage, and denial, to yield even
temporarily to despondency. In the moment that saw
her feeble and wretched lover consigned to the lonely
islet of the Caribbees, she made a secret resolve to
avenge his fate, or to peril her own person upon her
vengeance. She clearly had no absorbing passion for
the victim. It was evident that she could still maintain
a prudent restraint upon her feelings at the
moment of their greatest trial;—but the highest and
proudest heart needs something for affection—some
other one upon which to lean for sympathy—and
which, at least, makes a show of responsive interest
in its affections. It was thus that she had turned a
willing ear to the professed devotion of Lopez de
Levya—to his tastes and his gentleness, contrasting
as they did with the brutality of all around her, and
-- 226 --
[figure description] Page 226.[end figure description]
making her somewhat indifferent to his feebleness of
will and lack of courage. But she had not fancied
his imbecility to be so great as the hour of trial had
shown it. Though scorning his weakness, she sympathized
in his cruel destiny. The respite which had
been given him from death, by the capricious tyranny
of Velasquez, suggested to her mind a hope of his
future extrication. Food had been left with him sufficient
for a month. What might not be done, in that
space of time, by a subtle thought and a determined
spirit? In a moment, Maria de Pacheco had her
plans conceived, and her soul nerved to the prosecution
of a single purpose. But she had an opponent,
not less subtle than herself, in the person of Juan de
Silva; and the keen, scrutinizing eye which he fixed
upon her, as she turned from the spot upon which
Lopez had been left, seemed to denote an indistinct
conception of the purpose which had passed that very
instant through her soul. But she was not discouraged
by his fear.
“Well,” said he, in a whisper, “you see how hopeless
is the struggle!—What is left for you, but—”
and a smile of mixed fondness and significance closed
the sentence. The ready expression of the woman's
face was made to accord happily with the single word
with which she furnished an equally expressive conclusion—
“Death!”
“No, no!” said he. “You will not die; you shall
not! You shall live to be far more truly the mistress
-- 227 --
[figure description] Page 227.[end figure description]
of the Dian de Burgos, than she finds you now. Why
should we be enemies, Maria?”
“Beware! your uncle's eye is upon us!”
He turned away, and this single sentence, as it
seemed to denote a disposition to make a secret between
them, brought a fresh hope to the soul of the
young man. He smiled, and glided to his uncle.
Maria smiled also, but it was with a sterner feeling—
not a less hopeful one, perhaps, but one in which
bitterness was a much more positive ingredient than
delight.
“I must baffle his vigilance,” she muttered to herself.
“He only need be feared, and he must be met
and vanquished! Ay! but how! How! I must
manage this—and I will!”
Her eyes followed his retreating form as she spoke.
They noted quickly the jaunty air of self-conceit which
marked his movements; they scorned the showy and
quaintly-cut garments which he wore, and the profuse
decorations of his neck and breast—and the quick instincts
of the woman at once suggested an answer to
her doubts.
“How, but through his vanity! He would be
loved, as he would be admired and watched. Well!—
he shall be loved, loved as he desires! The task is
a hard one enough, truly—but it shall be done! Juan
de Silva, you shall be loved! You, at least, shall believe
it—you will believe it; and this will suffice!”
In this she expressed a portion of her policy. It
will be all that we need to show at present. How she
pursued this policy—by what constant, hourly
-- 228 --
[figure description] Page 228.[end figure description]
practices—by what adroit feminine arts—and with what
fixedness of purpose—need only be suggested. The
details would be too numerous. But she was encouraged
to perseverance by success. She had reason to
believe that she had succeeded in disarming the jealousies,
and in awakening the hopes, of her enemy.
They both maintained a judicious regard for the exactions
of Velasquez; but there were hours when he
slept, or when he suffered, when they might throw
aside their caution, and speak together without fear
or interruption. It is by no means strange that the
most artful should be imposed upon by arts such as he
himself employs. But what is so blind as vanity?
What creature so easily baited as the self-worshipper,
when the food tendered him is that which increases
his love of self. To make such a one satisfied with
himself, is most surely to gain his confidence in you—
to persuade him that he is as much an object of
your idolatry as of his own, is to obtain access to the
few open avenues which conduct to his affections.
Maria de Pacheco had not been vainly tutored in
the arts of the Gitano. Beautiful in person, graceful
in carriage, skilled equally in the song, the dance, and
the story, she put in exercise all her powers of attraction,
to bind more securely the spells which she aimed
to put upon the creature whom she yet loathed with
most complete aversion. In two weeks after “the
marooning” of her timid lover, she had succeeded in
possessing Juan de Silva with the notion that the victim
ceased to be remembered. So credulous do the
-- 229 --
[figure description] Page 229.[end figure description]
most vigilant and suspicious become, when blinded by
an absorbing passion.
The two were alone together on the vessel's deck,
as she swept, one gloomy night, along the waste of
sea in silence. Don Velasquez had but a little before
been conveyed below. He slept! Maria had ministered
to him in song and story as was her wont, with Juan
beside her. The departure of Velasquez had left them
free to resume a conversation which had been begun
before. He had been emboldened by the tenor of a
previous dialogue. His hand grasped that of the lady.
She suffered him to retain it. He carried it to his
lips. It was not withdrawn; but, could her features
have been seen, through the dim veil of night which
covered them, the infatuated youth beside her, blinded
by her charms, and beguiled by her arts, would
have shrunk with fear from the deep and vindictive
loathing which they betrayed, even while she submitted
so quietly to his caresses. The secret thought of
Juan de Silva was one of delighted vanity. Could
that thought but have found its way into speech, it
would have congratulated himself upon the admirable
address which he himself had shown, in subduing a
spirit which he had hitherto found invincible. He did
suffer some words to escape him which conveyed to
her mind this idea; and she compressed her lips more
closely together, with difficulty maintaining the
silence, which, if broken at that moment, would have
overwhelmed him with her loathing and her scorn.
“You have forgiven me all, Maria?” he whispered
tenderly, fully assured of her answer.
-- 230 --
[figure description] Page 230.[end figure description]
“What was there to be forgiven?”
“The fate of Lopez!”
A slight convulsive shiver passed over the form of
the woman, and it required a strong effort to keep
from withdrawing herself from his embrace, with a
show of horror such as one might express in detaching
himself from the folds of a serpent. He continued—
“But it was in my devotion that I sought to destroy.
It was because you were so loved, that he was so much
hated. I was well assured that, for so mean a spirit,
you could not long have suffered pain; and now—”
“You were right,” she said, interrupting him;
“right; but you—what is your spirit, Juan?”
“My spirit?”
“Yes, your spirit! your courage, your pride, your
character? Your person is pleasing to the eye—
your talents to the mind! You have grace, beauty,
and accomplishments, but—”
“But what?”
The vanity of the youth had taken the alarm. He
spoke eagerly and with anxiety. She hesitated to
reply, the better to increase this anxiety; and he
renewed his entreaties for explanation. She at length
gave it.
“Shall I always be loved by the subordinate? Shall
the person whom I love, be always the creature of another's
will?”
“You mistake, my Maria. You should know, by
this time, that I can do what I please with my uncle.”
“Why, so you may; but in what manner is it done?
By treachery—by falsehood—by meanness—by
-- 231 --
[figure description] Page 231.[end figure description]
descending to low arts and petty falsehoods. Let the
truth but reach the ears of Velasquez, and he will maroon
you as quickly as he did Lopez de Levya.”
“Perhaps so; but there's no reason that the truth
shall reach his ears?”
“That may be; but shall we live always in terror of
the truth—always in the base security of a lie. I tell
you, Juan de Silva, such is my spirit, that I demand,
in the object of my devotion, manliness of soul—the
courage of speech without fear—the spirit to act without
subterfuge—the will to command for himself, and
through himself, and not as the mere creature of another!
And, why should you, with your talents for command—
why should you be the lackey of your uncle?—
that feeble despot, who—but no, no!—what need?
You will not, you cannot understand the nature which
I feel—the spirit which sways sovereign in my soul!”
“Ay, Maria, but I do feel, I do understand you.”
“Impossible, Juan, or you would rather be with me
the sole possessor of some desolate isle, such as that
given to Lopez de Levya, than—”
“But how, if we be sole here—here, with the
lovely Dian de Burgos for our palace, and the seas of
the west for our empire?”
She laid her finger upon her wrist—but a single
finger—and lowly murmured in his ears—
“This were, indeed, something; but I tell you,
Juan de Silva, you are not the man for this. Your
uncle!—”
“And if I prove to you that I am, Maria; if I
show you that I can fling aside my scruples when it
-- 232 --
[figure description] Page 232.[end figure description]
will serve my purpose to do so; and that no ties
which deny me the gratification of my passions, have
the power to keep my affections; if in short, I can
say to you, Maria de Pacheco, the Dian de Burgos,
henceforward, is mine solely, wilt thou share with me
the sovereignty?”
“Alas! Juan, I should dread lest old age seize me,
ere I ascend my throne!”
“Demonios! but another week shall not pass ere
thou hast it all!”
“Were it so!—but—” The pause was full of
meaning.
“Wilt thou promise me, Maria!—”
“Will I not?”
“And thou wilt deny me no more, if I show thee
that no voice speaks in authority here but mine?”
“Show me that, Juan—make thyself supreme, and
thou shalt be as a sovereign over Maria de Pacheco,
as thou wilt then be over the Dian de Burgos. But
thy uncle?”
“Speak not of him! Enough!—Thinkest thou I
love this servitude any more than thou dost? Thinkest
thou it better pleases me than thee that I should minister
to one, brutal and bedridden, whose feebleness
checks our adventure and lessens our spoils?”
“But how wilt thou”—
“Nay, sweet, let not the manner of the thing disturb
thee. Better, indeed, that thou shouldst not
know. Thou shalt see if I lack manliness. Thou
shalt see if I fail when the moment needs. I am no
Lopez de Levya—no mere singer, my Maria. Ah!
-- 233 --
[figure description] Page 233.[end figure description]
if I prove not myself worthy of thy spirit—if I show
thee not! Thou didst not know me, Maria—thou
doubtest still—thou dost not know me yet. Yes, I
tell thee, for a love such as thou canst give me, thou
shalt see me do such deeds as were terrible as death
to other men!”
The unresisting hand of the woman was carried to
his lips as he spoke, as if he would affirm thereon the
resolution which he had expressed. Yet even as he
kissed them, her fingers, moved by the feeling in her
soul, could have grappled his throat in mortal struggle.
They separated for the night, and the exulting spirit
of Maria declared her conscious triumph in secret
soliloquy.
“Ay, ay! methinks I have thee. It is sure. I
do not mistake the blindness which is in this passion.
He will do! He will perform what he doth not yet
promise. The son of the sister shall do murder upon
the life of the brother that has murdered him. He
is mine! The Dian de Burgos shall be mine. Yet,
it will need that it be done quickly. The month is
nearly gone! Another week!—but one—one week!
Well! I must be patient. I must subdue my soul,
while I work with other weapons. Juan de Silva, I
shall take thee in my own snare, or I have never
used the snare of woman!”
-- 234 --
CHAPTER VII.
[figure description] Page 234.[end figure description]
With her whole soul set upon a favorite project,
Maria de Pacheco was not a person to slumber or
prove afraid. She was not less sure of herself than
of others. She knew the general character and temper
of the Spaniard. She knew the spirit which
prevailed among the crew of the Dian de Burgos.
Though young, and a woman, she had been by no means
an unobservant spectator of the various events which
had taken place on board since she had become an
inmate of the vessel. Besides, she was a sagacious
student of character, as are all women of any native
intelligence. She possessed the faculty, which seems
like an instinct, of seeing, as it were, at a single
glance, into the moods of those around her. She
knew that Velasquez, her master, was no longer the
master in his own ship. She as well knew that Juan
de Silva was not very popular as his successor. One
event, which had taken place a few months before,
now pressed upon her recollection, and suggested to
her a new auxiliary in working out her scheme.
One of the lieutenants, or as he might be called in
our time, a mate, was a Biscayan, named Diego
Linares. He was a stout and somewhat surly fellow,
habitually; and, in the exercise of his common
character, had given a rude or insolent reply to Juan
de Silva, who had rewarded him for it, very promptly,
with a blow upon the mouth. The dagger of the
-- 235 --
[figure description] Page 235.[end figure description]
Biscayan would have answered the indignity, and was
drawn for that purpose, when other parties interfered;
and Juan, after the first feeling of excitement had
passed over, sought in various ways, and by various
civilities—which he never made unnecessarily cheap—
to atone for the rashness and folly of his act. The
interposition of Velasquez, himself, was finally addressed
to the conciliation of the parties, since Diego
was a man not easily to be dispensed with. His
efforts were apparently successful. The anger of the
Biscayan was seemingly subdued, but it was in seeming
only. The wound still rankled, and might easily be
reopened. Maria de Pacheco saw more deeply into
the secret feelings of the injured person than either
Juan or Velasquez. She better knew the vindictive
temper of Biscayan blood, which is perhaps much more
tenacious of its resentments than that of almost all
other Spaniards, all of whom are vindictive.
With the first inception of her own resolution, she
at once conceived that this resentment might serve
her purpose hereafter, and had, accordingly, some
time before, addressed herself to the task of making
a friend of the discontent. She sought him at periods
when the eyes of Juan were withdrawn from her.
She sought him with an art which none possess in any
degree to compare with her who has been tutored in
the camp of the Zingali. She knew the habits of the
Biscayan, could rejoice his ear with songs and ballads
from the native province of Diego; and frequently,
even when she sang before Velasquez, she adroitly
chose for her themes such as were familiar to the ears
-- 236 --
[figure description] Page 236.[end figure description]
of the former. These still drew him, loitering nigh,
to listen as he traversed the deck upon his midnight
watch. Gradually, the parties came to speak together,
and, by degrees just as insensible as those by which
she had brought Juan de Silva to believe in her newly-born
affections for himself, she found her way into the
confidence of Linares for another purpose. She fomented
his hate for Juan; and, at length, when sure
of the future purpose of the latter, she kindled the
other's fears for the safety of Velasquez. It would
have been easy to arouse Linares to such a degree of
fury, as to prompt him to rush upon and slay Juan,
with the hope, subsequently, of justifying himself
before Velasquez; and such was the wish of Diego;—
but the more vigilant woman saw how futile such a
proceeding would be, knowing how completely Juan
was in the possession of his uncle's confidence. Besides,
of what use to her, in her desire to rescue
Lopez de Levya, that Velasquez should escape the
design of his nephew?
“No, no! good Diego,” she said to the excited
Biscayan; “this were only to destroy thyself. Would
Velasquez believe either thy testimony or mine
against Juan de Silva? Thou mightest slay the one,
but thou wouldst be sure to perish from the fury of
the other.”
“I know not—the crew!—”
“Soft! I understand thee! It is well that the men
love thee. They should! Thou, in truth, dost all the
business of the vessel—Velasquez incapable, and Juan
de Silva no seaman, and, I trow, but little of a
-- 237 --
[figure description] Page 237.[end figure description]
soldier. Let, then, the treachery advance which thou
canst not arrest, save at thy own peril. It may be
that Juan will repent—that he will not do the bloody
deed which he meditates. All then will be as before,
and our secret suspicions may sleep. But it will be
enough that we should keep proper watch, and if thou
hast friends in the vessel—”
She paused.
“They are all my friends; they care nothing for
Velasquez, now that he can do nothing; and they hate
the insolence of this Juan!”
“Good!—then there will only need, if thou hast
friends, that thou choose from among them, so that
two or three of them may be ready with thyself to
avenge thy captain should he meet foul play. Be
ready, and I will counsel thee, should I see farther
tokens of this conspiracy.
The Biscayan was not superior to the inducements
which she had adroitly insinuated rather than expressed.
He was made to behold, at the same glance, his revenge
obtained upon the man who had subjected him to indignity,
and the promotion of his selfish fortunes.
CHAPTER VIII.
Maria had thus secured a second agent, and
made a large step toward the attainment of her
object. But the days passed, and the nights followed,
and still nothing decisive, on the part of Juan, tended
-- 238 --
[figure description] Page 238.[end figure description]
to confirm the assurances which he had made to his
wily confederate. She became anxious and apprehensive,
particularly as the passion of the youth
seemed to be cooling toward her. He was no longer
communicative—no longer sought her as frequently as
before. His manner was now hesitating, his brow
clouded, and his whole appearance that of a man who
was brooding over wild suspicions. But Maria was
too much an adept to suffer her own anxieties to be
perceptible, while she watched his with apprehension.
Her doubts put on the appearance of womanly reserve,
of dignified pride, of feminine sensibility, solicitous to
avoid exposure. But she was equally studious not to forego
the exercise of any, the meanest of her attractions.
Her dress was carefully studied, and with the happiest
effect; and if her brow was clouded, it was with sadness,
the sweeter for the shade. She sang too—
never with more exquisite freedom, or with more voluptuous
sensibility, than when she sat alone, in the
darkness of night, upon the deck of the slowly moving
vessel. This was the third night after the last interview,
which we have described, with Linares. She
was suddenly joined by Juan de Silva. She knew of
his approach, but started with well-feigned surprise,
as his whisper reached her ears.
“Thou hast thought me a laggard, Maria?”
“Nay, I have suffered no disappointment. I had
no hopes of thee, Juan!”
He was piqued.
“That was because thou didst not know me. But
-- 239 --
[figure description] Page 239.[end figure description]
I have been busy in my task. It is not because I am
irresolute that I am slow. It is because I would be
sure. It is not known to thee, perhaps, that Velasquez
hath valuable possessions in Spain. These will serve
us hereafter, my Maria, when we shall tire of the sea.
I have secured the papers which conduct to these.
The key of his coffers is at my girdle. And now—
but, hark thee—continue thy ballad. It has beguiled
his fancies, and he is about to join us to be nearer
thee. There! His bell sounds. I will bring him
forth, and—dost thou heed me, Maria?”
His hand trembled with an icy chillness, as he laid
it upon her wrist. Her own grew chilled with a
sympathetic consciousness of what he designed.
“Thy song! Thy ballad!” he muttered convulsively
as he left her, and, almost unconscious of what
she did, she resumed, in accents that slightly faltered,
the ballad of `Belerma,' one of her favorite songs,
which she had probably learned from a purer source
than that of the Zingali camp.
“Quando vio aquel corazon
Estando èn el contemplado,
De nuevas gotas de sangre
Estaba todo banado.”
Which may be thus freely rendered:—
“When the precious heart before her
Lay all open to her view,
As if conscious of her presence,
It began to bleed anew.”
The voice of Velasquez—a voice that had once been
equally rich and powerful—now feebly joined its
-- 240 --
[figure description] Page 240.[end figure description]
accents with hers, as he tottered forth from the cabin,
supported on the arm of his nephew, and sank into a
seat which had been prepared beside her. Her tones
subsided into silence as he approached.
“Nay, stop not,” said he; “let me hear thee—I
come out only to hear thee, for I feel not so well to-night—
not well, not happy, Maria, mine. Thy voice
will persuade me to a better spirit, though it sounds
more sadly than is thy wont to-night; and that ballad—
methinks, beauty, mine, thou wouldst never
grieve over my heart, as the lovely damsel, Belerma,
mourned over that of Durandarte.” And he sang
feebly—
“Corazon de mi senor,
Durandarte muy preciado,
En los amores dichoso,
Y en batallas desdichado.”
She continued silent.
“Sing for me, Maria—deny me not;” he said entreatingly.
“I know not that I shall ever ask it of
thee again. I feel as if a sentence had gone forth
upon me. I feel as if I had done thee wrong! My
heart tells me that I have wronged thee. If thou
wilt sing for me now, I know that thou forgivest
me!”
“Thou shouldst not give way to such fancies,
uncle, mine,” said the nephew; “methinks, thou art
looking better to-day than thou hast done for months
past; and know I not that thou hast always been
fond of Donna Maria, even as the good knight, Durandarte,
was fond of the true maiden, Belerma.”
-- 241 --
[figure description] Page 241.[end figure description]
“Ah! Juan; but Velasquez is no Durandarte, to
find his way to the heart of a fair maiden. These
days bring forth no knighthood such as his. Who is
it walks behind us? Methought I heard a foot-
step!”
“It is none but the page, Gomez,” said the nephew,
in somewhat hurried accents.
A thrill ran through the veins of Maria, as she re-
membered that the page, Gomez, was the creature of
Juan, and the person who, as a spy upon her actions,
first discovered the strong intimacy between herself
and Lopez de Levya. The tones of Juan betrayed
to her something of his purpose, and she gathered
from them the conclusion, that he meditated the per-
formance of his crime that very night. Her heart
smote her. She felt her own criminality; but she
loathed the tyranny of Velasquez, as much as she did
the cold and cruel selfishness of Juan; and it was
only in the death of both that she could possibly hope
to extricate from his desolate condition the unhappy
Lopez, whom, if she did not actually love, she did
not loathe, and for whom every sentiment of humanity
required that she should suffer the bloody game of
Juan to go on. But she looked round, at the inquiry
of Velasquez, and while she detected Gomez near
them, she was also enabled to discover another and a
taller form among the shadows beyond him. In this
person she fancied she saw Linares, and suddenly she
commenced the Hymn to the Virgin, plaintive and
touching, of the dying knight, Baldwin:—
-- 242 --
[figure description] Page 242.[end figure description]
“O Santa Maria Senora,
No me quieras olvidar,
A tì encomiendo mi alma,
Plegate de la guardar,
En este trance muerte,
Esfuerzo me querais dàr,
Pues a les tristes consuelas
Quieras à mì consolar.
Y à tu preciosa Hijo,
Por mì te plega rogar,
Que perdone mis pecados,
Mi alma quiera salvar.”
Which in an English idiom we may render thus:—
“Holy Mary, thee beseeching,
Lo! my soul in anguish cries;
Take it to thy holy keeping,
Grant thy mercy ere it dies.
In the death-trance quickly sinking,
To thy throne for help I flee,
In my hour of terror, drinking
Consolation still from thee:
From thy precious Son, entreating
Pardon for my past career;
And the soul, its doom awaiting,
Rescue from its mortal fear.”
CHAPTER IX.
She had two objects in choosing this hymn. It
was the appropriate chant of Velasquez—equally for
his lips and ears—at that moment of his impending
peril; and she cherished the humane hope that, as in
the previous song, he would join his voice with hers,
-- 243 --
[figure description] Page 243.[end figure description]
and thus utter the proper prayer to Heaven just when
it would most become his lips. Her quick instincts
led her also to believe that Linares would receive it
as an intimation that the time was approaching when
it would be necessary for him also to act. But Velasquez
took no part in the hymn. His head sank
upon his breast as she proceeded, and he seemed to
drowse.
“Dost thou sleep, uncle?” demanded Juan.
He looked up when addressed, and, in the imperfect
light, it could be seen that the eyes of the invalid
were full of tears.
“The hymn saddens though it soothes me, Maria.
Why didst thou choose it? Yet I blame thee not. I
would I could sing it with thee. I strove, but the
voice failed me, and my heart felt strange as if with a
sudden sinking. I remember me to have heard that
hymn, the last night that I slept in the dwelling of
my poor mother, Juanita. I was innocent then! I
was a lad! There was a woman who was blind—they
called her Dolores—she sang it often beneath our
windows, but I did not weep to hear it then as I do
now. Yet I remember it well. I knew the ballad all
by heart, and could have sang it with her; but I had
wilder fancies, and I mocked the tenderness of her
hymn with a gay ballad of some bolder spirit. I
could not mock her now. Thy voice hath soothed
me, Maria, but sing to me no more to-night, I feel as
I would sleep. Juan, give me thy arm.”
The nephew started to his feet. Maria would have
offered an arm also, but Juan repulsed her.
-- 244 --
[figure description] Page 244.[end figure description]
“Not thine!” he answered, in accents not so low
but that Velasquez heard them.
“And why not hers, Juan?”
“She lacks the strength! Here is Gomez.”
“Maria lack the strength! Is she not well, Juan?
or am I so much feebler than before? It must be so!
I feel it so! Well! Give me help! Gomez be
it, then.”
A cold sweat covered the face and forehead of
Maria de Pacheco, as she beheld the officious Gomez
start forward at the summons of Juan. She saw
Velasquez grasped by them, as if for support, on either
side. The words of the latter—
“It is very dark—goest thou rightly, Juan?—
rushed through her very brain with a dreadful import,
the more terrible and startling, as, having herself
receded toward the cabin, she did not see them approach.
Then she was conscious that some one stood
beside her. It was Linares, followed by another.
She grasped his arm.
“Now, now, Linares!—It is doing! Hence! Quick!
God have mercy!”
A plunge, and a most piercing shriek, were heard
while she was speaking. Linares started forward.
There was a sudden uproar in the ship. The alarm
was given, and the men were running to and fro, while
a crowd gathered on the side where the deed had been
done. Another scream from the waters—a scream of
agony—a cry for help—and then the stern accents of
Linares prevailed over all others.
-- 245 --
[figure description] Page 245.[end figure description]
“Murderer of thy uncle—bloody traitor—I have
caught thee in the act!”
“Away!” cried Juan de Silva — “and to thy
duties. Behold in me thy captain!”
“Never!” was the cry from the crew. “Diego
Linares!”
“The heavy hand of Linares was upon the shoulder
of the culprit. His confederate, Gomez, was in the
grasp of an equally powerful assailant. The proceeding
had been too well devised—the action too prompt—
to suffer the cunning Juan to escape by any subtleties;
and he was already given to understand that the fate
to which he was doomed, was that to which his uncle
had been already consigned. In the suddenly aroused
sense of danger which he felt, his impulse was to call
for Donna Maria.
“She is here!” cried Linares.
The proud woman had recovered all her strength
of soul and courage, and the conviction that the hateful
and malignant spirit whom she had once feared
was now wholly in her power; and she felt an exulting
sense of pleasure in being able to discard the veil of
hypocrisy which she had so successfully worn. She
steadily advanced towards the clamorous group.
“Speak for me, Maria!” exclaimed the captive—
“tell these men—say to Linares, that, in what I have
done, I have but obeyed thy wishes!”
“As if my wishes should suffice to move the loving
nephew to the murder of his first friend and most
loving uncle!”
“Demonios! do I hear thee, woman?”
-- 246 --
[figure description] Page 246.[end figure description]
He was grappled instantly and firmly by the vigorous
Linares. A dozen willing hands were nigh, to
help him in the fearful deed which he designed.
“Must I perish! Has my toil of blood been taken
for such as these! Maria, dost thou indeed desert
me? Speak!” cried the desperate man—“Speak!
thou knewest my purpose—thou didst not disclaim
my deed!”
“I know thee as a felon and a fiend; as one whom
I loathe and scorn! Linares, trust him not! He
who would keep no terms with one so confiding as his
mother's brother, will keep no terms with thee. What
said I to thee before? Do thy duty to thyself and
me! Revenge Velasquez, thy captain, recover the
wretched Lopez de Levya from the isle where he was
put to perish, and be the master of thy ship and
crew!”
“This, then, was thy scheme! Demonios! that I
should have been blinded by this woman's subtleties!”
“Thou wast the victim to thy own vanities—thy
own quickness to crime—thy own coldness of heart!”
said the proud Maria.
“Oh, tongue of the serpent! dost thou sting me
thus! But thou exultest too soon. Thinkest thou
that I have lived for such a fate as this! with this wealth
at my girdle—with so much of life in my possession—
shall I lose life? No! off there, ye base scum and
offal—off! Ye shall hang for this like dogs—I
will!—”
His own terrible struggles arrested his words, by
which they had been stimulated. He had much to
-- 247 --
[figure description] Page 247.[end figure description]
live for, and the unwilling spirit of youth was not to
be resigned so easily to the sacrifice of those delights,
for which he had paid such heavy price. His strength,
which was not ordinarily great, was that of desperation
at the moment. He fought with wonderful spirit
and address, and it tasked three stout seamen so to
recover the mastery over him, as to lift him to the
side of the vessel to which the feeble uncle had been
beguiled, and over which he had been suddenly thrown.
Brought to the verge of the precipice, he succeeded
in forcing himself back, so that his head only hung
over the bulwarks.—Suddenly, however, the weight of
the powerful Linares was thrown upon him; and the
crack of the neck, as it was thrust down upon the sharp
and narrow thwarts, could have been heard even above
the spasmodic gurgle and hoarse scream of the victim,
by which it was accompanied. The still quivering
carcass which they committed to the deep, was no
longer conscious of its fate. A second plunge declared
the doom of the page Gomez, whose cries had
been silenced by the stroke of a dagger, while his
master's death-struggles were most violent. Deep
and dreary was the silence which followed on board
the vessel. The rage of all parties was satisfied, and
a certain, but indescribable fear was upon every heart.
But none of the fruits of the struggle had been lost.
A single hour had in effect rendered Maria de Pacheco,
as had been promised by Juan de Silva, the mistress
of the Dian de Burgos. A single sentence to Diego
Linares declared the present destination of the vessel.
“The Maroon—Lopez de Levya!”
-- 248 --
[figure description] Page 248.[end figure description]
She was obeyed; the ship was brought about, and
her prow turned once more in the direction of the
desolate Isle of Lovers.
CHAPTER X.
Let us now return to our Maroon. Three days
upon his desolate island did not materially lessen its
terrors, or increase its attractions, in the eyes of
Lopez de Levya. He still shuddered, not less at its
fanciful and unknown dangers than at his isolation
among them. But the necessity of looking about
him—of looking upward, indeed—of feeling himself
in motion, and realizing, as thoroughly as he could,
the sense of life, as well as its consciousness of suffering—
led him, at the end of this period, to make an
effort, which, in his previous feeling of despair, he
had never thought it possible he should make again.
The nature, even of the constitutionally timid man,
does not easily succumb to fortune—does not usually—
except, perhaps, in the first moment of overthrow,
yield itself submissively to fate. The first moment of
weariness which succeeds the contest, is, perhaps, the
one of greatest prostration; and, after that, the recuperative
energies arouse themselves and the sufferer
together. The very sense of abandonment is usually
one of awakening and new resolve. This is one of
the marked characteristics of the human nature.
Indeed, the natural impulse of every free moral agent
-- 249 --
[figure description] Page 249.[end figure description]
is resistance. To oppose, to struggle farther—to
contend to the last, and even where consciousness of
the conflict itself fails—is one of the earliest, as it is
one of the most necessary developments of the moral
instinct. Combativeness, indeed, is one of the most
important of our moral qualities. It is one which—
arguing always the presence of a great and pressing
necessity—is, at the same time, continually counselling
the means by which to contend against it.
Lopez de Levya, though feeble, was not entirely
wanting in the natural instinct; and, armed with the
Spanish crossbow, and the shafts which had been accorded
him—a spear, a knife, and one or two other
implements of use and necessity, which might, in the
event of exigency, be converted into weapons—he
now proceeded to explore his empire. A sense of his
possessions was also rapidly beginning to make itself
felt in his reasonings. That delightful human instinct
which, in the consciousness of sway, reconciles us so
readily to all its dangers, was about to contribute its
assistance toward comforting our Maroon in his desolation.
He was, indeed, a sovereign, though he commanded
no subjects. Yet, the wild-fowl which sped
along the shore before his footsteps, or sprang aloft,
wheeling in slow gyrations overhead, as he drew nigh
their coverts, might be made to feel his authority as
well as to minister to his wants. He could persecute,
punish, and destroy them, quite as certainly, and certainly
with less danger to himself, than if they were
of his own species; and a sense of fierce delight at
this consciousness of his power to do mischief, was
-- 250 --
[figure description] Page 250.[end figure description]
grateful to his heart, as it always is to that of the
being who is himself peculiarly sensible to the influences
of fear. He was beginning to regard with
complacency a condition from which there was no
escape. A thousand years might elapse, as Velasquez
had malignantly assured him, without suffering the
prows of any European vessel to approach so nearly
to his islet as to discover the existence of its lone possessor.
He must make the most of that existence.
He must hoard, must economize his resources, as well
of thought and enjoyment, as of covering and food.
He must not destroy his subjects simply to exercise
his authority. His power must be sparingly indulged
for his own sake and safety. He laid aside his guitar
with care and tenderness, protecting it from hurt and
exposure, by hanging it beneath the friendly palm-trees
where he had passed the night. In the first
paroxysm of his despair and madness, conscious that
this dangerous but delightful instrument was connected
with his present sufferings, he was about to dash it
upon the bleak sands and trample it under foot, or
cast it from him into the engulfing and surrounding
sea. He knew not, himself, why he forbore to do so.
Some tender recollection in his thought procured its
safety;—some conviction that it might minister to
him in his wretched exile;—and the desperate passion
which might have destroyed it—was restrained. Yet
bitter were the tears that he shed over it, as, arousing
from the swoon that followed the departure of the
vessel from his eyes, he found the cruel memorial still
about his neck, where it had been hung by the
-- 251 --
[figure description] Page 251.[end figure description]
mocking hands of his enemy. With the subdued temper
that followed the first feeling of his despair, the instrument
became doubly precious, as it not only spoke
of future solace, but reminded him of former enjoyments.
It constituted one of the few moral links
which connected him still with the great family of
man. He lacked the courage to part with any of his
treasures, and the care with which he secreted his
favorite instrument beneath the palm-trees, was that
of the tender mother who leaves her infant for
awhile, solicitous of its comfort even while she has no
fears for its safety; and sometimes looking back, not
with any hope to see, but that her eyes involuntarily
yield themselves to the course indicated by her heart.
This charge disposed of, Lopez de Levya grasped
his spear with as much martial dignity as he could
command. He felt for his knife at his girdle, he
slung the crossbow over his shoulder, and, ready for
any event, he sallied forth to explore his empire.
But though his territory was a small one, such as an
adventurous spirit would have traversed wholly, and
surveyed thoroughly, in the course of a single day, our
Maroon was quite too timid, too cautious in his footsteps,
not to make it a work of longer time. Several
days were necessary to his examination. He proceeded
slowly, and winding heedfully about, and
probing every copse before he penetrated it, he first
assured himself against any possible danger from
secret foes, before he made his search satisfactory.
His domain was equally ample and compact; not
wanting in variety, but having its elevations of rock,
-- 252 --
[figure description] Page 252.[end figure description]
and its valley of verdure, and its long wastes and
stretches of sand, in a comparatively close compass.
The islet was not, as it had been thought by Velasquez,
a mere series of sand-hills, raised up by the
sea, the creation of its own contending billows. It
was a solid rock, whose gradual ascent, nowhere
rising into more than a very gentle elevation, admitted
of the easy accumulation of sand and soil, which, in
process of time, had in various places received a
covering of very green and beautiful vegetation. The
shrubbery was rather close than lofty. Among the
trees were the plantain, the cocoanut, the breadfruit,
and the banana. The pineapple grew in gold and
purple, unobserved by man; and slender vines, which
shot out from the knotted and ancient bulbs, from
crevices of the rock, ran wantonly over the sides of
sudden hillocks, which they garnished with blue clusters
of the grape. Verily, our musician had an empire
in truth. Velasquez little dreamed of the treasure
he had given away in his malice. The sterile
islet was a principality of fairy land, and Lopez de
Levya grew more and more reconciled to life as he
beheld the wealth which lay scattered around him.
His possessions were beyond his wants. Nature had
made ample provision, and millions might have been
found, among the needy and oppressed children of
Europe, to whom a life of exile and isolation in such
an abode, would have been the most acceptable boon
of Heaven. Nor were these vegetable possessions all
that came to Lopez with his empire. Tribes of small
wild animals wantoned before his footsteps, scarcely
-- 253 --
[figure description] Page 253.[end figure description]
seeming to fear his presence; and the nimble little
marmozet of the tropics, with a petty, playful mischief,
darting before him as he came, would fling the
nuts from the tree-tops, and chatter, in equal fun and
defiance, at his sovereign authority. Our Maroon
began to grow interested in his possessions, and fate
soon conducted him to other discoveries. His island,
stretching away from north to south, was exceedingly
long in proportion to its width. He had been landed
at the northern extremity, at which point it had been
impossible to conceive its dimensions, except from its
width, and this had led to conclusions which gave no
reason to suppose its extent to be half so great as
Lopez found it. At the close of the third day of his
explorations, he had nearly reached its southern extremity.
He had found the land gradually to rise as
he advanced, until, toward the close, taken in comparison
with the uniform level of the sand and sea
surrounding the spot to which he approached, and by
which the island was terminated in this quarter, he
discovered what might be considered a moderate mountain.
It was certainly a large and imposing hill, seen
from the low shores or the waters which surrounded
them. Here, too, the groves thickened into something
like a forest. Heated by his ramble, and somewhat
fatigued, as the day was wearing to its close, he
passed gladly for shelter into the shady recesses of its
heights. He soon found himself in one of the coolest
realms of shade which he had ever traversed. A
natural pathway, as it seemed, conducted him forward.
Gradually advancing, he at length emerged from the
-- 254 --
[figure description] Page 254.[end figure description]
thicket only to stand upon the brow of a rugged eminence,
which rose almost perpendicularly, overlooking
the sea. A small flat of sandy beach lay at his feet,
which was evidently subject to overflow at the rising
of the tide. Not half a mile beyond could be seen a
small cluster of little rocks, just peering above the
sea, scarcely bigger, it would seem, than so many
human heads, which the waves covered at high water.
Between them, he could distinguish the boiling and
striving of the billows, which sent up a sheeted
shower far above the rocks with which they strove.
Long lines, stretching from several points, and losing
themselves among these rocks, betrayed the course of
strong currents, which were caused by the capricious
whirlpools that lay within their embrace. The eye
of Lopez took in all these objects, but they did not
bound his survey. Stretching far beyond—did he
only fancy, or did he really behold a slender dark
speck, which might be the outline of a shore corresponding
with that on which he stood?—miles of
ocean lay between them, but in that unclouded realm
of sunshine and of calm, objects might be seen from
an eminence, such as that on which he stood, at a surprising
distance. It was only in glimpses now that he
beheld, or fancied, the object in his gaze. Sometimes
it would utterly disappear—but this might be from the
continued and eager tension of his vision;—again would
it grow out boldly beneath his eyes;—but this might be
in obedience only to the desires of his mind. Long and
feverishly did he watch, and many were his conjectures
as to the distant empire which his hope or his
-- 255 --
[figure description] Page 255.[end figure description]
sight had conjured up. He turned away, and his
glances rested upon the smooth plain of yellow sand
beneath his feet, which lay inviting to his tread, glistening
a thousand fires from bits of crystal, which reflected
the now waning sunlight. To this little esplanade,
which looked so exceedingly inviting, our Maroon
was persuaded to descend from his heights, by finding
a convenient series of rude steps, which wound below—
little gaps in the hill-side, or fractures in the naked
rock, which one might almost be tempted to imagine—
so admirable was the assistance which they gave to
the anxious footsteps—had been the work of art.
Following these, Lopez descended to the hard and
sandy floor, and standing in the shadow of the rock,
he once more looked forth eagerly upon the doubtful
waste of sea. There still lay the empire of his desire.
It was along, and over those billows that he was yet
to see the glimmer of a saving hope. Such was still
his dream, and, seating himself upon the sand, he inscribed
almost unconsciously the names of Spain, of
the Dian de Burgos, and of the lowly hamlet in his
own country, from which he had been persuaded regretfully
to wander. Then followed rude outlines of
the ship which had abandoned him, and then, naturally
enough, a portrait, something less rude, of the
fair but passionate woman, for whose fatal love he
was suffering the dreadful doom of exile and isolation.
His own name was written, but as quickly obliterated,
and musing over the melancholy record, his heart
failed him, and he sank forward, prone, upon the faint
memorials which the rising waters would soon wash
-- 256 --
[figure description] Page 256.[end figure description]
away forever. Thus he lay moaning for many weary
minutes, till all at once a coldness fell upon him
which chilled him to the heart, and aroused him to
more immediate apprehensions. The shadow of the
hill beneath which he lay was upon him. The sun
was slowly receding from the heights. Starting to
his feet, he turned to reascend the hill, and recoiled
with a feeling little short of horror, as he beheld the
huge mouth of a cavern yawning directly upon him.
This cavern was open to the sea. Its waters, at their
rising, passing the little stretch of sand upon which
he had lain, glided into the dim hollow, which now
looked grimly threatening upon the easily alarmed
spectator. The opening was not a very large one,
but would easily admit of the passage of three or more
persons at a time. Its lips were covered with a soft
and beautiful clothing of green moss, which made the
darkness within seem yet more dismal. Long grasses,
and thick shrubs and vines hanging over from above,
contributed to increase the solemnity of its aspect, as
showing the depth and certainty of its solitude; and
the deep silence which prevailed within, added still
more greatly to the impressive influence with which it
possessed the soul of the Maroon, while he timidly
yet eagerly gazed upon the opening. At the first
discovery of this domain of solemnity and silence, he
receded almost to the sea. He was not encouraged
by the stillness. A voice from within, the cry of a
beast, the rush of a bird's wing—had been more encouraging.
His advance was very gradual—but he
did advance, his doubts being much less easy of
-- 257 --
[figure description] Page 257.[end figure description]
endurance than the absolute presence of a real cause of
apprehension. With trembling nerves he presented
his spear, and got his knife in readiness. The spear
was thrust deep into the throat of the cavern, but it
provoked no disquiet within. Then, his hair erecting
itself, and his heart rising in his throat as he advanced,
he at length fairly made his way into the subterranean
dwelling. There he shouted, and the sounds
came rolling back upon him from so many hollow
voices within, that he once more recoiled from the
adventure, and hurried back in terror to the entrance.
CHAPTER XI.
But he gathered courage for a second trial. The
answering echoes were not followed by any evil,
though they seemed to mock his ears with a laughter
such as he had heard from the tyrant of the Dian de
Burgos, when he devoted him to his melancholy exile.
He passed again into the cavern, taking care, by his
own silence, to provoke no such fearful responses as
those which had driven him forth. A few feet brought
him to a small dark pool which lay directly in his pathway,
and which left but a narrow space between its
own margin and the walls of the cavern. This he
sounded with his spear, and found to be shallow. It
was a lakelet left by the waves of ocean, by which,
at its overflow, the cave was evidently penetrated.
Passing this pool, our Maroon found himself upon
-- 258 --
[figure description] Page 258.[end figure description]
a dry floor, the foundation of which was the solid
rock; but a slender coating of soil had formed upon it,
which was, in turn, clothed with a nice smooth covering
of green and velvet-like moss. Here he was
gladdened by a glimpse of the sun, which, breaking
through a chink in the rock, a slender crevice, glided
along the rugged vault-side, affording to the timid
adventurer a more perfect idea of an angel presence
than he had ever before possessed. Another opening
in the rock, almost immediately above, afforded sufficient
light for his examination of the whole interior.
The cave narrowed to a still slenderer gap, as he
advanced, than was the one by which he had entered.
This was the entrance to another apartment. It was
some time before he ventured to enter this, and not
until he had thrust his spear its full length into its
recesses. He then clambered up, for the elevation of
this inner chamber was greater than the first. Here
he was again refreshed with brief glimpses of the sunlight,
which, peeping in through two openings of the
rock, looked like two of the most natural and smiling
eyes in the world. This apartment, though of less
height, was of larger area than the other. It soon
afforded him new subjects of curiosity if not alarm.
In the centre of the chamber stood a rock, scarcely
larger than a blacksmith's anvil, and having something
of the appearance of one, on which lay the remains of
a fire. Brands lay half consumed, the fires of which
were now extinguished; but the ashes were there,
still undisturbed, as if the flame had only recently
gone out. Piles of an aromatic gum lay upon a shelf
-- 259 --
[figure description] Page 259.[end figure description]
of the rock, and other piles, in slender fragments of
wood, of which our Maroon knew nothing, lay contiguous
also. But what more than anything beside
arrested and confounded our Maroon, were certain
numerous shreds of dark hair, soft, fine, and very
long, like the hair of women, which hung neatly
tied in separate volumes from the tops of reeds, which
were stuck about the vaulted roof of the cavern, and
wherever a crevice could be found sufficiently large in
which to introduce their slender extremities. Examining
several of these shreds of hair, the wonder of
the explorer was increased to discover that the ends
of them were shrivelled as in the flame. There were
other objects to excite his surprise, if not to occasion
his alarm. Baskets of shells and pebbles, flowers
which had decayed, a bow and many arrows—all of
the latter being broken—and a heavy string of large
pearls which had been slightly injured in the fire, but
which Spanish cupidity readily conceived would still
possess considerable value in the Cuba market.
CHAPTER XII.
Here, then, was a curious discovery. The island
was not inhabited. He had traversed it for three days,
and had found no footstep but his own. Had it ever
been inhabited? Scarcely; the impunity with which
beast and bird enjoyed its securities, and of which he
had sufficient proofs in his three days' experience, was
-- 260 --
[figure description] Page 260.[end figure description]
conclusive of that question. But that it was visited
by human beings, the witnesses in the cavern were
numerous. Did they come frequently, for what purpose,
and from whence? These were the next questions.
That they came frequently might be inferred
from various circumstances. The brands which had
been swept from the altar, were in great heaps in one
corner of the cavern. The shreds of hair were equally
numerous and of different degrees of age. This difference
was very perceptible upon the slightest examination.
They came for a religious purpose. The
shreds of hair, the altar, the aromatic woods and gum—
were all significant of sacred rites. From whence?
Surely, was the thought of the Maroon, from that
isle, or continent, the dim outlines of which had fixed
his gaze but an hour before. A farther search led to
farther discoveries, but all of the same character.
Vast stores of these shreds of hair, seemingly the
accumulation of centuries, were found in remote
crannies and dark recesses of the vault. A thousand
little baskets of shells, and white and blue fragments—
pebbles that seemed like glass—and more precious
in the sight of Lopez, numerous strands of pearl, such
as he had already discovered—which, dark and dingy
with frequent smokes in the cavern, he found could
be made clean by a little water. In a recess of the
rock, the most obscure, he made the discovery of a
niche which had evidently been used for a couch. It
was softly lined with moss and leaves, and there were
flowers in bunches at the head and feet which might
have been grasped by the hands of youth and beauty.
-- 261 --
[figure description] Page 261.[end figure description]
The impression of the head was perceptible upon a
pillow of moss at one extremity, and suggested to our
Maroon the idea of a far more comfortable couch for
himself than any which he had yet found upon his
island. The sun had been rapidly sinking while he
had been urging his researches, and the cheerless dusk
of the horizon without, as he emerged from the cavern
determined him once more to return to its recesses.
He did so, and, ascending the mysterious recess in the
inner chamber, though with some hesitation, he soon
sunk into a deep slumber, in which, though he dreamed
of strange forms and aspects about him, he dreamed
of nothing to impair the virtue of his sleep.
CHAPTER XIII.
But, with his awakening thoughts, apprehension,
rather than pride or exultation, followed the consciousness
of his new discoveries. Had he not reason to
fear the return of the strange people by whom the isle
was visited, as it would seem, periodically? That
they were a barbarous people he could not doubt; that
they would resent his presence, and treat him as an
enemy, he had every reason to dread. He should be
a victim to some one of their cruel sacrifices. He
should be immolated on the altars of one of the bloody
deities of the Caribbean worship. The man brave by
nature, and in the situation of Lopez de Levya, might
well entertain such apprehensions. How much more
-- 262 --
[figure description] Page 262.[end figure description]
vividly would they occur to the imagination of one
so timid and feeble of soul as our Maroon. They
kept him—assuming various forms of terror—in a cold
sweat for several days; and though the impression
was naturally weakened and dissipated the more
familiar the images became, yet any immediately
impelling thought brought them back upon his spirit
with a ghastly and withering influence. Three days
elapsed after this discovery before he found himself
able to recur to it without a vague and overpowering
sense of terror. But the pearls shone in his eyes.
He had grown wealthy on a sudden. He drew forth
the numerous strings which he found suspended in the
cavern. Every Spaniard of that day had an instinctive
appreciation of treasure. Lopez had never seen
so much riches at a glance before. He examined his
pearls in the sunlight. He cleansed them of their
impurities by the ocean's side. And he was the
master of all this glitter. He had never dreamed of
such vast possessions. In Spain—but when he thought
of Spain, and felt the probability, in all its force, that
he should never again behold its shores, he was almost
moved in his desperation to fling his newly found
treasure into the deep. But the latent hope, which
dreamed of the possible approach of some future
mariner, forbade the sacrifice; and restoring his possessions
to the dark crevices from whence he had
taken them, he stretched himself out upon the eminence
which vaulted his possessions, and which had now become
with him a favorite place of watch, to gaze upon
-- 263 --
[figure description] Page 263.[end figure description]
the broad plain of ocean by which he was girded on
every hand.
CHAPTER XIV.
No sign of hope for the Maroon. The sun
shines with a red and scorching influence. There is
not a cloud in the sky to curtain the brazen terrors
of his countenance. The ocean sleeps, smooth as
glass, unbroken in its wilderness of range, spread out
like an endless mirror of steel, that fired the very
brain to gaze upon. And in the sky, on the return
of night, might be seen the moon, bright but placid,
nearly at her full, giving to the scene something of
an aspect melancholy, such as she habitually wears
herself. Not a speck upon the waters—not a speck—
and, while the lull continues, no possibility of a sail
in sight. He looks toward the faint uncertain line of
shore, which he has fancied to be beyond him on the
south. It is no fancy now. It is certain. The subdued
waves lessen the usual obstacles of vision. The
line of land, if it be land, and no mocking cloud, appears
to rise. It undulates. There are inequalities
which strike his eye, and which, seen at that distance,
cannot be subject to doubt or disbelief. He trembles
with mixed feelings of hope and terror as he comes to
this conclusion. Once more to behold the human
form—once more to look upon the friendly aspect of
man, and to say, “Brother!” But will the aspects
-- 264 --
[figure description] Page 264.[end figure description]
be friendly that shall look upon him from that shore?
Will they hearken to his cry of pleading? Will
they understand him when he uses the endearing title
of “brother,” to the savage chief who leads the marauding
party? These suggestions but fill our Maroon
with dismay.
Crouching in the shade, his eye fixed on the opposite
shores, as he believes them, he starts suddenly to
his feet. He passes his hand across his brows—his
fingers press his eyes, as if to remove some speck,
some foreign atom, from his vision. Can he believe
his eyes? Does he, indeed, behold an object upon
the waters approaching him from that doubtful and
hostile shore? He sees—but now it disappears. It
is gone! He looks in vain, his whole frame convulsed
and quivering with the emotions of his soul!
Again it rises into view. It disturbs the smooth surface
of the deep. The brightness of the mirror is
shaded by a speck, and that speck grows upon his
sight. He can doubt no longer. It is a boat which
he beholds—it brings with it a savage enemy—the
fierce cannibal of the Caribbean Sea! He drops his
spear and his crossbow—his hand grapples, not his
knife, but his rosary. He falls upon his knees—he
counts the beads with hurried hand and failing memory.
He clutches the agnus Dei—he strains it to
his lips, and with many a broken invocation to some
favorite saint, he hurries away to put himself in
shelter.
His search has fortunately enabled him to find
many places of temporary hiding, such as would
-- 265 --
[figure description] Page 265.[end figure description]
probably suffice for safety during the stay—which
was evidently brief always—of the savages by whom
the islet was visited. At first, he thought of occupying
a dense piece of copse, which lay at a little distance
in the rear of the elevation in which the cavern
was found. But a doubt whether this would not be
penetrated, in a desultory ramble of the intruders
after fruit, and a curious desire to be in some situation,
which would enable him to watch their proceedings,
led him to abandon this idea. The cave itself
was obviously one of their places of greatest resort.
It was here that their religious rites were performed.
The islet itself was unemployed. It was a place set
apart and sacred to some special and superior purpose.
The vaulted chamber was the place of their
mysteries. He determined that it should be the place
of his concealment. He had sought out all its secret
places. He had seen that certain of their remains—
their shreds of hair—their baskets of shell—their
broken arrows—had been undisturbed for a long season;
and behind these, in convenient fissures of the
rock, which were wholly unlighted by the day, he
prepared to bestow himself. The suggestions of the
naturally timid person, under a consciousness of approaching
danger, are usually prompt enough. Lopez
de Levya hurried to execute the plan he had conceived.
He entered the cave, ere yet the strangers could behold
any movement on the shore. His provisions—a
supply for several days, at least, had been already
transferred to the safe-keeping of the vaulted apartment.
These were all disposed of, conveniently to
-- 266 --
[figure description] Page 266.[end figure description]
his reach, in the crevice of the rock in which his
own person was to find security. And, all prepared,
he planted himself within the mouth of the cave,
anxiously looking forth—yet not so as to be seen—
for the unknown object of his apprehension.
CHAPTER XV.
The strange object is indeed a boat—a large canoe
with two banks of oars—one of those long and stately
barges in which the Caribbean was wont to
go forth for war or ceremonial. Its sides were
gaudily and richly painted. Its poop was raised with
a triumphal canopy of dyed cotton above it. Its prow
was lofty and sharp, and bore, for a figure-head, the
savage jaws of a cayman, or American crocodile.
The rowers of the boat were men, but all besides
were women. These were eight in number—seven
who sat forward, and near the prow, and one who sat
in the stern alone and under the canopy. The course
of the boat was regulated by the oarsmen. The
women at the prow were all richly clad in stained cotton
garments. Their heads were tressed with strands
of pearl—their necks, which were bare, were covered
with similar decorations. Each, in her hands, bore a
bunch of arrows and a basket. Beside them might be
seen other baskets of aromatic gums and bundles of wood
similarly aromatic. These females were all evidently
matrons, none of them being less than thirty years
-- 267 --
[figure description] Page 267.[end figure description]
of age, and all of them wearing the experience of
look and bearing which is common to those who have
been mothers. But she, who sat alone at the stern,
was evidently none of these. She could not have
been more than fifteen years old, and looked wild and
startled as a young fawn, for the first time venturing
forth without its dam in company. She was quite as
beautiful as she was young; her skin less dark than was
usual among the Caribbean Indians—not much more
dark, indeed, than was that of the Spaniard—and the
red blood coursing at moments from her heart into
her cheeks, suffusing it with the most exquisite tints
of innocence and youth. She was well formed and
tall. Her hair streamed down over her back and
shoulders. Her bosom was quite bare, without pearl
or any other ornament. Her dress was of white cotton,
purely white, without any of those rich and
gaudy dyes, which were so freely used by her people.
Before her was a small earthen vessel half covered,
from which a slight smoke continued to ascend, as if
from a hidden fire below. Into this, at intervals, the
maiden might be seen to fling a fine powder, which she
scooped out of a gourd that lay beside her. Numerous
baskets of flowers and shells lay at her feet, and
a bunch of arrows rested upon her lap. The oarsmen
were all habited as warriors. Their brows were
grave. No words passed among them or among the women,
until, as they drew nigh the shore, the latter suddenly
broke out into a wild, and not unmusical chant,
which made our Maroon recoil within his vaulted chamber,
with an indefinite sense of terror. At this sound
-- 268 --
[figure description] Page 268.[end figure description]
the rowers dropped their oars—the boat lay upon her
centre, and the women prepared to leave her, though
they were still more than thirty paces from the shore.
But the water was exceedingly shallow where the vessel
lay;—the beach which formed the esplanade of
the cave, stretching out boldly for some distance into
the sea. Availing themselves of their knowledge of
the bar, the women stepped forth upon a ridge, where
the ocean, disarmed of its billows, swept along gently
to the level of their knees. They brought forth their
billets of fragrant wood—their baskets of shell—
their sheaves of arrows—their vessels of odorous
gums and incense. Then, taking the damsel from
beneath the canopy at the stern, they bore her, with
anxious solicitude upon their shoulders from the
vessel to the shore—her feet and drapery being kept
sacred from the waves. One of their number seemed
to counsel and direct the rest, and it was with feelings
of new horror, that our Maroon beheld in her grasp,
as she led the way to the cavern, a sharp broad
instrument of stone, that greatly resembled a butcher's
cleaver. His apprehensions were not now for himself.
For what was the unhappy damsel destined? For
the sacrifice? For what crime—what penance—what
terrible superstition? To appease the malice of what
bloody god, was this poor child, so young, so beautiful—
so evidently innocent—to be made the victim? Her
sad and fearful looks—the tears which now gathered in
her eyes—the wild chant of the women, and the stern,
grave aspects of the men—these all seemed to denote
an occasion of woe and terror. The men did not leave
-- 269 --
[figure description] Page 269.[end figure description]
the boat; they drew no nearer to the land. The shore
seemed to be a consecrated one, which the masculine
footstep was not allowed to pollute. The girl, still borne
upon the arms of the women, and following her who
seemed to be the officiating priestess, was carried into
the cavern; the wild chorus of the women being resumed
as they entered the gloomy portals, and reverberating
from the walls within, with a sound at once sweet,
awful, and inspiring.
CHAPTER XVI.
Our Maroon was already crouched, close, in his
place of hiding. He beheld in silence and safety,
but with an awful beating at the heart, the whole of
the strange procession. He saw the women circling
the altar stone with wild contortions and a strange
unearthly song. He saw them, from several branches
of wood, draw forth the billets, with which they kindled
a flame upon the stone. The fire was drawn from
the vessel which had been supplied with fuel on the
voyage by the hand of the young damsel. She sat
apart, on a low projection of the wall, to which she
had been conducted, and but a few paces from the
cavity in which Lopez found retreat. She took no
part in the ceremony, though she seemed deeply interested
in its progress. At certain pauses in the
wild incantations, particularly when certain emphatic
sounds or words closed the chant, she clasped her
-- 270 --
[figure description] Page 270.[end figure description]
hands aloft, and her groan was audible, as if in supplication.
The fire began to blaze suddenly above the
stone, and its strange gleams played in lively tints
upon the gloomy walls of the cavern. Then the circling
dance and the chorus were renewed. Then at
certain sounds the women paused, and at such moments,
the maiden rose, and, approaching the flame,
threw into it fragments of wood or gum with which
she had been supplied. At all such additions, the
flame blazed up more brightly, and the chant was
more wild and vigorous than ever. At length it
ceased; and in an instant, every woman crouched
down around the stone where she stood, except the
one who seemed to act as priestess. She did not join
in the chorus of the others, but in a low chant of
her own performed some separate office. She now
approached the maiden, and conducted her toward
the altar. At her words, the damsel bent over the
heads of the kneeling women separately, and her
tears fell fast as she murmured in their several ears.
She took from the necks of each her strands of pearl.
They themselves unbound them from their own tresses,
which now hung down mournfully, of great length,
from every shoulder. The pearls were collected by
the priestess and laid apart. Our Maroon, from
his place of watch, followed with keen eyes, and saw
where she laid them. The women now receded.
The girl embraced them each, with a deep sobbing,
and they responded with mingling sighs and songs,
while passing out of the chamber in which they left
her with the officiating woman. When their voices
-- 271 --
[figure description] Page 271.[end figure description]
were heard only faintly from the sea-shore, where
they had now assembled, the maiden was conducted
to the altar-place by her matron-like companion.
Her mournful utterance announced some sadder ceremonial.
The girl answered her by a cry, and threw
herself at her feet before the altar. The woman knelt
upon one knee. The head of the maiden was supported
upon the other from which the long black hair
depended, half shrouding the drapery of the priestess.
Very tender were the few words which then passed
between the two. The girl clasped her hands together,
and her tearful eyes were full of the sweetest but saddest
resignation. The woman smoothed her tresses
out with her fingers, stooped and kissed affectionately
the lips of the child, and while everything betokened
nothing less than the truest sympathy, and the most
heartfelt and generous affection between them, what
was the horror of our Maroon—now deeply interested
in the event—to see the woman possess herself
of the broad knife of stone which lay on the foot of
the altar. Timid and feeble as he was of soul, his
fingers clutched his knife with a convulsive resolution,
which, in the case of a braver spirit, would have long
before declared itself in action!
-- 272 --
CHAPTER XVII.
[figure description] Page 272.[end figure description]
The moment in which the Indian damsel lay thus
prostrate, and at the mercy of one who seemed about
to complete the rites in which she had been engaged,
by the sacrifice of the innocent creature in her grasp,
was a moment of the most cruel humiliation to the
imbecile Spaniard. His sensibilities were violently
excited. Every sympathy of his heart was awakened.
His better nature, his human training, his Christian
teaching—such as it was possible for him to acquire
in that day of constant war and rapine—were all active
in urging him to adventure his own life in saving
her who seemed about to perish before him. She too,
so young, so resigned, and—not the least consideration—
so really beautiful. But the necessary nerve
was wanting to the Maroon. He who dared not
the single stroke, though prompted by the woman he
professed to love, when it would have saved her from
shame, and himself from the bitter exile which he
now endured, was not likely to exhibit any rashness,
any ordinary courage, though with such a threatening
spectacle of death before him.
Happily for humanity, his apprehensions were all
idle. The meditated sacrifice in which the priestess
was about to officiate, contemplated not the life, but
the long and flowing locks of the damsel. These
were severed at a stroke, and hung up in the chamber,
from an arrow, the shaft of which was made to
-- 273 --
[figure description] Page 273.[end figure description]
penetrate a crevice in the rock. Then the maiden rose,
and taking the bunch of arrows which she had brought,
she snapped them in twain before the altar, which the
matron still continued to supply with aromatic gums
and fuel. Some further ceremonies were performed—
there was a solemn imposition of hands, while the
virgin knelt before the priestess, and the lips of the
latter were glued to the forehead of the girl. A
brief dialogue, in subdued and murmuring tones,
passed between them, and then the voices of both
rose in a wild, sad chant, the burden of which was
caught up by the voices of the females without. One
embrace followed the subsidence of the strain, and
the matron and the virgin parted—the former hurrying
from the cavern, and the latter sinking down, in
an agony of fear and grief, before the fitful blaze
upon the altar.
Lopez de Levya drew a long breath. He began to
grow courageous. The voices of the women without
were dying away in the distance. Could they have
retired to the boat, and could they be returning to
the distant shore from whence they came, leaving the
maid alone, as he himself had been left. Her evident
sorrow and apprehension declared this to be the case.
But it was evident that no such feeling moved her
abandonment as had occasioned his. The proofs of a
deep and tender interest had been shown her to the
last. He had heard the sighs, the moans, the murmurs
of the officiating matron. He had witnessed
her fond caresses of the damsel. He had heard with
quivering sensibilities, the wild sad chant of the
-- 274 --
[figure description] Page 274.[end figure description]
attending women, whose song still feebly fell upon his
senses from without.
The scene which he had witnessed was a religious
ceremony. But what did it contemplate? Was the
maiden thus left to herself—and to him—destined for
a sacrifice—to perish at last, before the altars of
some strange and savage divinity? It might be so;
but certainly no such purpose was designed at present,
for he did not fail to perceive that an ample supply
of food was left with her, sufficient for a month's consumption.
Or, was she destined, herself, to become
a priestess, officiating, like the matron, who had
left her, in the same and other mysterious rites, hereafter?
This was the more probable conjecture. At
least, such was the thought to which, after a rapid
mental survey of probabilities, our Maroon arrived.
Perhaps a little more deliberation might have rendered
it doubtful whether the innumerable signs which the
walls of the chamber presented, of repeated ceremonials
like the present, were not proofs that the
proceeding could not regard any such appropriation
of the neophyte. It was a ceremonial evidently common
to the tribe or nation. It was one through which,
at a certain period, each virgin had to pass. It was
indeed, a dedicatory, but it was an invocatory service
also. We may, in this place, briefly declare the object
of the ceremonial.
Among the Caribbeans, as among the aborigines of
the New World in most quarters, both sexes were dedicated,
separately, and by different rites, to fortune.
The period in life when they were to emerge from the
-- 275 --
[figure description] Page 275.[end figure description]
salutary restraints of the parent, and to be left to the
assertion of their own wits, and the exercise of their
own intelligence, was that chosen in which to solicit
for them the protection of the gods, who should confer
upon them some especial spiritual guide and guardian.
To propitiate the gods for this favor—to move them
to an indulgent dispensation—to secure a friendly and
favoring protector, and to inspire the young with
wisdom, courage, and faithfulness, were the objects of
the ceremonial. In the case of males, they were thus
consecrated when able to commence the labors of the
chase. They were subjected to severer ordeals than
the other sex, since the leading desire, with them,
was their proper endowment with hardihood and courage.
Long abstinence from food, exposure to cold,
and frequent stratagems by which to alarm them and
try their courage, were resorted to by those having
charge of their initiate. The maidens were more
gently entreated. Isolation, rather than exposure,
was the influence employed upon their courage. Food
was provided them, but of a sort rather to inflame the
fancies than the blood. This was to be chastened
rather than exhilarated. Roots of rare efficacy, the
virtues of which they knew—herbs which assailed the
brain and the nervous system, were silently mingled
with the food which was left for their sustenance, and
the very fumes of the aromatic woods and gums with
which they were appointed to feed their daily and
nightly fires, possessed a partially intoxicating effect
upon those who continued to inhale them. It was
while under such influences that the visions of the
-- 276 --
[figure description] Page 276.[end figure description]
youth were to be observed with heed. The images
that were most frequent in their dreams—the scenes
which they witnessed—the voices that they heard—
the laws which were declared—these were to be the
oracles by which their whole succeeding lives were to
be regulated. By these the young warrior was to be
guided in the chase or the conflict, and the young
woman, in the keeping of her household, the training
of her young, and the exercise of her sympathies and
tastes. The favorite or leading aspect, or object, in
their visions, was to become their guiding spirit forever
after. It was customary in many tribes, perhaps
in most, to adopt this object as their mark or sign;—
and this was the totem, inscribed upon the arm or
breast—not dissimilar to those of knighthood in the
Middle Ages, drawn from favorite objects of sight, or
the events most conspicuous in their lives; with this
difference, that, in Europe, the totem was inscribed
upon the shield, the surcoat, or the pennon—among
the savages of the New World, upon the naked person.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Night came on in the vaulted chamber of the lovely
isle, occupied only by the Indian damsel and the
Maroon. Without all was silent, except, now and
then, the bark of the marmozet as he bounded among
the cocoanut-trees above. Several hours had elapsed
since the sounds of the wild chant of the women had
-- 277 --
[figure description] Page 277.[end figure description]
failed upon his ears, yet our Spaniard maintained his
place of hiding with religious quietude. Meanwhile,
the girl fed the fires upon her altar. She sat upon a
rude swelling of the rocky floor, her hands folded in
her lap, and the ends of her shortened hair resting
upon her shoulders. Her form was rather between
the Maroon and the fire, the blaze of which, as she
heightened it by occasional supplies of fuel, made
marvellously distinct, in his eyes, the exquisite outline
of her delicate but well-marked profile. And thus she
sat, and such was her only office, for several hours
more.
It must have been full midnight, when our Spaniard,
who had not slept an instant, discovered that sleep
had seized upon the senses of the Indian damsel.
Her form subsided into an attitude favorable to rest.
She sank upon one side, her head resting upon a sudden
elevation of the floor, which conducted to the niche
which seemed to have been employed as a couch on previous
occasions, and where, for the last two nights,
Lopez himself had taken his rest. Her breathing was
soft and regular. It denoted a calm and perfect
sleep. He was encouraged and gradually withdrew
from his place of concealment. His steps were cautiously
taken. He drew nigh to the sleeper—surveyed
her with a keen and pleasant interest;—then,
farther to be sure, he stole forth into the antechamber
of the vault, and gliding cautiously, maintaining a
vigilant watch all the while, he emerged from the
cavern, and stood upon the beach. The waters of the
sea had gone down. The gray sands were quite
-- 278 --
[figure description] Page 278.[end figure description]
uncovered for a long stretch, the spot being wholly bare
upon which the Indian bark had anchored during the
afternoon. The moon was high in heaven, and at her
full. No cloud obscured or sullied the blue serenity
of the skies. The scene was eminently and wholly
spiritual. There was nothing human visible in the
surrounding aspects of ocean, sky, and land. Satisfied
of this, our Maroon returned, with rather hurried
footsteps, to the cavern. He stole back cautiously,
however, so as not to disturb the damsel. She still
slept, her position being totally unchanged. But the
fire had grown faint upon her altars. He fed it with
a handful of the fuel that lay contiguous. He knelt
beside her, and in the reviving blaze, he examined
closely the innocent features, which he had thought
so very sweet and beautiful in the before imperfect
light. The nearer survey did not lessen her loveliness
in his sight. Her closed eyes, and her slightly
parted lips, were studies for the sculptor, they were
so delicate in their structure, yet so admirably defined.
The features might have been thought Castilian. The
forehead was high but narrow, the nose good, and the
neck moderately large and smooth, rising into the
gentle swell of a bosom which had not yet learned to
heave with other than happy childish emotions. One
of her hands, the fingers of which were long and taper,
had stolen to her breast, the partial drapery of which
it seemed to grasp. The other lay at her side, the
fingers closing upon a handful of wood intended for
the fire. Thus she slept.
The Maroon stooped and pressed his lips closely
-- 279 --
[figure description] Page 279.[end figure description]
upon hers, she sighed deeply, but moved not. Again
he repeated the kiss, and her eyes opened upon him.
They closed involuntarily. Again they opened, and
now with a wild, appealing expression. He had
slightly retreated, as he found her about to waken.
He had regained his feet. He stood somewhat apart,
the altar being in some degree between them.
We have spoken of the personal appearance of
Lopez de Levya as being pleasing to the eye of woman.
At this moment it looked manly as well as
pleasing; and, in the doubtful light of the cavern,
with his form erect, his features half shaded by the
gloom, his knife at his girdle, and a rich red scarf
about his waist, he might have served for the model of
one of those brigands, a compound of Orson and Adonis,
whom we see so commonly in Italian pictures.
The impression was not unfavorable upon the eyes of
the Indian damsel. But her senses had evidently
mingled the aspect before her with the object in her
dream—the purpose of her watch and ordeal—the
beneficent creature vouchsafed by her savage gods,
from whose guidance her future destiny was to be
shaped and governed. The instincts of the Spaniard
were sufficiently acute to see the impression that he
had made, and to conjecture, in some measure, its origin.
He was well aware that the first impression of the
European upon the aborigines was that of a superior
being. The devout appealing eyes of the damsel—her
hands crossed upon her breast—satisfied our Maroon
that she held him to be so. He advanced a single step,
he smiled on her kindly, he raised one hand upward to
-- 280 --
[figure description] Page 280.[end figure description]
heaven, while he placed the other on his heart. She
followed all his movements with others like them.
Her hand was lifted to heaven, and carried to her
breast. She too smiled—the smile of innocent hope,
that might have brought with it warmer assurances.
He spoke sweetly and tenderly, but the words were
lost upon incapable but not unheeding senses. She
shook her head with a mournfulness of look that told
him, plain as words could speak, how sorrowful she
was that she knew not what he said. But he smiled
encouragingly, and resorted once more to signs to
assure her of his affection. These she understood.
The language of the heart is a very universal one.
Charity and sympathy may speak and be understood,
though they have not a word in common with the
hearer, from the centre to the pole. She answered
his signs. She pointed to the fires before her. She
threw a fresh supply of fuel upon the blaze, then rising
to her knees, knelt before him, and crossed her
hands upon her bosom. He stooped, and took her in
his arms. She would have receded, but he held her
tenderly in his grasp, and once more pressed his lips
upon hers. She sank submissive in his embrace. She
spoke but a single sentence, but one of its words
smote his ear like a familiar accent. He had picked
up a few of the Caribbean phrases from Spaniards who
had been among this people. The girl had designated
him as “the good White Spirit.” The word
“spirit” had become a frequent one in the intercourse
of the Jesuit missionaries with the heathen. God,
and love, and heaven, good, bad, the sky, the sea, the
-- 281 --
[figure description] Page 281.[end figure description]
boat, Castile, white and red man—these, and several
other words had, from the communion of the Spaniards
with the tribes of the Caribbean Sea, grown to
be a tolerably common property with the two races.
Lopez rapidly ran over in the ears of the girl all of
this description which he found it easy to remember
on the instant. Some of these she repeated after him
with ready acquiescence. Again she described him as
the good white spirit—her good white spirit—and he
now understood her.
He did not disabuse her. He feared to forfeit her
reverence, in seeking to awake a humbler emotion;
and as the master of her destiny, a celestial visitant,
provided for her guidance, he proceeded to enforce
her affections. He placed himself beside her—together
they supplied the altar with fuel and incense, and
when he kissed her lips, she crossed her arms upon
her breast, and submitted with delighted reverence.
It was the benevolent spirit whose favor she implored,
who then, in his most gracious aspect, presented
himself in compliance with her invocations. She had
been taught to believe that he was difficult of approach—
slow to be won—reluctant to appear;—that it required
earnest and long-continued devotions, and a
painful and protracted vigil. How fortunate was she
among her sex, that, in her instance, he had departed
from his wonted severity!—that, instead of presenting
himself, as he was reported frequently to have done—
in harsh and ungenial aspects—in the shape of
bird, or beast, or reptile—he had assumed his
noblest attributes of form, and put on features not
-- 282 --
[figure description] Page 282.[end figure description]
only of the highest, but of the tenderest character.
Verily, she was the favored among women! The
tones of the Spaniard's voice were to her sounds of
the sweetest music from the Caribbean heaven. His
smile was that glance of the morning or of the evening,
when the brightness is equally rare and benignant;
and, when his hand rested upon her cheek or
neck, she felt the thrill of an emotion through all her
veins, such as she had been taught to believe was
vouchsafed only to the favored few, the select of the
Caribbean Elysium. Their eyes took part in their
constant intercourse, and never had Lopez looked or
spoken with so successful eloquence. Though she
comprehended but few of his words, yet nothing was
thrown away of all that fell from his lips. As at the
first, in the primal hour of creation, the speech which
Heaven bestowed upon its creatures was that of love,
so love constitutes the basis of that ancient language
which it is still so easy for the heart to comprehend.
Assisted by this heart-manual, it was easy for Lopez
to make his Spanish and her Indian words subservient
to their gradual use; and ere they sunk exhausted into
the mutual arms of sleep that night, they had commenced
a course of study quite as rapid as the Robertsonian
method, by which a modern or ancient dialect
is to be mastered in six lessons.
The bridal hour of the two exiles thus strangely
brought together, promised to be as happy in its progress,
as the destiny in which it had its origin was
solemn and peculiar. With the dawn, the two awakened
to neither repining nor repentance. Life had
-- 283 --
[figure description] Page 283.[end figure description]
suddenly put on her loveliest aspects to both. The
Spaniard was no longer lonesome in his solitude, and
the damsel was happy in the faith that she was
favored among women, by the very deity to whom her
sex devotes the most dutiful and earnest solicitations.
CHAPTER XIX.
The passion thus begun, and sanctioned, as it
would seem, by an especial Providence, was neither
slow to ripen nor of modified character. The very
isolation of their abode, separated from all the world
beside, tended to compel their affections eagerly, and
into the same channel. But it was not long before
the Indian damsel learned to comprehend the purely
human character of her companion. Her very love
produced this discovery, since it could only exist in
its natural intensity in the untutored mind, in the
comparative loss of its veneration. The young Spaniard
no longer repined at his desolate condition. The
fate to which he resigned himself had received its consolations,
and in the first few days of his happiness,
if he thought at all of his late comrades, it was with
something of fear and misgiving, lest they should
come and tear him away from an abode in which he
was equally free and happy.
The morning after their first meeting, he stole
from her side while she yet slept, and from the antechamber
of the cavern awakened her with a soft sweet
-- 284 --
[figure description] Page 284.[end figure description]
strain from his guitar. It was the first time he had
touched the strings since the instrument had been
hung about his neck in mockery. She started from the
mossy niche where she lay, and lighting anew the fire
upon her altars, sank before it in the attitude of
prayer. A delirious delight was visible upon her
countenance as the music reached her ears, and when
Lopez looked in upon her, she bore the expression of
one whose whole soul was lifted with a sense of the
Divine favor. He made the guitar the instrument for
her education. She had the sweetest voice herself,
and for his music, gave him wild ballads of her own
people, of which he could appreciate the music only.
But their words were rapidly interchanged. The
lessons were constant, and conveyed through numerous
media of which the teacher in civilized life can have
no notion. Life itself depended on their progress,
and when this is the case, the tuition must be marvellously
rapid—love as life—their daily sports, their
mutual progress—the exercise of their tastes—their
consultations upon sea, and sky, and grove, the passage
of the wild bird—the bound of the marmozet—
the gathering of fruit—the song, the dance, the sigh,
the smile—all these provoked their lessons and exercised
their industry in acquisition. It was not long
before they declared themselves in syllables that took
the place of simple sounds—not long before the teacher
could listen with delight to the childish prattler at his
side, whose accents would have seemed uncouth in the
ears of critics only. Day by day, teaching and taught,
the horizon of their hopes and affections sensibly
-- 285 --
[figure description] Page 285.[end figure description]
expanded before their minds, and the damsel did not
cease to be less innocent because she had learned not
only to understand her own emotions, but to comprehend
the real nature of the companion from whom she
had learned the first great lesson of the woman heart.
She was not less happy that, in losing a God, she had
found a lover and a Lord!
CHAPTER XX.
The world for a brief season seemed wholly surrendered
to them. They lived for each other only; and
as they saw no other forms, so they forgot for a time,
that they were to be disturbed by other beings of a
nature like their own. Lopez had no hopes—shall
we call them fears?—that the Dian de Burgos would
ever again appear to seek him out in his place of
exile. He knew how serious and how terrible always
were the jokes of his late tyrant, and never looked
for his repentance. Nor did the poor Amaya—such
was the name of the damsel—dream that her Caribbean
kindred would ever sunder a union so marvellously
wrought by Heaven. Her barbarous rites were
neglected in the prompt realization of her dreams.
This was due in great measure to the teachings of the
Maroon. Already had he begun to bestow upon
her some of his theology—crude and selfish as it was.
The Agnus Dei which he put into her hands, was
quite as frequently an object of her entreaty as it
-- 286 --
[figure description] Page 286.[end figure description]
was of his. Their supplications, at morning and at
evening, to the Virgin, were twined together; and it
must be confessed that, of the two, the poor pagan
damsel was much more earnest in her prayers than
the habitual Christian.
He taught her other lessons. Already had he
begun to conduct her fingers among the strings of his
guitar, and she, rejoicing at the merry tinkle which
she produced, soon promised to acquire its language.
The instrument was constantly in her keeping, except
when she summoned him to perform upon it. Then
she sat beside him, on the edge of the great ocean,
and while the waters rolled and tumbled toward their
feet, she listened to his chant—his fierce ballads of
Spanish chivalry—comprehending but little of the
story, but feeling all the sweetness of the music, the
more perhaps that the words were mysterious and
vague.
But their sports were not always of this subdued
order, though they were scarcely less romantic—such,
at least, as she now taught and encouraged him to
practise. The sea was scarcely an object of terror
to the practised swimmers of the Caribbean Isles.
Amaya, like all the damsels of her people, had been
accustomed to embrace its billows from her infancy.
She soon taught the more apprehensive Lopez to pursue
her in the waves. At the fall of the tide she led
him off among the rocks, whose heads at such periods
were distinctly visible. Here, resting on their dark
gray summits, he beheld her, with a terror in which
she did not share, leap down into the boiling black
-- 287 --
[figure description] Page 287.[end figure description]
abysses, and disappear wholly from his sight. Before
he had yet recovered from his alarm, she reappeared,
bringing up with her the peculiar oyster, whose
immedicable wounds give birth to the beautiful pearl
which is so much valued, though not in the same
degree, by Indian and European. After this discovery,
our Maroon encouraged the sport which had
first alarmed his fears. He, too, acquired courage
from cupidity, and, being no bad swimmer, he
learned to follow her into the grim recesses of the
rocks, when the seas were at repose. He reserved to
himself the opening of the valves, so that he extricated
the fruit from their embrace, without subjecting
it to injury. Great was the wealth which he thus
acquired, to say nothing of the ancient treasures of
the cavern.
But these treasures, which he had not sought, were
valueless where he was. His possessions, so unsuited
to his present condition, first taught him to repine.
When he looked upon his unprofitable stores, his
thoughts immediately yearned for the native land, in
which they had made him famous. With this recollection,
his heart saddened within him. He looked
earnestly along the ocean waste for some sign of his
countrymen. He looked with a momentary indifference
upon the sweet, wild, and artless creature, who
gambolled before his eyes, or crouched in confidence
beside him. Her keen glance beheld these changes.
No change in his aspect ever escaped her vigilance.
At such moments, she would incline herself timidly
toward him—would draw his attention by little
-- 288 --
[figure description] Page 288.[end figure description]
artifices—would appeal to him in awkward Castilian,
which insensibly glided into her native Caribbean
tongue;—the broken accents finally acquiring emphasis
as they concluded in some sweet and foreign ditty.
Sometimes, with a playful fondness, she would assail
his melancholy by sudden plunges into the billows,
striking out for the cluster of little rocks; hiding in
whose hollows, she would beguile him with a wild
strain of her people, or in appealing fancies of her
own, which might have found a fitting translation in
such a ballad as the following:—
THE LAY OF THE CARIB DAMSEL.
I.
Come, seek the ocean's depths with me,
For there are joys beneath the sea;
Joys, that when all is dark above,
Make all below a home of love!
II.
In hollow bright and fountain clear,
Lo! thousand pearl await us there;
And amber drops that sea-birds weep
In sparry caves along the deep.
III.
A crystal chamber there I know,
Where never yet did sunshaft go;
The soft moss from the rocks, I take,
Of this our nuptial couch to make.
IV.
There, as thou yieldest on my breast,
My songs shall soothe thy happy rest—
Such songs as still our prophets hear,
When winds and stars are singing near.
-- 289 --
[figure description] Page 289.[end figure description]
V.
These tell of climes, whose deep delight
Knows never change from day to night;
Where, if we love, the blooms and flowers,
And fruits—shall evermore be ours.
VI.
Oh! yield thee to the hope I bring;
Believe the truth I feel and sing;
Nor teach thy spirit thus to weep
Thy Christian home beyond the deep.
VII.
'Tis little—ah! too well I know,
The poor Amaya may bestow—
But if a heart that's truly thine,
Be worthy thee, O, cherish mine!
VIII.
My life is in thy look—for thee
I bloom, as for the sun the tree;
My hopes—when thou forget'st thy woes—
Unfold, as flowers when winter goes.
IX.
And though, as our traditions say,
There bloom the worlds of endless day,
I would not care to seek the sky,
If there thy spirit did not fly.
It was impossible even for a heart so selfish as that
of our Maroon, wholly to resist a confidence so sweet
and touching. The wild grace of her action, the
spiritual delicacy of her love, the delightful companionship
with which she cheered his solitude—all succeeded,
in the absence of any absolute temptations,
to secure his continued devotion to her charms.
But a change was destined to cast its shadow over
their otherwise happy dreams. Three weeks of
-- 290 --
[figure description] Page 290.[end figure description]
delight, with little interval and scarcely any respite, had
passed since they first knew each other. No doubt of
the security, as well as transport, of her condition,
assailed the heart of the Indian damsel; and if the
Spaniard ever thought of his home, it was only as
one of those vexing fancies, which, as he could
scarcely hope to realize it, it was but childish to encourage.
He made the most of his present happiness,
and resigned himself to the possession of Amaya,
with the more satisfaction, indeed, since, in a choice
among a thousand, she still would most probably have
been the object of his preference. But he did not
the less regard the dowry which she brought him.
He subjected his treasure to daily examination, and,
when the weather served, to daily increase. His
necessities made him a miser. He did not the less
enjoy the treasure, which it seemed he could never
spend.
CHAPTER XXI.
But a new prospect of freedom, in this respect,
was about to open upon him. One morning, whilst
our wealthy Maroon was still engaged in the cleansing
and assorting of his treasure, close in his cavern—
he was surprised by the sudden and unexpected entrance
of Amaya, with words of wonder on her
tongue, and looks of terror in her face. He hastily
put his pearls from sight, and hurried with her to the
-- 291 --
[figure description] Page 291.[end figure description]
entrance of the cavern. There, in the sea-monster
which alarmed her with a nameless fear, he beheld an
object of scarcely less terror to himself. This was
an European vessel. It might—it must be a Spaniard—
but it was still at too great a distance to enable
him to solve his doubts, or to relieve or increase
his apprehensions. It was evidently approaching his
islet; and for what visitor, other than Velasquez,
should he look?
In a secure cover, on the top of his cavern, our
Maroon, with the trembling Amaya beside him,
watched the course of the stranger. The Indian girl
beheld the anxiety of her companion—to describe the
feeling at his heart, embodied in his looks and actions,
by its gentlest name—and her own terrors increased
accordingly. In the brief space of time between the
first appearance of the vessel, and his discovery of
her true character, Lopez de Levya rapidly ran over
in his mind the prospects of his condition—the probable
object of the Dian de Burgos, and the effect of
this return, upon his fortunes. What had he to hope
from Velasquez, or the implacable Juan, his rival?
What motive, but that of mockery and a cruel curiosity,
would have brought either of them back to the
spot where they had marooned him? And should
they search for him, what was his hope of concealment?
He could hide from the Caribbeans, who had no suspicion
of any presence but their own—but from the
people of the Dian de Burgos there was no concealment.
They would search the island—they would
discover the cavern, and not one of its crevices could
-- 292 --
[figure description] Page 292.[end figure description]
be made safe against their penetrating eyes or their
probing lances.
A cold sweat covered the limbs of the miserable
creature, as his rapid thoughts coursed over the whole
ground of his condition. And yet, it will scarcely be
believed that, thus doubtful of his own fate, he could
yet think of concealing his newly-gotten treasure.
He hurried back into his cave, counselling Amaya still
to maintain her watch upon the stranger. In secret,
he toiled to place his pearls in security. The crevice
which let in the light on one side the vault, he busily
crammed with the soft moss and leaves taken from the
couch in which he had slept. The light being excluded,
he placed his baskets of treasure along the ledge,
and concealed them in like manner. Nothing but the
closest search, under the stimulating influence of a
suspicion that something was concealed, could have
led to the discovery of his possessions. There was
no way of hiding himself in the same manner; and,
full of the most horrible apprehensions, he joined
Amaya upon the eminence.
It was now necessary to think of her. Should Velasquez
suspect the treasure—should Juan obtain sight
of her, or any of the Spaniards—she would be torn
from his arms with unscrupulous violence. To conceal
her, it was necessary that the cave should be kept
from their knowledge. He conducted her into its recesses.
He showed her where he himself had been
hidden, and easily persuaded her to seek shelter in its
dusky recesses. She might hope to escape unnoticed,
even if the cave were penetrated; but her safety,
-- 293 --
[figure description] Page 293.[end figure description]
should the bark be the Dian de Burgos, lay only in
showing himself. Upon this policy, still trembling to
encounter the cruel Velasquez and insidious and hateful
Juan, the Maroon resolved. He continued his watch
in secrecy, though passing from copse to copse; he
left the neighborhood of his cavern, as the chewit flies
always from the spot where her young are hidden.
The vessel approached that part of the island where
he had been landed. This increased his fears that
she was that of his tyrant. If he came to mock, it
was the game of Lopez to implore and seem repentant.
If to pardon, it was his policy rather to appear surly,
and provoke his enemy to continued hostility;—for,
though anxious to reach Spain with his treasure, yet
our Maroon well knew that, with Juan or Velasquez
as a master, the very suspicion of his great possessions
would be fatal to his life. Better, then, to delay
the day of his restoration, than peril everything
on a hope so doubtful. But, in truth, Lopez de Levya
was not in a condition of mind to resolve on any
policy. He was now, as he had ever been before, the
creature of events!
CHAPTER XXII.
These, for once at least, proved favorable to his
fortunes. We have already detailed the fearful circumstances
which had changed the dynasty on board
the Dian de Burgos. Linares and Maria de Pacheco
-- 294 --
[figure description] Page 294.[end figure description]
were now the masters, but the former had no control
over the proud intelligent spirit by whom the whole
proceeding had been counselled. He was a mere
seaman—a bold, strong man—who, conscious of his
own deficiencies, was not unwilling to supply them
from the stores of one who had so much identified her
fortunes with his own. She asked for little in return,
and that he was disposed to accord. He was the
captain of the ship, but she was the guiding spirit.
He did not seek her affections. On this point—indulgent,
perhaps, on all others—she had shown herself
equally resentful and inflexible. But it will suffice
for us that they understood each other, and that
Linares lent himself to her project of rescuing Lopez.
The latter had but little esteem among the seamen,
but he had been harmless, was really gentle in his
nature in proportion as he was timid, and his cruel
punishment had won their pity and their sympathies.
The sailor of that day looked upon the maroon as
doomed to a much worse punishment than death!
Impatient on the prow of the Dian de Burgos, stood
the proud but anxious woman, as the ship approached
the shore. Concealed among a cluster of young
palms, Lopez beheld her; and, in the position which
she held, her eager attitude and outstretched hand,
he at once inferred some great change in her fortunes
and his own. His heart was instantly strengthened.
He came forth from his hiding-place, and the ship,
dropping her anchors, Maria de Pacheco was the first
to descend into the boat which now hurried to the
shore. We need not attempt to depict her raptures or
-- 295 --
[figure description] Page 295.[end figure description]
his own. In her case, they were those of a strong
impetuous nature—her very fondness being linked
with an arrogance of will, which rather compelled
and commanded, than solicited affection in return.
The submissive spirit of the Maroon did not dare to
withhold the expression of a joy, and the declaration
of an attachment, beyond any which he possibly could
feel. Perhaps, of the two persons, there was much
more in the gentle and dependent nature of Amaya,
to persuade him into love, than in that of the imperious
woman whom he had certainly learned to fear.
But she brought with her something more than the
poor Indian girl could offer. Her coming promised
him a restoration to his country, and the privilege of
growing famous in the use of his Caribbean treasures.
The very dowry of Amaya was hostile to her claims.
Of this dowry—of Amaya herself—he religiously
forbore to whisper aught to the proud woman who stood
beside him, and who naturally spoke and thought as
if she were as much the mistress of his heart as she
was of his fate. She soon told him all her story, and he
revealed such portions of his as might satisfy her inquiries
without provoking any doubts. He described
the beauties of his islet. He showed her where he
had often slept, beneath the palms. He gathered for
her his fresh and luscious fruits, and in the delight
and wonder with which she beheld this new paradise,
and in the happy consciousness of the attainment of
all for which she had striven, at such fearful sacrifice
of pride and feminine feeling, she yielded herself up
to the sweet and innocent attractions which gathered
-- 296 --
[figure description] Page 296.[end figure description]
around her. It was with a vague feeling of terror
that he heard her declare her purpose to explore his
empire, and to see, for herself, the beautiful retreats
and resources which had so singularly fallen to his
possession.
CHAPTER XXIII.
The situation of our Maroon was one of considerable
difficulty. There was no pretext by which he
could avoid the contemplated exploration of his islet
by the woman who was the mistress of his fate, and,
as she naturally enough assumed, of his affections also.
What had she not perilled for those affections? The
conviction of her own sacrifices—the belief that she
had saved him from a cruel destiny, and that he felt
the profoundest gratitude for her love—had rendered
her more subdued, and gentle of tone and carriage,
than he had ever before seen her. She had no longer
to contend with the brutal passions of Velasquez or
the subtle and insolent spirit of his nephew. There
was no influence now to combat her imperious will,
and to oppose itself to the exercise of her own passions.
She had won the fearful game for which she
had played, and she might well give herself a brief
respite after the contest. The sweet and balmy climate
of the islet, the picturesque beauty of its aspects—
its delicious fruits—the novelty of such an abode—
and, above all, that romantic passion for solitude—
-- 297 --
[figure description] Page 297.[end figure description]
with a companion—which accompanies the fresher
sensibilities of youth—all tended to excite in Maria
de Pacheco the desire which she expressed, at least, to
dream away a single night on the lonely domain of
the Maroon. Her early career in the haunts of
the gypsy, was recalled to memory; and she longed to
realize anew, the wild sense of pleasure which her
passionate childhood had felt, dreaming beneath the
arch of heaven, and gazing away long lapses of the
night, in mute communion with the sadly bright, down-looking
stars. Here, in a solitude which her lover
had maintained for near a month, she might surely
rest one night in safety. The boat might return to
the ship—nay, should return, and she should share,
for that night, with Lopez, the sovereignty of the
island.
“They shall maroon me also, Lopez.”
“They may!” was his suggestion.
“Nay, I fear not. Linares is faithful to me. He
cannot well do without me.”
“But he may be blown off with a tempest. They
are fierce and sudden in these latitudes, and terrible
in proportion to the beauty and serenity of the calmness
now.”
“Well, Linares will come back for us.”
“But, should he founder?”
“We, then, are safe, Lopez!”
The answer silenced him for awhile. But he renewed
the attempt—more cautiously, but with such
suggestions as might have influenced his own nature.
He described to her the unwonted terrors which had
-- 298 --
[figure description] Page 298.[end figure description]
assailed him in his first acquaintance with the island.
The lowing of strange beasts of the sea, which sometimes
came to sleep by night upon the shore;—the
screams of unknown birds of great expanse of wing
and power, glimpses of which he caught, rising and
descending, as from the stars, at midnight;—the awful
plunges of wild monsters, from the shore into the
sea, and the bellowing of whole tribes of strange animals,
whose uproar seemed to shake the islet itself.
But these rather provoked the curiosity than the alarm
of the fearless woman. The novelty of such sights
and sounds precluded the images of terror which he
sought to raise. She declared the very loneliness
which still made him shudder, to be a consciousness
highly desirable to her heart; and as for the great
birds and beasts—she had seen the elephant, and had
heard the lion roar in his own desert of Sahara; and
the very safety of her lover was a sufficient proof that
she could be in no peril. Her will proved superior
to his fears. The boat was filled with fruit, and sent
back to the ship, and Linares was entreated to lay his
vessel at anchor for the night, when the two would
come on board in the morning.
To keep Maria from the cave, was now the object
of the Maroon;—to prolong his ramble until nightfall,
among the groves, and along the sea-shore—and,
in the night, while she slept, to steal away from her side—
regain the cave, repossess himself of his treasure, and
soothe the fears and the suspicions of Amaya, so that
he might abandon her in safety, and without detection
by the woman whom he most feared;—this was the
-- 299 --
[figure description] Page 299.[end figure description]
notable scheme which he suddenly devised, when he
found that Maria was fixed in her purpose of remaining
on the islet. To leave his treasure was out of the
question. But for this treasure he had not cared to
leave the place. He was really very happy with the
Indian damsel—might have been completely happy
but for the dowry which she brought, and which filled
him with the proudest fancies of the figure that he
should make in Spain. To say that he had no compunctious
visitings of conscience at the thought of her
abused devotion—of his so soon and cruel abandonment
of one who so thoroughly confided to his affections—
would be to do him great injustice. But the
sympathies of the heart, unless sustained and strengthened
by a decisive will of the intellect, are never long
to be relied on. They are at the mercy of every
mind, who brings to its support a resolute and earnest
character. Lopez was humbled when he thought of
Amaya, but his remedy was to dismiss her from his
thoughts with all possible rapidity. He was compelled
to do so, for his companion required all his attentions.
We shall say nothing of her shows of fondness.
Maria de Pacheco was not feeble or childish—not
wanton, indeed—in the display of her attachments.
She was too proud for the exhibition of love in its
weakness and dependence. But she indulged the
mood somewhat after the fashion of the Sultana
of the East. She willed to love, and to be loved, and
she required obedience. It was necessary that Lopez
should prove that he was not ungrateful for the risks
which she had run, and the sacrifices which she had
-- 300 --
[figure description] Page 300.[end figure description]
made, in his behalf. It was needful that his attachment
should be as fond, and his behavior as dutiful, as it
had been before the unfortunate discovery which had
placed them both at the mercy of Juan. That he
was reluctant, or forgetful in any respect, Maria was
not suffered to perceive. Excited as she was by her
own emotions—the consciousness of a great battle
fought, and a triumph gained—the last trophies of
which were now in her hands—she, perhaps, would
have been slow to detect the wandering mood and the
indifferent manner of her companion, even if he had
betrayed either. But the timid nature is always solicitous
how it alarms or offends the bold one; and on
the score of his devotedness, Maria beheld nothing,
as yet, to occasion her jealousy. But his will, which
kept him observant of her moods, was not sufficient
to prescribe to her the course to be pursued, or to arrest
her eager progress. Her impetuous spirit hurried
her forward; and the ground which—feeling his way at
every step—it had taken Lopez several days to traverse,
when he first undertook to explore his territory—
was now overcome in a few hours. Vainly did he
seek to detain her gaze—to arrest her progress, and
inspire in her an admiration of objects which had never
once fixed his own. His artifices, though never suspected,
were always fruitless. She still made fearful
progress. The sea-shore was abandoned, the cool
groves received them, the plain rose beneath her footsteps—
they were already upon the slopes of that elevation,
at the extremity of which lay the secret and
the treasure of the Maroon. He looked back in
-- 301 --
[figure description] Page 301.[end figure description]
terror for the sun. His round red orb still shone
high and proudly in the heavens; and it was with
equal wonder and self-reproach that Lopez remembered
how long it was before his timid spirit had suffered
him to compass the same extent of territory. The
paths naturally opened for her footsteps. They had
often been traversed by his own; and it was with a
mortal fear that Lopez momently caught glimpses of
the small, naked footstep of Amaya, on the softer
sands, as she had wandered beside him in their rambles.
But these were never seen by Maria de Pacheco. The
earnest and intense nature seldom pauses for the small
details in progress. Her proud spirit was always
upward as well as onward—always above the earth.
She threw herself suddenly down beneath the thicket.
There was a pause. Our Maroon enjoyed a brief
respite from his terrors. He threw himself beside
her, and her eyes closed in his embrace. To a fierce
and intense nature such as hers, there is something
delicious in the pauses of the strife, but it is only because
they are momentary. The rest from conquest
is perhaps the only real luxury of enthusiasm;—but
the interval is brief, and is simply designed to afford
a renewal of the vitality necessary for continued action.
“How sweet, how beautiful, is the repose of sky,
and shore, and sea! What a delicious languor of atmosphere
is this!”—and a moment after speaking thus,
Maria de Pacheco shook off her own languor, and was
once more upon her feet.
“Will she now return to the shore—to the palms
-- 302 --
[figure description] Page 302.[end figure description]
where I told her I had slept?” Such was the secret
inquiry of his heart. She had no such purpose. Her
curiosity was still unsatisfied. Besides, to walk simply
upon the solid earth, after weeks on shipboard, is itself
a luxury. The sun was still high, and bright,
though sloping gradually to the sea. The step of
Maria was taken forward, and Lopez followed, like a
criminal, with reluctant footsteps, as if going to execution.
They stood at length on the brow of the hill,
which looked over to the Caribbean shore. The abrupt
precipice arrested her farther progress, and she stood
gazing with eager satisfaction upon the small, snug,
and lovely domain of the Maroon.
CHAPTER XXIV.
The thoughts coursed rapidly through the brain of
Lopez de Levya. He felt that she was on the brink
of his secret. Another step to the right or to the
left, and the descending pathway would lead to the
sandy esplanade at the mouth of the cave; and, with
her restless glances, what could keep her from discovering
its curious portal, and penetrating to its inmost
recesses. Were she to make this discovery without
his assistance, her suspicions might well be awakened!
He resolved with unaccustomed boldness. He
made a merit of necessity. He put his hand upon
her arm, and with a sweet significant smile looked
upon her face as she gazed upward.
-- 303 --
[figure description] Page 303.[end figure description]
“I have reserved, for the last, my greatest curiosity.
I have conducted you hither to surprise you.
Follow me now, and you will see how complete is my
establishment!”
She did not reflect that he had been guided by her
footsteps, and that his reluctance at her inspection of
his territories had been declared from the beginning.
She was sufficiently happy, and indulged in no recollections
or reflections which might occasion doubt or
suspicion. He led the way, and she descended to the
beach. He conducted her to the cave, and, with the
eager delight of a curious child, she darted into its recesses.
The antechamber was a wonder, but the interior
aroused all that was romantic in her nature.
It was just the sort of dwelling for one trained among
the gypsies of the Alpuxarras. The chamber was so
wild and snug! The stone, such a truly Egyptian
fireplace! She did not dream of its uses as an altar,
nor did he breathe a syllable on this subject. And
the couch in which he had slept, in which there still
remained a sufficient supply of moss and leaves, to
render it suitable for the same purpose, was one to
determine her instantly that it should be hers that
very night.
We need not describe the consternation of Lopez as
he listened to this resolve. It completed his disquiet
and annoyance. He had trembled at every step which
she had taken—at every glance of her eye when the
cave was entered. He feared her eager survey—her
penetrating scrutiny. His eyes stole frequently and
unconsciously to the remote corner of the cave in
-- 304 --
[figure description] Page 304.[end figure description]
which he had concealed Amaya; and while he trembled
at the possible discoveries of the Spanish woman, his
companion, his heart smote him for those which the
poor girl of Caribbee must have already made. For
Maria de Pacheco, assuming the duty and devotion of
her lover, had not spared her endearments. The
silence and the secrecy of the cavern seemed to invite
them. She had hung upon his neck with her caresses,
and he had been compelled to requite them, though
in fear and trembling. His conscience smote him
when he thought of the unselfish and confiding passion
of Amaya—her simple truth, her gentle nature, and
the artless sweetness of her affections. But to withstand
the imperious spirit of the woman at his side,
was not within his strength and courage. His fears,
and the new-born agonies of the Indian woman, may
be more easily imagined than described.
CHAPTER XXV.
Again did the two emerge from the cavern. The
sun had set! Night was falling rapidly, as is its wont
in those regions, where the day makes, as it were,
but a single transition, from meridian brightness to
the stillness and the dusk of midnight. An angry
flush lay in the region where the sun went down, to
the wary mariner denoting wind and tempest. But
neither Lopez nor his companion thought of storm;
nor did this fear impress the seamen on board the
-- 305 --
[figure description] Page 305.[end figure description]
Dian de Burgos. The fruits from the shore—the momentary
pause from the ordinary duties of the sea—
and a division of a portion of the treasures of Velasquez
and Juan among the crew, by way of hush-money
and bounty, called for something like indulgence.
The Dian de Burgos was not without her luxuries.
The stores of her late captain were fished up. Linares
was disposed to be liberal to his former comrades;
and wine and stronger beverages were not denied to
their enjoyment. It was among the infirmities of
Linares, that he himself was not wholly insensible to
the joys of the vine. As the heir of Velasquez, he
might certainly indulge his tastes. He did so; and
while Maria de Pacheco luxuriated in the delights of
love, he gratified his newly-gotten liberty by sacrifices
at the altars of a very different deity.
Ordinary precautions are soon forgotten in the acquisition
of extraordinary pleasures. No one thought
of tempest. The evening remained calm. There was
little wind stirring, just enough to break into irregular
but not threatening billows the vast surface of
the sea. The stars were out soon, large, bright, and
very numerous. A thin drift of clouds might be seen
to scud slowly away among them from the west to
the east. Lopez would have led his companion away
from the cavern—would have persuaded her to a couch
among the palms, where, as he showed her, his own
had first been made. But she had resolved upon the
chamber in the cavern, and he was compelled to submit.
They re-entered it with heedful footsteps. The
interior was wholly dark, except where, in the inner
-- 306 --
[figure description] Page 306.[end figure description]
apartment, the light of the stars made its way through
the two small apertures which the Maroon had left
unclosed. It was long before they slept. Much had
Maria de Pacheco to relate. She gave him the details
of the conspiracy against Velasquez. She suppressed
nothing of her own share in the proceedings,
and declared a very natural and feminine horror at
the catastrophe, which she yet insisted on as necessary
to her own safety and to his. The Maroon listened
to the narrative with conflicting feelings, and in
silence. The conduct of Maria established a new
claim upon his gratitude; but it did not contribute to
the strength of his former passion; and his thoughts,
fascinated by the terrible story to which he listened,
were sometimes startled from their propriety, as he
heard, more than once, what seemed to him a deep
sigh from the hiding-place of Amaya. It may have
been in his fancy only that this intrusive monitor was
heard, but it sufficed to keep him apprehensive. Fortunately,
Maria de Pacheco heard nothing. She had
no suspicions; and, in the death of Juan and Velasquez,
her fears were all ended. In the recovery of
the Maroon all her hopes seemed to be satisfied.
CHAPTER XXVI.
The night began to wane—the wind rose. It could
be heard shrilly to whistle through the crevices of the
rock, as if in threat and warning. But Maria slept
-- 307 --
[figure description] Page 307.[end figure description]
not deeply, and her head was on the arm of the Maroon.
When he sought to rise, which more than once
he did, she started from her sleep with disquietude.
If he but stirred she was conscious of it. Her sleep
was troubled. Her dreams revenged upon her conscience
the obtuseness which, by the force of her will,
she imposed upon it in her waking moments. It
enabled her to restrain, though unconsciously, the
movements of her companion. He made repeated
attempts to disengage himself from her grasp—and
rise. He wished to confer with Amaya. We may
conjecture what he would have said. But he strove
in vain. In watching for the moment when the sleep
of Maria should become sufficiently deep to afford him
the desired opportunity, he finally slept himself. Nature
yielded at last, and his slumbers were soon quite
as profound as those of his companion.
Without being well conscious that he slept at all,
he was suddenly awakened, as if by a death-cold hand
upon his wrist. He started, and was confounded
when he unclosed his eyes, to behold the cavern brightly
illuminated. The fire which had been suffered to
go out by the Caribbean damsel, in the sweet experience
of her first mortal passion, had been suddenly
revived, and by her hands. She stood between him
and the altar-place, her eyes wildly sad and staring
upon him and his companion. A torch was still
grasped in one of her uplifted hands. She had probably
been inspecting closely the sleeping features of
the woman who had first taught her to feel the agony
which belongs to a consciousness of the infidelity of
-- 308 --
[figure description] Page 308.[end figure description]
the beloved one. As, at his awakening, the head of
the Maroon was involuntarily uplifted, she cast the
brand which she held upon the altar, flung one of her
hands despairingly and reproachfully toward him, and
darted headlong from the chamber.
CHAPTER XXVII.
Maria de Pacheco still slept. It was now doubly
important to the Maroon that she should continue to
do so. To rise softly—which he now succeeded in
doing, without arousing her—to extinguish the brands,
and to steal forth and see what was the course and
what the purpose of Amaya, was the next natural
movement of Lopez. He soon smothered the flame
and quenched the burning embers; but the night had
grown dark, the stars were shrouded, and, when he
emerged from the cavern, he could see nothing. He
stole back, trembling with doubt and apprehension,
and wondering what next would follow. Maria had
awakened.
“Where are you?”—was her salutation as he drew
nigh—“Where have you been?”
“Hear you the wind, Maria? The night is very
dark and gusty. We shall have a storm to-morrow.”
“But we are safe, Lopez!” was the reply.
“I am not so sure of that,” was the secret whisper
of his guilty heart.
The night passed without farther interruptions. At
-- 309 --
[figure description] Page 309.[end figure description]
dawn, the Maroon arose before his companion. He
proceeded to his treasure, which he now prepared to
have in readiness to convey, without being suspected,
on board the vessel. The richer pearls were hidden
in his bosom and in the folds of his garments. The
rest were stored away carefully in the bottom of one
of the largest baskets which he had found in his cavern,
and which he pretended had been picked up on the
shore. A few bananas were laid upon the top, to
prevent inquiry. His arrangements were all complete
before Maria awakened. With the sunrise
they had both emerged upon the beach. But the sun
rose faintly, and struggled on his course against numerous
clouds. The wind came in sudden gusts, sweeping
the ocean into temporary anger. The lulls between
were not less unpromising; and, to the old
seamen, the signs were pregnant of one of those wild
and capricious changes of the weather, which so frequently
converted into a scene of wrath and horror the
otherwise sweet serene of these latitudes. But Maria
did not heed these signs, in the consciousness of the
attainment of her desires. Lopez was too anxious to
leave the neighborhood of the poor Caribbean damsel,
about whom his heart constantly reproached itself;
and those whom we left on shipboard were quite
too happy, in the enjoyment of their unfrequent saturnalia,
to disturb themselves with anticipations of the
future. It may have been a fancy only, but, looking
back at the moment ere he stepped into the boat which
was to convey him from the islet, did he catch a
glimpse of the slender form of Amaya among the
-- 310 --
[figure description] Page 310.[end figure description]
palms, with her arm outstretched, and pointing to the
cavern? A second and more earnest glance revealed
him nothing.
Safely within the ship, his treasures made secure,
and with the example of all around him persuading
him to licentiousness, Lopez de Levya soon gave way
to excesses which contributed to make him forgetful
of the damsel he had deserted. He was received with
half maudlin affection by Linares and the crew. The
coarser pleasures in which these were indulging were
transferred, with some qualifying refinements, to the
cabin of Velasquez. Here, from flagons of gold and
silver, did our Maroon quaff the intoxicating beverage
to the health of Maria de Pacheco and the prosperous
fortunes of the Dian de Burgos. The day
passed in prolonged indulgence. The excesses which
might have revolted Maria and her companion at
another time, were now only the outpourings of a
natural exultation, which was due to a sense of newlyacquired
freedom, and the acquisition of novel luxuries.
The gradual progress of the hours brought on
increase of wind which finally grew to storm. But
this occasioned no disquiet, and did not lessen the
enjoyments of any of the parties. Linares, like a
veteran seaman, full of wine as he was, first took care
to see that his vessel was secure. He was in a good
anchorage. His ship was stripped to the storm, and
he had no reason to apprehend that she would drag
her anchor under any pressure of the gale. A good
watch was set, and, wishing for more freedom in his
revels, he withdrew from the cabin to the more genial,
if more rough association of the crew.
-- 311 --
CHAPTER XXVIII.
[figure description] Page 311.[end figure description]
Night came on—a night of storm and many terrors.
Maria de Pacheco and our Maroon were not
wholly insensible to its dangers. At moments, when
the pressure of the wind was most severely felt, they
would pause in the midst of their delights, and think
of the solid security of the chamber in the rock.
But the revel went on without reserve. The rich
flagon stood before them in the cabin. They were
alone with each other. They lived for each other, and
there was no tyrannic power at hand to arrest them as
they carried the intoxicating draught of rapture to
their lips. No longer conscious of the proximity of
other eyes, Lopez de Levya requited the caresses of
his companion with an ardency quite equal to her own.
They spoke of their mutual delights. They declared
their mutual hopes of home, and, in the increasing
exultation which he felt in his security, and the increasing
influence of the wine which he had quaffed,
the Maroon revealed to Maria the wealth of pearl
which was contained in his bosom and his baskets.
He poured forth his milk-white but transparent treasures
into her lap, and wound the lengthened strands
about her neck. His form resting upon one knee
before her, her head stooping to his embrace, neither
of them perceived, for several moments, that, while
they were most drunk with delight, they had a visitor.
The door of the cabin had opened silently upon them,
-- 312 --
[figure description] Page 312.[end figure description]
and the deserted damsel of the Caribbees, standing
erect, with hands drooping at her side, and eyes staring
intently, but vacantly and wildly upon them, now
stood, beholding, herself for a while unseen, their
almost infantile caresses. Stern and mournful did
she stand, surveying this scene of tenderness, which
every pulse of her passionate young heart taught her
was indulged at her expense. She neither sighed, nor
spoke, nor moved, after her first entrance. Was it
an instinct of their own souls which taught them that
another and a hostile spirit was at hand, and which
made the proud Spanish woman start to her feet, with
a sudden terror; while the Maroon, sinking lower,
upon both knees, looked round him in shame and
trepidation at the unexpected presence? To him
the deserted woman gave but a single glance, but that
declared everything in their mutual histories. Advancing
toward Maria de Pacheco, before her purpose
could be divined, she suddenly tore the strands
of pearl from the bared neck and bosom to which
they seemed beautifully kindred, then, dashing them
to the floor, trampled them under foot, and fled from
the cabin with a shriek which sounded like that of
doom in the ears of the Maroon. He had apprehended
a worse danger when he saw her so suddenly
approach Maria. He had seen in the grasp of the
Indian damsel, the same broad and heavy cleaver of
stone with which he had beheld the priestess, on the
night of her first entrance to the cave, sever the long
sable tresses from her neck, and devote them, in sacrifice,
on behalf of her future destinies. That she
-- 313 --
[figure description] Page 313.[end figure description]
would use this fearful instrument on the forehead of
the Spanish woman, was the spontaneous fear in the
heart of Lopez; but, at that moment, so suddenly had
he been surprised by her presence, and so greatly
was he confounded by his guilt and terror, she might
have safely executed the deed of death, had murder
been her purpose.
Inflamed with wine, stung by the indignity to which
she had been subjected, Maria de Pacheco recovered
from her astonishment much sooner than her paramour
from his fears. Confronting him with a fierce
and flashing glance from her dark imperial eye, she
demanded, in choking accents, the explanation of the
scene. But, filled with terror, partly intoxicated,
and wholly confused and bewildered by the condition
in which he found himself, the unmeaning mutterings
from his lips gave no satisfaction to the eager and
heated inquirer. With a speech full of equal scorn
and suspicion, she flung away from his approach, and
darted out upon the deck of the vessel in pursuit of
the stranger. There, all was storm and darkness.
The black masses of night seemed to crowd and accumulate
before her path, filling up the passages, and
preventing her progress. The vessel pitched awfully.
The woman could scarcely keep her feet, though quite
as much accustomed to the motion of the ship as any
of the seamen. She felt her way along the bulwarks.
She saw nothing, heard nothing—nothing but the
awful roaring of the winds as they fell upon the
waves in the fury of a mortal conflict. She made her
way to the prow. The excellent look-out of veteran
-- 314 --
[figure description] Page 314.[end figure description]
seamen whom Linares had provided for the watch was
nowhere to be seen. She called to them below, and
a couple of drunken sailors scrambled up and tottered
toward her. They had seen nothing. She could
see nothing. Nothing was to be heard. Yet, more
vigilant, more sober, and less passionate faculties might
have detected, even while she made her inquiries, certain
dull and heavy strokes, which, at pauses in the
storm, seemed to rise from the deep, and to run along
the cable. Little did Lopez de Levya divine the fatal
purpose for which the Caribbean damsel carried with
her that hatchet of stone.
Impatient, with a brain full of suspicions, and a
heart severed by disappointment, Maria de Pacheco
returned to the cabin, leaving the two half drunken
sailors in possession of the watch. They might have
been, and probably were, famous watchers at all other
times. But the liquors of Velasquez had been equally
potent and tempting, and they were still provided with
a flask of the delicious beverage. They drank and
sang together in defiance of the storm. What was
the storm to them? The Dian de Burgos was as tight
a creature as ever swan the seas, and hard and firm
were the sands, in which their anchors found their
rest. Besides, since they came on deck, the storm
seemed somewhat to have subsided. The seas were
not so high. The ship no longer plunged with that
peevish and cumbersome motion, like a high-mettled
horse under the discipline of a cruel curb, but rose
easily and gently with the play of the billows, as if
she were smoothly posting, with a fair gale, along
-- 315 --
[figure description] Page 315.[end figure description]
accustomed pathways of the sea. The observations
of our watch were of this satisfactory complexion. It
never occurred to them as possible that the ship
really was in motion—that she no longer opposed the
resistance of her mighty bulk to the winds and waters,
but obeyed placidly the impulses which their united
powers gave. They little dreamed, how much of their
consolation was drawn from causes of their greatest
danger.
CHAPTER XXIX.
Meanwhile, in the cabin of the Dian de Burgos,
the tempest raged as fiercely as it did without, and
entirely excluded the terrors of wind and sea. The
ready instincts of Maria de Pacheco had conducted
her to much of the secret of her paramour. She now
recalled his reluctance to conduct her over the island—
the art, which, when on the eve of discovery, had
made a merit of necessity, and led her into the
recesses of the cavern—the uneasiness which seemed
heedless of her endearments—the disquiet which they
seemed to occasion—his disappearance at midnight—
and the pearl, the treasure, of which he was so unaccountably
possessed. The sudden appearance of the
Indian damsel revealed the whole secret, and led to
conjectures which made the course of the Maroon
seem more odious to Maria than it possibly could have
been under a frank and honest statement of the facts.
-- 316 --
[figure description] Page 316.[end figure description]
To have made this statement required nothing more
than common courage. But this was the very faculty
which Lopez wanted most. When his secret was extorted
from him, as it finally was, and the whole of
its details surrendered, the vexation of the Spanish
woman was not so much because of the events, as because
of his withholding them. It betrayed a want
of confidence in her, and this was proof of deficient
sympathy. Upon this sympathy she had staked her
life—had perilled all that was feminine in her nature;
and the appalling terror, lest she should have perilled
all in vain, might well justify the fearful aspect, and
the stern and keen reproaches, with which she encountered
him.
She was at last pacified. It was her policy to be
so. When the heart has made its last investment, it
is slow to doubt its own securities. His declarations
of attachment, when he had somewhat recovered his
confidence, began to reassure her. She yielded to his
persuasions—to his blandishments and caresses, rather
than to his reasons, or such as he urged in his justification.
It was in the midst of these endearments
that a voice was heard faintly singing at the cabin
entrance—a voice which the Maroon but too painfully
remembered. The tones, though faint, were distinct.
The song was in the dialect of the Caribbee, and it was
one of which a feeble translation has been already
given;—a ballad which the poor Amaya had been
wont to sing him, when she would beguile him to join
her in her sports of ocean. It rehearsed the delights
and the treasures of the deep—its cool crystalline
chambers, always secure from the shafts of the sun—
-- 317 --
[figure description] Page 317.[end figure description]
its couches of moss and sea-weed—and of the sweet
devotion of the sea maid who implored him to her embraces.
The pathetic tenderness of her tone—the
wild, but pleading earnestness of her plaint—the
solemn sweetness and mysterious force of that invocation
with which the separate verses were burdened—
“Come, seek the ocean's depths with me!”—
startled the guilty Maroon with a new and nameless
terror. He started to his feet, but remained stationary,
incapable of motion. But the angry spirit of
Maria de Pacheco was aroused once more. She put
him aside, and darted to the entrance of the cabin.
As she threw it open, a white form flashed upon the
darkness. It seemed as if a spirit had shot away
from her grasp, and darting high in air, had disappeared
in the black waste of sky and sea beyond. A
shriek, rather in exultation than grief, was heard amid
the roar of wind and water. It was followed by the
human scream of Maria. “Madre de Dios! the ship
is moving. We are at the mercy of the seas! Ho!
there, Lopez!—Linares! Awake! arouse ye—or we
perish!”
Her cries were cut short by her terrors. The prow
of the ship was lifted—fearfully lifted, as if by some
unseen power from below. The water surged awfully
beneath, and a terrible roar followed, as if from a herd
of wild animals deep in the hollows of the sea.
“What is that, Lopez?—what is this?—whispered
the woman to the faint-hearted paramour who had
crept beside her. A terrible shock followed—another
-- 318 --
[figure description] Page 318.[end figure description]
and another!—and the whole dreadful danger was
apparent in an instant to both. They were among the
rocks. The ship had struck—and the ready memory
of the Maroon, well conceived the fearful condition
in which they stood, borne by the irresistible and
treacherous currents upon those silent and terrible
masses of rock, where, in moments of the sea's serene,
he had so frequently shared in the wild sports of his
Caribbean beauty. Well might he remember those
rude and sullen masses. Often had he remarked, with
a shudder, the dark and fearful abysses which settled,
still and gloomy, in their dark mysterious chambers.
But he had now no time to recall the periods of their
grim repose. Another moment, and the ship, awfully
plunging under the constant impulsions of the sea,
buried her sharp bow, with a deep groan, in the black
and seething waters. The breakers rushed over them
with a fall like that of a cataract. For a single instant,
the Dian de Burgos hung suspended as it were,
upon a pinnacle. Then, even as the still besotted,
and only half-awakened sailors, were rushing out on
deck, she divided in the middle—one part falling over
into the reservoir among the rocks, the other tumbling
back upon the seas, to be driven forward, by successive
shocks, and in smaller fragments, to a like destiny.
In this fearful moment, Maria de Pacheco was
separated, by the numerous waves, from the side of
the Maroon. He heard her voice through the awful
roar.
“Where are you, Lopez?—O! let me not lose you
-- 319 --
[figure description] Page 319.[end figure description]
now!” But he could make no answer. He heard no
more. Her cries ceased with that single one. He
had not strength to cry, for he was struggling himself
with the seas, and with another peril. While the
fierce currents bore him forward—while the wild
billows tore him away from the fragment of wreck
which he had grasped spasmodically, in the moment
when the ship went to pieces—he was conscious of a
sudden plunge beside him—of an arm fondly wrapped
about his neck, and of a voice that sung in tones the
most mournful and pathetic in his ears, even as he
sank, and sinking with him, that fond ballad of the
Caribbean damsel. It was a heart-broken chant,
which had some exultation in it. The last human
words of which the feeble and perfidious Maroon was
conscious, were those of the entreating sea-nymph—
“Come, seek the ocean's depths with me!”
-- -- p685-317
MAIZE IN MILK; A CHRISTMAS STORY OF THE SOUTH.
[figure description] Page 320.[end figure description]
CHAPTER I.
Kindle the Christmas brand, and then
Till sunset let it burne;
Which quencht, then lay it up agen
Till Christmas next returne:
Part must be kept wherewith to teend
The Christmas log next yeare,
And where 'tis safely kept, the fiend
Can do no mischiefe there.
—Herrick.
THE FULL CORN-CRIB.
Tell me nothing of the crops! Suppose they don't
grow—suppose there is a failure, and the corn falls
short, and the cotton sheds, and the army-worm appears
and the caterpillar, and there is an early frost,
and half the bolls never blow! These things will
happen! We must look to lose our crops now and
then, no matter what we plant. It can't be that we
shall have things always as we wish them. We can't
be always wise or always fortunate. But we can, if
we please, be always good and good-natured, and loving
and cheerful, and thankful for what we do get,
and for the things in which we are prosperous. There's
-- 321 --
[figure description] Page 321.[end figure description]
no reason because of the drought that our hearts should
be dry also. There's no reason because we make
short crops that we should be short to our friends,
and because the winter comes on sooner than usual
that we should be colder than usual to our neighbors—
that our charities should freeze up with the weather,
and our gratitude fail us because the sunshine fails us.
We must only make the hearth-fire brighter; we must
only make sunshine for ourselves, and gather our
friends about the warming, and make merry within
while all is melancholy without; and show to one another
how cheerful everything may be, though the
tempest blows never so angrily against the shutter.
A man may soon learn to make his sunshine wherever
and whenever he pleases, and to carry a happy heart
under a thin jacket. He must be a man without regard
to the seasons. His affections must not alter
with the weather. He mustn't blow hot and cold because
the wind does so. He must keep his soul firm
and his sympathies steadfast, and his charities must
be as quick to warm as his anger is quick to cool.
His log must be kindled at Christmas, though he may
have never another left in his wood-yard. There
must be a fire, you know, at Yule, and why shouldn't
his hands kindle it as well as another's? The log
was cut to burn!
But he is unfortunate, you say. Well, is that any
good reason why he shouldn't warm his fingers in a
cold season? But then he makes blaze enough to
warm a dozen! Exactly so; and this only proves
that even the unfortunate man is never so wholly
-- 322 --
[figure description] Page 322.[end figure description]
unfortunate that he does not possess the happy privilege,
under God, of making others happy. There's no
waste if, when he sets his log ablaze, he calls in his
neighbors to enjoy it. I tell you the log must burn
for some one's comfort in the cold, bleak days of December,
and it is something of a blessing in the poor
man's cup that he is permitted to raise the blaze. But
then, say you, it is his last log! Who shall say that?
Who shall dare to say that God's charity must have
a limit?—that this man, who knew so well how to
warm his hearth for the blessing of his neighbors,
shall be permitted to make no more pleasant fires?
I tell you, short-sighted mortal, that, even beside that
last log, you may yet see some celestial visitant in
fustian habit. It is thus that an unquestioning hospitality
is sometimes permitted to entertain an angel!
With the smoke of that last log, around which the
unlucky man, obedient to a custom which he learned in
his better days, has gathered in his humble neighbors,
there goes up to heaven a rare incense which makes
acceptable, and may make profitable also, that last sacrifice
of wealth. Let the log burn, then! Wouldst thou
throw water on the cheerful gleams which light up all
these ruddy faces? Wouldst thou silence the merry
crackling of that flaming pile? Wouldst thou put out
those pleasant charities which thus, if only once a
year, are kindled to make one's fellow warm? Out
upon thee, for a doubter of God's providence! Get
thee to thy own home, and put thy only stick upon
the fire, and call in him who passes, that thou mayest
not selfishly and sadly sit alone to see it burn! Then
-- 323 --
[figure description] Page 323.[end figure description]
will the Father of those who gladden at the blaze, so
gladden thee as that thou shalt never lack thy log at
Yule.
Now, if thou wilt believe me, brother, there is a
purpose in this long preamble. Just such was the
tenor of that shrill but lively crow which issued from
the capacious lungs of that famous old cock of St.
Matthews, who held in fee the extensive domains of
“Maize-in-milk.”* The master of “Maize-in-milk”
was a sovereign in his way, whose power was known
only by its bounty. His was one of the finest plantations
for peas, potatoes, Indian corn, and short cottons,
in Carolina—not a very great one, it is true; not so
large nor so thickly settled as an hundred others in
the same and other districts, but just such a snug,
productive interest as enabled the proprietor to do the
handsome thing by his neighbor, and to entertain his
guest like a gentleman. Colonel Openheart was one
of those generous and frank planters whom men smiled
to name, with pleasant recollections of the warmest
welcome and the finest cheer. And even now, with
his feathers somewhat ruffled by resistance and unexpected
provocation, it was delightful to behold the
bland visage and the good-humored smile which took
all anger from his aspect. Anger, indeed! It was
rare enough to see him angry. We tell you, he was
only ruffled, not roused, and just enough touched by
opposition, to show how animated he could become
even in his benevolence. There he sits at the ample
-- 324 --
[figure description] Page 324.[end figure description]
fireside, in which great logs of oak and hickory are
yielding themselves up in flake and flash, and hiss and
sparkle, his face glowing like the fire, warm, bright,
capacious; cheeks smooth as a woman's, a beard carefully
kept down by a persuasive razor, and his flowing
locks just beginning to whiten at the ends, and slightly
showing their snows against the warmer colors of his
neck and cheek. And how his great blue eyes dilate
under the high, broad forehead, as he looks around
him with a mixed expression of amazement and satisfaction,
taking in at the same glance the gentle and
matron-like lady who presides at the evening board,
from around which the chairs have already been withdrawn;
and the tall and graceful damsel of fifteen,
who, standing at her side, plies deftly the snow-white
napkin over the dripping teacup. I am not sure that
the comprehensive glance of Colonel Openheart fails to
notice the nice little juvenile episode which escapes
the eyes of the ladies, and which presents itself upon
the great and antique sofa gracing the opposite end
of the apartment. There, but scarcely enough in the
foreground to constitute a portion of the picture, you
may see Tom Openheart, a stout lad of nine or ten
years, exhausted by a long day's squrrel hunt, with
his own rifle and on his own pony, drowsing into
gradual obliviousness of life and all its excitements,
his arms thrown above his head, one of his legs secure
on the sofa with his trunk, while the other wanders
off, quietly conducting to a neighboring chair, to the
leg of which Dick Openheart, a mischievous urchin of
seven or eight, busily fastens it by the aid of his
-- 325 --
[figure description] Page 325.[end figure description]
sister's handkerchief. The father's and mother's have
already been disposed of in making secure the other
equally pliant members of Tom Openheart; and anon,
when the fastenings are all complete, you may look
for some cunning explosion by which the Gulliver will
be made to start from his slumbers in terror, only to
be taught the strangeness of his captivity.
I will not pretend to say that our excellent colonel
sees this episode. The pleasant twinkle which lights
the corner of his eye, and which is somewhat at variance
with the words of his mouth, may be due to
other influences; but it must be admitted, for the sake
of history, that even were he to see the practice of
Dick in this transaction, it is still not unlikely that
he would suffer it to pass unchallenged. The good
man would ascribe it to the season—to a natural levity—
to any but a heinous and evil nature, which called
for rebuke and punishment. He had a queer notion
that children were—only children, and that play
was as necessary to their hearts, their growth, nay,
their morals, as birch, logic, and religion—doctrines
which, in this era of juvenile progress, cannot be supposed
likely to diffuse themselves greatly, and of
which we venture, therefore, to speak without emotion.
It is probable that Colonel Openheart's attention
was wholly given to his good lady and his lovely
daughter. They at least were his only listeners.
There was an air of sadness upon the features of the
excellent matron, which, however, were not wholly
unlighted by a smile; while, on the other hand, the
lips of the damsel were parted with an undisguised
-- 326 --
[figure description] Page 326.[end figure description]
expression of merriment—positively on the verge of
open laughter—the pearls of her mouth showing
the white tips through their crimson setting, with a
good-humor and an arch delight that were clearly
quite irresistible. Very sweet and very pretty was
this expression of the face of Bessy Openheart, and
the jade knew it. She was a blonde, and with features
of wondrous regularity. Full of life and vivacity,
there was yet a rich fountain of gushing waters at
her heart, and her large blue eyes had learned how to
fill with tears even before the happy smile could make
its escape from her pretty little mouth. But we must
not speak of her too soon. She is a mere child as
yet—scarcely fifteen—just at that age when girlhood
begins to falter with its own gaze, and when we begin
to look upon it with as much trepidation as delight.
But Colonel Openheart is about to resume.
“Not keep Christmas, Mrs. Openheart—not keep
Christmas? Why, what in the world should I do
with myself, my dear, or with you, or Bessy there, or
Tom, Dick, Harry, and the rest, from Christmas eve
till New Year's? And what should we do with the
neighbors—with Whitfield, and Jones, and Whipple,
and Bond, and poor old Kinsale, and all their wives
and little ones, all of whom have spent Christmas
and New Year's with us for the last hundred years or
more. Some of them certainly did with my grandfather.
Old Kinsale can tell you of the first dinner
he ever took on this estate in the time of Grandfather
Openheart, and that was a Christmas dinner. He
can tell you every dish upon the table. There were
-- 327 --
[figure description] Page 327.[end figure description]
ham and turkey just as now—there was roast and
boiled—there was a round of beef—there were sausages
and pillau—there were sundry pairs of ducks,
cabbage and turnips, and potatoes; and for dessert,
nuts, apples, mince-pies, plum-puddings, and more
preserves than you could shake a stick at. More
than thirty persons sat down to table; and to speak
of the old man's Madeira, brings tears of pleasure
into the eyes of Daddy Kinsale to this moment. I
tell you, old Billy Openheart is venerated to this day
on account of his Christmas cheer. Not keep Christmas!
Why, how would you avoid it, I'd like to
know? They'd be here, all of them, fresh and fasting,
I may say, before you could roll the Christmas
log behind the dogs, and dress up your windows with
the holly and cacina. They'd be here to help you, as
they have been for the last fifty years. Bond and
Whipple always came early for that purpose, and I
think I have heard you say that little Susan Bond
was the cleverest little creature in the world at dressing
up the windows, and glasses, and flower-pots, with
the green leaves and the scarlet-berries. To think
of the windows of “Maize-in-milk” looking bare at
Christmas! Think of “Maize-in-milk” having no
visitors at Christmas—no fun, no frolic, no dancing,
no—! By the pipers, Mrs. Openheart, I don't
know how to understand you. Talk of not keeping
Christmas! Why, what in the name of blazes would
you do with me, with yourself, with Bessy, Clinton
there, and dear little Rose, and Tom, and Dick, and
-- 328 --
[figure description] Page 328.[end figure description]
Harry, and the rest, from Christmas eve till New
Year's?”
“Well, to say the truth, dear husband, I did not
think of spending Christmas at home at all, this
season.”
“Not spend Christmas at home!” cried the colonel,
with renewed amazement. “And where, in Heaven's
name, would you think to spend it?”
“Why, down in the parishes with Uncle Thomas.
He's often asked us, you know—”
“With Uncle Thomas in the parishes! Go from
home to spend Christmas! After that, I should not
be astonished at any of your notions. But, pray,
Mrs. Openheart, when did you know your Uncle
Thomas to spend his Christmas away from home?”
There was a pause, when the good dame, finding
that her husband really waited her answer, meekly
admitted that such an event had certainly never taken
place within her remembrance.
“No—no! You may well say that. Well, only
go to him and talk of spending Christmas away from
home. Try him, Mrs. Openheart, by an affectionate
invitation to come and stay with us Christmas week,
and you'll get an answer that will astonish you. You
will certainly astonish him by the invitation. No—
no; he's too much a gentleman of the old school—
one of the good old Carolina stock, who knows what
his duties are at Christmas—who knows what is
due to his neighbors and to hospitality, and who
knows—”
“But, my dear, considering what our expenses are,
-- 329 --
[figure description] Page 329.[end figure description]
and how greatly they have been increased of late,
Edward in Europe, and the sending of John and William
to college—the purchase of the old Salem tract—
the—”
“Poh! poh! poh! Positively, Emily, I am ashamed
of you. This is only too ridiculous. You are for
letting in at the spigot and letting out at the bung.
As for the Salem tract, it needs but one good crop, at
good prices, and I pay for that; and that I should
give up the acquaintance of my old neighbors, Tom
Whipple, Elias Bond, and Daddy Kinsale, because
my eldest son is frolicking on the continent, and two
others have just had an introduction to those gray-beards,
Cicero and Homer—”
“Now, husband, you know I don't mean that you
should give up the acquaintance of anybody—”
“You do, Emily, if you mean anything. It would
amount to the same thing. Not to have my house
full of my old friends, as usual at Christmas, would
be such a strangeness as would make them all feel
strange. They'd look upon me as a broken man, or
as a changed one, and in either case they'd become
changed also; and then, in place of the cheerful
household and pleasant neighborhood that we have
had all along, there would be doubt, and coldness,
and restraint—and all for what? Really, Emily, I
can't see what you'd be driving at.”
“But you could still see your neighbors.”
“Not as before, Emily. A people so sparsely settled
as our own, so very unsophisticated, and with
that fierce sort of pride which distinguishes a life of
-- 330 --
[figure description] Page 330.[end figure description]
comparative seclusion, are very easily made suspicious.
They are, in particular, exceedingly jealous of any
eccentricities on the part of the wealthy. Change your
habit toward them in any respect—let your demeanor
change in however slight degree, and they resent
it as a something sinister, which is always personal
to themselves. It wouldn't do to go out and see them
at the fence; I must ask them in—and once in, the
horse must be put up. And I can't say, `Well, Bond'—
or Whipple, or Jones, or Daddy Kinsale, as the
case may be—`very glad to see you always, but sorry
I can offer you nothing. Truth is, times are very
hard, and that lark of mine in Europe, and those two
dogs, Jack and Will, they cost me a pretty penny
nowadays. Have to haul in my horns, lest the
sheriff pulls them off.'”
“Now, husband, you know I allude to nothing of
this sort. It's only the usual waste that I'd have you
avoid until you've got out of debt.”
“Debt! Why, Mrs. Openheart, you speak as if I
were over head and ears! What do I owe, that I
can't pay off with a single good crop?”
“You said the same thing last year.”
The brave colonel seemed to wince at this suggestion.
“And as for waste—what waste? Do I waste anything
at Christmas, or any other time? Is not all
consumed that we cook? Is anything thrown away?
Are there not mouths for all? What we and our
guests do not consume, does it not go to the negroes?
What they don't want, does it not go to the dogs and
-- 331 --
[figure description] Page 331.[end figure description]
hogs, and ducks and chickens? I never see anything
wasted. Really, Mrs. Openheart, I can't understand
you. If you mean anything, it is that we are to kill
no beef at Christmas, have no sausages, drink no eggnog,
and, I suppose, for the first time since we've been
married, now going on fifty years —”
“Oh, husband—fifty years!”
“Yes, fifty years, more or less.”
“Less by half—only twenty-six last November.”
“Is it possible! And I said sixty! Well, it's certain
I've counted the years by their pleasures.”
A sweet, comical smile went round the circle. He
continued: “Well, as I was saying, here then, for
the first time since our marriage, some forty-two
years, as you yourself admit, we are to have no
mince-pies—”
“Nay, my dear; I didn't mean that we were to go
without them. As you have bought the raisins, the
citron, and the currants, and as the hogs are already
killed—”
“Oh! your only anxiety, then, is to keep these
things from being wasted; but if that was your prudent
intention, what do you propose to do with these
nice things, after you have made them up, if we are
to spend our Christmas with your Uncle Thomas?”
“Why, I thought of taking them down with us.”
“Indeed! and precious little would Uncle Thomas,
in his abundance, thank you for your pies. But,
pray, in what respect should we be more wasteful in
consuming them at home here, among our own poor
neighbors, than down in the parishes, with the rich
-- 332 --
[figure description] Page 332.[end figure description]
ones of Uncle Thomas? Really, Emily, I thought
you were a better reasoner.”
“Well, Edward, you do, indeed, make out a case
against me, and if the mince-pies were the whole of
our consumption in staying at home, as they will be
in going down to the parishes, then your reproach
would be conclusive; but you know, Edward, that
these would form but a small part of our expense.
They would not be alone; your Madeira, and Sherry,
and Champagne—your beeves, your hogs, your turkies,
and the horses of a dozen idle and worthless
people eating at your corn-crib, and that not the fullest
in the world—”
“It is full, Emily;—but I must stop you before
you go too far. We can't always say who are the
worthless in this world. I am sometimes disposed to
think that the most worthless have their uses, and to
suspect that the most worthy are not always of the
value we put upon them. When I recollect how little
I do myself in the way of work, and of how little real
service I am to myself or to anybody else, in comparison
with what I might be, I feel as if some malicious
devil was jerking at my elbow in mockery, at those
moments when I suffer myself to talk of the little
worth or value of my neighbors. I tell you, Emily,
I can't any longer bring myself to feel contempt for
any human being, though I may sicken at the viciousness
of some, and sorrow over the idleness of others.”
“Now, really, Edward, you shall not speak so
slightingly of yourself. Are you not always busy?
Do you not manage your own plantation?”
-- 333 --
[figure description] Page 333.[end figure description]
“After a fashion; but I'm not sure that my management
is at all creditable to me, or serviceable to
my interests.”
“You are never idle.”
“I make chips enough, I grant you; but I am not
sure that I am always profitably busy.”
“Your negroes improve, increase, become more
honest, sober, industrious, happy, more human every
year.”
“Thank God, I can conscientiously believe all
that.”
“They love you, thank you, and go cheerfully to
their tasks.”
“Ay, ay; so they do, and so far— But what is
that fellow about? As usual, busy in tormenting his
brother. Ho there, you dog; get you to bed, and
wake up Tom, that he may go along with you! What
are you doing with the boy?”
“Only you call him up, papa,” was the sly response
of the dutiful urchin.
“Call him up yourself—push him—rout him up.”
The boy stooped over the elder brother, and, with
a closer eye, the worthy sire might have seen with
what delicate consideration he introduced a feather of
broom-straw into the ears and nostrils of the sleeper.
A scream followed, then a roar and scuffle. The leg
of Tom, as he started from his slumbers, was found
to be inextricably involved with that of the chair, and
both went over with a clatter that startled the good
mother in her chair, and shook the whole house from
its propriety.
-- 334 --
[figure description] Page 334.[end figure description]
“Why, what have you done?”
The victim was not yet sufficiently awake to know
well what was the matter with him, but struggled to
throw out his fettered hands as in the act of swimming.
The father saw his predicament, and as he
and Bessy Clinton stooped to undo the ties with
which the mischievous boy had fettered the lad, the
urchin clapped his hands in exultation, and flew away
to the door.
“To bed, sirrah!” said Colonel Openheart, with a
voice in which authority struggled hard with merriment;
“to bed, before I give you the strap.”
“No, no, papa! Don't I know it's Christmas time—
and what's the use of Christmas if there's to be no
fun, I want to know?”
“The boy has the right on't. What's the use of
Christmas if there's to be no fun? There shall be
fun, sirrah, but your share of it must cease for the
night. To bed, both of you.”
“But to-morrow, papa!” said both of the boys in
a breath.
“You shall have the ponies, and we'll go to the
river; and we'll take the dogs, and see if we can't put
up a wild-cat. There, enough for the night.”
And the boys were kissed and disappeared.
“And these are to lose their Christmas—and the
neighbors, and the negroes, and all, for no better
reason than to save the waste, as if there could be
any waste in making so many persons happy. And
you, Bessy Clinton, that you should side with your
-- 335 --
[figure description] Page 335.[end figure description]
mother for having Christmas away from home. You
deserve a whipping for it Bess.”
“Ah, papa, you never whipped me yet.”
“It's not too late to begin!” and he took the damsel
about the waist, and she turned in his embrace
and lifted her lips to his own, and he kissed her with
delight as he said: “Well, well, we'll put it off till
the New Year. I haven't the heart for whipping just
now. But then—”
“But Bessy Clinton did not join with me, husband.
She was quite opposed to it.”
“Ah, that alters the case. You shall have Christmas
at home. And Bessy Clinton, for your reward,
hear farther—”
“What, papa?”
“You shall have your old friend, Mary Butler,
to spend it with you.”
“Oh! will she come, papa? Can you get her?”
“Ay, will she. And more than that, mamma, I've
bought in all the Butler negroes—bought them in for
her benefit, to save them from that shark of a lawyer
who manages the estate.”
“Surely, Mr. Openheart, you haven't made such a
purchase?” anxiously inquired the mother.
“Ay, but I have.”
“What! bought in all the negroes?”
“All but a single family. Thirty-five workers,
seventy-one negroes in all—and gave a pretty good
price for them, too.”
“How much?” asked the matron, with increasing
concern.
-- 336 --
[figure description] Page 336.[end figure description]
“Two hundred and sixty dollars round.”
“Good heavens! And how are you to pay for
them?”
“I have three years to pay it in, Emily—first instalment
next December of five thousand dollars, and
the balance in equal parts the next two years. The
terms are quite easy.”
“But how are you to pay it, husband?”
“How? Why, surely, you don't suppose that I
shan't make a sufficient crop next season to pay five
thousand dollars!”
“Have you done so this?”
“No! Why do you ask, when you know that this
crop is a failure?”
“Ah—should the next be so?”
“'Pon my honor, Mrs. Openheart, you do contrive
to suggest the prettiest prospects.”
“But why did you buy these negroes, Mr. Openheart?
You have more than you want already, and
more than are profitable.”
“True bill, Emily.”
“You have scarcely any open land more than your
present force can work.”
“Go to clearing on the first of January. Plenty
to clear, thank God.”
“But that is fatal to your woodland; and really,
Mr. Openheart, the question comes up again—why did
you buy a property which you don't want, and which
you know to be so unprofitable? Besides, the Butler
negroes are particularly unserviceable. I don't know
where you will find so many gray-headed people.
-- 337 --
[figure description] Page 337.[end figure description]
Some of them haven't, to my knowledge, done a stitch
of work for ten years; and there's at least a dozen
old negroes, who can barely totter along with the
palsy.”
“To tell you the truth, Emily, it was these very
old negroes that caused me to buy—these, and the
dear child, Mary Butler, who sat weeping in the house
as the sale was going on, with these infirm old people
hanging about her. They had dandled the child on
their knee, and there wasn't one of them, from Daddy
Enoch to Maum Betty, the one-eyed, whom she didn't
regard as a personal relation. They wept and pleaded
with her, and her weeping was so much pleading with
me. Besides, I found that Skinflint, the man who
acts as lawyer for Ingelhart and Cripps, the executors,
was disposed to buy them at his own prices, and
nobody would bid against him. Indeed, there was
nobody willing to buy property just at this season—
you will say they were wiser than your husband.
Perhaps so. But they would have gone to Skinflint
for nothing. His first bid was a hundred all round,
and I at once doubled it. I was indignant at the fellow's
bid, and wasn't to be deceived by the whisper
that went about, intended to discourage others, that
he was bidding in for the heiress. I knew better,
and when he found I was in earnest, he run upon
me.”
“But why did you let him do it? Why not stop
at the two hundred?”
“Ask a man when his blood's up why he isn't cool.
I was a fool—I know it, Emily, and you may
-- 338 --
[figure description] Page 338.[end figure description]
reproach me as you will for it. I knew no more what
I was about than if I had lost my wits. The sight of
the dear, sweet little orphan in her sorrows, totally
unmanned me. I had always seen her so happy and
so bright before—and I could not help remembering
what a pet she was of the dear angel mother. And
poor Ben Butler was such a sterling fellow. Nobody
wanted a dollar if he had it. I thought of all these
things in a moment. I fancied I heard the father
whispering in my ears, and that I saw the mother
pleading with all her eyes, and my own grew to be
quite blinded by my tears. And, then, old Enoch tottered
to me in the piazza, staff in hand, and his gray
beard hanging on his chest, and his old eyes, half shut
up by age, were dripping too; and, taking my arm,
he said to me, `Mauss Openheart, you surely ain't
gwine to let us go off to strange people?'—only these
words, and they finished my struggles. Just then,
Skinflint said one hundred round, and I mounted him
with another. I knew his game, the moment I heard
his voice. And when he said to me, `Really, Mr.
Openheart, I had no idea that you wished to increase
your force,' I swore in my own mind that he at least
shouldn't have them. You've heard the whole story.
The negroes are to be here to-morrow, and Mary Butler,
and Skinflint himself, who is to bring the bonds
and bill of sale.”
“Well, Edward, I only hope that you may not
suffer by your benevolence.”
“Nay, never fear, Emily. I'm rash and head-strong,
I know, and have done many foolish things;
-- 339 --
[figure description] Page 339.[end figure description]
but I feel sure that I shan't suffer for this helping of
the orphan, and keeping these poor dependent creatures
from being scattered over the face of the earth.
The probability is that my bonds will scarcely be presented
for payment so long as the interest is regularly
paid. The executors, Ingelhart and Cripps, can make
no better investment of the money, and it will be a
very nice sum for her when she is of age—or I am
prepared to let her have the negroes back if she prefers
it then. The plantation was not sold.”
“And what will you do with these old negroes,
Edward?”
The answer was somewhat impatiently spoken.
“Feed them first, Emily; clothe them, give them
Christmas. We'll kill a beef for them to-morrow to
begin with, and pray God to-night for good times,
that we may be enabled to feed them always, from
Christmas to Christmas, as well as now. So now to
bed, and see that you rise before the sun, Bessy Clinton.
You have to see to the pies and pastries. It's
now one week to Christmas, and”—looking out from
the windows—“a bright starlight night, in the language
of the watchman. May we wake to a bright,
dry, and honest winter morning!”
eaf685n2* Indian corn not yet ripe, but ready in the ear for the table.
-- 340 --
CHAPTER II.
So now is come our joyfulest feast,
Let every man be jolly;
Each room with ivy leaves be drest,
And every post with holly.
Though some churls at our mirth repine,
Round your foreheads garlands twine;
Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,
And down with melancholy.
Slightly altered from George Wither, 1622.
[figure description] Page 340.[end figure description]
The day of Christmas eve dawned propitiously
upon the broad fields and groves of “Maize-in-milk.”
There never had been, in all the South, a brighter or
sweeter December sunshine. Nature seemed to have
yielded herself wholly to the moral of the season.
She had put on her gayest habiliments; the earth
sent up a perfume less penetrating and diffusive,
perhaps, but not less sweet and persuasive than in the
spring time, and the woods wore such robes as autumn
had bestowed upon them—glorious, rich investitures
of crimson and yellow, which made gum, oak, and
poplar look each like a sovereign prince begirt by his
obsequious courtiers. Christmas in Carolina is very
apt to be vexed with storm and rain, a fatal conjunction
for thousands of schemes of juvenile delight and
delinquency. But the present promises to be quite
as favorable to the plans of happy-hearted creatures
as the most amiable and philanthropic spirits could
pray for; and, with the dawn, the three sons of Colonel
Openheart, Tom, the good-fellow, Dick, the mischievous,
and Harry, the little, starting from a sleep
-- 341 --
[figure description] Page 341.[end figure description]
which teemed with the most happy dreams of turbulent
enjoyment, had darted into the chamber of their
excellent sire, and were hauling him out of sleep and
bed at the same moment. He, too, had been in the
enjoyment of the happiest heart fancies, such as are
natural to the fond and hopeful parent. In his sleeping
visions, he had beheld the return of his son,
Edward, now travelling in Europe, a tall and handsome
youth, refined by foreign observation, and with
a mind generously expanded to the appreciation of
all that was excellent and noble in foreign standards.
William and John were also returned from college,
availing themselves of the brief respite of a single
week accorded them during the great religious holiday
of the year. And other forms, almost equally
dear, and other images quite as sweet and persuasive,
had passed beneath his waking fancy, while his real
and earthly nature slept. Sweet glimpses of dear
Mary Butler, and his own fair daughter, Bessy Clinton,
and vague and indistinct forms and aspects, in
innocent relationship with these, all of which aroused
the fondest hopes and the most grateful imaginings
in the fond father's bosom. It was the season when
all sights and sounds are sweet and wholesome to the
heart which desires and exercises itself in wholesome
influences—when, as the great bard expresses it—
“The bird of dawning singeth all night long:
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad;
The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,
So hallowed and so gracious is the time.”
-- 342 --
[figure description] Page 342.[end figure description]
And merrily, indeed, and with most vigorous throat,
did the hundred voices of Mrs. Openheart's poultry
yard respond to each other through the watches of
that calm December night. Nor were these the only
voices whose music somehow melted in with and
formed a part of the dreams of the excellent colonel.
All around the fine old mansion-house of “Maize-in-Milk,”
the mock-birds had made homes for their young
among the ancestral oaks and cedars. Of these, the
bold choristers had maintained immemorial possession;
and, as some of the trees spread their great
limbs even up to the windows of the dwelling, against
the panes of which their leaves rattled in the gusty
night, it was easy for the Puck of the southern groves
to send his capricious music through every chamber.
These had Colonel Openheart been long accustomed
to hear, but it seemed as if, at the approach of the
season when
“a chyld was i-born,
Us for to savyn that al was forlorn,”
the voices of the birds grew more full and numerous,
and a generous and glad spirit, a soul of exultation,
gave new impulse to their merriment and music.
Their fitful and capricious strains formed fitting echoes
to the fancies that swarmed in the good man's
visions; and his own heart caught up their echoes,
and even while his boys were breaking into his chamber
with their clamorous exhortations, he might have
been heard to murmur in his sleep broken fragments
of one of the ancient English carols—
-- 343 --
[figure description] Page 343.[end figure description]
“Now thrice welcome Christmas
Which brings us good cheer,
Minced-pies and plum-porridge,
Good ale and strong beer,” &c.
And this was the boys' welcome as they bounced into
the chamber, and dispelled, with a single shout, all
the visions of his sleep.
“Why, what a mischief, boys, is the matter, that
you rout me up at midnight.
“Midnight, father—why, the sun's a-rising!”
“Well, what then? Is that any good reason that
the father shouldn't sleep? You don't know what
fine dreams you may have driven away by your uproar.”
“Oh, this is no time for dreaming, father. Come,
up with you, and let's go to the river, and shoot off the
big cannon.”
“Well, I suppose there's no resisting you,” said
the indulgent sire, as he prepared to obey the requisition.
“You will ruin those boys, Colonel Openheart,”
murmured his excellent help-meet, with some querulousness
of accent, occasioned by the rude disturbance
of a slumber which had been as precious full of dreams
in her case as in that of her husband.
“Nay, never fear,” was the reply; “the boys are
not so easily spoiled. The danger is with the girls.
Boys are naturally good—a little more boisterous
than their sisters, but better on the whole. You women
are always apt to confound honest impulse with misdoing.
We must let them play. Childhood is the
-- 344 --
[figure description] Page 344.[end figure description]
season for play, and play is necessary for the heart;
and so, boys, let's go to play heartily, as others go
to work. Now that you have roused me, get you gone
till I get up and dress myself. I shan't stay long.”
In a moment, their merry voices might have been
heard upon the lawn in front, ringing clearly out in
the dry sweet atmosphere. A gentler song suddenly
took wing in an adjoining chamber, and the eyes of
father and mother both twinkled with the lustre that
came directly from the heart, as they heard the soft
but melodious accents of Bessy Clinton, singing, as
if in preparation for the coming day, a familiar old
Christmas ballad.
“When in Bethl'em fair citie,
Chryst was born to die for me,
Then the angels sang with glee,
In Excelsis gloria.
“Ah! with what a lovely bright,
To the herdsmen shone the light,
Where he lay in lowly plight,
In Excelsis gloria.
“Heavenly king, to save his kind,
Bear we still his birth in mind,
Singing ever as we find,
In Excelsis gloria.
“Praying, as we sing, for grace,
To behold, in bliss, his face,
Whose dear coming saved his race,
In Excelsis gloria.”
“And you think boys better than girls—naturally
good, husband—not so easily spoiled?” was the quiet
but ironical inquiry of the wife, as the last murmurs
-- 345 --
[figure description] Page 345.[end figure description]
of the girl's song subsided away, and were followed
by a triumphant shout from below, and a tremendous
explosion from a huge blunderbuss, to discharge which
they had not waited for the father.
“The rogues!” exclaimed Colonel Openheart.
“But I did the very same thing myself when I was
a lad—the very same thing—nay, something worse.
I made a mine of a whole canister of powder, and
nearly shook down the old house on Briar Hill with a
single blast. That's the nature of the animal. Don't
let it worry you, my dear Emily; they shoot and shout
while Bessy Clinton smiles and sings, and I am content
that they should both enjoy themselves in their
different ways. But the rogues are impatient; hear
how they clamor! Emily, dear wife, a kiss! God has
blessed us in our children—eight living out of thirteen,
five already blessed, and the others blessing us! We
have not lived in vain, dear wife? And, hark you,
is that Bessy Clinton again? No; it's dear little
Rose. She has awakened at last, and sounds her
little pipes in song also. How like her voice to Bessy
Clinton's, and how like both to your own! But the
horses are at the door, and those rogues are ten times
as noisy as ever. And you don't like their singing,
Emily, so much as Bessy Clinton's, eh?”
“Surely not. How can you ask?”
“Nor I—nor I,” said the good-natured father, as he
hurried below, leaving the now thoroughly awakened
mother to the embraces of the two girls, who entered
from an inner chamber, bearing in their hands great
-- 346 --
[figure description] Page 346.[end figure description]
bunches of holly, pranked gayly with their own and
the red berries of the cassina.
“You are late this morning, dear mother,” said
Bessy Clinton with a kiss; and little Rose echoed the
opinion and followed the example.
“Late? You are as impatient as Dick and Harry,”
said the mother. “I am sure it's an hour sooner
than you rise usually.”
“Ah! but it's Christmas eve, mother, and we have
to do a great deal. We shall have them here, pretty
soon, and must get an early breakfast. Good old Mr.
Bond will be here betimes to help us, and Squire
Whipple won't be long after him.”
“And Susan Bond's a-coming too, mamma, and
Sally,” was the eager assurance of little Rose, anxious
to put in.
“You are all too like your father, too impatient,
children. But now that you are here, Bessy Clinton,
make yourself useful. Put the pin in this tippet, and—
ah! child, how you're sticking me!”
“I'm so sorry, mother!”
“You're always so impatient! There, that will
do. Pick up your holly branches and your berries;
such a litter as you make. And come, we will hurry
down and see about breakfast, so that it be in readiness
when your father comes back. By this time he's
half way to the river.”
And they descended the stairs. Bessy Clinton
singing pleasantly, while her fingers wove the green
bushes and the red berries artfully together, from
another of the ancient carols with which the English
-- 347 --
[figure description] Page 347.[end figure description]
tastes of an affectionate grandsire had long since made
her familiar.
“I am here, the Lord Chrystmasse,
Give me welcome, youth and lasse,
For I come to heal trespasse,
Hurtes of soule to heale;
Dieu gardez—this I bring,
And ye need, with welcoming,
To rejoyce the man I sing,
Come for sinners' weale.
“'Tis Chryste's coming that ye see,
He who died upon the tree,
That your souls, from sin set free,
Might be his once more;
In his blessings, make your cheere,
Yet of evyl joys beware;
Satan spreads his fatal snare,
Though his sway be o'er;
“Welcome me, the Lord Chrystmasse—”
Etcetera! The song was hushed in the sound of
carriage wheels. The neighbors had already begun to
make their appearance. Sure enough, there was good
old Mr. Bond in his homely “Jersey,” and Susan
Bond in her nice white dimity and old-fashioned tippet,
and little Sally, to the delight of Rose, in her
faded calico, that sat upon her rounded limbs like the
sack upon her great-grandmother; and they brought
along with them bouncing Joe Dillon, a great chubby-cheeked
lad of one of the farther neighbors, of whom
the family at “Maize-in-Milk” as yet knew nothing.
And such a tumbling out of the frail vehicle as followed,
and such a tumbling out of the house to receive
-- 348 --
[figure description] Page 348.[end figure description]
them as took place, is quite beyond description. Mrs.
Openheart met old Mr. Bond on the threshold, and
Bessy Clinton took charge of Susan, while little Rose
led off Sally—the little also—followed by the chubby
boy at halting paces. And between Bessy Clinton and
Susan Bond, the work of the day began almost instantly.
The myrtle and the holly, the cassina and
the bamboo were instantly in requisition, and over the
great heavy windows and doors, and all about the huge
mirrors and antique family pictures, you could see the
arches, and the wreaths, and festoons beginning to grow
up in green and crimson, giving to the spacious walls
and rooms a charming aspect of the English Gothic.
How sweet is work when our tastes go with the toil,
and when beauty compensates industry. Our happy
maidens were conscious of this pleasure in the progress
of the labors of their hands; and now they put up and
pulled down, rearranged and altered, their tastes becoming
more and more critical the more they were
exercised. And “there now, Susan, that will so
please father,” declared at length that Bessy Clinton
was herself quite satisfied.
Leaving the girls thus happily engaged, let us follow
the boys in their excursion to the river. You
should have seen the lads mount each on his pony
not excepting Harry the little, who did not seem a bit
too little for the marshtacky, brought all the way from
Pocotaligo, which he straddled like an infant centaur.
Colonel Openheart, mounted on a strong, black parade
horse, upon which he had more than once marshalled
his regiment, led the way, Tom trying hard to
-- 349 --
[figure description] Page 349.[end figure description]
keep beside him in the narrow road, and Dick more
ambitiously darting half the time ahead. They were
followed by Swift, Sure, and Slow, three famous dogs,
which were the admiration of all the hunters of St.
Matthews. Then came Bedford, the Superlative, a
stout, gray-headed negro, who officiated as high-sheriff
over the plantation, carried out the wishes of
his master, and reported progress nightly; a shrewd
sensible negro, cool and steady, confident in his opinions,
yet perfectly respectful, who served God and his
master as well as he knew how, and, murdering the
king's English, seldom committed any more heinous
offences. The way of the cavalcade lay over hill and
dale, gentle eminences and pleasant slopes, and chiefly
through woods which were as old as the hills themselves.
Colonel Openheart was fond of trees and foliage,
and had so contrived his fields as to maintain a fine
body of wood between each. Through these his
several roads meandered, and he could pass to the survey
of one field after another without once leaving
the shelter of the original forests. These were of
pine, or oak and hickory, interspersed with a pleasant
variety of gum and poplar, and shrub trees of every
sort. Long reaches of swamp occasionally relieved
the uniform aspects of the hill foliage, by the gigantic
forms of cypress, ash, and other trees of deciduous
character. The brightness of that sunshiny December
morning had its effect upon all parties. A cheery
smile sat upon the face of the father, and brightened
benevolently in his large blue eye; the white teeth
of Bedford, the Superlative, never displayed their
-- 350 --
[figure description] Page 350.[end figure description]
massive outlines more conspicuously than while riding
along with the boys, responding to their eager inquiries;
and they, the lads, their young souls spoke out
only in shout and caracole, in impatient question that
stayed for no reply, and in the expression of an exulting
confidence in the joys of the day, which nature
herself seemed to counsel and encourage. The autumn
still lingered among the tree-tops in robes of saffron
and purple; and the life which animated them beside
showed itself momently in groups of squirrels—white,
black, and gray—which, darting from tree to tree,
seemed really only to sport themselves for the amusement
of the cavalcade and the annoyance of the dogs.
Sometimes a covey of partridges flushed up from the
brown and half-withered foliage along the track, and
a couple of great turkey-hawks might be seen to rise,
sweeping the air over the open field in wide circles,
with keen eye bent upon the long grasses, in which
the rabbit might be supposed to have slept the previous
night. The track pursued by the party, though
a narrow, was a sufficiently open one. Made studiously
circuitous, it was a good two miles to the river,
and every fifty or a hundred yards afforded some
pleasant or picturesque changes to the eye. Now
they skirted a hill upon whose brow sits a crown of
the noblest pines, green, towering, and magnificent;
and now they wind along a copse of bays, a thicket,
whose leaves suffer only enough from the winter's frost
to give forth those sweets of which none of the
persuasions of the summer could beguile a single
breath. A uniform dark green overspreads this
-- 351 --
[figure description] Page 351.[end figure description]
region, save here and there where a great gum-tree,
rising in the midst, shakes a head of glorious yellow
aloft in lonely majesty. And now they pass into the
levels of the swamp, through some choice cotton fields,
in which, however, Colonel Openheart sees but little
promise, during the present season, of realizing the
usual bountiful returns. They are already nearly
stripped of fruit; the white pods which commonly
sprinkled these fields—as if strewn with blossoms of
the dogwood, until the last of January, being quite
beyond his power to pick until that period—show
now but a scattered whiteness here and there, which
rather mocks than satisfies the sight.
“Bad business here, Bedford, this season.”
“Monstrous bad!” says Bedford, with a closing of
the lips and a lugubrious shaking of the head. “Monstrous
bad, sir; but such a portentious drought as devoured
us, and such a tempestious tornado as beat us
down after it, jest as the field was going to blow in
September, was a ravaging of us that no cotton could
stand under.”
“We must do better next year, Bedford.”
“Ef it's the will of Providence, there shall be another
guess desemblance in our swamp next year.”
“It must be, Bedford,” was the rather emphatic
reply of the colonel.
The negro was silent. The master proceeded:
“The old Salem tract must be put in order with the
beginning of the New Year. You know that I have
bought the force of our old friend, Ben Butler. They
will be here to-day. We must work them on that
-- 352 --
[figure description] Page 352.[end figure description]
tract, and must contrive to pay for them, in part, out of
next year's crop. They are not the best negroes in
the world, as you know, but we must manage them
with prudence. I look to you, Bedford, to do your
best”—the negro touched his beaver—“and I do not
doubt that you can meet all my calculations. The
seasons can scarcely be so bad again as they have been
for the last two years.”
But these details are sufficient. Crossing a pretty
but shallow stream, which was skirted by a growth of
gum, and traversed by occasional cypresses, of immense
size, that strode clear away, six or eight feet
deep in the water, the party emerged upon a hammock
beyond which lay the river; and the impatient
boys cantered away in front, while the colonel and
Bedford continued at a more moderate pace. When
the two latter reached the banks of the river, the
urchins were already dismounted, and each had his
pony fastened to the swinging limb of a tree; and here
the object which had brought them to this point was
at once presented conspicuously to the sight. Here,
commanding the river, which was a broad and turbid
stream, with a vast stretch of drowned swamp spreading
away on the opposite side, was a tiny fortress, a
redoubt of earth, with its bastions and its merlons,
and a neat little two-pounder, looking out with impudent
aspect upon the raftsmen going down the stream.
In a moment, the colonel unrolled a nice silken banner,
upon which the fair hands of Bessy Clinton had
wrought a palmetto, and it was soon run up the staff,
and floating gayly above the juvenile ramparts. And
-- 353 --
[figure description] Page 353.[end figure description]
it was to hear the thunder of this piece, and to see
the smoke and fire issue from its jaws, that our boys,
Tom, Dick, and Harry, would at any time abandon
the more staid and regular amusements of the household.
The smaller piece at home, manufactured from
an old ship's blunderbuss, and set on a rude block
before the house, though in itself a delight, and which
they could venture to discharge themselves, was not
to be spoken of in the same breath with the more formidable
engine by which the river was commanded.
Strange passion which the boy has for guns and uproar!
Colonel Openheart encouraged this passion
among his sons, and the fantastic notion of a fort at
his landing on the river was a sort of tribute to the
memory of his father, who had been one of the defenders
of Fort Moultrie against the British. The
fact—then proved for the first time—that a rifleman
of the American forests made a first-rate artillerist,
was one to be remembered by the son of one who had
been conspicuous among those by whom the fact was
so well proven; and the possession of a small British
piece, which was one of the trophies awarded to his
father's valor, had prompted the little battery that
crowned the water approaches to “Maize-in-milk.”
But the signal is given! The eager hearts of the
boys are bounding violently against their ribs; their
eyes are dilating; their heads stretched forward, and
their whole souls filled with delicious expectation. The
torch is applied, and the roar follows. Then they rush
forward into the smoke, Dick leading the way, and
even little Harry, convulsed with frenzy, rolling and
-- 354 --
[figure description] Page 354.[end figure description]
tumbling about in the sulphurous fog. Twice, thrice
the discharge is made, and then the signal is given to
resume the march. Each lad unfastens his horse,
Bedford performing the office for little Harry, who is
too proud, however, to admit of any help in clambering
up his pony's sides. The adventure of the morning
is over, and now back to the domicil for breakfast,
with what appetite they may.
There they found old Mr. Bond and pretty Susan
Bond, and other guests, already arrived; for their
excursion to the river had somewhat encroached, in
spite of all their efforts at early rising, upon the
breakfast hour. The breakfast consisted of all the
varieties known to a Carolina plantation of ante-revolutionary
establishment. I don't know that it would
be worth while to enumerate the various “creature
comforts” under which the table groaned; and yet
there may be some young persons among my readers
to whom a catalogue raisonée may not be altogether
without its uses. And first, then, for the inevitable
dish of Indian corn, in its capacity of vegetable rather
than breadstuff—hominy! Now, your yellow corn
won't do for hominy—the color and the flavor are
alike against it. It must be the genuine semitransparent
flint, ground at a water-mill, white as snow,
and swelling out in two huge platters at convenient
places upon the table. A moderate portion of each
plate is provided with this vegetable, boiled to a due
consistency; neither too soft, like mush, nor too stiff,
hard, and dry for easy adjustment with a spoon. It
requires long experience on the part of the cook to
-- 355 --
[figure description] Page 355.[end figure description]
prepare this dish for the just appreciation of an adept.
There must be no rising lump in the mass; there must
be no dark speck upon the surface. The spoon should
lie upon it without sinking below the rims, and hominy
should always be eaten with a spoon or fork of silver.
I name all these little particulars, as I assume the
time to be approaching fast, when Great Britain and
Ireland, and one-half the continent of Europe will be
fed out of the American granaries, and when hominy
will arrive at its position of true dignity and distinction
in the cuisine of the Old World. The Carolina
breakfast-table would be a blank without hominy.
That of “Maize-in-milk” had its usual bountiful
supply on the present occasion, and was not without its
variety of breadstuffs. There were loaves and cakes of
wheat, corn, and rye, all the growth of the plantation;
Colonel Openheart not being one of those conceited
wiseacres who rely only upon the cotton market and
neglect every other interest. It may be that he relied
still too much upon the profits and prospects of the
cotton market, so as to indulge in a too ready habit of
expenditure, but he never was that purblind proprietor
who forgets the farm in the staple; a class of people
still quite too large in Carolina for their own and the
good of the country. His table rejoiced in its rice
cakes and waffles also, among his breadstuffs; rice
being also one of the grains of his own production.
But of these, enough is said already. Among the
meats on table, to say nothing of cold corn-beef and
boiled venison, we must spare a passing sentence to
the sausages and black puddings. Christmas on the
-- 356 --
[figure description] Page 356.[end figure description]
southern plantation is emphatically the sausage season.
Then it is, as old Mr. Bond was wont to say, that
every negro is heard to whistle, and every mouth looks
oily. But perhaps it is not every reader who knows
what black puddings are. Well, we shall not pretend
to enlighten those who are unhappily ignorant. It is
enough to say that a black pudding is something in
the nature of the Scotch haggis, so sublimely sung by
Burns, without the deficiencies and infirmities of that
venerable compound. It is less unsightly to the eye,
and less unfriendly to the taste, more delicate in its
flavor, and, perhaps, even more various in its ingredients.
You shall find it a goodly commodity, taken
along with its kindred, sausage and hominy, at a
southern breakfast, when the Yule log is blazing.
Colonel Openheart had just killed his usual hundred
head of hogs, and this was one of the great events to
bring happiness to the negro quarter. The great
beef had also been slaughtered, and plenty and pleasure
were conspicuous in every visage. No wonder
the breakfast went off swimmingly. The boys were
the happiest creatures in the world, and the achievements
of the great gun were thrust into all ears. Not
that they were either obtrusive or uproarious in the
house with the guests or at the table. On these points,
our colonel, though very indulgent generally, was
something of a martinet, and breakfast was discussed
and dispatched with a degree of order and quietude
which only was not solemnity and stiffness. After
breakfast the girls continued the work of decoration,
and the boys went out to play. The lady of the house
-- 357 --
[figure description] Page 357.[end figure description]
had her preparations still in some degree to make,
and the worthy colonel took charge of good Mr. Bond,
and they went together to the farm-yard, comparing
notes, and discussing peas, ploughs, and potatoes as they
went. Soon, however, their attention was drawn to
farther arrivals. First came poor old Kinsale, a worthy
old Irishman—a farmer of small degree, who had been
so long in America as to insist that yams and Spanish
were the real potatoes of green Erin, and that the
Irish potato had never been otherwise than sweet
from the days of Sir Walter Raleigh. He was a
good old man, seventy-six years or more, for whom
Colonel Openheart sent his own horses and carriage
every Christmas. Unlike Irishmen, who are not
generally tenacious of early customs, he still wore
small clothes and long stockings, having no better
reason for his adherence to ancient fashions than the
possession of a pair of legs which were formed after
the best of ancient models. The youngsters of the
day, however much they might smile at the tottering
gait and rheumy eyes of old Kinsale, were not without
a sufficient degree of taste to prompt envy of his
calves. The red bandana about his neck, and the
great hanging cape and flaps of his Marseilles vest
were in odd contrast with the modern sack, of newest
pattern, which had lately beguiled him by its cheapness,
its bright colors and glittering buttons, at a
Charleston slop-shop. The old fellow was now all
agog for the war with Mexico, and his first demand
was for the last newspapers which spoke of that event.
But that the approaches of age were quite too
-- 358 --
[figure description] Page 358.[end figure description]
unequivocal to suffer such an absurdity, it might have
been that we should have heard him talk of volunteering
in the Palmetto Regiment. But he was still
strong to totter about field and stable; he disliked
the house, and placing his chair under the shade of a
group of great oaks that circled the centre of the lawn
before the mansion of “Maize-in-milk,” he indicated
to the other gentleman the propriety of choosing that
as the place for the reception of the arriving company.
So here they all took seats together, with the newspapers
in the grasp of old Kinsale, and a variety of
potatoes of the largest dimensions, yam, Spanish, and
brimstone, at his feet. These, with a laudable brag of
Colonel Openheart, he had displayed as the largest
which had been made anywhere that season. A few
superior cotton-stalks were also beside them, with some
mammoth turnips and great ears of corn. While they
sat together, in rolled the barouche of Captain Whitfield
with his family, five or seven in number, soon
followed by Squire Whipple and a Mr. Bateman, who
had just bought a snug farm in the neighborhood, and
had been invited to share the Christmas hospitalities
of “Maize-in-milk.” All these were farmers of moderate
resources, well to do in the world without being
wealthy, a comfortable and improving people. Colonel
Openheart's pleasure was to feel himself in a
neighborhood with which he could sympathize; and
with this object he had been for a long period engaged
in the politic task of endeavoring to secure the affections
of those around him. He made but little difference
between his neighbors, except such as was
-- 359 --
[figure description] Page 359.[end figure description]
called for by moral differences among themselves; and
if he thought of the poverty of any among them, it was
only that he might remember the needy with more
seasonable assistance.
But now other guests began to make their appearance,
and as a stately carriage came whirling down
the road, dear Bessy Clinton ran out to the trees
where her father was seated, exclaiming—“It's Mary
Butler, papa—that's the carriage;” and the eager
eyes of the damsel sparkled as dewily bright as if the
sunshine which they showed was about to issue from
a tear. Sure enough, it was Mary Butler—but who
is it with her? Bessy Clinton had never been so fortunate
as to know Elijah Skinflint, Esq., the lawyer
of Messrs. Ingelhart and Cripps, to whom the temporary
charge of Mary Butler had been confided.
Mr. Skinflint, though he owned a plantation a few
miles above that of Colonel Openheart, was a practising
lawyer at a distant court-house, which he seldom
left, except hurriedly to cast an eye upon the doings
of his overseer. His lean and angular person, red,
searching, ferret-like eyes, and gaunt, erect frame
were quite new to our Bessy Clinton, who, though
anxious to embrace Mary Butler, somewhat shrunk
from the idea of approaching the grim guardian who
came along with her. But, Skinflint and all his terrors
were forgotten, when her father lifted Mary from
the carriage; and the fond damsel bounded to her
friend, and took her about the neck with as much
fervency as if all the blood from her heart had gone
into her arms. She was about to lead the lovely
-- 360 --
[figure description] Page 360.[end figure description]
orphan away, when the voice of her father called her
back; and she suffered a formal introduction to the
redoubted lawyer, who had himself suggested the proceeding.
Skinflint was evidently struck with the appearance
of Bessy Clinton; who, for her age, was a
tall and womanly-looking creature. I need not say
she was a very lovely one. Skinflint appeared to
think her so, and threw as much gentleness and animation
into his glance, when he spoke with her, as a
long practice in a very different school permitted him
to do. He would have given her his arm in moving
towards the house, but the damsel, too anxious to have
Mary Butler to herself, contrived not to appear to see
the awkward half-tender of civility which the learned
barrister had made. In this way she got off, and the
two girls were out of sight in an instant. The gentlemen
again went towards their trees, where they soon
forgot the other sex in a discussion which was equally
shared between politics and potatoes.
Skinflint was something of a politician, but he met
his match in old Kinsale. If the one was expert at
weaving the knot of Gordius, the other had a prompt
Alexandrine method of unloosing it. His sturdy
practical mind, and clear direct judgment, made him
more than a match for the lawyer, who soon contrived
to get as far from him as possible. In a little while
the attention of all parties was drawn to new objects,
which appeared upon the highway. These were the
negroes of the Butler estate, whom Colonel Openheart
had so rashly purchased, and at such high prices. He
had sent all his carts and wagons to bring them to
-- 361 --
[figure description] Page 361.[end figure description]
their new abodes, with all their prog and furniture.
And a quaint and merry-looking cavalcade they made.
The carts, four in number, the wagons, too, and a great
ox-cart, were all laden heavily with baggage and bedding.
Grinning little urchins lay on the top, and the
able-bodied walked beside the vehicles. Each carried
something in his hands, or a wallet upon his shoulders.
More than one old fiddle was to be seen among them,
and the song with which they accompanied the crazy
music of its strings, only ceased when they came in
sight of the group beneath the trees. Colonel Openheart,
followed by his guests, went out to the roadside
to speak to them as they passed. He had a pleasant
word for each, and shook hands with old Enoch, the
patriarch of the plantation, where the latter sat in the
wagon which brought up the rear. Bedford appropriately
made his appearance at this moment, and
took charge of the cavalcade, which he conducted to
the quarters prepared for them. Affectionate memories
of his friend, Ben Butler, caused the eyes of
Colonel Openheart to grow dim as he shook hands
with the aged negroes; but a very different sentiment
was in those of Lawyer Skinflint. Be sure, that excellent
citizen had thoughts in his mind, as he beheld
the scene, which he would never have ventured to
declare in any of his pleadings. But the worthy
colonel neither saw nor suspected anything, and his
deportment to Skinflint, whom he did not love, was
quite as courteous and kind as to any other of his
guests. For that matter, as the day advanced, Skinflint
began to grow in favor. He evidently took some
-- 362 --
[figure description] Page 362.[end figure description]
pains to make himself agreeable. He was a man of
considerable experience and information; had travelled,
was well read, and not entirely wanting in those
finer tastes which so happily garnish even the conversation
of the merely sensible. He could be sportive
when he would; and a vein of dry humor, which at
the bar was causticity, seasoned his most ordinary
conversation. He was habitually a hard man—cold,
ascetic; sarcastic, selfish; with but little sympathy
for humanity in its susceptibilities, and in those pliant
movements of the heart and fancy, which the worldling
is apt to regard as weaknesses. But he knew how
to humor the moods of others; and, with an object in
view, he could play the pleasant companion for an
hour, or a day—nay, quite as long as he had anything
to gain by it. And he had something to gain at
“Maize-in-milk;” at least, we already half suspect
the grim bachelor of being more than pleased with the
graces and charms of dear Bessy Clinton. We don't
know that any eye but ours beheld him, as, frequently,
in the progress of the day, his glance was fixed on
the fair face and beautifully rounded form of the
maiden, with a positive show of interest and pleasure.
The insolent! He to presume on the affections of
that sweet creature—that incarnation of all that is
delicate and dear in humanity and woman!
But the day passes—O! most pleasantly to all;
and the young increase in numbers as the hours melt
into the past; and the brightness grows in every eye
as, sporting on the lawn, they seem to hurry the footsteps
of the sun. And he sets at last! Then
-- 363 --
[figure description] Page 363.[end figure description]
emerging from an ancient closet, our host brings forth the
rude charred fragments of a half-burned log. It is
the Yule log of the last year. The hall chimney is
carefully denuded of all its fires—the sticks are taken
out, the hearth is swept. The great back-log, chosen
for the fire of the new year, is brought in, and the
fragments of last year's log are employed to kindle
it. Our colonel delighted to continue, as nearly as
he could with propriety, the customs of his English
ancestors; and his own shoulders bore the log from
the woodpile, and his own hands lighted the brands
of the new year's fire as the sun went down. Doubtless,
there is some superstition in all this; but such
superstitions are not without their charm, and have
their advantages. The superstitions which tend in
some degree to make us forgetful of self, are equally
serviceable to humanity and religion.
The tea-things are removed; the night advances,
the sable fiddler has made his appearance; and, seated
in the piazza, attended by an urchin with a rude
tambourine, he brings forth sounds which have a
strange effect upon youthful feet and fancies. The
dance begins, and, for two hours, the girls and boys foot
it merrily in the great hall. Then a few steal away to
another apartment, and there the eggs are broken.
One seizes upon the bowl, another upon the dish, and
they proceed to manufacture a noggin of eggs; that
luscious draught not to be foregone, styled, in homely
parlance, eggnog! not an inebriating beverage in that
temperate household. The dance ceases; the draught
is enjoyed; the more youthful disappear, and the
-- 364 --
[figure description] Page 364.[end figure description]
sweet voice of Bessy Clinton, as she sings another of
her ancient Christmas carols, is the signal for the
separation of the company that night at the mansion
of “Maize-in-milk.” Verily, Lawyer Skinflint never
in his life before appeared so devotedly fond of music.
He hung upon the tones of the sweet songstress as if
she were especially the sweet singer in Israel, while
she poured forth, at her father's summons, the old
“Carol for Christmas Eve.”
Where, among the pasturing rocks,
The glad shepherds kept their flocks,
Came an angel to the fold,
And, with voice of rapture, told,
That the Saviour, Christ, was born!
Born in Bethlehem, sacred place,
Of a virgin full of grace;
In a manger, lowly spot,
Symbol of his mortal lot,
Lo! the Saviour, Christ, is born!
Dread and glorious was the bright
Of that sudden, shining light,
Which, around the angel then,
Tokened to the simple men,
That the Saviour, Christ, was born!
But the voice that filled the blaze,
Cheered them in their deep amaze;—
“Tidings of great joy I bring,”
In the coming of your King:
The true Shepherd, Christ, is born.
-- 365 --
CHAPTER III.
[figure description] Page 365.[end figure description]
And never did a Christmas morning dawn more
cheerily on human eyes than did this, so much looked
for at “Maize-in-milk,” in St. Matthews. The harmony
of heart within, seemed to lend its aspect to
the outer world; and though at sunrise a heavy white
frost lay upon the fields and woods, yet the day was
sweetly mild and the atmosphere vigorous and bracing.
The song-birds are seldom forest-birds. They
fly to the shelter and countenance of man, from the
deep thickets where the hostile vermin keep shelter.
Perhaps there is an intellectual consciousness which
they feel, that the human is the most justly appreciative
audience. So the smaller birds of game harbor
only in the neighborhood of fields which are cultivated
by man, not for the reason assigned by M. Chateaubriand,
but simply because these furnish most readily
the food which they desire; and because here, also,
in the neighborhood of human habitations, they are
less likely to fall victims to the prowling owl and fox,
or the vigilant hawk. Now the proprietors of “Maize-in-milk”
had, from time immemorial, been disposed to
acknowledge the confidence which the feathered tribes
thus tacitly seemed to repose in their forbearance;
and, in the immediate proximity of the homestead,
no hostile gun was permitted to ruffle a bird's feathers.
The song-birds laughed merrily at noontide and morning
in the roof-tree, and had no apprehension; and
-- 366 --
[figure description] Page 366.[end figure description]
the partridge led her young along the roadside, skirting
the hedge of box and myrtle, having no fear of
being thought a trespasser. Our Christmas morning
on the present occasion, was particularly distinguished
by these free forest visitors, who came about the
habitation, to the great delight of the guests, as if
they not only were disposed to assert their privileges,
but as if they knew that the season was one for Sunday
clothes and merry-making. When poor old Kinsale
rose, therefore, some time before the sun, and before
any other of the household—for old age requires fewer
hours for sleep than youth—very sweet and pleasant
was the sight that greeted his aged eyes. Sitting in
the great massive porch of the building, which faced
the south, a wide lawn spread out before him covered
with green trees. These were of the various sorts of
oak and orange, with a sprinkling of laurel and other
trees, most of which were aged like himself, but showing
far greater proofs of vigor. Their heavy tops
were populous cities of song-birds. Here the red-bird
flourished, with his crimson tufts, satisfied with
his glorious plumage and his brief but complacent
note. Here was the imperial mock-bird, one of which,
well known to the household, and fed with crumbs by
the children—old Puck—very soon discerned a stranger
in the portico, and was sending forth a short
sharp and querulous inquiry, which might be translated,
“and who are you, my good fellow? and what do
you want?” But though pleased with the familiarity
of the bird—for if there be anything which age most
loves, it is society—old Kinsale was not the person to
-- 367 --
[figure description] Page 367.[end figure description]
invite them by his presence. The summer of childhood
is always most effectual, and, failing to conciliate
the suspicions of old Puck, who hopped off at his call
to one of his remotest twigs—the old man turned his
attention upon the great trees of the park, and finally
beyond them, to the open fields. It was the policy
of the proprietor of “Maize-in-milk” to maintain
about his household as much of the aspect of spring
and freshness as he could. His fields on the right
were accordingly covered with a vigorous growth of
wheat, which, in his hands, was a crop of respectable
production for Carolina. While his less considerate
neighbors were satisfied to get but eight bushels of
this luxuriant grain from the average acre, he, by
skilful dressing, and the free use of lime, contrived
to extract nearly thrice that quantity. On the opposite
side was to be seen a broad tract of rye, green
and growing, while beyond, on every hand, spread a
wall of thickly wooded copse and forest, by which
each of his fields was girdled, and through which lay
pleasant walks and openings to the corn and cotton
fields still farther distant. The settlements at “Maize-in-milk,”
standing upon a hill, gave a very extensive
view on every side. Looking from the rear of the
dwelling, the eye might discern, a few miles off, the
great gray tops of the cypress that looked forth from
the dark recesses of the swamp. For these objects old
Kinsale had an eye. They had harbored the aged man
in the Revolution from some of his Tory neighbors.
But he was not suffered long to indulge in his solitary
survey. Soon the children came skipping forth,
-- 368 --
[figure description] Page 368.[end figure description]
Tom, Dick, and Harry, each clamoring with new discoveries.
Santa Claus visits us in the South, too, but
under no such Dutch appellation. We do not confound
the day of St. Nicholas with that of Christmas,
though we distinguish them, in the old houses, by similar
customs, borrowed, however, from our English ancestry.
With us, the good genius of the nativity, in
a merely social point of view, is good old Father Christmas
himself. The benevolent old graybeard makes
his presents to the children, under this more seemly
appellation. And the urchins are very well accustomed
to look for his coming. They hang their stockings
in the chimney-place, each with a sprig of ivy, or cassina,
or holly, or sumach, either or all, in tribute to
the venerable visitor. These he withdraws, and leaves
in place of them such gifts as he deems best suited to
the character and the deserts of his protégé. To
some of these a bunch of hickories conveys a rebuke
and threat, which by no means makes the coming of
Father Christmas a merry one.
Our lads and lasses at “Maize-in-milk” had done
their best to merit, or, at all events, to receive the
bounties of the ancient patron. Tom had hung his
new boots, the first pair that had ever embraced his
ankles, upon sticks pendent over the fender. Dick,
more ambitious of favor, had occupied a chair fronting
the fireplace, with one or more suits of clothes,
hat and shoes included, from each of which, capable
of holding them, might be seen the protruding green
and red of the sumach and the holly. Harry, without
pockets to his breeches, had put his cap, shoes, and
-- 369 --
[figure description] Page 369.[end figure description]
stockings. The girls had also made provision for
their guest. The tiny stockings of dear little Rose
were placed conspicuously not to escape attention,
while Mary Butler, Susan Bond, and Bessy Clinton,
had set their nice white baskets, beautifully dressed
with flowers mingled with holly, on different sides of
the fireplace in their chamber.
And now came forth the boys, each bounding tumultuously
with his treasure, which had come with
the dawn of Christmas. They had all slept with an
eye open, eager to see what sort of visage the old man
would put on. Dick swears he saw him; a big man,
in a sort of white overall, or shirt, with a great basket
on his arm, a great pair of horns on his head, and a
long beard, like moss, hanging to his knees. Tom
thinks he saw him; but is of opinion that he had on
petticoats, and looked something like his mamma;
while little Harry slept through it all. As for the
girls, we can only say that, when asked what they saw,
Bessy Clinton and Mary Butler smiled knowingly,
but said nothing; while dear little Rose insists that
Father Christmas was a big lady like her own mamma.
But for their gifts! Old Kinsale had the first
sight of these. The treasures of each were spread
before him, and he was called upon to decide on their
value. Tom emptied his boots to display a pair of
spurs, a buck-handled knife, and a very pretty flageolet,
with all of which he seemed very well contented.
Dick held himself quite as lucky with one small qualification.
His trophies were, a knife also, but smaller
than that of Tom's, a bag of marbles, an India-rubber
-- 370 --
[figure description] Page 370.[end figure description]
ball, a bilboketch, or cup and ball, a joint-snake, and
a bunch of hickory switches. There was something
in every pocket or receptacle among his clothes, from
which the holly sprig had been taken. Little Harry
was quite satisfied with certain toys that leapt like
frogs, barked like dogs, or rolled and grunted like
hogs. He was also indulged in a tipsy Turk, with
his chibouque, manufactured in papier maché. The
gifts of Father Christmas to the girls were in less
doubtful taste. Dear little Rose had her toys, it is
true; but Bessy Clinton found in her basket a beautifully
bound copy of the common-prayer, and a fine
ladies' gold watch. A single sentence written in antique
characters, evidently by King Christmasse himself,
warned her to use the first gift properly that
she might not lose the value of the second. Mary
Butler had a ring with the initials of Bessy Clinton.
Susan Bond was not forgotten. Her tribute of holly
disappeared, and a very pretty musical-box, with a
handsome set of chess-men, and a beautiful copy of
Pilgrim's Progress, remained in place of it. The ancient
sire had chosen judiciously. He knew the tastes
of all parties, and their deserts too. They were all
satisfied equally with his liberality and justice; and,
in their satisfaction with their treasures, the great gun
was almost forgotten. Its sharp and loud report
routed the rest of the sleeping household, and each
urchin, lying in wait, made the house ring again, as
the several members came forth, with “Merry Christmas,
papa! Merry Christmas, mamma!” “I've
caught you—I've caught you!” And this led to a
-- 371 --
[figure description] Page 371.[end figure description]
new distribution of gifts. Father Christmas had done
his duty, but the ordinary sire of the household must
do his—and the mother, and the sister, and all;—
and the custom did not confine these claims to the
children, but extended to the house-servants, none of
whom forgot that the advent of Father Christmasse,
gave them claims upon massa and missis, which were
to be urged early in the morning, with vociferous
cries, as soon as they should show their faces.
Before this rout had well subsided, the girls, Bessy
Clinton, Mary Butler, and Susan Bond, were busy at
another and equally essential part of the ceremonies
of the season. Each had a pile of eggs before her,
and there were huge bowls and dishes spread out, and
great vessels of sugar and a decanter of wine; and
the eggs were broken, the whites emptied into the
dish, the yolks into the bowl, and Susan Bond, seizing
upon the bowl, began to beat away with a spoon like
mad, stirring in every now and then a modicum of
sugar with the yolks, till they lost their golden hue
and put on one more silvery and less rich. At the
same time, our Bessy Clinton, even more busy, and at
the more laborious process, was beating the white and
mucilaginous portions of the egg into a thick foam of
such final consistency that she could turn the vessel
upside down without losing a drop of the commodity.
This was the standard point, which, once attained, the
yolk and white were again to be united, the wine was
to embrace the two in its ardent grasp, and the whole
was then fit for the palate of Father Christmasse
himself, the King of the Feast. This is eggnog—
-- 372 --
[figure description] Page 372.[end figure description]
a noggin of which is the necessary preface to a Christmas
breakfast, after the old fashion in Carolina. This
discussed, and breakfast followed, ample and various
as the preceding day; and then all parties sallied
forth, in several groups, to ride, to ramble, and to
hunt. Two or three of the young men, taking Tom
Openheart along with them, and calling up the hounds,
set off to chase the deer. Numerous drives on the
ample estate of “Maize-in-milk” promised abundant
sport. We shall not follow the hunters, but content
ourselves with saying that their efforts were rewarded
with a fine fat doe and a monstrous wild-cat, four feet
from snout to tail, inclusive, that made famous play
with hounds and hunters, and was only caught after
three hours' running and doubling, and a most terrific
fight.
Meanwhile, breakfast scarcely over at “Maize-in-milk,”
a new collection of shining faces appeared about
the porch of the dwelling, in waiting for the appearance
of “old maussa” without. These were the field
negroes, under the lead of ancient Enoch, including
those not only of the plantation proper, but those also
who had just been bought of the Butler estate. The
household servants, as we have already hinted, had
made sure of their “Christmas” as soon as the family
budged out of their several chambers. And such a
chorus of cries and salutations! Such a happy variety
of voices in the same monotonous chant of “Merrie
Chrystmasse.” There were voices of lame, halt, and
blind; beginning with old Dolly, a white-headed matron
of ninety-three, whose memory was a complete chronicle
-- 373 --
[figure description] Page 373.[end figure description]
of the revolutionary warfare. Blind and deaf, she sat
between her great-great-grandchildren, on the steps of
the porch, and shook her palsied head, with a feeble
chirrup, which was drowned in the more vigorous
burden of a hundred more, whose lungs deferred but
little to her weight of years. And there was Binah,
the mute; and Tony, the one-armed; and Polly, the
half-witted; and Diana, the rheumatic, and a dozen
more of both sexes, whom the master only knew as
dependents for whom he had to provide, and who were
of more trouble and expense to him than thrice their
number of the rest. But of this our excellent proprietor
did not complain. Indeed, these poor creatures
were particular objects of his attention. He was
content to take the evil with the good; and he regarded
these old heirlooms as so many subjects of
his father, who, having served their time faithfully,
deserved to be protected and provided for during the
future, in consideration of the past. There was no
discharging the operative the moment he ceased to be
useful.
And such a clamor as was raised, as our Colonel
Openheart came forth at the head of his guests, as
if his benevolence was now to be assailed by storm.
The jaws of eighty or more were instantly unclosed
upon him; and “God bless you, maussa,”—“Merry
Christmas, old maussa,”—“How all is, dis merrie
Christmas,”—“Hoping you live tousand merry Christmas
more,”—“And all de chillans;” these were some
few of the burdens of their common song. Some had
it in rhyme, borrowed probably from the school-boys:—
-- 374 --
[figure description] Page 374.[end figure description]
“Christmas come but once de year,
Da's wha' mak' we come up yer (here).”
Or,
“Enty dis da Christmas come?
Yer's de nigger look for some!”
Or,
“Merrie Christmas, maussa, for true,
You' ole niggers pray for you;”
And, from another voice, as if by way of chorus,
“Gee 'um only you good cheer,
An' you'll hab de happy New Year.”
For this scene our excellent proprietor had been
accustomed to prepare. In this respect he followed
the example of his ancestor, and, indeed, of most of
the very old native proprietors. A sort of peddler's
variety was produced from a huge case, which had
been brought up from the city a few days before. To
some were given knives and scissors, caps, shawls, and
handkerchiefs. Others had hatchets, razors, tobacco,
and cases of pins and needles. Some chose cotton or
wool cards—for most of the negro women of character
on a plantation, carry on some little domestic manufactures
of their own; and others were quite content
with queer clumsy toys, and great grinning masks,
with which they could amuse or frighten the more
simple of their own or of neighboring plantations.
Money is seldom given, never by a judicious proprietor,
as it is sure to be spent perniciously at some neighboring
groggery.
This distribution of Christmas presents occupied an
hour or more. In some instances, but not often, and
-- 375 --
[figure description] Page 375.[end figure description]
only when Col. Openheart could trust the good sense
of the recipient, he was permitted to choose his article
for himself. They all withdrew, more or less satisfied—
their greasy, grinning faces doing ample justice,
by their expression, to the bounty of the master, and
the fulness of the hog-meat upon which they had been
feasting for a week past.
Lawyer Skinflint was not satisfied with the spectacle
he witnessed. He thought it a mode of spoiling them.
They would always expect such favors. It invited
familiarity. It would provoke jealousy among themselves.
It would be productive of many other mischiefs
which we shall not mention. To all these Col.
Openheart opposed evasive answers only. It was not
the season for discussion; nor was he, in his old age,
to discuss or doubt the propriety of a practice which
his grandfather and father had pursued before him
without being thought worse persons than their neighbors.
The excellent lawyer only ceased his pleadings
with the appearance of the ladies in the portico, when
he addressed himself with a benignant smile to Mrs.
Openheart, and, after a few studied phrases about
the day, turned to play the gallant with lovely Bessy
Clinton; a new rôle, which seemed by no means native.
The horses were now in readiness, the carriage and
barouche. All parties were preparing to go forth.
Col. Whitfield, with his wonted promptness, offered
his services to Mrs. Openheart and Mrs. Whipple, for
a drive; while Misses Whipple and Jones, failing to
persuade Bessy Clinton, Mary Butler, and Susan Bond
from the saddle to the barouche, very civilly offered
-- 376 --
[figure description] Page 376.[end figure description]
to take up good old father Kinsale. Having ascertained
how Bessy Clinton went, the lawyer determined
to engage also in equestrianship, though really inclining,
by reason of his peculiar physique, to the
cushions; and he, Col. Openheart, Mr. Bond, and the
two boys, became the companions of the three girls,
and were soon mounted upon the liveliest and pleasantest
pacers in the whole parish. It was a day for
horseback, and the “righte merrie” cavalcade dashed
at once up the highway for a mile; then, turning
aside, proceeded to pay an annual visit, in especial, to
the old fort, overlooking the river, remarkable for its
local traditions; where you may yet see the proofs of
the devil's presence, in one of his ancient frolics, in
the tracks of his tail and carriage wheels—a legend
which, at some future and convenient season, we shall
have to put in print. The description of the scenery
along the route taken by our party we must reserve
for the same occasion. Enough to say of it that it
harmonized admirably with the bracing air, the calm,
generous sunshine, and the rapid but easy motion of
the horses. All parties were delighted—eyes were
in a glow, cheeks were brightly flushed, and even our
lawyer, who kept his horse neck-and-neck, like a
young gallant, with that of Bessy Clinton, talked of
nothing but purling brooks, green leaves, and love in
a cottage, the whole way. The sweet, gentle-hearted
girl heard him with respectful kindness, and answered
without hesitation or reserve. She had no suspicions
of his gallantry, to put her on her reserves; and all
things might have gone, with him, “as merry as a
-- 377 --
[figure description] Page 377.[end figure description]
marriage bell,” but for a slight incident which happened
on the route.
Dashing suddenly into the main road, on their way
back to “Maize-in-milk,” they came unexpectedly
upon another party, the sight of which kindled the
eyes equally of Col. Openheart and Bessy Clinton.
“Why, Bessy,” said the colonel, “that is Mrs. Berkshire's
carriage, surely. What brings her from the
city?” The words were scarcely spoken, when the
head of a young man was thrust forth from the carriage,
which was in front, and suggested a new conclusion
to our worthy proprietor of “Maize-in-milk.”
“It is she, and that is her son, Fergus, just from college;”
and, with the words, giving his horse the
spur, our colonel dashed ahead, and was soon alongside
of the vehicle and the persons in question. In
another moment the carriage was stopped, Colonel
Openheart alighted, and, changing places with young
Berkshire, the latter soon joined the young ladies by
whom the rear was brought up. A handsome, tall,
high-spirited young fellow was Fergus Berkshire. He
spoke to Bessy Clinton as to an old acquaintance, and
our lawyer watched, with some uneasiness, the sudden
flush upon the cheek of the damsel as she hailed the
youth's approach. He soon explained the motive of
the sudden appearance of himself and mother.
The old mansion-house and estate were in bad
condition, and something was to be done with it before
he went to Europe. Of course,” he added, “it is our
purpose, now, to spend our Christmas at 'Maize-in-milk.'”
-- 378 --
[figure description] Page 378.[end figure description]
Bessy heard and answered him with undisguised
pleasure.
“You know, Fergus,” she answered, “you are always
at home with us.”
“We took that for granted,” said the youth, “though
I almost feared that a three years' absence had caused
you to forget us all.”
“And you go soon again?” she inquired.
“Yes; mother is anxious to comply with the earnest
wishes of my poor father, whose instructions were,
that, after leaving college, I was to pass two years in
foreign travel. We shall spend a couple of weeks
here, with your permission, get our new overseer fairly
under weigh, then proceed to the city and to New
York, so that our preparations may be complete for
sailing in the May packet.”
He was silent, and so was Bessy Clinton. A certain
gravity which was unusual overspread her face. We
will not trouble ourselves just now to ask wherefore this
was so. Let it suffice that, from whatever source her
emotion may have sprung, it did not make her forgetful
of the courtesies; and the introduction of the newcomer
to the rest of the company took place selon les
règles. Our lawyer's share in this proceeding was
conducted with sufficient stiffness; but it escaped the
notice of all parties, except possibly young Berkshire
himself; who, by the way, did not seem greatly to
consider the presence of our excellent Skinflint. He
soon contrived to get himself close beside our heroine,
and on her bridle-hand, and they jogged along
together rather too slowly, it would seem, for the at
-- 379 --
[figure description] Page 379.[end figure description]
torney, whose steed had suddenly become possessed of
the idea of going forward with all possible rapidity.
An hour brought all parties home safely to “Maize-in-milk,”
and after the interchange of the usual courtesies
with the newly arrived, the company was left
to dispose of itself as the several members pleased,
until dinner time. We will but remark that Berkshire
was the first person to emerge after making his toilet,
and sweet Bessy Clinton was the first to find him in
the parlor. The person who next entered to them
was Skinflint, who listened demurely to the conversation
of the young people, without taking part in it,
wondering to himself, all the while, what in the name
of common sense people could find to please their
minds in the prattle about their days of childhood.
Fergus Berkshire and Bessy Clinton made much more
of the theme than sour old Skinflint had ever made of
his childhood. He, unhappily for himself, had never
known the period. He was born a man—hard, wiry,
inflexible, calculating, selfish—with his coat buttoned
up to his chin, and his hard intellect busy from the
first in stifling all his natural affections.
Old Colonel Openheart was one of those to whom
the every-day world would give the title, sneeringly,
of a man of affectations. He was certainly no hum-drum
personage. His Christmas dinner, for example,
was not a good dinner merely. It was a Christmas
dinner. He did not summon his guests to eat,
simply, and to drink. The mere swill was not his
object. The intellectual tastes were to be consulted,
the fancies, the very superstitions, which, in the
-- 380 --
[figure description] Page 380.[end figure description]
progress of the ages would naturally accumulate about
the practices of a people on peculiar occasions. His
Christmas was a season of equal thanksgiving and
enjoyment. There was to be a natural ebullition of the
feelings at such a time. There should be exultation.
High and humble should equally show gratitude; and
the natural expression of gratitude is good-humor and
cheerfulness. The high was to be high only in the
exercise of an ability to make the lowly glad and
happy; the humble was to exult in gratifications which
showed them consciously in possession of bounties
bestowed, in the first instance, by the Lord of all, and
intermediately by those whose only boast was in
being able in some degree to follow his example in its
bounties and its sympathies. Colonel Openheart
strove for these objects. We have glimpsed at some
of his household modes of doing this. His Christmas
dinner, as it appealed somewhat to the superstitions
and the fancies, was designed for this end also. And
when the great hall was thrown open to his guests,
dressed in a deep Gothic garment of green boughs
and branches, sprinkled with red berries and blue,
with candles distributed between, and a great oak
wood fire blazing at the extremity—with a stately
arch of green at each end of the table, and one of
triumphal aspect and colossal size spanning its centre—
the entering company felt themselves transported
to the old baronial domains of our Anglo-Norman
ancestry, and their minds were naturally elevated
with the moral sentiments which grew out of their
recollections of history. The quaint masking was not
-- 381 --
[figure description] Page 381.[end figure description]
without its influence. The device was a homily; and
when the head waiter made his appearance, bringing
in, as the first dish, the “boar's head,” done after the
ancient Saxon method, dressed in rosemary, and with
a huge lemon in its open mouth, they were all in the
mood to join in chorus with the host, who, knife in
hand, began chanting merrily the ancient carol:—
“Caput api defero
Reddens laudes Domino.
“The bore's head in hand bring we
With garlands gay and rosemarie,
I pray you all sing merrily,
Qui estes in convivio.
“This head you must understand,
Is chief service in this land,
Looke wherever it be scanned,
Servite cum cantico.
“Be glad, gentles, lord and lasse,
That to cheer you this Chrystmasse,
We do bid the bore's head passe,
Clad in rue and rosemarie.”
Set in the centre of the table, this “armed head”
was soon surrounded by the several solid meats for
which John Bull has always been renowned, and the
taste for which has been amply inherited in the South,
with certain “graffings” of our own. Ham and
turkey, for example, are certain as the day at our
Christmas, and when venison is procurable it is never
omitted from the board. But ours is no mere catalogue.
The reader must imagine the variety. He
must suppose the presence of roast and boiled—the
-- 382 --
[figure description] Page 382.[end figure description]
beef and the venison pastry—the duck as well as the
turkey, and much of these to have been stricken wild
in the woods and waters, with all the provoking freshness
of the game flavor upon them. Wines of ancient
denomination—Madeira that had been walled up for
thirty years, and sherry that had grown pale, indeed,
from weight of years, was at hand; but our host confined
himself, on this day, chiefly to his new supply
of natty English ale—a potation which did honor to
the British breweries. The dessert was composed of
the fruits of Cuba and the North, nuts and figs, not
forgetting pindars, groundnuts, or peanuts, as they
call them north of the Delaware. Nor had the damsels
of the household neglected the usual preparation
of mince-pies and plum-puddings. In the latter article,
in particular, our worthy colonel was resolute to
do honor to his ancient English origin, and the plum-pudding
was as certainly upon his Christmas table as
was the soused head of the boar.
Day slipped away unconsciously while the parties
were still at table. It seemed as if the quaintness
of the feast and the admirable humor of “Mine
Hoste” had penetrated all hearts, and made each
wholly forgetful of his cares. Even the excellent
attorney was subdued to a temporary oblivion of the
acridity which belonged to the profession, and the
peculiar rigidity with which he practised it; and, at
the close of a certain number of glasses of old southside
Madeira, to which he did (like Desdemona—eh?)
“seriously incline,” he might have been seen pelting
our Bessy Clinton with almonds across the table, with
-- 383 --
[figure description] Page 383.[end figure description]
a studied slyness of intention which his skill did not
enable him to realize, and the familiarity of which
made young Fergus Berkshire look rather graver than
his wont. Suddenly the great gun in the park in
front was heard to explode, and then followed a huzza
from Tom, Dick, and Harry, and a cloud of urchins
whom they had gathered to the event. This uproar
was succeeded by one of more gentle influence. The
violin was heard in an adjoining apartment, the tambourine
responded with its lively jingle, while the heavy
foot of old Jake Priester, the white-headed butler of
the establishment, gave notice to the young people of
stirring preparation, which would task all the lightness
of their heels and hearts. But these were preparatory
notes only, for old Jake always took some
time to get his foot and fiddle in tune, and to put little
Christier, his grandson, in training with his tambourine.
Of the dance which followed we shall say nothing,
except that “will-he, nill-he,” Skinflint was resolute
to dance with sweet Bessy Clinton. This was a bold
resolution of the attorney. He had certainly taken
lessons in his youth; but that day had gone by many
years, and his practice had been much more constant
and devoted in the courts of law than in those of
beauty. Still, he had not forgotten the figures, and
the wine of Colonel Openheart had enlivened his head,
if it had not strengthened the virtue in his heels. He
was not to be outdone by any young fellow, however
fresh from college. But how, in the Virginia reel
which followed, he contrived to get entangled between
Bessy Clinton and Fergus Berkshire, and to take his
-- 384 --
[figure description] Page 384.[end figure description]
length on the floor in consequence, is not easily understood.
He himself ascribed it entirely to the awkwardness
or the malice of young Berkshire, whom
he did not remember, accordingly, with any especial
affection. While the young people were dancing in
the mansion of “Maize-in-milk,” the blacks were
busy in the “Negro Quarter.” Thither Colonel
Openheart soon withdrew, accompanied by Whitfield,
Whipple, Bond, and the older portion of the company.
The negroes had their fiddle also—nay, they had three
of them, such as they were—one belonging to “Maize-in-milk,”
one from the Butler estate, and one who
volunteered from a neighboring plantation. Such
wholesale abandon as they showed—so much recklessness
of care, and toil, and vexation of spirit—would
delight a philanthropist from Utopia. Every house
had its circle, with open doors—and the grounds
between their several cabins were filled with jigging
groups—tossing heads, kicking shins, rompings and
rollicking—with the rare impulse of so many happy
urchins just let loose from school. They had their
supper too, and devoured a good-sized barbacued steer,
and several hogs, to say nothing of sundry possums,
made captive the night before. Of bread, the consumption
was intolerably vast; and some fifty gallons
of persimmon beer—an innocent domestic beverage
of their own manufacture, somewhat resembling
cider—were finished before the fiddlers and dancers
showed signs of weariness. It grew to the shortest
possible hours before “Maize-in-milk” was everywhere
fairly wrapped in slumber.
-- 385 --
CHAPTER IV.
[figure description] Page 385.[end figure description]
We trust that our readers have not forgotten our
last Christmas at “Maize-in-milk.” Since that period,
two anniversaries of this happy season have
elapsed—we will not say how happily—at that ancient
manor. But times have somewhat changed since then.
The weather now has grown less favorable to field
sports. The sun is far less cheering. The fields look
gloomy. The woods, stripped of their foliage, have a
ghostly aspect, that chills and discourages. It lacks
some three weeks to Christmas, yet the cotton fields,
which at good seasons were wont to look white until
the middle of January, are now absolutely bare. The
naked stems, shorn of boll and fruit, stunted, slender,
and with few and feeble branches, declare that the
season has been unfriendly, and that the crop is short.
The spring rains were unfavorable to a stand; the
rich swamp bottoms were inundated, when the plant
should have been up; the growing season continued
wet and cold; and when the partial crop, which did
promise to mature, was about to do so, a new enemy
appeared in the caterpillar and the army-worm.
These filthy insects, worse than the locusts of the
East, swept the fields in a single night. The leaves
of the plant first disappeared beneath their devouring
ravages; the unopened bolls then perished; and they
fastened finally upon the stems and fruit, though with
an appetite somewhat diminished. The worthy
-- 386 --
[figure description] Page 386.[end figure description]
proprietor of “Maize-in-milk” was the first to suffer.
His fields were chiefly of that class which felt the evil
consequences of excessive moisture. The heavy rains
of spring, the continued inundations throughout the
summer, and the numerous pests which a burning sun
drew forth from the rank moisture of the fen and
forest, were peculiarly injurious to the low, but rich
swamp tracts which constituted his most productive
acres. His best lands, his chief reliance, failed him,
and he might be seen, towards the close of a cheerless
day, the second week in December, alone, and
riding gloomily and slow from his river fields towards
his dwelling. He felt all the sadness of the prospect.
There were considerations working in his mind, which
rendered this failure particularly distressing, if not
absolutely fearful. The two previous seasons, though
not so absolutely lost as the present, were yet not productive.
They had not enabled him to diminish the
debt which he had incurred by the purchase of the
Butler negroes. Not a cent of this money had been
paid beyond the interest, and that, for the year about
to finish, was not to be realized from the products of
the present crop. Economy is not, unhappily, a frequent
virtue in the household of a southern planter of
the old school. His income lessens, but that does not
imply any lessening of his expenses. He does not
like to approach, or to consider this necessity. His
training, in fact, has been such as not to suffer him to
do it. He knows not well how to put down his horses;
to forbear the dinner-parties and pleasure-parties to
which his neighbors have become accustomed as well
-- 387 --
[figure description] Page 387.[end figure description]
as himself; to put his family and negroes upon short
commons, and to sell unnecessary property in time to
save himself. Colonel Openheart was no simpleton.
He did not lack courage. He was not blind to his
danger. He was not insensible to the claims of his
creditors. But the habit of living like a prince, and
training his children to do the same, and feasting his
poorer neighbors like a feudal lord—these made the
necessity of contracting equally difficult and irksome.
He felt how childish was the pride which made him
unwilling to confess his inability, but the habit of
thinking and acting in one way only was incorrigible.
He did not lack the courage to say to himself, there
must be no more of this fine living; but how say it
to his wife, whom he had married an heiress, who
had always been accustomed to the luxuries he was
required to suppress, and whose mature years might
render it peculiarly difficult to submit to any change;
and how say it to dear Bessy Clinton, whom the
world looked upon as an heiress; and to the boys at
college, how cut off their allowance; and Ned, in
Europe, who had been no small spendthrift, how declare
to him that his drafts could no longer be honored?
These were all duties which thrust themselves
for serious consideration upon our excellent proprietor,
and darkened his brow to a corresponding shadow
with that which rested on the natural landscape.
Some of these duties had already been attended to.
Ned had been long since summoned home from Europe;
the boys at college had been warned that with
the close of the present year they must be satisfied
-- 388 --
[figure description] Page 388.[end figure description]
with but a pittance of the money which had hitherto
supplied their wants; and to his wife and Bessy Clinton,
the amiable husband and father had dealt in hints
of his approaching difficulties, which neither of them
understood. A secret instinct warned our proprietor
that his great trouble was with Skinflint, the attorney
of Ingelhart and Cripps, executors of the estate of
Butler. There had already been some negotiations
between them, which had given Colonel Openheart a
taste of the quality of this person. He was, it is
true, exceedingly polite and specious, but very searching,
very scrupulous, and very expensive. One thing
more than all had impressed our planter with disquiet
in relation to the attorney; it was a gradual approach
to forwardness, consequence, and the show of an imperious
will on the part of the other, in due proportion
to the evidently increasing necessity for indulgence
on the side of Openheart. The latter was made
to anticipate the sting of being at the mercy of one
with whom he could have no sympathy; and it was
very clear that the attorney was impatient for the
moment when he could compel that recognition of his
importance, which, as a man, Openheart had apparently
shown no disposition to entertain. Our proprietor
paced his cheerless fields with a momently
increasing cheerlessness of mood. He was joined by
old Enoch, to whom for several minutes he said nothing.
At length, shaking his head, he exclaimed:
“Old man, this might have been better!”
“How, better, maussa, enty de rain and de caterpillar?”
-- 389 --
[figure description] Page 389.[end figure description]
“I know all about the rain and the caterpillar; I
know the mischief they have done, and wish to hear
nothing on that subject;—but had you minded what
I said, had you taken in the upper fields instead of
the lower, they would not have been drowned, and we
should have saved sixty acres there at least; but no,
you must have your own way; you must know better
than anybody else.”
“Well, maussa, you nebber been say plant dem,
and leff de lower field; you say, `I tink you better
plant dem upper,' and I been tink diffren, so I tells
you, and you say, `Well!'”
The answer was conclusive. Colonel Openheart,
instead of issuing his orders, had left it to Enoch's
discretion, contenting himself with giving a suggestion
instead of a command. This is a frequent error
of the old planter of Carolina.
“Well, it is too late now to complain. How are
your cattle?”
“De winter is mighty hard 'pon dem, maussa.”
“How many hogs have you got in pen for slaughter?”
“Sebenty-tree.”
“Instead of a hundred and fifty. How do you
account for that, Enoch, when we turned out more
than two hundred and fifty into the swamp last spring,
and your hog-minder has been carrying out his three
bushels of corn daily, for six months, to keep them
up?”
“Well, maussa, dere's no telling; but de varmints
in de swamp is mighty hard 'pon de pigs dis season—
-- 390 --
[figure description] Page 390.[end figure description]
de wild-cat, de niggers, and dem poor buckrah, Moses
Daborne, 'Lishe Webter, Zeke Tapan, and dat half
Ingin, Sam Johnson. Ef you could only clear de
swamp of dem white niggers, you could raise hog tell
you couldn't count dem.”
“The old story! Enough. Ride up to the postoffice
and bring me the papers and letters.”
Our proprietor was once more alone. “The world
goes wrong with me on every side. I am either destined,
or I am imbecile. I have certainly been weak
and erring, profligate, thoughtless; as wildly confident
of the future as ever was a poor boy with a pocket
full of shillings and a long holiday before him. I
must amend promptly or all is lost. If Ingelhart and
Cripps, or rather, if Skinflint will indulge, one good
crop will gain me time; two good crops at good prices,
and all would be safe. But there's the rub! This
swamp cultivation is so uncertain, and these good
prices are so doubtful, and—the d—l take these
lawyers and merchants; they get everything at last!”
And then he mused in silence, looking neither to the
right nor left, as he went forward. Passing out of
the open fields, he penetrated a dark avenue which
ran through a dense and umbrageous swamp-forest,
which formed, as it were, a boundary between the
river-lands and uplands, and was crowded with an
immense growth of cypress, ash, poplar, and pine—
so densely arrayed that, though in midwinter, when
all but the evergreens were stripped of foliage, the
beams of the sun were seldom suffered to find entrance.
The day being clouded, the darkness of this
-- 391 --
[figure description] Page 391.[end figure description]
region was still more oppressive, and a slight shiver
shook the frame of our already desponding proprietor
as he entered the narrow and dismal passage. At
this moment an owl shrieked above him, a huge fowl,
bald but horned, whose great human eyes and horrid
screech might well disquiet, with unpleasant forebodings,
the mood of one so circumstanced as our worthy
planter. “How like,” he exclaimed, “to the voice
of Skinflint. I almost fancied at first that it was he
crying out to me.” He looked up as he spoke, and
beheld the bird sitting upon a great limb almost overhead,
and looking directly down upon him. He rode
on, the little incident oppressing him unpleasantly,
and much more than his pride was willing to admit.
“Why does that fellow cross my fancy thus? What
is he to me? What can he do? He can have no purpose
but for his clients, and these may be satisfied—
let the worst come to the worst—by a timely surrender
of the property.” But a second thought taught
him not to lay this flattering unction to his soul. He
had bought the Butler negroes at high, and the same
sort of property was now selling at low prices. The
loss must be large, and must be made up out of his
own estates. Then the interest, then his own debts,
which, to meet this interest, already had been suffered
to grow to a heavy item! Altogether, the prospect
was such that our proprietor of “Maize-in-milk” was
only too happy to exclude the subject altogether from
his thoughts. But this was not so easy, and his
gloomy mood continued till he reached his dwelling,
where, soon after, the contents of his mail gave it an
-- 392 --
[figure description] Page 392.[end figure description]
increase of sting and bitterness. “A letter from Mr.
Skinflint,” he remarked quietly to his wife, “in which
he speaks of being here in three days. That must
bring him here to-morrow. Let us see—the letter is
dated the 12th. Yes, indeed, to-morrow we may look
for him.”
“What does he come for?” said the simple-hearted
but shrewd mother, looking up at Bessy Clinton. The
latter did not see the glance, and did not appear to
hear the inquiry.
“You forget,” said the colonel, “that he has the
management of all the business of the Butler estate.”
“Did you say that Mary Butler was coming, papa?”
“Not unless this letter says so, which I see comes
from Bloomsdale, and is addressed to you.”
Bessy Clinton received and read the epistle with
eagerness. “There, mamma, it is from Mary, and
she and her aunt both are coming, and will be here
on Saturday.”
“We shall have a full house, then, for Fergus
Berkshire rode in this morning to say that his mother
would be up from the city in three days, and would
spend the Christmas with us.”
The communication was received in grave silence;
Colonel Openheart, his letters still in his hand, steadily
watching the fire as flake by flake crumbled away into
the mass below.
“We shall have a full house, Mr. Openheart,”
repeated the lady.
“Yes.”
A pause.
-- 393 --
[figure description] Page 393.[end figure description]
“Why, husband, you seem to be in a dream!”
“Yes—yes, I hear.”
“I am glad you do, for it is necessary that you
should write at once for supplies for Christmas. The
sugar is almost out; we must have several pounds of
green tea, and perhaps a little black, for Mrs. Berkshire
asked for it when she was here before. She
has learned the use of it at the North, where I am told
they drink no other kind. And raisins, and currants,
and almonds, apples, and—”
We need not follow the good housekeeper through
the catalogue. Our worthy proprietor was almost in
despair, yet he subdued his feelings with great firmness
and strength of will. Bessy Clinton alone perceived
that something was wrong. Her eye perused the
countenance of her father with a modest interest, that
did not suffer him to see that he was watched. She
saw that his face had grown somewhat paler than its
wont. She had already remarked that he had grown
thinner during the past few months, and she now
fancied that his hair had put on a more snowy complexion.
She saw and mused, but was properly silent.
Colonel Openheart reopened one of the letters which
he had just received. It was the polite request of his
grocer that his account should be attended to. The
sum total was set down, that there should be no mistake,
$718 44; and here were wants which must increase
it considerably, and no crop, and no means of
payment, but by a great sacrifice of property.
“I wish there was no such season as Christmas.”
-- 394 --
[figure description] Page 394.[end figure description]
“Oh, papa!” exclaimed Bessy Clinton, in reproachful
accents, “how can you wish so?”
Mrs. Openheart looked up in surprise.
“At least,” said the proprietor, “I may be permitted
to wish that this Christmas were fairly over.”
“What, papa, just when I am calculating upon this
as the most merry Christmas of any that we have ever
had!” and the sweet girl, as she spoke, had glided to
the chair where her father sat, and with arm that
circled his neck was bending round and looking up
affectionately in his face. A slight moisture gathered
in his eyes, which it was just possible for him to subdue.
“May you ever find it happy with you at Christmas,
Bessy, and at all other seasons. God bless you,
my dear child; you are of more comfort to me than
all the others. But I can scarcely share with you in
your delights this Christmas.”
“And why not, papa?”
“You know that I have made no crop this year;
there was a fai0lure last year also, and another partial
failure the year before, and my expenses have been
very heavy. Bills must be paid, and—”
“Didn't I warn you of it, husband, when you would
buy those Butler negroes?” said the good wife, with
an exulting shake of the head and finger.
“Yes, Mrs. Openheart, you did,” answered the
husband, mildly, “but that was only after they were
bought; and the question now is, not exactly as to
your credit as a prophet, but to mine as a paymaster.”
-- 395 --
[figure description] Page 395.[end figure description]
The sagacious lady felt the gentle rebuke and was
silent.
“There are debts to be paid, Bessy Clinton,” continued
the father, affectionately, though sadly; “and
this it is which makes me tremble even at the additional
charges which this Christmas is to bring upon
me.”
“But our friends must be received with proper
welcome, Colonel Openheart,” said the lady.
“Oh, true,” was the answer, as if it were a matter
of course that certain appearances should be maintained
even though at the sacrifice of everything;
“true, true, your groceries shall be ordered, and we
shall be prepared, I trust, to welcome with proper
warmth every guest who may honor us with his presence—
not forgetting that bird of evil aspect and
voice, Richard Skinflint, Esq., himself. But I am
afraid it will cost us greatly, and we must look to
contract our expenses among ourselves, and make up
in this way what our hospitality may dissipate. I
will order what you desire. This year there shall be
no changes. Merrie old Christmasse must visit the
children, too, as usual; and, as we continue our own
luxuries, the negroes must have theirs. The New
Year must not be clouded to our inferiors because
we are gloomy.”
“But we shall not be gloomy, papa,” said Bessy
Clinton, twining herself about him and kissing his
cheeks fondly. “This dark weather will disappear;
hereafter you will have good seasons and good luck.
Let me prophesy—me, Bessy Clinton, among the
-- 396 --
[figure description] Page 396.[end figure description]
prophets—that next year will be a famous crop year,
prices high—”
“And grocers' low,” was the somewhat sober conclusion
of the father. “You are a good girl, Bessy,
and I will probably remind you of your prophecy next
Christmas, as your mother takes care to remind me of
hers—that is, when they happen to be true. But
what is here? Looking at Skinflint's letter and the
grocer's, I have omitted one that would seem to be
from Ned.”
“From Ned?” exclaimed mother and daughter in
the same breath.
“It looks like his hand, and is from New York.
Sure enough, it is he. He reached New York on
Friday last, in the Sylvie de Grasse, from Havre, and
will be in Charleston by the Wilmington boat.”
“When, papa, when?”
“To-morrow.”
“To-morrow! Dear, dear Ned, how I long to see
his face again.”
The ejaculations of Bessy Clinton were sufficient
for the rest. The mother's eyes were full of bright
tears, and in the grateful thoughts of a favorite son
arrived at home and manhood, the cares which troubled
the father were temporarily forgotten.
The next day brought Skinflint. He was received
with respect and kindness, if not cordiality; though
neither our proprietor nor the worthy matron, his
wife, beheld his coming with any satisfaction. The
former could not forget that it was in the power of
this man, with whom he could have no sympathies,
-- 397 --
[figure description] Page 397.[end figure description]
materially to impair his fortunes; and the latter had
suspicions which never crossed her companion's mind,
that Skinflint's eye was fixed upon her daughter with
an expression which already denotes the foregone conclusion
of the hawk, who sees, from his swing in air,
where the partridge is about to nestle. Any notion
that such was the passion of the attorney, never once
troubled the thought of Colonel Openheart, whose
pride of character could not for an instant tolerate
the idea of any sympathies between a creature of such
avid and selfish character and his purely-minded and
generous child. But Mrs. Openheart said nothing of
her conjectures, and the fears of her husband with
regard to Skinflint were wholly of a different character.
They rode out together a little while after the
arrival of the latter, and crossed the cotton and cornfields
in their route to the river. There was an unpleasant
grin upon the lips of Skinflint as the mean
appearance of the cotton stems denoted the complete
failure of the crop. He had heard something of this
before, enough to satisfy him that things were going
on as he wished them. A southern planter is apt to
be suspicious of your comments when he is conscious
that his crop is obviously inferior, and the eye of
Colonel Openheart was soon sensible of the expression
on the countenance of Skinflint.
“Not much cotton here this year, colonel,” said he,
switching his boot as they rode.
“None, sir, none, as you may see,” was the sudden,
almost sharp reply.
-- 398 --
[figure description] Page 398.[end figure description]
“Hum!” A pause. “How is your corn crop,
colonel?”
“Turn your horse's head with mine, and you shall
answer your own question.”
They rode aside to other fields. The corn-stalks,
low and slender, told their own story of a blight quite
as great as that in the cotton field.
“Why, colonel, you will hardly make enough to do
you at this rate.”
“Shall have to buy a thousand bushels at least, sir,”
responded the other, almost fiercely.
Skinflint knew the fact a month before, but it was
the nature of the creature to extort the acknowledgment
of the sufferer, by making him lay bare his sore
as frequently as possible, though at each effort he tore
away some portion of the skin.
“And corn already seventy cents,” was the muttered
commentary of the executor.
“Seventy-five here,” was the stern correction which
the proprietor interposed.
“Indeed!” exclaimed Skinflint; “then in three
weeks more it will be a dollar.”
“Possibly two, sir,” was the second moody amendment.
“Scarcely, colonel,” was the speculative suggestion
of the attorney. “Prices here, whenever they pass
beyond a certain point, bring in competition from
other quarters. Here, sellers must be governed by
some regard to the Charleston market, which in turn
takes its color from the extent of the crops in Maryland
and North Carolina. Now, as the crops this
-- 399 --
[figure description] Page 399.[end figure description]
year in these two States have been of average character,
it follows that the article will scarcely exceed
eighty cents in Charleston. Allow for the cost of
each transition and freight by railroad or wagon, and
you must see that it can by no possibility exceed one
dollar here, unless with reference to some very great
scarcity. I don't think, all things considered, that
you will have to give more than a dollar, though it
may possibly, in two months more, go two-eighths
above it, particularly as I suppose that none of your
neighbors have done better than yourself.”
“You mistake, sir; few of them but have done
better.”
“Indeed! But that is very unfortunate! But
you have past seasons to rely upon, colonel. You
have made good crops heretofore, and can very well
afford to contend with the evils of the present.”
“Unfortunately, sir, I have no such source of consolation.
This is the third, though the worst by far,
of three successive failures.”
“Indeed! But suffer me to ask, Colonel Openheart,
to what do you ascribe these failures?”
“Why, sir, I do not see what good can possibly
arise to either of us from the inquiry. Perhaps the
shortest way would be to adopt the suggestion of my
neighbors, and to assume that all the mischief lay in
the incapacity of the proprietor.”
An audible “hem!” answered this cold conclusion,
which shut the door upon any farther annoyance from
this score at least, and a somewhat protracted silence
followed, broken at length by Colonel Openheart,
-- 400 --
[figure description] Page 400.[end figure description]
whose mind had been gradually steeled by the tone,
manner, and comments of his companion, to a resolute
approach to the very subject which, over all, he most
dreaded and could have wished to avoid. It was with
something of desperation, therefore, that he himself
opened the business of his debt to the estate of Butler.
“I take for granted, Mr. Skinflint, that there can
be no reason why, in the present condition of my
affairs, I should not have every indulgence from
Messrs. Ingelhart and Cripps. Miss Butler is still a
minor, and the investment is notoriously safe. I am
aware that the entire payment is now due, but it must
be evident to you that in the failure of my crops,
and the low prices of cotton for the last three years,
so large a payment was impossible except at great
sacrifice of property. Besides, as you are aware, the
negroes were bought at very high prices.”
“Quite too high,” said Skinflint, with some gravity,
well remembering that but for the generous impulse
of Openheart, he would have had them at his own
prices. The recollection did not make him more accessible
to the suggestions of the proprietor. “There
may be some difficulty about the matter; and I am
free to confess, Colonel Openheart, that your own
statement holds forth nothing encouraging to a creditor,
particularly in such a case as ours, where we
represent the interests of a minor. The investment
may be safe at present, but when you speak of a failure
of three crops in succession, upon the successful
making of which your only chance of payment depends,
we are a little disquieted. Another failure diminishes
-- 401 --
[figure description] Page 401.[end figure description]
our securities, and necessarily increases your responsibility
to other creditors, and the game may finally
depend upon the degree of speed which the creditor
may make in securing the stakes.”
Openheart winced at this cool suggestion, but he
had to control his emotions. The matter was one
simply of business, and he felt that he had nothing to
do but put aside all the sensibilities—quite unnecessary
in such a case and with such a companion—of the
gentleman. He answered quietly, though it tasked
some effort to do so: “But the property is always
there, secured by mortgage, which you may foreclose
at any moment.”
“But the property may not be always there.”
“How, sir?”
“It is a perishable property; and your real estates,
which are the collateral securities, may be subject to
the more perfect liens of other creditors. Besides,
sir, negroes are falling in value, and the foreclosure
of mortgage at this moment may be of vast importance
even to your own safety, since the probabilities
are that they will bring much better prices now—
though still far less than when you bought—than
they would twelve months hence.”
“Am I to understand from this, Mr. Skinflint, that
your instructions are to foreclose if payment be not
now made?”
“By no means, sir. What I say, is simply to suggest
some of the difficulties in the way of a decision
at this moment. I must reflect on the condition of
affairs, and will communicate with my clients.”
-- 402 --
[figure description] Page 402.[end figure description]
“It is understood, Mr. Skinflint, that you have the
entire confidence of Messrs. Ingelhart and Cripps, and
that your opinion will be almost certain to determine
their conduct?”
“I flatter myself,” replied the attorney, with a
mixed expression of meekness and complacency, “that
I am not wholly without my influence over the minds
of those gentlemen. But you will permit me to ask,
Colonel Openheart, with what purpose your remark is
made?”
“Surely, sir, my purpose was a very simple one;
it was only that I might express the hope that your
dealings with me, and your knowledge of my affairs,
were such as would enable you to assure your clients
of the undoubted security which they possess, collaterally,
for the bonds which they hold of mine in behalf
of the estate of Butler.”
The lawyer looked grave for a moment, then smiling
and turning round to his companion with an air
of great amenity and frankness: “Colonel Openheart,
it may be that I shall find it equally my pleasure and
my interest to serve you in this manner. I think it
likely, sir, that I shall have to seek a favor at your
hands before I leave you. Now, sir, one good turn
deserves another, and—”
“A favor at my hands, Mr. Skinflint? And, pray,
what is it?”
“Excuse me, sir; not just now. Sufficient for the
day, &c. Excuse me; not yet; not yet! Meanwhile,
sir, if you please, we will suspend the conversation
on this subject.”
-- 403 --
[figure description] Page 403.[end figure description]
The manner of Skinflint struck our proprietor unpleasantly.
Without question, Colonel Openheart was
an aristocrat; and the familiar, very frank, and friendly
tones of his companion, were decidedly more grating
upon his ears than the keen, avid utterance of
the calculating and selfish man of business. They
made him uneasy for a moment, as he could not possibly
divine in what way he was expected to requite
the service of the attorney. He was relieved when
he recollected that Skinflint had lately bought a plantation
in his neighborhood, and, being a lawyer, naturally
looked to fill some seat either in Congress or the
legislature. The large influence of Colonel Openheart
was unquestionable, and he now worried himself with
asking if he could conscientiously support such a
person. But the adage of which Skinflint had reminded
him, and which is always a favorite one with
those who recoil from trouble, determined him to dismiss
the evil to the day when it must come up; and
thus satisfied, our colonel readily complied with the
evident desires of his companion to canter off in the
direction of the dwelling.
They left the fields, accordingly, after a ten minutes'
ride, and took their way out into one of the main
roads of the country. They were scarcely entered
upon this, when they encountered Bessy Clinton and
Fergus Berkshire, on horseback, emerging from one
of the long and lonely avenues leading out into the
pine lands. Could Colonel Openheart have seen the
scowl that showed itself upon Skinflint's brow at this
unexpected meeting? The two young people rode
-- 404 --
[figure description] Page 404.[end figure description]
slowly, and seemed totally absorbed in their own affairs.
There was an evident flush upon the face of Bessy
Clinton, while the cheeks of Fergus seemed rather
pale than otherwise. The parties exchanged greetings,
and while the colonel and his companion walked their
horses, the youth and damsel gave their steeds a free
rein, and were soon out of sight in the direction of the
dwelling.
“A good-looking young fellow, that,” said Skinflint,
with some natural cleverness. “But ours is not
an age of industry and exertion; and once give a
fellow a chance with plenty of money on foreign travel,
and you may be sure that all's over with him. I
have good reason to believe that young Berkshire
made a monstrous hole in his own and mother's capital
when he was abroad. His dissipation while in
Paris was said to be notorious.”
“Said by whom, Mr. Skinflint?”
“Oh, by everybody. The thing was all over town
when he first came home from Europe.”
“Town is a famous place for scandal, Mr. Skinflint,
and `they say' is a proverbial liar. I know nothing of
Berkshire's doings while abroad except while he was
in Paris, and there my son Edward happened to be
with him during his whole stay. Edward speaks of
him there as a close and eager student of the language,
the country, and the fine arts. I very much doubt if
the charge of dissipation was ever less properly made
than against Fergus. He shows no traces of it now;
and, indeed, by his general intelligence, equal readiness
and modesty, and large acquisition of facts, he
-- 405 --
[figure description] Page 405.[end figure description]
shows that he could have employed but little time in
excesses, or his intellectual gains must have come by
instinct. As for his expenditures—but it may be that
your profession has brought you to a knowledge of
straits in the family with which I am unfamiliar, and
I must not oppose my conjectures to your facts. Still,
I cannot persuade myself that either he or his mother
is in any difficulty.”
“Nor do I say it. I have no knowledge of their
affairs myself, but it was said they would probably
have to put down the city establishment, and retire
wholly upon the country.”
“Said probably by those who speak rather from
their wishes than their wit. Mrs. Berkshire, while a
very liberal and lofty-minded woman, is yet a very
prudent one. She has, I think, trained her son very
admirably, and—”
“All that may be, Colonel Openheart, but the best
of training will not always or often secure our children
against the temptations of a new sphere and an intoxicating
novelty in society.”
“Always, sir; good training will always secure the
young against any temptation. But the question is as
to the quality of training. What is good and what
is bad training is hardly settled yet among philosophers.
It certainly is not among parents and school-masters,
who seem to me to pride themselves most
upon their system where the regimen is the very
worst.”
“You may be right, sir, and I am not prepared to
discuss a mere abstraction; but though this young
-- 406 --
[figure description] Page 406.[end figure description]
man's education may have been as you think it, still
the exception is possible, you know; and while such
are the reports in the city, if I were a father, I should
be very jealous of the familiarity of any such person
with a daughter of mine.”
Colonel Openheart half wheeled his horse, about to
survey the speaker. “Really, Mr. Skinflint, I have
reason to thank you for your counsel, and so has my
family; but, believe me, we have none of us any apprehensions
either from the vices of Fergus Berkshire
or the weaknesses of my daughter. Her training, at
least, has been such that we can confide everything to
her delicacy; which, in the case of women, is the best
security for their discretion. Still, sir, I thank you;
I thank you.”
There was something in the tone and manner of
Colonel Openheart, that warned Mr. Skinflint he had
ventured a little too far.
“Pardon me, Colonel Openheart,” he said, quickly,
“but I meant not to advise. My remark was purely
general, and did not specially relate to your case.
This young man may be a very good young man.
Of my own knowledge, I can say nothing against him.”
“Can you upon the knowledge of any other person?
If you can, Mr. Skinflint, you shall see that I am as
vigilant in the protection of my fireside as any man
in the country.”
“Why no, sir, not upon the knowledge of any one
in particular; but what is said by many, sir, places
the matter said in that category, which, among legal
-- 407 --
[figure description] Page 407.[end figure description]
men, constitutes a proverbial notoriety, and such is
not supposed to need proving.”
“Good law, no doubt, but most awful morality!
Can you mention, among those who deal in this notoriety,
one person who professes to speak from his
own knowledge?”
“No; I am not sure that I can.”
“Then I think that we may safely venture to dismiss
the story, since the truth that no man will father
is very apt to prove a falsehood. Your law rule,
which rejects all hearsay testimony, will justify our
irreverence.”
We need not pursue the dialogue, which Skinflint,
confident as he usually was, could not but see had
terminated to his disadvantage. His tone was judiciously
lowered, though without lessening any of the
unfavorable impressions which his companion had
contrived to form of his character and heart. Our
proprietor treated him, however, with a peculiar civility,
the stateliness of which, as it kept him at a distance
without affording him definite cause of resentment,
was sufficiently irksome, and he longed in his
heart to have an opportunity to punish the patrician
for the privilege which he exercised, being an honest
man, of behaving fearlessly like one. It was the
error of Skinflint to suppose that, having shown Colonel
Openheart that he was somewhat in his power, he
had acquired the right to prescribe to him in moral
and social respects. He was soon made to see that
there were some personal barriers which not even his
legal and moneyed strength would enable him to break
-- 408 --
[figure description] Page 408.[end figure description]
down. The character which is well grounded upon
principle and well trained by habit, never yields in
any misfortune, never succumbs to any condition,
though these may menace every social and domestic
security that we possess.
At dinner, Colonel Openheart was the hospitable
landholder; that noble old English character which
we do not sufficiently value, but which is the source of
England's best securities. He seemed to forget that
he had cause of apprehension or annoyance, and the
ease, the dignity, the grace with which he presided,
the perpetual watchfulness, that saw that no one remained
unsupplied, these all served to extort from
the secret thought of Skinflint a wholesome wonder as
to the source of so much equilibrium. Dinner was
late, and with night came the mail, bringing a hurried
letter from Edward, which our proprietor, for reasons
of his own, and with (for him) unwonted circumspection,
forbore to read aloud. This letter told him of
the young man's safe arrival in Charleston, and of his
intention to be en route for the plantation in another
day. Was it the postscript which informed the father
that it was the writer's purpose to take Bloomsdale in
his way, and if possible bring Mary Butler and her
aunt along with him, that kept him from reading it
aloud?
The two gentlemen sat up late. We did not mention
that Fergus Berkshire did not stay to supper, but
left the company as soon as dinner was over, with an
apology, in which he pleaded necessary business. He
ceased to be the subject of Skinflint's comment, but
-- 409 --
[figure description] Page 409.[end figure description]
the occasional glance of the latter, as the youth engaged
the attention of Bessy Clinton, did not escape
the eyes of the vigilant mother. The intimacy between
the young man and the maiden seemed to disturb
the equilibrium of the attorney, and probably
rendered him much more precipitate than he would
have been in a matter which, as he sat with Colonel
Openheart that night—the family having retired—he
proceeded to bring up. We will not adopt his language,
the substance of which was a formal proposal
from him, Richard Skinflint, attorney at law, for the
hand in wedlock of the fair maiden, Bessy Clinton
Openheart. Many long speeches, circuitously conceived
and cumbrously worded, prefaced this offer.
Colonel Openheart looked upon the speaker with
unmitigated astonishment; but he was prudent, kept
his temper and his secret, and calmly answered the
lawyer, that he, Skinflint, should be permitted an
interview in the morning with his daughter, and
hear his answer from her own lips. Skinflint said
something in reply to this in approbation of the excellent
custom prevailing in certain countries, where the
parents adjusted among themselves the contracts of
marriage, and the young people were sufficiently dutiful
to submit. But Colonel Openheart's reply was
brief and to the purpose. His daughter must determine
for herself in a matter so vital to her own happiness.
The night passed over with due rapidity.
The morning brought breakfast and the promised interview.
Conducting his daughter to the library, he
instructed her to await the coming of Mr. Skinflint,
-- 410 --
[figure description] Page 410.[end figure description]
and to give becoming ear to his communications. The
latter was apprised that the damsel was in waiting,
and with something more of flurry and agitation than
ever troubled him in his ordinary practice, he stole
half on tiptoe into the designated apartment. How
he purred and prabbled, with what studied and formal
phrase he proceeded to a declaration, in which, if the
heart be only warm and faithful, the lips may bungle
and the tongue falter without dread of censure or
ridicule, we will not say. Enough that his proposals,
when Bessy Clinton fully understood them, were
quite as confounding to that damsel as they were to
her father. We need scarcely say that they met with
ready rejection. What a blind thing is selfishness!
Here, now, was a person of great worldly shrewdness,
singularly sagacious in common business transactions,
yet blundering with the inconceivable notion that he
could possibly prevail with youth, beauty, tenderness,
and the most generous and confiding faith. Taught
by selfishness to regard wealth as the only power, he
had forgotten that such subjects as affection, duty,
taste, sweetness, and grace, must always acknowledge
far different authorities. It was impossible for sweet
Bessy Clinton to be unkind or harsh, and though
greatly surprised, if not indignant, at the proposal,
she replied with gentleness: She was sorry that Mr.
Skinflint had set his heart—his heart!—on his hand-maid,
but really the thing was out of the question.
She was very grateful, but begged respectfully to be
excused. Do not suppose that there was any mocking
in her response. The irony is wholly ours. His
-- 411 --
[figure description] Page 411.[end figure description]
pill was quite as much sweetened as it well could be,
but was still such as he found it difficult to swallow.
He would have argued the case, as he recovered his
courage, precisely as he would have done before a
jury, in the matter of cow and calf, in trespass or
replevin—and did argue it. The damsel heard him
quietly to the end, and affirmed the previous verdict.
He hurried to Colonel Openheart, as to a court of
appeal, but the colonel disclaimed jurisdiction; and
ordering his horses, with fury but ill concealed, Skinflint
prepared to take his departure before dinner.
With genuine politeness, regarding the circumstances,
our proprietor did not urge him to delay. With nice
and delicate consideration, he complied with his
wishes, conversed with him without reserve and with
studied kindness, but studiously forbore any absurd,
apologetic, or sympathetic discourses. The parties
separated on good terms, Skinflint shaking his host's
hand warmly, and smiling in his face affectionately as
he took his departure; but ere he was well out of
sight, he shook his hand menacingly back upon the
habitation, and swore, in muttered accents, through
his closed teeth, a bitter oath of vengeance. Our
proprietor knew enough of the person to apprehend
that he had made a fast enemy, but he remembered
the proverb, and put off his regrets and sorrows, as
well as he might, to the day of evil that should compel
them.
We pass over three days, and still Edward had not
arrived. “He is sick in Charleston,” said the anxious
mother. “He is at Bloomsdale,” said the more
-- 412 --
[figure description] Page 412.[end figure description]
knowing daughter. “He is spending time and money,
wherever he is,” said the dissatisfied father, “instead
of being at his law.” The fourth day brought the
truant, as an escort to Mrs. St. Clair and Mary
Butler. He had been delayed at Bloomsdale at the
requisition of the ladies, and the excuse was readily
received by the parents, particularly as it was urged
by a tall, handsome, and well-bred youth, more than
six feet high, admirably proportioned, and carrying
himself like a prince of the blood royal. The father
forgot his troubles as he saw his own youth restored
and reflected in his son. He was not suffered to
forget them long. That very evening brought him a
letter from Skinflint, as the attorney for Ingelhart
and Cripps.
“Sense of duty, &c. Foreclosure of mortgage, &c.
Unavoidable, &c. Very sorry, &c.
“With sentiments of profound respect, &c.
(Signed,) “Richard Skinflint.”
The proprietor crumpled the graceless epistle in
his palm, and hurled it into the fire. The wife alone
saw the act. The young people were busy around
the evening table, examining a world of curiosities
which Edward had brought home from Europe. They
little knew of the bitterness that dashed the cup of
joy even while it was at the old father's lips. He
uttered no sigh, no word. He would not cloud the
happiness of that youthful circle. He resolved upon
the exercise of all his manhood. Taking his hat, he
went forth into the night. It was a lovely starlight.
The skies were never more thickly studded with the
-- 413 --
[figure description] Page 413.[end figure description]
saintly watchers, and all were bright and beautiful as
if they had never felt a cloud. He walked down the
noble avenue of oaks and cedars towards the high
road. Ere he reached the gateway, a vehicle dashed
by in considerable haste, which he recognized as that
of Skinflint. This person was also a proprietor, and
planted only a few miles distant. Though not a resident
at his place, for his professional duties in the city
would not suffer this, he yet contrived occasionally to
visit his plantation, where, when not the guest of his
neighbors, he was of his overseer. The angry feeling
in Colonel Openheart's breast was strongly excited as
he detected the carriage of his enemy. He himself
remained unseen in the shadow of the ancestral trees,
but he clearly discerned the head of Skinflint as he
thrust it forth for examination while passing the avenue
of the man whom he now fondly thought to victimize.
Colonel Openheart conjectured his thoughts, and
the fierce idea rose in his mind of a deadly grapple
with the scoundrel. Had they met on foot or on
horseback in the high road, it had been scarcely possible,
in the present mood of our proprietor, to have
forborne inflicting some indignity upon the base and
malignant creature. But he passed, never dreaming
that Openheart was so near. Had he fancied it, his
head had never shown itself from the carriage window.
We must hurry over a week in order to realize the
more important events in our narrative. We are
again on the threshold of Father Chrystmasse. Our
lady proprietor at “Maize-in-milk” has received the
necessary supplies from the grocer. The hogs are
-- 414 --
[figure description] Page 414.[end figure description]
killed, the mince-pies are made, and the usual guests,
invited and uninvited, are already pouring in. The
songs of Bessy Clinton and Mary Butler are ringing
through the dwelling, and every customary chorus,
gathered from the early poets in tribute to the season,
has been employed to guide the merry damsels in the
decoration of mantel, and mirror, and window, and to
cheer them in the prosecution of their pretty tasks.
For a week beforehand the dance was continued
nightly in the great hall. There were now Fergus
Berkshire and Edward Openheart, and one or more
of the latter's old acquaintances, to say nothing of
neighboring maidens just rising into womanhood, whom
the hospitalities of “Maize-in-milk” had brought together.
Two days before Christmas, John and William
made their appearance from college; and Tom Openheart,
now a lad of twelve, and very tall for his age,
was permitted to add to the strength of the company,
in regard to the interests of certain of the damsels
who were about his own age. Altogether, the auspices
were particularly favorable to the sports of the
young. Our ancient friends, Jones, Whipple, Whitfield,
Bond and daughter, and good old father Kinsale—
who in growing older did not seem to have grown
a jot more feeble than he was twenty years before—
also came with the day preceding Christmas, and wore
their pleasantest aspects. But the weather had a cold
forbidding complexion still, and our proprietor found
it difficult to keep from his own visage the doubts and
apprehensions which were working in his mind. At
this moment a stranger rode into the inclosure, who
-- 415 --
[figure description] Page 415.[end figure description]
proved to be the sheriff of the district. He declared
his purpose very civilly, regretted the necessity under
which he was placed, showed his credentials, and
would receive either the money on the bond, or the
negroes. There was no remedy; Colonel Openheart
submitted with simple fortitude. The negroes were
at the sheriff's service. He excused himself to his
guests, and accompanied the officer to the negroquarter.
“But why not wait till sale day, sir?” was the inquiry
of Colonel Openheart. “They shall then be
forthcoming.”
The officer hesitated, but at length remarked: “I
should do so cheerfully, sir, having myself every confidence
in your honor; but I have been counselled that
I shall be held rigidly responsible unless the levy is
at once made, as some reason exists for suspecting
that your son will be employed to run the negroes to
Texas.”
“By whom, sir, has this intimation been given?”
“By Mr. Skinflint, acting for Ingelhart and
Cripps.”
“The scoundrel! But I have no more to say.
Make your levy.”
The negroes were by this time assembled, and listening
with eager anxiety.
“You must go, my people,” said the proprietor,
addressing them with a voice which his emotions hardly
suffered to be articulate; “you must go, I cannot
help it. I would have saved you, but cannot. I have
done for you all I could; I can do no more!”
-- 416 --
[figure description] Page 416.[end figure description]
He turned away to conceal his emotion, and hurried
into the neighboring woods. The strong man wept
like a child as the loud outcries and lamentations of
the slaves still pursued him. He had been to them
a father and a benefactor, had watched them in sickness,
and indulged them with moderate tasks when
well. As he thought upon the parting, he recovered
all his strength. He came forth, and said to the
sheriff: “You will bring them up to the house?”
“Why, sir,” said the officer, with considerate sensibility,
“I had proposed taking them through the
woods. It would mortify you before your guests.”
“I thank you, sir,” was the respectful but proud
answer; “I thank you, but I must request that you
will bring them to the dwelling before you depart. I
have something to bestow upon them. My guests will
know all before long, and may as well hear it at once.
The negroes were brought accordingly.
“You see, my friends, I have some troubles for my
Christmas. They are rather new to me in my old
age, but it is probable that I shall become familiar
with them before I die.”
Something more was said, enough to show that
our proprietor, in his unaffected grief, had lost nothing
of his manliness. He proceeded to open the
cases in which the Christmas presents were kept.
These were not to have been given till the ensuing
day, but this delay would have deprived the Butler
negroes of their share of gifts. With hasty hand our
proprietor bestowed his wares.
“Now take them, Mr. Sheriff, as quickly as you
-- 417 --
[figure description] Page 417.[end figure description]
please, so that our young people may not see them.
They are down the road, and if you pursue that path,
you will escape them. Good-morning, sir, good-morning,”
and the speaker retired among his guests. He
maintained his courage manfully, was once more the
courtly and considerate host, still solicitous of the
wants and wishes of the meanest, until, some two
hours having elapsed, an uproar without drew attention
to the windows. What was the surprise of Col.
Openheart to see all the negroes returned, and to
find them quite clamorous in the publication of their
delight that they were not to lose their present master.
One of their number presented himself with a
letter, which our proprietor opened with no little
curiosity, for as yet nothing had been got from the
negroes, by reason of the multitude of voices, which
threw any or much light upon the mystery. The
letter was from young Berkshire. We give it without
curtailment.
“Dear Sir: Meeting with the sheriff, and being
in want of a sufficient force for my Cedar Island
plantation, I have ventured to assume your bond,
with interest, being perfectly satisfied to pay the
same price for the negroes at which you bought
them. As I hold them to be amply worth the
amount, I leave it entirely with yourself to retain
them, if you please, paying me at your leisure;
though I should prefer to have them, on my assumption
of your several responsibilities in regard to this
property. Whatever may be your decision, which
-- 418 --
[figure description] Page 418.[end figure description]
you can make at your leisure, it will at least be proper
that they should remain in your keeping until
after the holidays. Very faithfully, and with great
respect, I am, my dear sir,
“Your obliged friend and servant,
“Fergus M. Berkshire.”
Colonel Openheart had not a word to say. The
act was so handsome, that he at once gave the letter
into the hands of old Kinsale, who read it twice
aloud to the company. The proprietor went out to
the negroes, and sent them back happy to their habitations.
The young people soon after made their
appearance. They had heard something of the matter,
and Edward Openheart, as soon as all the facts
were made known to him, at once rode over to Berkshire's
to give him his own and the thanks of the
family.
“Tell him, Ned, that he shall have the negroes,
and tell him what you please besides, from your own
heart.”
Such was all the message of the father. Berkshire
looked somewhat anxious when the young man
paused.
“Do you bring any letter, Ned?”
“No.”
“No message from anybody?”
“None but that from my father. What do you
expect?”
“Nay, never mind; you will hear soon enough.”
The young man seemed dull and disappointed, and
-- 419 --
[figure description] Page 419.[end figure description]
was not easily persuaded to give a detailed account
of his fortunate interposition to arrest the departure
of the sheriff with the property. His narrative was
briefly to the effect that, having occasion to ride a
few miles up the road, he had suddenly, on his return,
encountered the troop, with the sheriff and
Skinflint at their head. The former had been summoned
to the house of the latter, where he had
stayed the last night, and they had gone out together
the next day on their official mission immediately
after breakfast, Skinflint waiting some four miles off
for the return of the officer. He had timed his proceedings
with the basest cunning and malevolence.
He knew that “Maize-in-milk” was crowded with
guests and neighbors, and that the pride of the proprietor
would be touched to the quick by such a
humiliating exposure as that which he meditated.
He had not anticipated the issue. Fergus Berkshire
met the party even while Skinflint was receiving from
the sheriff a description of what had taken place.
The exulting grin had not passed from his features as
Fergus drew nigh. A few words sufficed to put him
in possession of all the facts.
“I will assume this obligation,” he said to the
officer, by whom he was well known.
“Costs, interest, &c.?” said Skinflint.
“I will assume them all.”
“It must be in writing,” muttered Skinflint.
“Very good, sir.”
The sheriff produced the papers with which the
providence of the lawyer had furnished him, and a
-- 420 --
[figure description] Page 420.[end figure description]
pocket-inkstand-and pen enabled Berkshire to prepare
and sign an adequate obligation, under the instructions
of Skinflint himself, with which he had
to confess himself satisfied. No unnecessary words
passed between the parties.
“Go home to your master, good people,” said
Berkshire to the negroes. The sheriff he asked to
dine with him; to Skinflint he bowed, and bade goodmorning.
“The rascal!” exclaimed Ned Openheart; “if I
had him under my horsewhip! But, dear Fergus,
you will go back with me to `Maize-in-milk?'”
“Not to-day, Ned,” said the other, somewhat
sadly.
“To-night, then?”
“No; you must excuse me, but I have good reasons
for not visiting your house to-day.”
“Pshaw! you fear that we shall be thanking you,
and all that sort of thing, but I promise you on my
honor we shall say nothing about it.”
Berkshire was firm, and Ned rode away, somewhat
wondering what had so suddenly come over the fellow.
The mystery was explained as soon as he got home.
Sweet Bessy Clinton had seized the first moment,
when she could divert her father from his guests, to
place before his eyes a written proposal from Fergus
Berkshire for her hand, and to throw herself in tearful
silence upon the old man's neck.
“And when did you get this, Bessy Clinton?”
“Last night, sir.”
“And what do you say, Bessy?”
-- 421 --
[figure description] Page 421.[end figure description]
“Oh, father, I do think Mr. Berkshire is an honorable
gentleman.”
“I agree with you, Bessy; and were I you, I would
certainly accept his offer.”
“Thanks, dear father, thanks.”
“Well, my child, go and write to him yourself.
He deserves it.”
Fergus Berkshire did come to “Maize-in-milk” that
night.
If Richard Skinflint found himself discomfited so
unexpectedly that day, the next, which was Christmas,
brought him new sources of disquiet, and new mortifications,
in a communication from Mrs. St. Clair, advising
him that her niece had accepted the hand of Mr. Edward
Openheart, and that the marriage was arranged to
take place the ensuing May. “As this event,” said the
letter, “is the contingency upon which her minority
determines, and as I have yielded my consent to the
contract, which was the sole condition coupled with
this contingency, it will be necessary that Messrs.
Ingelhart and Cripps should be prepared for the settlement
with the future protector of the heiress in
anticipation of the expected event.”
Skinflint did not sleep that night—nor, for that
matter, did several of our parties; but the provocation
to wakefulness among them was the result of very different
feelings. At “Maize-in-milk” there was now no
check to the happiness of all the circle. The revolution
was complete. The horizon was no longer overcast.
The moon and stars were all out. Instead of
the shrieks of the owl, a mock-bird sang at the window,
-- 422 --
[figure description] Page 422.[end figure description]
and the cheek of our proprietor grew warm, and his
face lightened as the several couples wheeled gayly
in the great hall in the mazes of the dance; the tear
of joy gathered brightly in his eye, and he murmured
to his placid spouse, half unconsciously, “Thank
God, it is a happy Christmas after all!”
THE END.
|
