RICHARD HURDIS. — CHAPTER I.

Enough of garlands, of the Arcadian crook,
And all that Greece and Italy have sung,
Of swains reposing myrtle graves among!
Ours couch on naked rocks, will cross a brook,
Swollen with chill rains, nor ever cast a look
This way or that, or give it even a thought
More than by smoothest pathway may be brought
Into a vacant mind. Can written book
Teach what they learn?
Wordsworth.

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Of the hardihood of the American character there
can be no doubts, however many there may exist on
the subject of our good manners. We ourselves
seem to be sufficiently conscious of our security on
the former head, as we forbear insisting upon it;
about the latter, however, we are sore and touchy
enough. We never trouble ourselves to prove that
we are sufficiently able and willing, when occasion

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serves, to do battle, tooth and nail, for our liberties and
possessions; our very existence, as a people, proves
this ability and readiness. But let John Bull prate
of our manners, and how we fume and fret; and what
fierce action, and wasteful indignation we expend
upon him! We are sure to have the last word in
all such controversies. Our hardihood comes from
our necessities, and prompts our enterprise; and the
American is bold in adventure to a proverb. Where
the silken shodden and sleek citizen of the European
world would pause and deliberate to explore our
wilds, we plunge incontinently forward, and the
forest falls before our axe, and the desert blooms
under the providence of our cultivator, as if the
wand of an enchanter had waved over them with the
rising of a sudden moonlight. Yankee necessities,
and southern and western curiosity will probe to
the very core of the dusky woods, and palsy, by
the exhibition of superior powers, the very souls of
their old possessors.

I was true to the temper and the nature of my
countrymen. The place, in which I was born, could
not keep me always. With manhood—ay, long before
I was a man—came the desire to range. My thoughts
craved freedom, my dreams prompted the same desire,
and the wandering spirit of our people, perpetually
stimulated by the continual opening of new regions
and more promising abodes, was working in

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my heart with all the volume of a volcano. Manhood
came, and I burst my shackles. I resolved
upon the enjoyment for which I had dreamed and
prayed. I had no fears, for I was stout of limb, bold
of heart, prompt in the use of my weapon, a fearless
rider, and a fatal shot. Here are the inevitable possessions
of the southern and western man, from Virginia
to the Gulf, and backward to the Ohio. I had
them, with little other heritage, from my Alabama
origin, and I was resolved to make the most of them
as soon as I could. You may be sure I lost no time
in putting my resolves into execution. Our grain
crops in Marengo were ripe in August, and my heart
bounded with the unfolding of the sheaves. I was
out of my minority in the same fortunate season.

I waited for the coming October only. I felt that
my parents had now no claims upon me. The customs
of our society, the necessities of our modes of
life, the excursive and adventurous habits of our
people, all justified a desire, which, in a stationary
community, would seem so adverse to the nicer designs
of humanity. But the life in the city has very
few standards in common with that of the wilderness.
We acknowledge few, at least. The impulses
of the latter, to our minds, are worth, any day, all
the mercantile wealth of the former; and that we
are sincere in this opinion may be fairly inferred from
the preference which the forester will always show

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for the one over the other. Gain is no consideration
for those who live in every muscle, and who
find enjoyment from the exercise of every limb.
The man who lives by measuring tape and pins by
the sixpence-worth, may make money by his vocation—
but, God help him! he is scarce a man. His
veins expand not with generous ardour; his muscles
wither and vanish, as they are unemployed. And
his soul!—it has no emotions which prompt him to
noble restlessness, and high and generous execution.
Let him keep at his vocation if he will, but he
might, morally and physically, do far better if he
would.

My resolves were soon known to all around me.
They are not yet known to the reader. Well, they
are quickly told. The freed youth at twenty-one,
for the first time freed and impatient only for the
exercise of his freedom, has but few purposes, and
his plans are usually single and unsophisticated
enough. Remember, I am speaking for the forester
and farmer, not for the city youth who is taught the
arts of trade from the cradle up, and learns to scheme
and connive while yet he clips the coral in his boneless
gums. I was literally going abroad, after the
fashion of the poorer youth of our neighbourhood,
to seek my fortune. As yet, I had but little of my
own. A fine horse, a few hundred dollars in specie,
three able-bodied negroes, a good rifle, which

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carried eighty to the pound, and was the admiration
of many who were even better shots than myself—
these made pretty much the sum total of my earthly
possessions. But I thought not much of this matter.
To ramble awhile, at least until my money was all
gone, and then to take service on shares with some
planter who had land and needed the help of one
like myself, was all my secret. I had heard of the
Chickasaw Bluffs, and of the still more recent Choctaw
purchase—at that time a land of promise only,
as its acquisition had not been effected—and I
was desirous of looking upon these regions. The
Choctaw territory was reported to be rich as cream,
and I mediated to find out the best spots, in order
to secure them by entry, as soon as government
could effect the treaty which should throw them into
the market. In this ulterior object I was upheld by
some of our neighbouring capitalists, who had urged,
to some extent, the measure upon me. I was not unwilling
to do for them, particularly as it did not interfere
in my own plans to follow up theirs; but my
own desire was simply to stretch my limbs in freedom,
to traverse the prairies, to penetrate the swamps,
to behold the climbing hills and lovely hollows of
the Choctaw lands, and luxuriate in the eternal solitudes
of their spacious forests. To feel my freedom
was now my hope. I had been fettered long
enough.

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But do not think me wanting in natural affection
to my parents: far from it. I effected no small
achievement, when I first resolved to leave my
mother. It was no pain to leave my father. He
was a man, a strong one too, and could do well
enough without me. But, without spoiling me, my
mother, of all her children, had made me most a
favourite. I was her Richard always. She considered
me first, though I had an elder brother, and
spoke of me in particular, when speaking of her
sons, and referred to me for counsel, in preference
to all the rest. This may have been because I was
soon found to be the most decisive of all my brothers;
and folks did me the farther courtesy to say, the
most thoughtful too. My elder brother, John
Hurdis, was too fond of eating to be an adventurous
man, and too slow and unready to be a performing
one. We often quarrelled too, and this,
perhaps, was another reason why I should desire to
leave a place from which he was quite too lazy ever
to depart. Had he been bold enough to go forth, I
had not been so ready to do so, for there were
motives and ties to keep me at home, which shall
have development as I proceed.

My father, though a phlegmatic and proud man,
showed much more emotion at the declaration of
my resolve to leave him, than I had ever expected.
His emotion arose not so much from the love he bore

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me, as from the loss which he was about to sustain
by my departure. I had been his best negro, and
he confessed it. Night and day, without complaint,
my time had been almost entirely devoted to his
service, and his crops had never been half so good
as when I had directed the labour of his force, and
regulated his resources. My brother John had
virtually given up to me the entire management, and
my father was too well satisfied with the fruits of
the change, to make any objection. My resolution
to leave him now, once more threw the business of
the plantation upon John, and his incompetence,
the result of his inertness and obesity, rather than
of any deficiency of mind, was sorely apprehended
by the old man. I felt this to be the strongest argument
against my departure. But was I always to
be the slave I had been? Was I always to watch
peas and potatoes, corn and cotton, without even
the poor satisfaction of choosing the spot where it
would please me best to watch them. This reflection
strengthened me in my resolves, and answered
my father. In answer to the expostulation of my
mother, I made a promise, which in part consoled
her.

“I will go but for a few months, mother; for the
winter only; you will see me back in spring; and
then, if father and myself can come to any thing

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like terms, I will stay and superintend for him, as I
have done before.”

“Terms, Richard!” were the old lady's words in
reply. “What terms, would you have, my son, that
he will not agree to, so that they be in reason? He
will give you one-fifth, I will answer for it, Richard,
and that ought to be quite enough to satisfy any
one.”

“More than enough, mother; more than I ask
or expect. But I cannot now agree even to that. I
must see the world awhile; travel about; and if, at
the end of the winter, I see no better place—no
place, I mean, which I could better like to live in—
why then I will come back, as I tell you, and go to
work as usual.”

There was some little indignation in the old lady's
answer.

“Better place! like better to live in! Why, Richard,
what has come over you? Are not the place
you were born in, and the parents who bred you,
and the people whom you have lived with all your
life—are they not good enough for you; that you
must come to me at this time of day and talk about
better places, and all such stuff? Really, my son,
you forget yourself to speak in this manner. As if
every thing was not good enough for you here!”

“Good enough, mother,” I answered gloomily;
“good enough; perhaps—I deny it not; and yet not

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exactly to my liking. I am not pleased to waste my
life as I do at present. I am not satisfied that I do
myself justice. I feel a want in my mind, and an
impatience at my heart; a thirst which I cannot explain
to you, and which, while here, I cannot quench.
I must go elsewhere—I must fix my eyes on other
objects. You forget, too, that I have been repulsed,
rejected—though you told me I should not be—
where I had set my heart; and that the boon has
been given to another, for which I had struggled
long, and for a long season had hoped to attain. Can
you wonder that I should seek to go abroad, even
were I not moved by a natural desire at my time of
life to see some little of the world?”

There were some portions of my reply which
were conclusive, and to which my mother did not
venture any answer; but my last remark suggested
the tenor of a response which she did not pause to
make.

“But what can you see of the world, my son,
among the wild places to which you think to go?
What can you see at the Bluffs, or down by the Yazoo
but woods and Indians? Besides, Richard, the Choctaws
are said to be troublesome now in the nation.
Old Mooshoolatubbé and La Fleur are going to fight,
and it will be dangerous travelling.”

“The very thing, mother,” was my hasty reply.
“I will take side with La Fleur, and when we have

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to fight Mooshoolatubbé, get enough land for my reward,
to commence business for myself. That last
speech of yours, mother, is conclusive in my favour.
I will be a rich man yet; and then”—in the bitterness
of a disappointed spirit I spoke—“and then,
mother, we will see whether John Hurdis is a better
man with thirty negroes than Richard Hurdis with
but three.”

“Why, who says he is, my son?” demanded my
mother with a tenderness of accent which increased
while she spoke, and with eyes that filled with tears
in the same instant.

My heart told me I was wrong, but I could not
forbear the reply that rose to my lips.

“Mary Easterby,” were the two words which
made my only answer.

“Richard, Richard!” exclaimed the old lady,
“you envy your brother.”

“Envy him! No! I envy him nothing, not even
his better fortune. Let him wear what he has won,
whether he be worthy of it or not. If, knowing me,
she prefers him, be it so. She is not the woman for
me. I envy not his possessions; neither his wife,
nor his servant, his ox, nor his ass. It vexes me
that I have been mistaken, mother, both in her, and
in him; but, thank Heaven! I envy neither. I am
not humble enough for that.”

“Dear Richard, you know that I have always

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sought to make you happy. It grieves me that you
are not so. What would you have me do for you?”

“Let me go forth in peace. Say nothing to my
father to prevent it. Seem to be satisfied with my
departure yourself. I will try to please you better
when I return.”

“You ask too much, my son; but I will try. I
will do any thing for you, if you will only think
and speak less indifferently of your elder brother.”

“And what are my thoughts and words to him,
mother? He feels them not—they do not touch him.
Is he not my elder brother? Has he not all? The
favour of our grandmother gave him wealth, and with
his wealth, and from his wealth, comes the favour of
Mary Easterby.”

“You do her wrong!” said my mother.

“Do I, indeed?” I answered bitterly. “What!
she takes him then for his better person, his nobler
thoughts, his boldness, his industry, and the thousand
other manly qualities, so winning in a woman's eyes,
which I have not, but which he possesses in such
plenty? Is it this that you would say, my mother?
Say it then if you can; but well I know you must be
silent. You cannot speak, mother, and speak thus.
For what then has Mary Easterby preferred John
Hurdis? God forgive me if I do her wrong, and
Heaven's mercy to her if she wrongs herself and me.
At one time I thought she loved me, and I showed

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her some like follies. I will not say that she has
not made me suffer; but I rejoice that. I can suffer
like a man. Let me go from you in quiet, dear
mother; urge my departure, and believe, as I think,
that it will be for the benefit of all.”

My father's entrance interrupted a conversation,
which neither of us was disposed readily to resume.

CHAPTER II.

There was but one
In whom my heart took pleasure amongst women;
One in the whole creation; and in her
You dared to be my rival.
Second Maiden's Tragedy.

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The reader has discovered my secret. I had
long loved Mary Easterby, and without knowing it.
The knowledge came to me at the moment when
I ceased to hope. My brother was my rival, and,
whatever were the charms he used, my successful
rival. This may have given bitterness to the feeling
of contempt with which his own feebleness of
character had taught me to regard him. It certainly
took nothing from the barrier, which circumstances
and time had set up as a wall between us. Mary
Easterby had grown up beside me. I had known
no other companion among her sex. We had
played together from infancy, and I had been taught
to believe, when I came to know the situation of
my own heart, and to inquire into that of hers, that
she loved me. If she did not, I deceived myself
most wofully; but such self deception, is no

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uncommon practice with the young of my age, and sanguine
temperament. I would not dwell upon her
charms could I avoid it; yet though I speak of, I
should fail to describe and do not hope to do them
justice. She was younger by three years than myself,
and no less beautiful than young. Her person
was tall, but not slight; it was too finely proportioned
to make her seem tall, and grace was the
natural result, not less of her physical symmetry,
than of her maiden taste, and sweet considerateness of
character. Her eye was large and blue, her cheek
not so round as full, and its rich rosy colour almost
vied with that which crimsoned the pulpy outline of
her lovely mouth. Her hair was of a dark brown,
and she wore it gathered up simply in volume behind,
a few stray tresses only being suffered to escape from
bondage at the sides, to attest, as it were, the bountiful
luxuriance with which nature had endowed her. See
these tresses on her round white neck, and let your
eye trace them in their progress to the swelling
bosom on which they sometimes rested; and you may
conceive something of those charms, which I shall
not seek farther to describe.

Though a dweller in the woods all her life, her
mind and taste had not been left without due cultivation.
Her father had been taught in one of the
elder states, one of the old thirteen, and he carried
many of the refinements of city life with him into

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the wilderness. Books she had in abundance, and
these taught her every thing of those older communities,
which she had never yet been permitted
to see. Her natural quickness of intellect, her
prompt appreciation of what she read, enabled her
at an early period duly to estimate those conventional
and improved forms of social life to which
her books perpetually referred, and which belong
only to stationary abodes, where wealth brings
leisure, and leisure provokes refinement. With such
aid, Mary Easterby soon stood alone among the
neighbouring damsels. Her air, manner, conversation,
even dress, were not only different from, but
more becoming, than those of her associates. She
spoke with the ease and freedom of one bred up in
the most assured society; and thought with a mind
filled with standards which are not often to be met
with in an insulated, and unfrequented community.
In short she was one of those beings, such as lift the
class to which they belong; such as represent rather a
future than a present generation; and such as, by
superior grasp of judgment or of genius, prepare the
way for, and guide the aims of all the rest.

It were folly to dwell upon her excellences, but
that my narration may depend upon their development.
They were powerful enough with me; and
my heart felt, ere my mind could analyze them. A
boy's heart, particularly one who is the

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unsophisticated occupant of the forests, having few other
teachers, is no sluggish and selfish creation, and
mine was soon filled with Mary Easterby, and all
its hopes and desires depended upon hers for their
fulfilment. It was the thought of all, that hers was
not less dependent upon mine; and when the increasing
intimacy of the maiden with my brother, and
his confident demeanor towards herself and parents,
led us all to regard him as the possessor of those affections
which every body had supposed to be mine,
the matter was no less surprising to all than it was
for the season bitter and overwhelming to me. I
could have throttled my more fortunate brother—
brother though he was—in the first moment of
my rage at this discovery; and all my love for Mary
did not save her from sundry unmanly denunciations
which I will not now venture to repeat. I did
not utter these denunciations in her ears though I
uttered them aloud. They reached her ears, however,
and the medium of communication was John
Hurdis. This last baseness aroused me to open rage
against him. I told him to his teeth he was a scoundrel;
and he bore with the imputation, and spoke of
our blood connection as the reason for his forbearance
to resent an indignity which, agreeably to our modes
of thinking, could only be atoned for by blood.

“Brother indeed!” I exclaimed furiously in reply.
“No, John Hurdis, you are no brother of mine,

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though our father and mother be the same. I acknowledge
no relationship between us. We are of
a different family—of a far and foreign nature. My
kindred shall never be found among the base; and
from this moment I renounce all kindred with you.
Henceforth, we know nothing of each other only so
far as it may be necessary to keep from giving pain
and offence to our parents. But we shall not be
long under that restraint. I will shortly leave you
to yourself—to your conquests, and the undisturbed
enjoyment of that happiness which you have toiled
for so basely at the expense of mine.”

He would have explained and expostulated but I
refused to hear him. He proffered me his hand, but
with a violent blow of my own, I struck it down,
and turned my shoulder upon him. It was thus, in
such relationship, that we stood, when I announced
to my mother my intention to leave the family. We
barely spoke to one another when speech was absolutely
unavoidable, and it was soon known to Mary
Easterby, not less than to the persons of my own household,
that our hearts were lifted in enmity against each
other. She seized an early opportunity and spoke
to me on the subject. Either she mistook the nature
of our quarrel, or the character of my affections.
Yet how she could have mistaken the latter
or misunderstood the former, I cannot imagine.
Yet she did so.

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“Richard, they say you have quarrelled with
your brother.”

“Does he say it—does John Hurdis say it, Mary?”
was my reply.

She paused and hesitated. I pressed the question
with more earnestness as I beheld her hesitation.
She strove to speak with calmness, but was not altogether
successful. Her voice trembled as she replied.

“He does not, Richard—not in words; but I have
inferred it from what he does say, and from the fact,
that he has said so little. He seemed unwilling to
tell me anything.”

“He is wise,” I replied bitterly; “he is very
wise; but it is late. Better he had been thus taciturn
always.”

“Why speak you so, Richard?” she continued;
“why are you thus violent against your brother?
What has he done to vex you to this pass? Let me
hear your complaint.”

“Complaint! I have none—you mistake me, Mary.
I complain not. I complain of nobody. If I cannot
right my own wrongs, at least, I will not complain
of them.”

“Oh, be not so proud, Richard; be not so proud,”
she replied earnestly; and her long white fingers
rested upon my wrist for an instant, and were as
instantly withdrawn. But that one touch was enough

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to thrill to the bone. It was my turn to tremble.
She continued: “There is no wisdom in this pride
of yours, Richard; it is unbecoming in such frail
beings as we are, and it will be fatal to your happiness.”

“Happiness—my happiness! Ah, Mary, if it be
my pride only which is to be fatal to my happiness
then I am secure. But I fear not that. My pride
is my hope now, my strength. It protects me, it
shields my heart from my own weakness.”

She looked in my face with glances of the most
earnest inquiry for a little while, and then spoke as
follows:

“Richard, there is something now-a-days about
you which I do not exactly understand. You utter
yourself in a language which is strange to me, and
your manners have become strange? Why is this!
what is the matter?”

“Nay, Mary, but that should be my question.
The change is in you, not me. I am conscious of
no change such as you speak of. But a truce to this.
I see you are troubled. Let us talk of other things.”

“I am not troubled, Richard, except on your account.
But as you desire it, let us talk of other
things; and to return—why this hostility between
yourself and your brother?”

“Let him tell you. Demand it of him, Mary;
he will better tell the story than I, as it will

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probably sound more to his credit, than to mine, in your
ears!”

“I know not that,” she replied; “and know not
why you should think so, Richard, unless you are
conscious of having done wrong, and if thus conscious,
the cure is in your own hands.”

“What!” I exclaimed impetuously; “You would
have me go on my knees to John Hurdis, and humbly
ask his pardon, for denouncing him as a scoundrel—”

“You have not done this, Richard?” was her sudden
inquiry, silencing me in the middle of my hurried
and thoughtless speech. The error was committed,
and I had only to avow the truth. Gloomily
I did so, and with a sort of sullen ferocity that
must have savoured very much of the expression of
a wolf goaded to the verge of his den by the spear
of the hunter.

“Ay, but I have, Mary Easterby. I have called
John Hurdis a scoundrel, and only wonder that he
told you not this along with the rest of my misdoings
which he has been careful to relate to you.
Perhaps, he might have done so, had the story
spoken more favourably for his manhood.”

We had been sitting together by the window while
the conversation proceeded; but at this stage of it,
she arose, crossed the apartment slowly, lingered for
a brief space at an opposite window, then quietly

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returned to her seat. But her eyes gave proof of
the big tears that had been gathering in them.

“Richard, I fear that you are doing me, and your
brother both injustice. You are too quick, too
prompt to imagine, wrong, and too ready to act upon
your imaginings. You speak to me with the tone
of one who has cause of complaint—of anger! Your
eyes have an expression of rebuke which is painful
to me, and I think unjust. Your words are sharp,
and sometimes hostile and unfriendly. You are not
what you were—Richard, in truth, you are not.”

“Indeed, do you think so, Mary?”

“Ay, I do. Tell me, Richard, in what have I
done you wrong? Where is my error? Of what do
you complain?”

“Have I not told you, Mary, that I have no
cause of complaint—that I hold it unmanly to complain?
And wherefore should I complain of you? I
have no right. You are mistress of your own words
and actions so far as Richard Hurdis is concerned.”

The stubborn pride of my spirit was predominant,
and the moment of explanation had gone by. A slight
sigh escaped her lips as she replied—

“You are not what you used to be, Richard; but
I know not what has changed you.”

She had spoken soothly—I was not what I was.
A dark change had come upon me; a gloomy shadow
had passed over my spirit, chilling its natural warmth

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and clouding its glory. The first freshness of my
heart's feelings were rapidly passing from me. I had
worshipped fruitlessly, if not unwisely; and if the
deity of my adoration was not unworthy of its tribute,
it gave back no response of favour to the prayer
of the supplicant.

Such were my thoughts—such the conviction
which was driving me into banishment. For banishment
it was, utter, irrevocable banishment, which
I then meditated. The promise given to my mother
was meant to soothe her heart, and silence her entreaties.
I meant never to return. In deeper forests,
in a wilder home, I had resolved to choose me out
an abode, which, if it had fewer attractions, had, at
the same time, fewer trials for a bosom vexed like
mine. I feared not the silence and the loneliness of
the Indian habitations, when those to which I had
been accustomed, had become, in some respects, so
fearful. I dreaded no loneliness so much as that of
my own heart, which, having devoted itself exclusively
to another, was denied the communion which
it sought.

CHAPTER III.

Now go we in content
To liberty, and not to banishment.
As You Like It.

Brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp?
Same.

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Was I right in such a resolution? Was it proper
in me, because one had made me desolate, to make
others—and not that one—equally so? I know not.
I inquired not thus at the time, and the question is
unnecessary now. My resolution was taken at a leap.
It was a resolution made by my feelings, in which
my thoughts had little part. And yet I reasoned
upon it, and gave stubborn arguments in its defence
to others. It is strange how earnestly the mind will
devote itself to the exactions of the blood, and cog,
and connive, and cavil, in compliance with the appetites
and impulses of the body. The animal is no
small despot when it begins to sway.

In leaving home, however, and going abroad
among strangers, I did not purpose to go alone. My
arguments, which had not moved myself, had their

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influence upon another. A young man of the neighbourhood,
about my own age, with whom I had been
long intimate, consented to go along with me. His
situation and motives were alike different from mine.
He was not only a wealthy man, in the estimation of
the country, but he was fortunate—perhaps because
he was wealthy—in the favour and regard of a
young damsel to whom he had proffered vows which
had proved acceptable. He was an accepted man,
fortunate or not; and in this particular of fortune he
differed from me as widely as in his monied concerns.
His property consisted in negroes and ready
money. He had forty of the former, and some three
thousand dollars, part in specie, but the greater part
in United States Bank notes, then considered quite
as good. He wanted lands, and to supply this want
was the chief motive for his resolve to set out with
me. The damsel to whom he was betrothed was poor,
but she wore none of the deportment of poverty.
The neighbourhood thought her proud. I cannot say
that I thought with them. She was more reserved
than young women commonly at her time of life—
more dignified, thoughtful, and perhaps, more prudent.
She was rather pensive in her manner; and
yet there was a quickness of movement in the flashing
of her dark black eye, that bespoke sudden resolve,
and a latent character which needed but the
stroke of trial and the collision of necessity to give

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

forth unquenchable flame. She said little, but that
little, when spoken, was ever to the point and purpose,
and seemed unavoidable. Yet, though thus
taciturn in language, there was speech in every movement
of her eyes—in all the play of her intelligent
and remarkable features. She was not beautiful,
scarcely pretty, if you examined her face with a design
to see its charms. But few ever looked at her
with such an object. The character which spoke in
her countenance was enough, and you forbore to look
for other beauties. Catharine Walker was a thinking
and intelligent creature, and her mind pre-occupied
yours at a glance, and satisfied you with her, without
suffering you to look farther. You felt—not as when
gazing on mere beauty—you felt that there was
more to be seen than was seen—that she had a
resource of wealth beyond wealth, and which, like
the gift of the fairy, though worthless in its outward
seeming, was yet inexhaustible in its supplies.

Her lover, though a youth of good sense, and
very fair education, was not a man of mind. He was
a man to memorise and repeat, not to reason and
originate. He could follow promptly, but he would
not do to lead. He lacked the thinking organs,
and admired his betrothed the more, as he discovered
that she was possessed of a readiness, the want of
which he had deplored in himself. It is no unfrequent
thing with us to admire a quality rather

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

because of our own lack of it, than because of its
intrinsic value.

William Carrington was not without his virtues
of mind, as well as of heart. He was temperate in his
deportment, forbearing in his prejudices, modest in
correspondence with his want of originality, and
earnest in his desire of improvement. His disposition
was gentle and playful. He laughed too readily,
perhaps; and his confidence was quite as free and unrestrainable
as his mirth. While my nature, helped
by my experience, perhaps, made me jealous, watchful
and suspicious; his, on the other hand, taught
him to believe readily, to trust fearlessly, and to
derive but little value even from his own experience
of injustice. We were not unfit foils, and, consequently,
not unseemly companions for one another.

Carrington was seeking lands, and his intention
was to be at the land sale in Chocchuma, and to purchase
with the first fitting opportunity. Having
bought, he proposed to hurry back to Marengo,
marry, and set forth in the spring of the ensuing
year for his new home. His plans were all marked
out, and his happiness almost at hand. Catharine
offered no objection to his arrangements, and showed
no womanly weakness at his preparations for departure.
She gave my hand a gentle pressure
when I bade her farewell, and simply begged us to
take care of each other. I did not witness the

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

separation between the lovers, but I am convinced that
Catharine exhibited far less, yet felt much more than
William, and that, after the parting, he laughed out
aloud much the soonest of the two. Not that he
did not love her. He loved quite as fervently as
it was in his nature to love; but his heart was of
lighter make and of less earnest temper than hers.
He could be won by new colours to a forgetfulness
of the cloud which had darkened his spirits; and
the moan of his affliction was soon forgotten in
gayer and newer sounds. Not so with her. If she
did not moan aloud, she could brood, in secret, like
the dove upon the blasted bough, over her own
heart, and, watching its throbs, forget that the world
held it a propriety to weep.

CHAPTER IV. Oliver.

Know you before whom, sir?

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

The time approached which had been appointed
for our departure, and the increased beating of my
heart warned me of some trial scenes yet to be undergone.
I knew that I should have little difficulty
at parting with my father, and much less with my
more fortunate brother. The parting from my mother
was a different matter, as, knowing well the love
which she bore me, I was already prepared for
her sorrow, if not agony, when bidding me farewell.
Besides, resolving in my secret mind never
to return, I had a feeling of compunction for my
meditated hypocrisy, which added the annoyance of

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

shame to my own sorrow on the occasion. I did
not think less of the final separation from Mary
Easterby, but my pride schooled my heart in reference
to her. I resolved that she should see me go
without a change of feature, without the quivering
of a single muscle. I resolved to see her. A more
prudent man would have gone away in silence and
in secrecy. He would have as resolutely avoided as
I sought the interview. But I was not a prudent
man. My feelings were too impetuous, my pride
too ostentatious to suffer me to hide it from exhibition.
To depart without seeking and seeing Mary
would be a tacit acknowledgment of weakness. It
would seem that I feared the interview, that I questioned
my own strength, to contend against an influence
which all around me suspected, but which it
was my pride not to acknowledge even to myself.

The day came preceding that on which I was to
depart; and the dinner was scarcely over, when,
ordering my horse, I set out to go to Squire Easterby's
plantation. The distance was seven miles, a
matter of no importance in a country, where, from
childhood, the people are used equally to fine horses,
and long distances. I rode slowly, however, for
I was meditating what I should say, and how I
should demean myself during the interview which
I sought. While I deliberated I discovered that I
had overtasked my strength. I felt that I loved too

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

earnestly not to be somewhat, if not severely, tried.
Could it have been that at that late moment I could
have re-resolved, and without a depreciation of my self-esteem,
have turned back, I feel that I should have
done so. But my pride would not suffer this, and
I resolved to leave it to the same pride to sustain and
succour me throughout. To lose emotions which I
found it impossible to subdue, I increased the speed
of my horse; striking the rowel into his flanks, and
giving him free rein, I plunged into the solitary yet
crowded woods, over a road which I had often trodden,
and which was now filled at every step in my progress
with staring, obtrusive memories, which chattered
as I went in sweet, and bitter yet familiar tongues.

How often had I trodden the same region with
her, when I had no fears, and none but pleasant images
rose up before my contemplation! What harmonies
were my unspoken, my unchallenged hopes
on those occasions! What pictures of felicity rose
before the mind on every side! Not that I then
thought of love—not that I proposed to myself any
plan or purpose which regarded our union. No! It
was in the death of my hope that I was first taught
to know that it had ever lived. It was only in the
moment that I was taught that I loved in vain, that
my boy-heart discovered it had ever loved at all.
Memories were all that I had rescued from the wreck
of hope, and they were such as I had been most

[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

willing to have lost forever. It was but a sad consolation
to know how sweet had been those things
which I had once known, but which I was doomed
to know no longer.

Bitter were the thoughts which attended me as I
rode; yet in their very bitterness my soul gathered
its strength. The sweets of life enfeeble us. We
struggle among them as a greedy fly in the honey
which clogs its wings, and fetters it forever. The
grief of the heart is sometimes its best medicine, and
though it may not give us back the lost, it arms us
against loss, and blunts the sensibility which too
frequently finds its fate in its own acuteness. From
my bitter thoughts I gathered resolution. I remembered
the intimacy which had formerly prevailed
between us—how we had mutually confided to each
other, how I had entirely confided to her—how joint
were our sympathies, how impatient our desires to
be together—how clearly she must have seen the
feelings which I never spoke—how clearly had like
feelings in her been exhibited (so I now thought)
to me; and as I dwelt on these memories, I inly resolved
that she had trifled with me. She had won
me by her arts, till my secret was in her possession,
and then, either unmoved herself, or willing to sacrifice
her affections to a baser worship—she had given
herself to another whom she could not love, but

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

whose wealth had been too great a temptation to her
woman eyes, for her feeble spirit to withstand.

That she was engaged to my brother, I never
doubted for an instant. It was as little the subject
of doubt among the whole neighbourhood. Indeed
it was the conviction of the neighbourhood, and the
old women thereof, which produced mine; and then,
the evidence seemed utterly conclusive. John Hurdis
spoke of Mary Easterby, as if the right were in
him to speak for her; and she—she never denied the
imputation. It is true I had never questioned her
on the subject, nor, indeed, do I know that she had
ever been questioned by others; but where was the
necessity to inquire when there was seemingly so little
occasion for doubt? The neighbourhood believed,
and it was no hard matter for one, so jealous and suspicious
as myself, to leap with even more readiness
to a like conclusion.

And yet, riding along that road, all my memories
spoke against so strange a faith. It was impossible
that she who had so freely confided to me the fancies
and the feelings of her childhood, to whom I had so
readily yielded mine, should have given herself up to
another, with whom no such communion had existed—
to whom no such sympathy had been ever shown.
We had sat or reclined under the same tree—we had
sought the same walks together—the same echoes
had caught the tones of our kindred voices, and

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

chronicled, by their responses from the hill side and among
the groves, the sentiments of our unfettered hearts.
And how could she love another? Her hand had
rested in mine without a fear—my arm had encircled
her waist without a resistance on her part, or a meditated
wrong on mine. And had we not kissed each
other at meeting and parting, from childhood, and
through its pleasant limits, until—ay, almost until
the moment, when the right of another first led me
to know what dear privileges had been my own?
Wonder not at the bitterness of my present memories.

It was at the moment when they were bitterest,
that a sudden turn in the road revealed to me the
person of John Hurdis. I recoiled in my saddle,
and, under the involuntary impulse of my hands,
bore back my horse until he almost sank upon his
haunches. The movement of both could not have
been more prompt if we had beheld a vexed and
ready adder in our path. And had he not been the
adder in my path? Had he not, by his sly and
sneaking practices, infused his venom into the mind
of her upon whom my hope, which is the life of
life, utterly depended? Had he not struck at my
heart with a sting not less fearful, though more concealed,
than that of the adder; and if he had failed
to destroy, was it not rather because of the feebleness
of his fang, than either its purpose or its venom. If
he had not, then did I do him grievous wrong. I

[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

thought he had, and my soul recoiled, as I surveyed
him, with a hatred, which, had he been other than my
mother's son, would have prompted me to slay him.

I had rounded a little swamp that lay upon the
side of the road, and gave it the outline of a complete
elbow. John Hurdis was some fifty yards in
advance of me. I had not seen him at dinner, and
there was he now on his way to the dwelling of her
to whom I was about to pay my parting visit. The
thought that I should meet him with her, that he
might behold these emotions which it shamed me to
think I might not be altogether able to conceal, at
once brought about a change in my resolve. I determined
to give him no such chance of triumph;
and was about to turn the head of my horse and return
to my father, when he stopped short, wheeled
round and beckoned me to advance. My resolution
underwent a second change. That he should suppose
that I shrunk from an encounter with him of any
description, was, if possible, even more mortifying
than to expose the whole amount of my heart's weakness
to Mary Easterby before his eyes. I determined
to give him no such cause for exultation, and furiously
spurring forward, another instant brought me
beside him.

His face was complaisance itself, and his manner
was unpresuming enough; but there was something in
the slight smile which played about the corners of

[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]

his mouth, and in the twinkle of his eye, which I
did not relish. It may have been that, in the morbid
state of my feelings, I saw through a false medium;
but I could not help the thought, that there was exultation
in his smile, and my jaundiced spirit put on
new forms of jealousy with this conviction. The
blood boiled within my veins, as I regarded him,
and thought thus; and I trembled like a dry leaf in
the gusts of November, while I suppressed, or
strove to suppress, the rebellious and unruly impulses
to which it prompted me. I struggled to
be calm. For my mother's sake, I resolved to say and
do nothing which should savour of violence at the
moment when I was about to part with her forever.

“I will bear it all—all. I will be patient,” I
said to my soul; “It is not long, it will soon be
over. Another day, and I will be free from the
chance of contact with the base, dishonest reptile.
Let him gain, let him triumph as he may. It may
be—the day may come! But no—I will not think
of such a thing; revenge is not for me. He is still,
though base, a brother. Let the eternal avenger
decree his punishment, and choose his fitting executioner.”

These thoughts, and this resolution of forbearance
were all over in the progress of an instant; and we
rode by the side of one another, as two belligerents
who had lately been warring to the very knife, but

[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]

who, under the security of a temporary truce, look on
one another, and move together with a mixed air,
half of peace, half of war, and neither altogether
assured of the virtue which is assumed to exist in
their mutual pledges.

“Did I not see you turn your horse, Richard, as
if to go back?”

“You did,” was my reply; and my face flushed
as he thus compelled me to the acknowledgment.

“And wherefore?”

“Wherefore!” I paused when I had repeated
the word. It would have been too galling to have
spoken out the truth. I continued thus:

“I saw you proceeding in the same direction, and
cared not to be in the way. Your good fortune
is too well known, to require that you should have
fresh witnesses. Besides, my farewell—for it is only
to say farewell, that I go now—is no such important
matter.”

“You are right, Richard. My good fortune
needs no witnesses, though it likes them. But why
should you think that you could be in the way?
What do you mean by that?”

“Mean! can you ask,” I replied, with something
of a sneer growing on my lips as I proceeded;
“when you know it is proverbial that young lovers,
who are apt to be more sentimental than sensible,
usually, need no third persons at their interviews?

[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]

Indeed, for that matter, the third person likes it
quite as little as themselves.”

“Less, perhaps, Richard, if he himself has been
a loser at the game,” was the retort.

“Ay,” I rejoined bitterly; but if the game be
played foully, his dislike is quite as much the result
of his scorn, as of his disappointment. He is reconciled
to his loss, when he finds its worthlessness,
and he envies not the victor, whose treachery, rather
than his skill, has been the source of his greater
success.”

The lips of my brother grew positively livid, as
he opened them, as if in the act to speak. He
was prudent in forbearing, for he kept silent.

“Look you, John Hurdis,” I continued, turning
full upon him as I spoke, and putting my hand upon
his shoulder. He shrank from under it. His guilty
conscience had put a morbid nerve under every inch
of flesh in his system. I laughed aloud as I beheld him.

“Why do you shrink?” I demanded, now in
turn becoming the questioner.

“Shrink—I shrink—did I shrink?” He answered
me confusedly, scarcely conscious what he said.

“Ay—did you,” I responded with a glance intended
to go through him; “You shrank as if my
finger were fire—as if you feared that I meant to
harm you.”

His pride came to his relief. He plucked up

[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

strength to say, “You mistake, Richard. I did not
shrink, and if I did, it was not through fear of you
or any other man.”

My hand again rested on his shoulder, as I replied—
my eye searching through him all the while
with a keenness, beneath which, it was a pleasure
to me to behold him again shrink and falter.

“You may deceive yourself, John Hurdis, but
you cannot deceive me. You did shrink from my
touch, even as you shrink now beneath mine eye.
More than this, John Hurdis, you do fear me whatever
may be your ordinary courage in the presence
of other men. I see—I feel that you fear me; and I
am not less assured on the subject of your fears. You
would not fear were you not guilty—nor tremble
now while I speak were you less deserving of my
punishment. But you need not tremble. You
are secure, John Hurdis. That which you have in
your bosom of my blood is your protection for the
greater quantity which you have that is not mine,
and with which my soul scorns all communion.”

His face grew black as he gazed upon me. The
foam flecked his blanched lips even as it gathers
upon the bit of the driven and infuriated horse.
His frame quivered—his tongue muttered inaudible
sounds, and he gazed on me, labouring but in vain
to speak. I laughed as I beheld his feeble fury—I

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

laughed in the abundance of my scorn, and he then
spoke.

“Boy!” he cried—“boy,—but for your mother,
I should lay this whip over your shoulders.”

He shook it before me as he spoke, and I grappled
with him on the second instant. With a sudden
grasp, and an effort, to oppose which, he had neither
strength of soul nor of body, I dragged him from
his horse. Straining feebly and ineffectually to resist
his coward tendency, he, at length, after a few
struggles, fell heavily upon the ground and almost
under the feet of my animal. His own horse passed
away, and at the same moment, I leaped down from
mine. My blood was in a dreadful tumult—my
fingers twitched nervously to grapple with him again,
but ere I could do so, a sound—a scream—the sudden
and repeated shrieks of a woman's voice, arrested
me in my angry purpose, and I stood rooted to the
spot. Too well I knew that voice, and the tremor
of rage which an instant before had shaken me to
the centre was now succeeded by a tremor far more
powerful. Unlike the former it was enfeebling,
palsying—it took from me the wolfish strength with
which the former seemed to have endued me. The
voice of a girl had given me the weakness of a girl,
and like a culprit I stood, as if fixed and frozen, until
my brother had arisen from the ground where I had
thrown him, and Mary Easterby stood between us.

CHAPTER V.

I thought to chide thee, but it will not be;
True love can but awhile look bitterly.
Heywood.—Love's Mistress.

You have led me,
Into a subtle labyrinth, where I never
Shall have fruition of my former freedom.
The Lady's Privilege.

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

She stood between us like some judge suddenly
descended from heaven, and armed with power to
punish, and I stood before her like a criminal conscious
of my demerits and waiting for the doom.
An instant before she came, and I had a thousand
arguments, each, to my mind, sufficient to justify me
for any violence which I might execute upon John
Hurdis. Now, I had not one. The enormity of the
act of which I had been guilty, seemed to expand
and swell with every accumulated thought upon it;
and my tongue, that had been eloquent with indignation
but a little while before, was now frozen with
silence, and without even the power of evasion or
appeal. I did not venture to look her in the face—I
did not venture even to look upon my brother. What
were his feelings I know not; but if they partook,

[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]

at that moment, of any of the intense humility
which made up the greater part of mine, then was
he almost sufficiently punished for the injuries
which he had done me. I certainly felt that he
was almost if not quite avenged in my present humility
for the unbrotherly anger of which he had
been the victim.

“Oh, Richard Hurdis,” she exclaimed, “this violence,
and upon your brother too.”

Why had she not addressed her speech to him?
Was I alone guilty? Had he not provoked? Had
he not even threatened me? The thought that she
was now again showing the partiality in his favour
which had been the source of my unhappiness,
changed the tenor of my feelings. My sense of
humiliation gave way to offended pride, and I answered
with sullen defiance.

“And am I only to blame, Mary Easterby? Can
you see fault in no other than me? Methinks this
is less than justice, and I may safely deny the authority
which so openly affronts justice with an
avowal of its partialities.”

“I have no partialities, Richard—it is you that
are unjust. The violence that I witnessed was only
yours. I saw not any other.”

“There was indignity and insolence—provocation
enough, Mary Easterby,” I replied hastily, “if not
violence, to justify me in what I did. But I knew

[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]

not that you beheld us. I would not else have punished
John Hurdis. I would have borne with his
insolence—I would have spared him his shame—if
not on his account on yours. I regret that you have
seen us, though I have no regret for what I have
done.”

I confronted my brother as I spoke these words,
as if to satisfy him that I was ready to give him the
only form of atonement which I felt his due. He
seemed to understand me, and to do him all justice,
his port was as manly as I could desire that of my
father's son to be at all times. His eye flashed back
a family expression of defiance, and his lips were
closed with a resoluteness that showed him to be
fully roused. But for the presence of Mary Easterby,
we had come to the death struggle in that very
hour. But we felt ourselves too greatly wrong not
to acknowledge her superiority. Vexed and sullen
as I was, I was doubly vexed with the consciousness
of error; and when she spoke again in answer to my
last words my chagrin found due increase in what
she said.

“I know nothing of the provocation, Richard, and
need nothing to believe that there was provocation, or
that you thought so, which moved you to what you
did. I could not suppose, for an instant, that you
would proceed to such violence without provocation;
but that any provocation short of violence itself will

[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]

justify violence—and violence too upon a brother—I
cannot admit, nor, in your secret heart, Richard, do
you admit it yourself. What would your mother
say, Richard, were she to hear this story?”

“She might be less angry, and less pained, Mary
Easterby, than you imagine, if she knew all the
story. If she knew—but no! why should I recount
his villanies, Mary Easterby, and least of all
why recount them to you? I will not.”

“Nor do I wish—nor would I hear them, Richard,”
she replied promptly, though gently. I saw
the eyes of John Hurdis brighten, and my soul felt
full of bitterness.

“What! you would not believe me, then, Mary
Easterby. Can it be that your prejudices go so far
as that?”

The tears gathered in her eyes as they were fixed
upon mine and beheld the sarcastic and scornful expression
in them, but she replied without hesitation.

“You are unjust, and unkind to me, Richard;”
and her voice trembled: she proceeded:

“I would be unwilling to believe, and am quite
as unwilling to hear, any thing which could be prejudicial
to the good name of any of your family, your
brother or yourself. I have loved them all too long,
and too truly, Richard, to find pleasure in any thing
which spoke against their worth. I should be not
less unwilling, Richard, to think that you could say

[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]

anything, which did not merit and command belief.
I might think you guilty of error, never of falsehood.”

“Thank you, Mary; for so much, at least, let me
thank you. You do me justice only. When I
speak falsely, of man or woman, brother or stranger,
friend or foe, let my tongue cleave to my mouth in
blisters.”

John Hurdis mounted his horse at this moment,
and an air of dissatisfaction seemed to hang upon his
features. He muttered something to himself, the
words of which were unintelligible to us; then speaking
hurriedly to Mary, he declared his intention of
riding on to her father's farm, then but a short mile
off. She begged him to do so, courteously, but, as
I thought, coldly; and giving a bitter glance of enmity
towards me, he put spurs to his horse and was
soon out of sight.

His absence had a visible effect upon her, and I
felt that much of the vexation was passing from my
own heart. There was something in the previous
conversation between us which had softened me,
and when the tramp of his horse's heels was no longer
in hearing, it seemed as if a monstrous barrier had
been broken down from between us. All my old
thoughts and fancies returned to me; sweet memories,
which I had just before angrily dismissed, now
came back confidently to my mind, and taking her

[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]

hand in one of mine, while leading my horse with
the other, we took our course through a narrow path
which wound through a pleasant thicket, we had
trodden together a thousand times before.

“Mary,” I began, as we proceeded—this is our
old walk. Do you remember? That pine has lain
across the path from the first time we knew it.”

“Yes, it looks the same as ever, Richard, with
one exception which I have remarked more than
once and particularly this morning. The end of it,
upon which we used to sit, is scarcely to be got at now,
the bushes have grown up so thickly around it.”

“It is so long, Mary, since we have used it. It
was our visits that kept the brush down. The weeds
grow now without interruption from us—from me at
least; and the time is far distant when I shall visit it
again. Do you know, Mary, I am come to bid you
good-bye? I leave Marengo to-morrow.”

“To-morrow! so soon?”

“Soon! Do you think it soon, Mary? I have
been making preparations for months. Certainly,
I have declared my intention for months.”

“Indeed! but not to me. I did hear something
of such a purpose being in your mind; but I hoped, I
mean I believed, that it was not true.”

“Did you hope that it was not true?” I demanded
with some earnestness. She answered with the
ready frankness of childhood.

[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

“Surely I did; and when John Hurdis told
me—”

“John Hurdis is no authority for me,” I said
gloomily, breaking off her speech in the middle.
The interruption brought us back to our starting
place, from the contemplation of which, since my
brother's departure, we had both tacitly seemed to
shrink.

“Oh, Richard, this is an evil temper!” she exclaimed.
“Why do you encourage it? Why
this angry spirit towards your brother? It is an
evil mood, and can do no good. Besides, I think
you do him injustice. He is gentle and good
natured; he wants your promptness, it may be, and
he lacks something of your enterprise and industry.
Perhaps, too, he has not the same zealous warmth
of feeling, but truly I believe that his heart is in the
right place.”

“It is your policy to believe so, Mary; else where
is yours?”

“Mine!” she exclaimed; and her eye was fixed
upon me with an expression of mixed curiosity and
wonder.

“Ay, yours,” I continued, giving a construction
to the equivocal form of my previous speech, differing
from that which I originally intended—

“Ay, yours, for if it be not, your charity is
wasted. But no more of this, Mary, if you please.

[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]

The subject, for sundry reasons, is an unpleasant
one to me. John Hurdis is fortunate in your
eulogy, and for your sake, not less than his, I will
not seek, by any word of mine, to disturb your impressions.
My words might prejudice your opinion
of his worth, without impairing its intrinsic value;
and it may be as you think, that I am all wrong
about it. He is a fortunate man, that John Hurdis;
doubly fortunate, Mary. He has the wealth which
men toil for, and fight for, and lie for, and sell
themselves to the foul fiend for in a thousand ways;
he has the favour of women; a greater temptation,
for which they do a thousand times worse. He has
those possessions, Mary, some of which I am never
to have, but for the rest of which I am even now
about to leave the home, and perhaps, all the happiness
of my childhood.”

“You surely do not envy your brother, Richard,
any of his possessions.”

“Let me know what they are Mary; let them be
enumerated, and then will I answer you. Envy
John Hurdis I do not; that is to say, I do not envy
him his wealth, or his wisdom, his lands, his negroes
or any of his worldly chattels. Are you satisfied
now, Mary, that there is nothing base in my envy;
though it may be that he has something yet which
provokes it!”

“And what is that, Richard?”

[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

Why did I not answer her in plain language?
How often have I repented that I did not. How
much sorrow might have been spared me else. But
I was proud of heart as Lucifer; proud in my own
despite, stubborn to my own sorrow.

“Mary, ask me not,” I answered. “What matter
is it to know, when even were he to lose that
which I envy him, it might be that I would not be
esteemed worthy to possess it.”

“Richard, there is something strange to me in
your tones, and mysterious in your language. Why
do you not speak to me as formerly? Why are you
changed—why should you be changed to me? You
scarcely speak now without saying something which
I do not thoroughly comprehend. There is a hidden
meaning in every thing you say; and it seems to me
that you are suspicious and distrustful of the honesty
of every body.”

“And should I not be, Mary? He is not a wise
man who learns no lessons of caution from the deception
of others; who, wronged once, suffers himself
to be wronged a second time from the same
source. I may be distrustful, but I am prudently so,
Mary.”

“You prudent, Richard! I fear that even now you
deceive yourself, as it seems to me you must have
deceived yourself before. You have not said, Richard,

[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]

by whom you have been wronged—by whose dishonesty,
you have acquired all these lessons of prudence
and circumspection.”

How could I answer this? Who could I accuse?
I could only answer by replying to another
portion of her remarks.

“You think me changed, Mary, and I will not
deny it. I am certainly not so happy as I have been;
but my change has only corresponded with the
changed aspects of the world around me. I know
that I have undergone no greater change than others
that I know—than you, for example. You are
changed, Mary, greatly changed in my sight.”

The deepest crimson, and the utmost pallor succeeded
to each other in rapid alternations upon her
cheek. Her bosom heaved—her hand trembled
within my own. I thought at first that she would
have fainted, and, dropping the bridle of my horse,
I supported her shrinking form with my arm. But
she recovered herself almost instantly; and, advancing
from the clasp of my arm which had encircled
her waist—with a sudden composure which astonished
me, she replied:

“I did not think it, Richard—I am not conscious
of any change in me, but it may be even as you
say. I could have wished you had not seen it, if
it be so; for, of a truth, I have not striven for

[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]

change, and it gives me pain to think that I do seem
so—to my friends at least.”

“It is so, Mary. I once thought—but no! wherefore
should I speak of such things now—.” She
interrupted me by a sudden and hurried effort—seemingly
an impulsive one.

“Oh, speak it, Richard—speak aloud—speak
freely as you used to speak when we were happy
children together. Be no longer estranged—think
me not so. Speak your thought, and as I hope for
kindness from all I love, I will as freely utter
mine.”

“No!” I exclaimed coldly, and half releasing her
fingers from my grasp. “No! Mary, it were but
a folly now to say what were my thoughts once—
my feelings—my fancies. I might have done so in
a former day; but now I cannot. I acknowledge
the change, and so must you. It is a wise one. Ere
long, Mary, long before I return to Marengo, you
will undergo another change, perhaps, which I shall
not witness, and shall not desire to witness.

“What is it that you mean, Richard?”

“Nothing—no matter what. It will be a happy
change to you, Mary, and that should be enough to
make me satisfied with it. God knows I wish you
happiness—all happiness—as complete as it is in
man's power to make it to you. I must leave you
now. The sun is gone, and I have to ride over to

[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]

Carrington's to night. Good bye, Mary, good
bye.”

“Are you going, Richard?” she said without looking
up.

“Yes; I have loitered too long already.”

“You will write to us—to father?”

“No! of what use to write? Wherefore tax your
sympathies by telling the story of my sufferings?”

“But your successes, Richard.”

“You will believe them without the writing.”

“So cold, Richard?”

“So prudent, Mary—prudent.”

“And you will not go to the house?”

“What! to meet him there! No, no! Good
bye—God bless you, Mary, whatever be your changes
of fortune or condition.” I carried her hand to
my lips, flung it from me, and, gathering up the
bridle of my steed, was soon upon my way. Was
it in truth a sob which I heard behind me? I stole
a glance backward—and she sat upon the log with
her face buried in her hands.

CHAPTER VI.

Why talk we not together hand in hand
And tell our griefs in more familiar terms?
But thou art gone, and leav'st me here alone,
To dull the air with my discoursive moan.”
Marlowe and T. Nash.

[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]

“She sat upon the long with her face buried in her
hands.” More than once as I rode away that evening
did I repeat these words to myself. Wherefore
should she exhibit such emotion? Wherefore should
she sob at my departure? Did she not love? Was
she not betrothed to another? Of this I had no doubt,
and what could I think? Was not such emotion natural
enough? Had we not been born as it were together?
Had we not been together from the earliest
dawn of infancy—at that period when children, like
clustering buds upon a rose bush in early spring, rejoice
to intertwine, as if the rude hands of the world
were never to pluck them asunder, and place them
in different and foreign bosoms? Was it not natural
enough that she should show some sign of sorrow at
thus parting with a youthful playmate? I laboured to
persuade myself that this was all; yet the more I reflected
upon the matter, the more mysterious and

[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]

contradictory did it seem. If it were that her emotion
were natural to her as a long familiar playmate,
why had she been so estranged from me, for so many
previous and painful months? Why did she look
always so grave, in later days, whenever we met?
Why so reserved? So different from the confiding
girl who had played with me from infancy? Why
so slow to meet me as formerly? Why so unwilling
to wander with me as before among the secluded
paths which our own feet had beaten into confirmed
tracks? Why, above all, so much more intimate and
free with John Hurdis, who had never been her
companion in childhood, and who, it was the most
surprising thing in the world to me, should be her
companion now? He coarse, listless, unsympathising—
in his taste low, in his deportment unattractive,
in his conversation, tedious and prosing, in his propensities,
if not positively vicious, at least far from
virtuous or good!

What had they in common together? How could
they mingle? How unite? By what arts had he won
her to his wishes? By what baser arts had he estranged
her from mine? Of some of these, indeed, I
had heard. More than once already had I exposed
him. His hints and equivokes had, as I thought,
recoiled only upon his own head; and yet the ties
grew and increased between them, even, as the walls
and barriers continued to rise and thicken between
herself and me. I degraded him, but disdained any
longer to strive for her. The busy neighbourhood

[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]

soon informed me how idle would be such struggles.
They declared her betrothed to John Hurdis, and
did not stop at this. They went farther and proclaimed
her to have been bought by his money to
see in him those qualities and that superior worth,
which, but for this, she had been slow to discover.
Should I struggle against his good fortune? Should
I desire to win one whose market value was so readily
understood by all. I turned from the contest in
disdain; and wondering at her baseness as a matter
no less surprising than humiliating, I strove to fling
her from my thoughts as I would the tainted and
offensive weed, which had been, at one time, a pure
and chosen flower.

I had not been successful. I could not fling her
from my thoughts. Night and day she was before
me; at all hours, whatever were my pursuits, my
desires, my associates. Her image made the picture
in the scene; her intelligence, her mind, the grace of
her sentiments, the compass and the truth of her
thoughts were forced upon me for contemplation, by
the obtrusive memory, in disparagement of those to
which I listened. How perfect had she ever before
seemed to me in her thoughts and sentiments! How
strange that one so correct in her standards of opinion,
should not have strength enough to be the thing
which she approved! This is the most mortifying
conviction of humanity. We build the temple, but the
god does not inhabit it, though we solicit him with
incense, and bring our best offerings to his altars.

[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]

I reached the dwelling of William Carrington ere
I felt that my journey was begun. The velocity of
my thoughts had made me unconscious of that of my
motion—nay, had prompted me to increase it beyond
my ordinary habit. When I alighted, my horse
was covered with foam.

“You have ridden hard,” said Carrington.

“No; I think not. I but came from 'Squire Easterby's.”

He said no more then, for the family was around;
but that night, when we retired, our conversation
was long, upon various subjects, and, in the course
of it, I told him all the particulars of my rencontre
with John Hurdis, and of my parting interview
with Mary Easterby. He listened with much attention
and then spoke abruptly.

“You do that girl wrong, Richard. You are
quite too harsh to her at times. I have heard and
seen you. Your jealousy prompts you to language
which is ungenerous to say the least; and which you
have no right to use. You never told her that you
loved her—never asked her to love you—what reason
can you have to complain, either that she is beloved
by, or that she loves another?”

“None!—I do not complain.”

“You do. Your actions, your looks, your language,
are all full of complaint. The show of dissatisfaction—
of discontent—is complaint, and that
too of the least manly description. It savours too
much of the sullenness of a whipt school boy or one

[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]

denied his holiday, to be manly. Let us have no
more of it, Richard.”

“You speak plainly enough.”

“I do, and you should thank me for it. I were
no friend if I did not. Do not be angry, Richard,
that I do so. I have your good at heart, and I think
you have been fighting seriously against it. You
think too bitterly of your brother to do him justice.”

“Speak nothing of him, William.”

“I will not say much, for you know I like him
quite as little as yourself. Still I do not hate him
as you do, and cannot agree with you, therefore, as
to the propriety of your course towards him. You
cannot fight him as you would a stranger, and have
done with it.”

“I could—you mistake—I feel that I could fight
him with even less reluctance than I would a stranger.”

“I grant you that your hostility is bitter enough
for it, but you have too much sense of propriety left
to indulge it. You cannot, and should not, were I
by, even if you were yourself willing. Have done
with him then; and as you have already separated,
let your thoughts maintain as rigid a distance from
him as your person.”

“And leave him the field to himself?”

“Have you not already done so? Have you not
pronounced the field unworthy fighting for! Pshaw!
man, this is but wasting valour.”

[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]

I listened gloomily, and in utter silence, as he
went on thus:

“But,” he continued, “I am not so sure either,
that the field is in his possession, or that it is so unworthy.
I tell you, you do Mary Easterby injustice.
I do not think that she loves your brother. I doubt
that she even likes him. I see no proof of it.”

“Aye, but there is proof enough. You see not
because your eyes are elsewhere. But say no
more, William; let us drop this hateful subject.”

“I am afraid your jealous spirit makes it hateful,
Richard. That girl, Mary, is a treasure too valuable
to be given up so lightly. By my soul, were I
not otherwise bound, I should struggle for her
myself.”

“You!”

“Yea! Even I—William Carrington. Nay, look
not so grim and gluttonous. You forget that you
renounce the spoil, and that I am sworn elsewhere.
I would that all others were as little in your path
as I am.”

“And I care not how many crowd the path when
I am out of it,” was my sullen answer.

“Ah, Richard, you were born to muddy the
spring you drink from. You will pay for this perversity
in your nature. Be more hopeful—more
confiding, man. Think better of your own nature,
and of the nature of those around you. It is the
best policy. To look for rascals, is to find rascals,

[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]

and to believe in wrong, is not only to suffer, but
to do wrong. For my part, I would rather be deceived
than doubt; rather lose, than perpetually fear
loss; rather be robbed than suspect every one I
meet of roguery.”

“I answer you through my experience, William,
when I tell you that you will pay dearly for your
philanthropy. Your faith will be rewarded by
faithlessness.”

“Stay!” he cried; “no more. You would not
impute insincerity to Catharine Walker.”

“No; surely not.”

“Then let the world be false, and play double
with me as it pleases. She cannot—I know her,
Dick—I know her. She will perish for me as freely,
I am sure, as I would for her. And shall I doubt,
when she is true. Would to heaven, Richard, you
would believe but half so confidently in Mary.”

“And what use in that?”

“Why, then, my life on it, she will believe in
you. I somehow suspect that you are all wrong in
that girl. I doubt that these old women, who have
no business but their neighbours' to attend to, and for
whose benefit a charitable society should be formed
for knocking them all in the head, have been coining
and contriving as usual to the injury of the poor
girl, not to speak of your injury. What the devil
can she see in that two hundred pounder, John Hurdis,
to fall in love with.”

[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]

“His money.”

“No, by G—d, Richard, I'll not believe it. The
girl is too humble in her wants, and too content in
her poverty, and too gentle in her disposition, and
too sincere in her nature, to be a thing of barter. If
she is engaged to John Hurdis, it is a d—d bad
taste to be sure, of which I should not have suspected
her; but it is not money.”

“There is no disputing tastes,” I rejoined bitterly;
“let us sleep now.”

“Ah, Richard, you have an ugly sore on your
wrist, which you too much love to chafe. You toil
for your own torture, man. You labour for your
own defeat. I would you could rid yourself of this
self-troubling nature. It will madden you, yet.”

“If it is my nature, William,” I responded gloomily;
“I must even make the most of the evil, and
do as well with it as I can.”

“Do nothing with it—have done with it. Believe
better of yourself and others. Think better of Mary
Easterby and your brother.”

“I cannot. You ask me to think better of them,
yet name them together. To have been successful
in your wish, you should have put them as far asunder
as the poles. But say no more to me now, William.
I am already fevered, and can hear nothing,
or heed nothing that I hear. I must sleep now.”

“Well, as you will. But, look out and tell me

[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]

what sort of night we have. I would be sure of a
pleasant day to-morrow.”

He was already in his bed, and I looked out as he
desired. The stars were few and gave a faint light.
The winds were rising, and a murmur, almost a
moan, came from the black forests in the distance.
It seemed like the voice of a spirit, and it came to
me as if in warning. I turned to my companion, but
he was already asleep. I could not then sleep, desire
it as I might. I envied him—not his happiness,
but what I then misdeemed his insensibility. I
confounded the quiet mind, at peace with all the
world and in itself secure, with the callous and unfeeling
nature. Sleep is only the boon of the mind
conscious of its own rectitude, and having no jealous
doubts of that of its fellows. I had no such consciousness
and could not sleep. I resumed my seat beside
the window, and long that night did I watch the
scene—lovely beyond comparison—before, in utter
exhaustion, I laid my head upon the pillow. The
night in the forests of Alabama was never more
beautiful than then. There was no speck in the
heavens; not even the illuminated shadow of a cloud;
and the murmur of the wind swelling in gusts from
the close containing woods, was a music, rather than
a mere murmur. In the vexed condition of my
mood, the hurricane had been more soothing to my
rest, and more grateful to my senses.

CHAPTER VII.

My father blessed me fervently
But did not much complain,
Yet sorely will my mother sigh,
Till I come home again.
Byron.

[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]

At the dawn of day I rose, and without waiting
breakfast, hurried off to the habitation of my father.
I should have slept at home the last night, but that
I could not, under my excited state of feeling, have
trusted myself to meet John Hurdis. For that
matter, however, I might have safely ventured; for
he, probably with a like caution, had also slept from
home. It was arranged between William Carrington
and myself that we were to meet at mid-day,
at a spot upon the road equidistant from both plantations,
and then proceed together. The time between
was devoted to our respective partings; he with
Catharine Walker, and I with my father and mother.
Could it have been avoided with propriety, I
should have preferred to leave this duty undone.
I wished to spare my old mother any unnecessary
pain. Besides, to look her in the face, and behold her

[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]

grief at the time when I meditated to make our separation
a final one, would, I well knew, be a trial
of my own strength, to which I was by no means
willing to subject it. My sense of duty forbade its
evasion, however, and I prepared for it, with as
much manful resolve as I could muster.

My mother's reproaches were less painful to me
than the cold and sullen forbearance of my father.
Since I had resolved to work for him no longer, he
did not seem to care very greatly where I slept.
No that he was indifferent; but his annoyance at
my resolution to leave him, made him less heedful
of my other and minor movements; so he said
nothing to me on my return. Not so my mother.

“The last night, Richard, and to sleep from home!
Ah, my son, you do not think but it may be indeed
the very last night. You know not what may happen,
while you are absent. I may be in my grave
before you return.”

I was affected; her tears always affected me; and
her reproaches were always softened by her tears.
From childhood she had given me to see that she
sorrowed even when she punished me; that she
shared in the pain she felt it her duty to inflict.
How many thousand better sons would there be in
the world, if their parents punished and rewarded
from principle, and never from passion or caprice.
I am sure, with a temperament, reckless and

[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]

impatient like mine, I should have grown up to be a
demon, had not my mother been to me a saint. I
sought to mollify her.

“I did wish to come, mother—I feel the truth of
all you say—but there was a circumstance—I had a
reason for staying away last night.”

“Ay, to be sure,” said my father sullenly; “it
would not be Richard Hurdis if he had not a reason
for doing what he pleased. And pray what was
this good and sufficient reason, Richard?”

“Excuse me, sir, I would rather not mention it.”

“Indeed!” was the response. “You are too
modest by half, Richard. It is something strange
that you should at any time distrust the force of
your own arguments.”

I replied to the sarcasm calmly.

“I do not now, sir—I only do not care to give
unnecessary particulars; and I'm sure that my mother
will excuse them. I trust that she will believe
what I have already said, and not require me to declare
what I would be glad to withhold.”

“Surely, my son,” said the old lady, and my father
remained silent. A painful interval ensued, in
which no one spoke, though all were busily engaged
in thought. My father broke the silence by asking
a question which my mother had not dared to ask.

“And at what hour do you go, Richard?”

“By twelve, sir; my horse is at feed now, and,

[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

I having nothing but my saddle bags to see to. You
have the biscuit ready, mother, and the venison?”

“Yes, my son—I have put up some cheese also,
which you will not find in the way. Your shirts are
all done up and on the bed.”

It required some effort on my mother's part to tell
me this. I thanked her, and my father proceeded.

“You will want your money, Richard, and I will
get it for you at once. If you desire more than I
owe you, say so. I can let you have it.”

“I thank you, sir, but I shall not need it; my own
money will be quite enough.”

He had made the proffer coldly—I replied proudly;
and he moved away with a due increase of sullenness.
The quick instinct of my mother, when
my father had gone, informed her of the matter
which I had been desirous to withhold.

“You have seen your brother, Richard?”

“How know you?”

“Ask not a mother how she knows the secret of
a son's nature, and how she can read those passions
which she has been unable to control. You have
seen your brother, Richard—you have quarrelled
with him.”

I looked down, and my cheeks burned as with
fire. She came nigh to me and took my hand.

“Richard, you are about to leave us; why can you
not forgive him? Forget your wrongs, if indeed you

[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]

have had any at his hands, and let me no longer have
the sorrow of knowing that the children, who have
been suckled at the same breasts, part, and perhaps
for ever, as enemies.”

“Better, mother, that they should part as enemies,
than live together as such. Your maternal instinct
divines not all, mother—it falls short of the truth.
Hear me speak, and have your answer. I not only
quarrelled with John Hurdis, yesterday; but I laid
violent hands upon him.”

“You did not, you could not.”

“I must speak the truth, mother—I did.”

“And struck him?”

“No! but would have done so, had we not been
interrupted.”

“Thank God, for that. It is well for you—Richard.
I should have cursed you with bitterness, had
you struck your brother with clenched hands.”

“I came nigh it, mother. He shook his whip
over my head, and I dragged him from his horse. I
would at that moment have trampled him under my
feet, but that the voice of Mary Easterby arrested
me. She came between us. She alone—I confess
it, mother—she alone kept me from greater violence.”

“Heaven bless her! Heaven bless the chance that
brought her there. Oh, Richard Hurdis! My son,
my son. Why will you not bear more patiently

[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]

with John? Why will you not labour for my sake,
Richard; if not for his and your own?”

She trembled, as if palsied, while I related to her
the adventure of the preceding day; and though
schooled, as women in the new countries of the south
and west are very apt to be, against those emotions
which overcome the keener sensibilities of the sex
in very refined communities, yet I had never seen
her exhibit so much mental suffering before. She
tottered to a chair, at the conclusion of her speech,
refusing my offer to assist her, and burying her face
in her hands, wept without restraint, until suddenly
aroused to consciousness by the approaching foot-steps
of my father. He was a stern man and gave
little heed, and no sympathy to such emotions for
any cause. He would have been more ready to rebuke
than to relieve them; and that feeling of shame
which forbids us to show our sorrows to the unsympathising,
made her hasten to clear up her countenance,
and remove the traces of her suffering, as he
re-entered the apartment.

“Well, Richard,” he said, throwing down a handkerchief
of silver dollars, a more profuse collection
than is readily to be met with, in the same region
now, “here is your money; half in specie, half in
paper. It is all your own; count it for yourself, and
tell me if it's right.”

[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]

“I'm satisfied if you have counted it, sir; there's
no use in counting it again.”

“That's as you think proper, my son; yet I shall
be better satisfied if you will count it.”

I did so to please him, declared myself content
and put the money aside. This done, I proceeded
to put up my clothes, and get myself in readiness.
Such matters took but little time, however; the last
words form the chief and most serious business in
every departure. The fewer of them the better.

So my father thought. His farewell and benedic-
tion were equally and almost mortifyingly brief.

“Well, Richard, since it must be so—if you will
be obstinate—if you will go from where your bread
has been so long buttered, why God send you to a
land where you won't feel the want of those you
leave. I trust, however, to see you return before
long, and go back to the old business.”

“Return I may, father, but not to the old busi-
ness,” was my prompt reply; “I have had enough
of that. If I am able to be nothing better than an
overseer, and to look after the slaves of others, the
sooner I am nothing, the better.”

“You speak bravely now, boy,” said my father
now, “but the best bird that ever crowed in the
morning has had his tail feathers plucked before
evening. Look to yourself, my son; be prudent—
keep a bright eye about you as you travel, and learn

[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]

from me what your own fortunes have not taught
you yet, but what they may soon enough teach you
unless you take counsel from experience, that there
is no chicken so scant of flesh, for which there is
not some half starved hawk to whom his lean legs
yield good picking. You have not much money,
but enough to lose, and quite enough for a sharper
to win. Take care of it. Should you find it easily
lost, come back, I say, and you can always find employment
on the old terms.”

“I doubt it not, father—I doubt not to find the
same terms any where on my route from Marengo
to Yalo-busha. There is no lack of employment
when the pay is moderate, and the work plenty.”

“I can get hundreds who will take your place,
Richard, for the same price,” said my father hastily,
and with no little disquiet.

“And do what I have done, sir?”

He did not answer the question, but walked to
and fro for several moments in silence, while I
spoke with my mother.

“And what about your own negroes, Richard?”
he again abruptly addressed me.

“Why, sir, you must work them as usual if you
have no objections. I shall have no need of them
for the present.”

“Yes, but you may want them when the next
year's crop is to be put into the ground.”

[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]

“Hardly, sir—but if I should, I will then charge
you nothing for their time. It shall be my loss.”

“No, that it shall not be, Richard; you shall have
what is right since you leave it altogether to me.
And now, good bye. I'll leave you with your mother
and go into the woods; you can always talk
more freely with her, than you are willing to talk
with me; I don't know why, unless it is that I have
some d—d surly ways about me. Tell her if you
want any thing from me, or if I can do any thing
for you, don't spare your speech—let her know it,
and if it's to be done at all, I'll do it. I won't palaver
with you about my love and all that soft stuff,
but I do love you, Richard, as a man and no sneak.
Good bye, boy—good bye and take care of yourself.”

Thus, after his own rough fashion, my father
spoke his parting. A fountain of good feeling
was warm and playing at heart, though it seemed
stolid and impenetrable as the rocky surface that
shut it in. He was cold, and phlegmatic in his
manner only. One hurried embrace was taken, and
seizing his staff, he disappeared in another instant
from my sight. The soul of my mother seemed to
expand at his departure. His presence restrained
her; and with more than woman's strength, she kept
down, while under the inspection of his stern and

[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]

piercing eye, all of the warmth and tenderness of
woman—of a mother.

“My son, my son, you leave me, you leave me
doubly unhappy—unhappy as you leave me and
perhaps forever—unhappy as you leave me with a
deadly enmity raging in your breast against your
brother. Could you forget this enmity—could you
forgive him before you go, I should be half reconciled
to your departure. I could bear to look for
you daily and to find you not—to call for you hourly,
and to have no answer—to dream of your coming,
and wake only to desire to dream again. Can
you not forgive him, Richard? Tell me that you
will. I pray you, my son, to grant me this, as a
gift and a blessing to myself. I will pray heaven
for all gifts upon you in return. Think, my son,
should death come among us—should one of us be
taken during the time you think to be gone—how
dreadful to think of the final separation without
peace being made between us. Let there be peace,
my son. Dismiss your enmity to John. You know
not that he has wronged you—you know not that he
has used any improper arts with Mary—but if he
has, my son—admitting that he has, still I pray you
to forgive him. Wherefore should you not forgive
him? Of what use to cherish anger? You cannot
contend with him in violence; you must not, you
dare not, as you value a mother's blessing, as you

[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]

dread a mother's curse. Such violence would not
avail to do you justice; it could not give you what
you have lost. To maintain wrath is to maintain a
curse that will devour all your substance and lastly
devour yourself. Bless your poor mother, Richard,
and take her blessing in return. Grant her prayer,
and all her prayers will go along with you for
ever.”

“Mother, bless me, for I do forgive him.”

Such were my spontaneous words. They came
from my uninstructed, untutored impulse, and at the
moment when I uttered them, I believed fervently
that they came from the bottom of my heart. I
fear that I deceived myself. I felt afterwards, as if
I had not forgiven, and could not forgive him. But
when I spoke, I thought I had, and could not have
spoken otherwise. Her own voluminous and passionate
appeal, had overcome me, and her impulse
bore mine along with it. I may have deceived her,
but I, as certainly, deceived myself. Be it so. The
error was a pious one, and made her happy; as happy,
at least, as, at that moment, she could well be.

I need not dwell upon our parting. It was one
of mixed pain and pleasure. It grieved me to see
how much she suffered, yet it gratified my pride to
find how greatly I was beloved. Once taught how
delicious was the one feeling of pleasure which such
a trial brought with it, I feel—I fear—that I could

[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]

freely have inflicted the pain a second time, if sure
to enjoy the pleasure. Such is our selfishness. Our
vanity still subdues our sufferings, and our pride derives
its most grateful aliment from that which is, or
should be, our grief.

In an hour I was on the road with my companion,
and far out of hearing of my mother's voice.
And yet—I heard it.

CHAPTER VIII.

But with the word, the time will bring on summer,
When briars shall have leaves as well as thorns,
And be as sweet as sharp. We must away;
Our wagon is prepared, and time revives us.
Shakspeare.

[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]

I heard it then—in long days after, when she
was speechless, I heard it—I still hear it—I shall
never lose its lingering memories. They cling to me
with a mother's love; the purest, the least selfish of
all human affections. The love of woman is a
wondrous thing, but the love of a mother is yet
more wonderful. What is there like it in nature?
What tie is there so close, so warm, so uncalculating
in its compliances, so unmeasured in its sacrifices, so
enduring in its tenacious tenderness? It may accompany
the feeble intellect, the coarse form, the
equivocal virtue; but, in itself, it is neither feeble,
nor coarse, nor equivocal. It refines vulgarity, it
softens violence, it qualifies and chastens, even when
it may not redeem, all other vices. I am convinced
that, of all human affections, it is endowed with the
greatest longevity; it is the most hardy, if not the

[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]

most acute in its vitality. Talk of the love of young
people for one another; it is not to be spoken of in
the same breath; nothing can be more inferior.
Such love is of the earth, earthy—a passion born of
tumults, wild and fearful as the storm, and yet
more capricious. An idol of clay—a miserable
pottery, the work, which in a fit of phrensied devotion
we make with our own hands, and in another,
and not more mad fit of brutality, we trample to
pieces with our feet. Appetite is the fiend that degrades
every passion, and the flame, of which it is
a part, must always end in smoke and ashes.

Thus I mused when I encountered my friend and
companion. He was in fine spirits; overjoyed with
the novelty of the situation in which he found himself.
For the first time in his life, he was a traveller,
and his nature was one of those that correspond
with the generous season, and keep happy in spite
of the cloudy. His soul began to expand with the
momently increasing consciousness of its freedom;
and when he described to me the sweet hour which
had just terminated, and which he had employed for
his parting with Catharine Walker, he absolutely
shouted. His separation from his former
home, his relatives, and the woman whom he loved,
was very different from mine; and his detail of his
own feelings, and his joys and hopes, only added
bitterness to mine. Going and coming, the world

[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]

smiled upon him. Backwards and forwards, an inviting
prospect met his eyes. He saw no sun go
down in night. He was conscious of no evening
not hallowed by a moon. Happy world, where the
blessed and blessing heart moves the otherwise disobedient
and froward elements as it pleases, banishes
the clouds, suspends the storm, and lighting up
the sky without, from the heaven within, casts forever
more upon it, the smile of a satisfied and indulgent
Deity. The disappointed demon in my
soul actually chafed to hear the self gratulations of
the delighted God in his.

And yet what had been my reflections but a moment
before? To what conclusion had I come? In
what—supposing me to have been right in that conclusion—
in what respect was his fortune better than
mine? In what respect was it half so good? The love
of the sexes I had proclaimed worthless and vulnerable;
that of a mother beyond all price. I had a mother,
a fond, unselfish mother, and Carrington was an
orphan. He had only that love, which I professed
to think so valueless. But did I seriously think so?
What an absurdity. The love of the young for each
other is a property of the coming time, and it is the
coming time for which the young must live. That
of a mother is a love of the past, or, at the best, of
the present only. It cannot, in the ordinary term
of human allotment, last us while we live. It is not

[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]

meant that it should, and the Providence that beneficently
cares for us always, even when we are least
careful of ourself, has wisely prompted us to seek
and desire that love which may. It was an instinct
that made me envy my companion, in spite of my
own philosophy. I would have given up the love
of a thousand mothers, to be secure of that of Mary
Easterby.

I strove to banish thought, by referring to the
most ordinary matters of conversation;matters,indeed,
about which I did not care a straw. In this way, I
strove, not only to dispel my own topics of grief, but
to silence those of triumph in my companion. What
did I care to hear of Catharine Walker, and how she
loved him, and how she cheered him, with a manly
spirit, on a journey from which other and perhaps
finer damsels would have sought to discourage their
lovers; and how she bade him return as soon as he
had bought the lands on which they were to settle
all their future lives? This was talk no less provoking
than unnecessary; and it was not without some
difficulty that I could divert him from it. And even
then my success was only partial. He was forever
getting back to it again.

“And what route are we to take, William?” I
demanded, when we had reached a point of fork in
the road. “You spoke yesterday of going up by
way of Tuscaloosa. But if you can do without

[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]

taking that route, it will be the better; it is forty
miles out of your road to Columbus, and unless you
have some business there, I see no reason to go that
way. The town is new, and has nothing worth
seeing in it.”

“It is not that I go for, Richard. I have some
money owing me in that neighbourhood. There is
one Matthew Webber, who lives a few miles on the
road from Tuscaloosa to Columbus, who owes me a
hundred and thirty dollars for a mule I sold him
last spring was a year. I have his note. The
money was due five months ago, and it needs looking
after. I don't know much of Webber, and think
very little of him. The sooner I get the money
out of his hands, the better, and the better chance then
of his paying me. I'm afraid if he stands off much
longer, he'll stand off for ever, and I may then
whistle for my money.”

“You are wise, and forty miles is no great difference
to those who have good horses. So speed on
to the right. It's a rascally road let me tell you. I
have ridden it before.”

“I know nothing about it; but thank the stars, I
care as little. When a man's heart is in the right
place, sound and satisfied, it matters not much what
is the condition of the road he travels. One bright
smile, one press of the hand from Kate, makes all
smooth, however rough before.”

[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]

I struck the spurs into my horse's flanks impatiently.
He saw the movement, and, possibly, the
expression of my countenance, and laughed aloud.

“Ah, Dick, you take things to heart too seriously.
What if you are unfortunate, man? You are not the
first. You will not be the last. You are in a good
and goodly company. Console yourself, man, by
taking it for granted that Mary has been less wise
than you thought her, and that you have made a more
fortunate escape than you can well appreciate at
present.”

“Pshaw, I think not of it,” was my peevish reply.
“Let us talk of other matters.”

“Agreed! But what other matters to talk of that
shall please you, Richard, is beyond my knowledge
now. My happiness, at this moment, will be sure
to enter into every thing I say; as I certainly can
think of no more agreeable subject. I shall speak
of Kate, and that will remind you of Mary, however
different may be their respective treatment of us. If
I talk of the land I am looking for, and resolve to
settle on, you will begin to brood over the solitary
life in store for you, unless, as I think very likely,
it will not be long before you console yourself with
some Mississippi maiden, who will save you the
trouble of looking for lands, and the cost of paying
for them, by bringing you a comfortable portion.”

“I am not mercenary, William,” was my answer,

[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]

somewhat more temperately spoken than usual. I
had discovered the weakness of which I had been
guilty, and at once resolved that though I was not
successful, I would not be surly. Indeed a playful
commentary which Carrington uttered about my
savage demeanor, brought me back to my senses. It
was in reply to some uncivil sarcasm of mine.

“Hush, man, hush! Because you have been buffeted,
you need not be a bear. Let the blows profit
you as they do a beefsteak, and though I would not
have your tenderness increased by the process, heaven
keep you from any increase of toughness. Forgive
me, my dear fellow, for being so happy. I
know well enough that to the miserable, the good
humour of one's neighbours is sheer impertinence.
But I am more than a neighbour to you, Dick Hurdis.
I am a friend; and you must forgive mine.”

“Ay, that I do, William,” I answered frankly,
and taking his hand while I spoke. “I will not
only forgive, but tolerate your happiness. You shall
see that I will; and to prove it to you, I beg that you
will talk on, and only talk of that. What were
Kate's last words!”

“Come back soon.”

“And she smiled when she said them?”

“Ay; that was the strangest thing of all, Richard.
She did smile when we parted, and neither then nor

[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]

at any time since I have known her, have I ever
seen her shed a tear. I almost bleated like a calf.”

“She is a strong woman, high-spirited, firm and
full of character. She does not feel the less for not
showing her feelings. Still water runs deep.”

“A suspicious proverb, Richard. One that has
too many meanings to be complimentary. Nevertheless,
you are quite right. Kate is a still girl—
thinks more than she says, feels more than she will
acknowledge; and loves the more earnestly that
she does not proclaim it from the pine tops. Your
professing women, like your professing men, are all
puff and plaster. They know their own deficiencies,
and in the inventory which they make of their
virtues, take good care to set them down as the very
chattels in possession. Like church builders and
church goers, they seek to make up, for the substantials
which they have not, by the shows and symbols
which belong to them; and, truth to say, such is
the universality of this habit, that, now-a-days, no
one looks farther than the surplice, and the colour
of the cloth. Forms are virtues, and names things.
You remember the German story, where the devil
bought the man's shadow in preference to his soul.
Heaven help mankind were the devil disposed to
pursue his trade. What universal bankruptcy among
men would follow the loss of their shadows. How

[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]

the church would groan; the pillars crumble and fall,
the surplice and the black coat shrivel and stink.
What a loss would there be of demure looks and
saintly faces—of groaning and psalm singing tradesmen—
men who seek to make a brotherhood and sisterhood
in order to carry their calicoes to a good
market. Well, thank heaven, the country to which
we are now bending our steps, Richard, is not yet
overrun by these saintly hypocrites. Time will
come, I doubt not, when we shall have them where
the Choctaws now hunt and pow-wow, making long
prayers, and longer sermons, and concluding as usual,
with a collection.”

“It may be that the country is quite as full of
rascals, William, though it may lack hypocrites.
We have bold villains in place of cunning ones, and
whether we fare better or worse than the city in
having them, is a question not easily decided. We
shall have need of all our caution in our travelling.
I have no fear of the Indians while they are sober;
and it will not be hard to avoid them when they are
drunk; but we have heard too many stories of outlaws
and robbery on the borders of the nation and
within it, where the villains were not savages, to
render necessary any particular counsel to either of
us now.”

“I don't believe the half of what I hear of these
squatters. No doubt, they are a rough enough set

[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]

of people; but what of that; let them but give us
fair play, and man to man, I think, we need not
fear them. I know that you can fling a stout fellow
with a single flirt, and I have a bit of muscle here
that has not often met its match. I fear not
your bold boys; let them come. It is your city
sneaks, Richard, that I don't like; your saintly demure,
sly rogues, that pray for you at the suppertable,
and pick your pocket when you sleep.”

Carrington extended his brawny and well shaped
arm as he spoke, giving it a glance of unconcealed
admiration. He did not overrate his own powers;
but, in speaking of rogues, and referring to their
practices, it was no part of my notion that they
would ever give us fair play. I told him that, and
by a natural transition, passed to another topic of no
little importance on the subject.

“I don't fear any thing from open violence, William,”
was my reply. “You know enough of me
for that; but men who aim to rob, will always prefer
to prosecute their schemes by art rather than
boldness. Valour does not often enter into the composition
of a rogue. Now I have enough money
about me to tempt a rascal, and more than I am
willing to surrender to one. You have probably
brought a large sum with you also.”

“All I have, three thousand dollars, more or less
in United States Bank bills, some few Alabama,

[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]

and Georgia, all passable at the land office,” was his
reply.

“The greater need of caution. There are land
pirates on the Black Warrior, and Alabama, who are
said to be worse by far than the pirates of the
Gulf. Look to it, William, and keep your money
out of sight. The more poor your pretensions, the
more certain your safety. Show no more money
than you wish to spend.”

“I will not, Richard; and yet I should have no
objection to put my money down upon the butt end
of a log, and take a hug with any pirate of them all
who should have it.”

“More brave than wise,” was my reply. “But
let us have no more of this; there are travellers before
and behind us. Let our circumspection begin
from this moment. We have both need of it,
being at greater risk, as we bring, like a terrapin,
our homes and all that is in them, on our backs.
You have too much money about you. In that,
William, you were any thing but wise. I wish
I had counselled you. You could have entered
the lands with one fourth of it. But it is too late
now to repent. You must be watchful only. I
am not at so great a risk as you, but I have quite
enough to tempt a Red river gambler to his own ruin
and mine.”

“I shall heed you,” replied my companion,

[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]

buttoning his coat, and turning the butt of a pistol in
his bosom, making it more convenient to his grasp.
“But who are these travellers? Settlers from North
Carolina, I reckon. Poor devils from Tar river as
usual, going they know not where, to get, they know
not what.”

“They cannot go to a poorer region, nor fare
much worse than they have done, if your guess be
right.”

“I'll lay a picayune upon it. They look sleepy
and poor enough to have lived at Tar river a thousand
years. But, we shall see.”

CHAPTER IX.

An aged man whose head some seventy years
Had snow'd on freely, led the caravan;—
His sons and sons' sons, and their families,
Tall youths and sunny maidens—a glad groupe
That glow'd in generous blood, and had no care,
And little thought of the future, follow'd him:—
Some perch'd on gallant steeds—others, more slow,
The infants and the matrons of the flock,
In coach and jersey—but all moving on
To the new land of promise, full of dreams
Of western riches, Mississippi mad!
Southern Literary Journal.

[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]

By this time we had overtaken the cavalcade, and
sure enough, it turned out as my companion had
conjectured. The wanderers were from one of the
poorest parts of North Carolina, bent to better their
condition in the western valleys, “full of dreams,”
and as one of our southern poets, whom I quote
above, energetically expresses it, “Mississippi mad.”
They consisted of several families, three or four in
number, all from the same neighbourhood, who
were thus making a colonising expedition of it; and
as they had all along formed a little world to themselves
before, now resolving with a spirit not less

[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]

wise than amiable, to preserve the same social and
domestic relations in the new regions to which they
bent their steps. They thus carry with them the
morals and the manners to which they have been
accustomed, and find a natural home accordingly
wherever they go. But even this arrangement does
not supply their loss, and the social moralist may
well apprehend the deterioration of the graces of
society in every desertion by a people of their ancient
homes. Though men may lose nothing of
their fecundity by wandering, and in emigration to
the west from a sterile region like North Carolina,
must, most commonly, gain in their worldly goods,
their losses are yet incomputable. The delicacies of
society are most usually thrust from the sight of the
pioneers; the nicer harmonies of the moral world
become impaired; the sweeter cords of affection are
undone or rudely snapped asunder, and a rude indifference
to the claims of one's fellow, must follow
every breaking up of the old and stationary abodes.
The wandering habits of our people are the great
obstacles to their perfect civilisation. These habits
are encouraged by the cheapness of our public lands,
and their constant exposure for sale. The morals
not less than the manners of our people are diseased
by the license of the wilderness; and the remoteness
of the white settler from his former associates
approximate him to the savage feebleness of the

[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]

Indian, who has been subjugated and expelled simply
because of his inferior morality.

We joined the wayfarers, and accommodating
our pace to the slow and weary movement of their
cavalcade, kept with them long enough to answer
and to ask an hundred questions. They were a
simple and hardy people, looking poor, but proud;
and though evidently neither enterprising nor adventurous,
yet, once abroad and in the tempest, sufficiently
strong and bold to endure and to defy its
buffetings. There was a venerable grandfather of
the flock, one of the finest heads I ever looked upon,
who mingled the smiling elasticity of youth, with
the garrulity of age. He spoke as sanguinely of his
future prospects in Mississippi, as if he were only
now about to commence the world; and while he
spoke, his eyes danced and twinkled with delight,
and his laugh rang through the forests, with such
fervour and life, that an irrepressible sympathy made
me laugh with him, and forget, for a moment, my
own dull misgivings, and heavy thoughts. His mirth
was infectious, and old and young shared in it, as
most probably they had done from childhood. We
rode off leaving them in a perfect gale of delighted
merriment, having their best wishes, and giving them
ours in return.

To one ignorant of the great West; to the dweller
in the Eastern cities—accustomed only to the dull

[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]

unbroken routine of a life of trade, which is at best
only disturbed by some splendid forgery, or a methodical
and fortunate bankruptcy, which makes the
bankrupt rich at the expense of a cloud of confiding
creditors—the variety, and the vicissitudes of forest
life, form a series of interesting romances. The
very love of change, which is the marked characteristic
of our people in reference to their habitations,
is productive of constant adventures, to hear which,
the ears tingle, and the pulses bound. The mere
movement of the self-expatriated wanderer, with his
motley caravan, large or small, as it winds its way
through the circuitous forests, or along the buffalo
tracks, in the level prairies, is picturesque in the last
degree. And this picturesqueness is not a whit diminished
by the something of melancholy, which a
knowledge of the facts provokes necessarily in the
mind of the observer. Not that they who compose
the cavalcade, whether masters or men, women or
children, are troubled with any of this feeling. On
the contrary, they are usually joyful and light spirited
enough. It is in the thoughts and fancies of the
spectator only that gloom hangs over the path, and
clouds the fortune of the wayfarer. He thinks of the
deserted country which they have left—of the cottage
overgrown with weeds—of the young children carried
into wildernesses, where no Sabbath bell invites
them to a decorous service—where the schoolmaster

[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]

is never seen, or is of little value—and where, if fortune
deigns to smile upon the desires of the cultivator,
the wealth which he gains, descends to a race,
uninformed in any of its duties, and, therefore,
wholly ignorant of its proper uses. Wealth, under
such circumstances, becomes a curse, and the miserable
possessor a victim to the saddest error that
ever tempted the weak mind, and derided it in its
overthrow.

These thoughts force themselves upon you as you
behold the patient industry of the travellers while
they slowly make their way through the tedious
forests. Their equipage, their arrangements, the evidence
of the wear and tear inevitable in a long journey,
and conspicuous in shattered vehicle and bandaged
harness, the string of wagons of all shapes, sorts
and sizes, the mud-bespattered carriages, once finely
varnished, in which the lady and the children ride,
the fiery horse of the son in his teens, the chunky
poney of the no less daring boy, the wriggling Jersey—
the go-cart with the little negro children; and
the noisy whoop of blacks of both sexes, mounted and
afoot, and taking it by turns to ride or walk—however
cheering all these may seem at a first sight, as
a novelty, removing the sense of loneliness which
you may have felt before, cannot but impress upon
you a sentiment of gloom, which will not be lessened
as you watch their progress. Their very

[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]

lightheartedness—so full of hope and confidence as it denotes
them to be, is a subject of doubtful reflection.
Will their hopes be confirmed? Will the dreams so
seducing to them now, be realized? Will they find
the fortune which tempted them to new homes and
new dangers? Will they even be secure of health,
without which wealth is a woful mockery. These
are doubts which may well make the thoughtful
sad, and the doubtful despondent.

And yet the wayfarers themselves feel but little
of this. Their daily progress, and the new objects
of interest that now and then present themselves,
divert them from troublous thoughts. The lands,
the woods, the waters, that attract the eye of the
planter on every side, serve to fix his attention
and keep it in constant exercise and play. They
travel slowly, but twelve or fifteen miles a day, and
by night they encamp upon the road side, hew down
a tree, clear the brush, and build up fires that illuminate
the woods for miles round. Strange, fantastic
forms dance in the mazes which the light makes
among the receding trees; and the boisterous song of
the woodman, and the unmeasured laugh of the negro,
as he rends the bacon with his teeth and fingers,
and hearkens to the ready joke of his companion
the while, convey no faint idea of those German
stories of the wild men, or demons of the Hartz
Mountains or the Black Forests, which we cannot

[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]

but admire, however uncouth, grotesque and disproportioned,
for their felicitous and playful ingenuity.
The watch-dog takes his place under the wagon by
night; sometimes he sleeps within it, and upon the
baggage. The men crouch by the fire, while rude
and temporary couches of bush and blanket are
made for the women and the children of the party.
These arrangements necessarily undergo change according
to circumstances. The summer tempests
compel a more compact disposition of their force;
the sudden storm by night drives the more weak
and timid to the deserted house, or if there be none
in the neighbourhood, to the bottom of the wagon
where they are sheltered by skins or blankets, with
both of which the accustomed traveller is usually
well provided. Before the dawn of day they are
prepared to renew their journey, with such thoughts
as their dreams or their slumbers of the night have
rendered most active in their imaginations. The
old are usually thoughtful when they rise, the
young hopeful. Some few of both are sad, as an
obtrusive memory haunts them with threatening or
imploring shadows. Others again, and not the smaller
number, cheerily set forth singing, the first day
being safely passed—singing some country ditty; and
when they meet with travellers like themselves—
an event, which, in our western woods, may be
likened to a “sail” at sea—cracking with them some

[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]

hearty joke upon their prospects, trim and caparison,
with a glee that would startle the nerves and astound
the measured sensibilities of the quiet occupant of
more civilised abodes. The negroes are particularly
famous for the lightheartedness of their habit while
journeying in this manner. You will sometimes
see ten or twenty of them surrounding a Jersey
wagon, listening to the rude harmony of some
cracked violin in the hands of the driver, and dancing
and singing as they keep time with his instrument,
and pace with his horse. The grin of their
mouths, the white teeth shining through the glossy
black of their faces, is absolutely irresistible; while
he, perched, as I have often seen him, upon the foreseat,
the reins loosely flung over his left arm, in the
hand of which is grasped the soiled and shattered
instrument, the seams and cracks of which are carefully
stopped with tar or pine gum; while the bow
in his right hand, scrapes away unmercifully until it
extorts from the reluctant strings the quantity of
melody necessary to satisfy the amateur who performs,
or the self taught connoisseurs that hearken
to and depend upon him. Sometimes the whites
hover nigh, not less delighted than their slaves, and
partaking, though with a less ostentatious show of
interest, in the pleasure and excitement which such
an exhibition, under such circumstances, is so well
calculated to inspire. Sometimes the grinning

[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]

Momus of the group is something more than a mere
mechanician, and adds the interest of improvvisation
to the doubtful music of his violin. I have heard
one of these performers sing as he went, verses
suited to the scene around him, in very tolerable
rhythm, which were evidently flung off as he went.
The verses were full of a rough humour which is a
characteristic of all inferior people. In these he
satirized his companions without mercy, ridiculed
the country which he left, no less than that to which
he was going, and did not spare his own master,
whom he compared to a squirrel that had lived upon
good corn so long, that he now hungered for bad,
in his desire of change. This was a native figure, by
which his fruitless and unprofitable discontent with
what was good in his previous condition, was clearly
bodied forth. The worthy owner heard the satire,
with which he was not less pleased than the other
hearers, who were so much less interested in it.
Enough of episode. We will now resume our
progress.

CHAPTER X. Ulysses.

Had she no lover there
That wails her absence?'
Troilus.

O, sir, to such as boasting, show their scars,
A mock is due. Will you walk on, my lord?
She was beloved—she loved—she is, and both—
But still, sweet love is food for fortune's tooth.
Troilus and Cressida.

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That night we slept at a miserable hovel, consisting
of but one apartment into which the whole family,
husband, wife, three children and ourselves, were
oddly clustered together. The house was of logs,
and the rain which fell in torrents before we sought
shelter in so foul a stye, came through upon the trundle
bed in which we strove to sleep. Still we had
no occasion for discontent. The poor wretches who
kept the hovel, gave us the best they had. A supper
of bacon, eggs, and hoe-cake, somewhat consoled
us for the doubtful prospect in our eyes; and our
consolation was complete, when, at rising in the
morning, we found that the storm had passed over,
and we were in safety to depart. We had not been so
sure that such would be the case at retiring for the night.
Our host had quite a cut-throat and hang-dog

[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]

expression, and we lay with dirk and pistol at hand,
ready for the last emergencies. Fortunately, we had
no need to use them; and bestowing a couple of dollars
upon the children, for their parents refused all
pay, we sallied forth upon our journey. That night
we arrived at Tuscaloosa, a town now of considerable
size, of increasing prosperity and population, but
at the time of our visit, but little more than opened
in the woods. Here we took lodgings at the only
hotel in the place, and were assigned a room in common
with two other persons. To this arrangement
we objected in vain. The chambers were too few
and the crowd too great to permit a tavernkeeper to
tolerate any unnecessary fastidiousness on the part
of his guests.

Here let me pause in the narrative of my own
progress, and retrace for a brief period my steps.
Let me unfold the doings of others, necessarily connected
with my own, which are proper to be made
known to the reader in this place, though only known
to me long after their occurrence. The parting with
my brother will be remembered. It will be recollected,
that, when Mary Easterby came between us
after I had dragged him from his horse, and prevented
strife, and possibly bloodshed, that he left us together,
and proceeded to the habitation of her parents.
There, with a heart full of bitterness towards
me, and a mind crowded with conflicting and angry

[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]

emotions, he yet contrived effectually to conceal
from observation, both the struggle and the bitterness.
His words were free, easy, well arranged and
good-natured as usual, to all around, and when Mary
Easterby returned to the cottage after I had left her,
she started with surprise to see how effectually
he could hide the traces of that fierce and unnatural
strife in which, but a little while before, he
had been so earnestly engaged. The unlookedfor
ease with which this was done, effectually
startled and pained her. By what mastery of his
emotions had this been done, and what was the nature
of that spirit which could so hermetically seal
its anger, its hate, its human and perhaps holiest passions.
She saw him in a new light. Heretofore she
had regarded him but in one aspect; as a man more
solicitous of his ease than of his reputation, good
natured in the extreme, too slothful to be irritable,
too fond of repose and good living to harbour secret
hostilities. If her opinion on this subject did not
suffer change, it, at least, called for prompt revision
and re-examination under the new light in which
it appeared, and which now served only to dazzle
and confound her. The wonder increased as the
evening advanced. He was even humorous and
witty in his easy volubility; and but for the annoyance
which she naturally felt at what seemed to
her his unnatural flow of spirits, she would have

[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]

been constrained to confess that never before had
he seemed so positively agreeable. All his resources
of reading and observation were brought into requisition,
and he placed them before the company with
so much order, clearness and facility that she was
disposed to give him credit for much more capacity
of nature and acquisition, than she had ever esteemed
him to possess before. He was acting a part, and
had she not been troubled with misgivings to this
effect, he might have acted it successfully. But he
overshot his mark. He had not the art, the result
only of frequent practice, to conceal the art which he
employed. His purpose was to seem amiable—to be
above the passions which governed me; and to possess
the forbearance which could forgive them, even
where he himself had been, in a measure, their victim.
He erred in seeming, not only above their
control, but free from their annoyance. Had he
been slightly grave during the evening, had he
seemed to strive at cheerfulness, and at a forgetfulness
of that which could not but be unpleasant to
any brother, he had been far more successful with
Mary Easterby. Her natural good sense revolted
at the perfect mastery which he possessed over his
emotions. Such a man might well become an Iago,
having a power, such as he certainly exhibited, “to
smile and smile, and be,” if not a villain, one at
least, wholly insensible to those proper sentiments

[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]

and sorrows which belonged to his situation under
existing circumstances. Little did my brother conjecture
the thoughts passing through her mind as he
thus played his part. What would I have given to
know them? How many pangs, doubts and sorrows
would have been spared me? What time had
I not saved, what affections had I not spared and
sheltered! But this is idle.

John Hurdis lingered late that night for an opportunity
which was at length given him. Mary and
himself were left alone together, and he proceeded
to do that which, with the precipitate apprehensions
of a jealous lover, I had long before supposed to
have been over. Either emboldened by the belief
that my rash conduct had sufficiently offended the
maiden, and that he had properly prepared the way
for his declaration, or, possibly, somewhat anxious
lest, in my parting interview, I had poured out desperately
those emotions which I had, with undue
timidity, hopelessly and long locked up, and anxious
to know the result, he resolved to close a pursuit,
which he had hitherto conducted with no less art
than perseverance. John Hurdis was a vain man
and confident of his position; and yet he did not approach
that calm, and high minded girl without
some trepidation. His first overture began with a
reference to the conflict which she had so happily
interrupted.

[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]

“Mary, you have this day witnessed that which I
should willingly have kept forever from your knowledge.
You have seen the strife of brother with brother—
you have beheld a violence, shocking to humanity,
and, if not ending like that of the first murderer,
one which, but for your timely coming, might
have had, for one or both of us, a no less fatal termination.
I hope, Mary, you do me the justice to believe
that I was not to blame in this quarrel.”

He drew his chair nigher to hers, as he thus spoke,
and waited for her answer with no little solicitude.
She hesitated. How could she else than hesitate
when an assenting answer sanctioned the address,
the sincerity of which she seriously questioned?

“I know not what to say, Mr. Hurdis;” was her
reply. “I saw not enough of the strife of which
you speak to pass judgment upon it. I will not pretend
to say who began it; I would rather not speak
on the subject at all.”

“Yet he—Richard Hurdis—he spoke of it to
you?” he replied suspiciously.

“No, I spoke of it to him, rather,” was the fearless
answer. “In the first moment of my surprise
and terror, Mr. Hurdis, I spoke to Richard—to your
brother—about his rashness; and yet, though I
spoke, I know not truly what I said. I was anxious.
I was alarmed.”

[figure description] Page 112.[end figure description]

“Yet you know that it was his rashness, Mary,
that provoked the affair,” he said quickly.

“I know that Richard is rash, constitutionally
rash, John,” she replied gravely. “Yet I will not
pretend to say, nor am I willing to think, that the
provocation came entirely from him.”

“But you saw his violence, only, Mary.”

“Yes; that is true; but did his violence come of
itself, John? Said you nothing? Did you nothing to
provoke him to that violence? Was there no vexing
word? Was there no cause of strife, well known before,
between you? I am sure that there must have
been, John, and I leave it to your candour to say if
there were not. I have known Richard long—we
were children together—and I cannot think, that in
sheer wantonness, and without provocation, he
could do what I this day beheld.”

A faint yet bitter smile passed over his lips as he
replied.

“And do you think, Mary—is it possible that
you, a lady, one brought up to regard violence with
terror, and brutality with disgust—is it possible that
you can justify a resort to blows for a provocation
given in words?”

The cheek of the maiden crimsoned beneath the
tacit reproach; but she replied without shame.

“God forbid! I do not; blows are brutal, and

[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]

violence degrading to humanity in my eyes. But
though I find no sanction for the error of Richard, I
am not so sure that you have your justification in
his violence for every provocation of which you may
have been guilty. Your brother is full of impulse,
quick and irritable. You knew his nature well.
Did you scruple to offend it? Did you not offend
it? I ask you in honour, John Hurdis, since you have
invited me to speak, was there not some previous
cause of strife between you, which provoked, if it
did not justify, your brother in his violence?”

“It may be; nay, there was, Mary. I confess it.
And would you know the cause, Mary? Nay, you
must; it is of that I would speak. Will you hear
me?”

“Freely, John,” was the ready and more indulgent
reply. “If the cause be known, the remedy
cannot be far off, John, if we have the will to apply
it.”

He smiled at what he considered the aptness of
the reply. He drew his chair still nigher to her
own; and his voice fell and trembled as he spoke.

“You are the cause, Mary!”

“I—I, the cause!” she paused and looked at him
with unreserved astonishment.

“Yes; you, and you only, Mary. Richard Hurdis
hates me simply because I love you. Not that
he loves you himself, Mary,” he spoke quickly;

[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]

“no, he would control you for his own pride; he
would rule you and me, and every thing alike. But
that he shall not. No, Mary; hear me—I have been
slow to speak, as I was fearful to offend. I would
not be precipitate. I sought to win your regard before
I ventured to proffer mine. The affair this day
prompts me to speak sooner than I might have done.
Hear me then, Mary; I love you, I proffer you my
heart, my life. I will live for you. I implore you
then—be mine.”

The head of Mary Easterby sank as she heard
this language. Her cheek assumed a deeper flush;
there was a sorrowful expression in her eye which did
not encourage the pleader, and when she spoke,
which, after a little pause she did, it annoyed him to
perceive that she was composed and dignified in her
manner, and that all trace of emotion had departed
from her voice.

“I thank you, John—I thank you for your favourable
opinion; but I am not satisfied that I should be
the occasion of strife between you and your brother.
You tell me that I am—that he is unwilling that you
should love me, or that I should love you in return.”

“It is—it is that, Mary,” he exclaimed, hastily
interrupting her speech, which was uttered composedly,
and even slow.

[figure description] Page 115.[end figure description]

“I am sorry that it is—sorry that you think so,
John, for I am sure you must be mistaken.”

“Mistaken!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, John, mistaken. You are—you must be
mistaken. It cannot be as you imagine. Supposing
that Richard was unwilling that you should regard
me with favour, and that I should respond favourably
to your regard—for which I see no reason—”

He Interrupted her again, and with some show of
impatience.

“There is reason, reason enough, though you may
not see it. I tell you that he would rule us both;
his nature is despotical. A younger brother, he has
yet the management of every thing at home, and,
having been been brought up as your companion
from childhood, he claims to have some right to
manage your concerns also. He would rule in all
things, and over every body, and would not have
me love you, Mary, or you me, for that very reason.
Not that he loves you himself, Mary; no, no—that
might alter the case were it so—but I am sure, I
know, that he loves another. It is a sort of dog in the
manger spirit that possesses him, and which brought
about our quarrel.”

Here was a batch of lies, and yet there was truth
in much that he said. Without doubt I had much
of that despotic nature, which he ascribed to me,
and which, more or less, affected my deportment in

[figure description] Page 116.[end figure description]

all my associations; but the whole tissue of his
speech was woven in falsehood, and one difficulty
in which he had involved himself by a previous
remark, led even to a greater number yet. He had
ascribed to her the occasion of our quarrel, without
reflecting that he had already persuaded her that my
regards were given to another. It was difficult now for
him to account for my hostility to his success with
Mary, unless by supposing in me a nature unnaturally
froward and contradictory. And such a nature,
whatever were my other faults, could not fairly
be laid to my charge. To have suffered Mary to
suppose that I really loved her, was no part of his
subtle policy. For months, it had been his grateful
labour to impress upon her mind a different belief.

After hearing him patiently through his hurried
tirade, Mary resumed.

“I think you do your brother much injustice,
John, when you ascribe to him a temper so unreasonable.
I have known him for many years, and
while I have often found him jealous and passionate,
I must defend him from any charge of mere wilful
and cold perversity. He is too irritable, too quick
and impetuous for such a temper. He does not
sufficiently deliberate to be perverse; and as for the
base malignity of desiring to keep one, and that one
a brother, from the possession of that which he did
not himself desire to possess, I cannot think it. No,

[figure description] Page 117.[end figure description]

John, that cannot be the true reason. I have no
doubt that you think so, but as little is my doubt
that you think unjustly.”

“I know no other reason, Mary,” was the somewhat
cold answer.

“Nay, John, I speak not so much of the general
cause of the difference between you, as of the particular
provocation of the strife to day. Let it be
as you say, that Richard is thus perverse with little
or no reason, yet it could not be that without immediate
and rude cause of anger he should rush upon
you in the high road and assault you with blows.
Such violence is that of the robber who seeks
for money, or the blood-thirsty assassin who
would revenge, by sudden blow, the wrong for
which he dared not crave open and manly atonement.
Now, I know that Richard is no robber,
and we both know him too well to think that he
would assassinate, without warning, the enemy
whom he had not the courage to fight. Cowardice
is not his character any more than dishonesty; and
yet it were base cowardice if he assaulted you this
day without provocation and without due warning.”

The cool, deliberate survey which Mary Easterby
took of the subject, utterly confounded her companion.
He was unprepared for this form of the
discussion. To dwell longer upon it was not his policy,
yet to turn from it in anger and impatience was

[figure description] Page 118.[end figure description]

to prejudice his own cause and temper, in the estimation
of one so considerate and acute as Mary had
shown herself to be. Passing his hand over his face,
he rose from his seat, paced the room slowly twice or
thrice, and then returned to his place with a countenance
once more calm and unruffled, and with a
smile upon his lips as gently winning as if they had
never worn any other expression. The readiness
of this transition was again unfavourable to his object.
Mary Easterby was a woman of earnest character,
not liable to sudden changes of mood herself,
and still less capable of those sudden turns of look
and manner which denote strong transitions of it.
She looked distrustfully upon them accordingly,
when they were visible in others.

“You are right, Mary,” said the tempter approaching
her, and speaking in tones in which an
amiable and self-accusing spirit seemed to mingle
with one of wooing solicitation. “You are right,
Mary; there was an immediate provocation of which
I had not spoken, and which I remember occasioned
Richard's violence. He spoke to me in a manner
which I thought insolently free, and I replied to him
in sarcastic language. He retorted in terms which
led me to utter a threat which it did not become me to
utter, and which, I doubt not, was quite too provoking
for him to bear with composure. Thence came
his violence. You were right, I think, in supposing

[figure description] Page 119.[end figure description]

his violence without design. I do not think it
myself; and though, as I have said, I regard Richard's
conduct towards me as ungracious, and inexcusable,
I am yet but too conscious of unkind feelings
towards him to desire to prolong this conversation.
There is another topic, Mary, which is far more
grateful to me—will you suffer me to speak on that?
You have heard my declaration. I love you, Mary.
I have long loved you. I feel that I cannot
cease to love, and cannot be happy without you.
Turn not from me, Mary; hear me, I pray you; be
indulgent, and hear me.”

“I should not do justice to your good regards,
John, nor to our long intimacy, if I desired to hear
you father on this subject. Forgive me—leave me
now—let me retire.”

She arose as if to depart. He caught her hand and
led her back to the seat from which she had arisen.
It was now that he trembled; trembled more than
ever, as he beheld her so little moved.

“You are cold, Mary; you dislike, you hate me,”
he stammered forth almost convulsively.

“No, John, you are wrong. I neither hate nor
dislike you; and you know it. On the contrary, I
have much respect for you, as well on your own account
as on that of your family.”

“Family—respect! Oh, Mary, choose some other
words. Cannot you not hear me speak of warmer

[figure description] Page 120.[end figure description]

feelings, closer ties? Will you not heed me when I
say that I love?—When I pray you to accept—to
love me in return?”

“It must not be, John!—to love you as a husband
should be loved—as a wife should love—wholly, singly,
exclusively; so that one should leave father, mother,
and all other ties only for that one—I cannot!
I should speak a base untruth, John, were I to say
so. It gives me pain to tell you this, sir; it gives
me pain—but better that both of us should suffer the
present and momentary anguish which comes from
defrauded expectations, than risk the permanent sorrow
of a long life, passed in the exercise of falsehood.
I am grateful for your love, John; for the favour
with which you distinguish me; but I cannot give
you mine. I cannot reply as you would wish me.”

“Mary—you love another!”

“I know not, John; I would not know—I pray
that you would not strive to force the reflection upon
me.”

“You mistake Richard Hurdis, if you think that
he loves you, Mary; he does not; you can have no
hope of him.”

The coarse, cold speech of the selfish man, was well
answered by the calm and quiet tone of the maiden.

“And if I had hopes of him, or of any man, John
Hurdis, they should be entombed in the bosom,
where they had their birth, before my lips, or looks

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should declare them to other bosoms than my own.
I have no hopes, such as you speak of; and so truly
as I stand before you, I tell you that I know not that
I have in my heart a solitary sentiment with reference
to your brother, which, according to my present
thought, I would not you should hear. That I
have always regarded him with favour, is true; that
I deem him to be possessed of some very noble qualities,
is no less true. More, I tell you—it is with pain,
anxious and deep pain, that I have beheld his coldness,
when we have met of late; and his estrangement
from me, for so long a period. I would give much
to know why it is. I would do much that it should
be otherwise.”

“And yet you know not, Mary, that you love
him?”

“I know not, John; and if the knowledge may be
now obtained, I would infinitely prefer not to know.
It would avail me nothing, and might—might become
known to him.”

There is no need to dwell longer upon this interview,
though the vexing spirit of my brother, clothing
what he spoke still in the language of dissimulation,
protracted it for some time longer, in vain assaults
upon her firmness, and, failing in that, in mean
sarcasms, which were doubly mean as they were disguised
alternately in the language of humiliation and
of love. When he left her, she hurried to her

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chamber, utterly exhausted with a struggle in which all the
strength of her mind had been employed in the double
duty of contending with his, and of keeping her
own feelings, upon which it was his purpose to play,
in quiet and subjection. Her tears came to her relief,
when she found herself alone, but they could
not banish from her mind a new consciousness,
which, from the moment when she parted with my
brother, kept forcing itself upon her. “Did she in
truth, love Richard Hurdis?” was her question to herself.
How gladly, that moment, would I have listened
to her answer.

CHAPTER XI. Macbeth.

—know
That it was he, in the times past, which held you
So under fortune; which you thought, had been
Our innocent self: this I made good to you
In our last conference; pass'd in probution with you,
How you were borne in hand; how cross'd.
—Now, if you have a station in the file,
And not in the worst rank of manhood, say it;
And I will put that business in your bosoms,
Whose execution takes your enemy off;
Grapples you to the heart and love of us,
Who wear our health but sickly in his life,
Which in his death were perfect.
Murderers.

I am one, my Liege,
Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world
Have so incensed, that I am reckless what
I do, to spite the world.
Shakspeare.

[figure description] Page 123.[end figure description]

The interview had barely terminated when my
brother left the habitation of the maiden. He had
preserved his composure, at least he had concealed
the passion which his disappointment had aroused
within him, until fairly out of sight. It was then
that he gave vent to feelings which I had not supposed
him to possess. Base I thought him, envious
it may be; but of malignity and viperous hate, I had

[figure description] Page 124.[end figure description]

never once suspected him. He had always seemed
to me, as he seemed to others, too fat for bitterness,
too fond of ease and quiet to suffer any disappointment
to disturb him greatly. We were all mistaken.
When he reached the cover of the woods he raved
like a mad man. The fit of fury did not last very
long, it is true; but while it lasted, it was terrible,
and in the end exhausting. He threw himself from
his horse, and, casting the bridle over a shrub, flung
himself indifferently upon the grass, and gave way
to the bitterest meditations. He had toiled long,
without cessation, and his toils had all been taken
in vain. It did not offer any qualification to his
mortified feelings to reflect that he had also toiled
dishonourably.

But on a sudden he rose, and resumed his seat in
the saddle. His meditations had taken a new course.
His hopes had revived; and he now planned projects,
the character of which, even worse than those
already known to the reader, will soon be developed.
He put spurs to his steed, and rode furiously through
the wood. It was deep, dark and tangled; but he
knew the country, with which, it was fortunate for
him, his horse was also familiar. Through by-paths
which were made by the cattle, or by scouting negroes,
he hurried through the forest, and in a couple
of hours' space, emerged from it into a more beaten
path. A ride of an hour more carried him beyond

[figure description] Page 125.[end figure description]

the plantation of my father, which the circuit
through the forest had enabled him to avoid, and in
the immediate neighbourhood of a miserable cabin
that stood in a secluded and wild spot, and was seen
with difficulty through the crowding darkness. A
faint light shone through the irregular logs of which
it was built, and served, while indicating the dwelling,
to convey to the observer an increased idea of
its cheerlessness.

It was before this habitation, if such it might be
called, that John Hurdis drew up his horse. He
alighted, and, having first led the animal into shadow
behind the house, he returned to the door in front,
and tapping, obtained immediate entrance. The
room into which he was admitted was a small one,
and so filled with smoke that objects were scarce
discernible. Some light wood thrown into the fire on
his entrance served to illumine, if not to disperse it,
and John spoke to the inmates with a degree of
familiarity which showed him to have been an old
acquaintance. They were old acquaintance, not
only of him but of myself. The man was a villain
whom I had caught stealing corn from our fields,
and whom, but for John, I should have punished accordingly.
I little knew what was the true motive
which prompted his interference, and gave him
credit for a greater degree of humanity than was
consistent either with justice or his true character.

[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]

He was a burly ruffian, a black-bearded, black-faced
fellow, rarely clean, seldom visible by day, a sullen,
sour, bad-minded wretch, who had no mode of livelihood
of which the neighbours knew, except by inveigling
the negroes into thefts of property which,
in his wanderings, he disposed of. He was a constant
wanderer to the towns around, and it was said,
sometimes extended his rambles to others out of the
state. His rifle and a mangy cur that slept in
the fire place, and like his master was never visible
by day, were his sole companions when abroad. At
home he had a wife and one child. The wife like
himself seemed sour and dissatisfied. Her looks
when not vacant, were dark and threatening. She
spoke little but rarely idly, and however much her
outward deportment might resemble that of her
husband, it must be said in her favour, that her nature
was decidedly gentler, and her character as far
superior as it well could be, living in such contact,
and having no sympathies save those which she found
in her child and husband. Perhaps, too, her mind
was something stronger, as it was more direct and
less flexible, than his. She was a woman of deliberate
and composed manner, rarely passionate, and
careful to accommodate her conduct and appearance
to the well known humility of condition in which
she lived. In this lay her wisdom. The people
around commiserated her as she was neither

[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]

presumptuous nor offensive, and tolerated many offences
in him, in consideration of herself and child, which
would have brought any other person to the whipping
post. The child, an unhappy creature, a girl
of fifteen, was an idiot-born. She was pretty, very
pretty, and sometimes, when a sudden spark of intelligence
lighted up her eye, she seemed really
beautiful. But the mind was utterly lacking. The
temple was graceful, erect, and inviting, but the
God had never taken possession of his shrine.

Enough! It was to this unpromising family and
mean abode that John Hurdis came late at night.
The inmates were watchful and the man ready to
answer to the summons. The woman too was a
watcher, probably after an accustomed habit, but
the idiot girl slept on a pallet in one corner of the
apartment. When John Hurdis entered, she raised
her head, and regarded him with a show of interest
which he did not appear to see. He looked with
some curiosity at her couch, however; but for an
instant only. His regards that night were for her
father only.

“Ah, Pickett,” said he with an air of jocularity
on entering, “how goes it? How does the world
use you now a-days? How d'ye do, Mrs. Pickett?
And Jane—how is Jane?”

“I'm well, sir, I'm quite well, Mr. John,” was
the quick response of the poor innocent in the

[figure description] Page 128.[end figure description]

corner, whom every body thought asleep. The answers
of Pickett and his wife were not so prompt. That of
the former was somewhat surly, that of the wife slow.
A brief formal dialogue passed between the party in
which John Hurdis spoke with infinite good humour.
He did not seem to heed the coldness of his host
and hostess; and all traces of his late anger had
passed effectually from his voice and visage. His
only concern seemed now to conciliate those whom
he sought, and it does not take long for the rich
man to make the poor and the inferior unbend. In
a little time John Hurdis had the satisfaction to see
the hostess smile, and to hear a broken and surly
chuckle of returning good nature from the lips of
Pickett. The preliminary difficulty was over; and
making a sign to Pickett, while his wife's back was
turned, the guest led the way to the door bidding
the latter good night. The idiot girl half raised
herself in the bed and answered for the mother.

“Good night, Mr. John, good night, Mr. John.”

Pickett followed Hurdis to the door, and the two
went forth together.

They soon buried themselves in the thick cover
of the neighbouring wood, when John Hurdis, who
had led the way, turned and confronted his companion.

“Well, 'Squire,” said Pickett with abrupt

[figure description] Page 129.[end figure description]

familiarity, “I see you have work for me. What's the
mischief to night?”

“You are right. I have work for you, and mischief.
Will you do it?”

“If it suits me. You know I'm not very nice.
Let's hear the kind of work, and then the pay that
I'm to get for doing it, 'fore I answer.”

“Richard Hurdis goes for the `Nation' to-morrow,”
said John in a lower tone of voice.

“Well, you're glad to get rid of him, I suppose.
He's out of your way now. I wish I could be certain
that he was out of mine.”

“You can make it certain.”

“How?”

“'Tis that I came about. He goes to the `Nation,'
on some wild goose chase; not that he wishes to go,
but because he thinks that Mary Easterby is fond of
me.”

“So, the thing works, does it?”

“Ay, but does not work for me, though it may
work against him. I have succeeded in making
them misunderstand each other, but I have not yet
been successful in convincing her that I am the only
proper person for her. You know my feeling on
that subject, it is enough that she declines my
offer.”

“Well, what then are you to do?”

[figure description] Page 130.[end figure description]

“That troubles me. She declines me simply
because she prefers him.”

“But you say she has no hope of him. She
thinks he loves another.”

“Yes! But that does not altogether make her
hopeless. Hope is a thing not killed so easily; and
when women love, they cling to their object even
when they behold it in the arms of another. The love
lives, in spite of them, though, in most cases, they
have the cunning to conceal it. Mary Easterby
would not give up the hope of having Richard
Hurdis, so long as she could lay eyes on him, and
they were both single.”

“Perhaps you're right; and yet, if Richard drives
for the `Nation' she'll lose sight of him, and then—”

“Will he not return?” replied the other sternly
and gloomily. “Who shall keep him away? The
discontent that drives him now will bring him back.
He goes because he believes that she is engaged to
me. He will come back because he doubts it. He
will not sleep until he finds out our deception. They
will have an explanation—had he not been blinded
by his own passions he would have found it out before—
and then all my labors will have been in vain.
It will be my turn to go among the Choctaws.”

“Well, but 'Squire, while he's off and out of sight

[figure description] Page 131.[end figure description]

can't you get her to marry you and have done with
it?” said Pickett.

“Not easily; and if I could, what would it avail?
Loving him as she does, I should but marry her for
him. His hand would be in my dish, and I should
but fence in a crop for his benefit. No! no! that
would not do either. I tell you, where these women
once love a man, to see him, to have opportunity
with him, is fatal, though they be lawfully bound
to another. I should not sleep secure in her arms,
as I should not be able to think that I alone was
their occupant.”

“Now that's what I call being of a mighty jealous
sort of disposition, 'Squire. I'm sure that you're
wrong in your notion of Miss Mary. I don't think
she'd be the woman to do wrong in that way. She's
a mighty nice girl, is so modest and well behaved,
and so much of a lady; I'm always afraid to look at
her when I speak to her, and she carries herself so
high, that I'm sure if a man had any thing wrong
to say to her, he could not say it if he looked at her
and saw her look.”

“Ay, that is her look to you, Pickett, and to me,
perhaps, whom she does not love,” said John bitterly;
“but let her look on Richard Hurdis, and
meet his eye, and the matter changes fast enough.
She has no dignified look for him; no cold, composed,
commanding voice. Oh, no! It is then her

[figure description] Page 132.[end figure description]

turn to tremble, and to speak brokenly and with
downcast eyes; it is then her turn to feel the power
of another, and to forget her own; to be awed, rather
than to awe; to fear herself rather than to inspire
that fear in him which she may in both of us.”

“I reckon he feels it too, 'Squire, quite as much
if not more than you; for, say what you please,
there's no saying Richard Hurdis don't love her.
I've watched him often when he's been with her,
and when he has not thought that any body was
looking at him, and that was at a time, too, when I
had no reason to like any bone in his skin, and I
saw enough to feel certain that he felt a real earnest
love for her.”

“Let us say no more of that now,” said John
Hurdis coldly, as if not altogether pleased with the
tone of his companion's speech. “Do you like him
any better now, Ben Pickett? Is he not the same
man to you now that he has ever been? Would he
not drive you out of the country if he could? Has
he not tried to do it? And who was it stood between
you and the whipping post, when at the head of the
county regulators he would have dragged you to it,
for robbing the corn house and buying cotton from
the negroes? Have you forgotten all this, Ben
Pickett? And do you like Richard Hurdis any better
when you remember that, to this moment, he has not
relaxed against you, and, to my knowledge, only a

[figure description] Page 133.[end figure description]

month ago threatened you with the horse-whip, if
he found you prowling about the plantation.”

“Ay, I hear you,” said the man, while the thick
sweat actually stood upon his forehead, as he listened
to an enumeration of events from which his peril
had been great: “I hear you, John Hurdis; all is
true that you say, but you say not all the truth. Did
you hear what I said to Richard Hurdis when he
threatened me with the horse-whip? Do you know
what I said to myself and swore in my own heart,
when he would have hauled me to the whipping-post
from which you saved me?”

“No; what said you? what did you swear?”

“To put my bullet through his head, if he laid
the weight of his finger upon me; and but that you
saved him, in saving me, so surely would I have
shot him, had the regulators tied me to the tree and
used one hickory upon me.”

“I was a fool for saving you then, Pickett; that's
all. Had I known that you could so well have
fought your own battles, I had let him go on. I
am not sorry, Ben, that I saved you from the whip,
but by God, I am sorry to the soul that I saved him
from the shot.”

“I'm not sorry!” said the other. “Let Richard
Hurdis live; I wish him no harm. I could even like
him; for, blast me, but he has something about him

[figure description] Page 134.[end figure description]

that I'm always glad to see in a man, and if he
would only let me alone—”

“He will not let you alone, Ben Pickett. He
cannot let you alone, if you would look at the matter.
He comes back from the `Nation,' and Mary Easterby
is still unmarried. What then?—an explanation
takes place between them. They find out the
truth. They find, perhaps, that you put the letter
in the way of Mary that told her about Richard's
doings at Coosauda; that you have been my agent in
breeding the difference between them. More than
this, they marry, and Richard brings his wife home
to live with him at the old man's, where, if he does
that, he will have full authority. Do you suppose
when that time comes, I will stay in the neighbourhood?
Impossible. It will be as impossible for me
to stay here as it will be for you. The moment I
go, who will protect you? Richard will route you
out of the neighbourhood; he has sworn to do it; and
we both know him too well not to know that
if he once gets the power to do what he swears, he
will not hesitate to use it. He will drive you to
Red River as sure as you're a living man.”

“Let the time come,” said the other gloomily,
“let the time come. Why do you tell me of this
matter now, 'Squire?”

“You are cold and dull, Ben Pickett. You are getting
old,” said John Hurdis with something like

[figure description] Page 135.[end figure description]

asperity. “Do I not tell you other things? Do you not
hear that Richard Hurdis sets off to-morrow for the
`Nation?' I have shown you that his absence is of
benefit to both of us, that his return is to our mutual
injury. Why should he return? The gamblers may
cut his throat, and the fighting Choctaws may shoot
him down among their forests, and nobody will be
the wiser, and both of us the better for it.”

“Why, let them, it will be a happy riddance,”
said Pickett.

“To be sure, let them,” said the other impatiently;
“but suppose they do not, Ben? Should
we not send them a message telling them that they
will serve and please us much by doing so? that they
will rid us of a very troublesome enemy, and that
they have full permission to put him to death as
soon as they please?”

“Well, to say the truth, 'Squire John,” said
Pickett, “I don't see what you're driving at.”

“You mean that you won't see, Ben,” responded
the other quickly; “listen awhile. You are agreed
that it will do us no small service if the gamblers,
or the Choctaws put a bullet through the ribs of
Richard Hurdis; it will be a benefit rather than a
harm to us.”

“Well.”

“But suppose, they think it will not benefit them,
are we to forego our benefits because they show

[figure description] Page 136.[end figure description]

themselves selfish? Shall Richard Hurdis survive
the Choctaws, and come home to trouble us? Think
of it, Ben Pickett; what folly it would be to suffer
it. Why not speed some one after the traveller,
who will apprise the gamblers, or the Choctaws, of
our enemy—who will show them how troublesome
he is—how he carries a good sum of money in his
saddle-bags? How easy it will be for them to stop a
troublesome traveller who has money in his saddle-bags?
It may be, that such a messenger might do
the business himself in consideration of the benefit
and the money; but how should we or any body
know that it was done by him? The Choctaws,
Ben—the Choctaws will get the blame, we the
benefit, and our messenger, if he pleases, the money.”

“I understand you now, 'Squire,” said Pickett.

“I knew you would,” replied John Hurdis, “and
only wonder that you did not readily comprehend
before. Hear me, Ben; I have a couple of hundred
dollars to spare—they are at your service. Take
horse to-morrow, and track Richard Hurdis into
the `Nation;' he is your enemy and mine. He is
gone there to look for land. Give him as much
as he needs. Six feet will answer all his purposes,
if your rifle carries as truly now, as it did a year
ago.”

The man looked about him with apprehension
ere he replied. When he did so, his voice had

[figure description] Page 137.[end figure description]

sunk into a hoarse breathing, the syllables of which
were scarce distinguishable.

“I will do it,” he said, grasping the hand of his
cold and cowardly tempter. “I will do it; it shall be
done; but by God, 'Squire, I would much rather do it
with his whip warm upon my back, and his angry
curses loud in my ears.”

“Do it as you will, Ben; but let it be done. The
Choctaws are cruel and treacherous people, and
these gamblers of the Mississippi are quite as bad.
Their murders are very common. It was very imprudent
for Richard to travel at this season; but if
he dies, he has no body but himself to blame.”

They separated. The infernal compact was made
and chronicled in their mutual memories, and witnessed
only by the fiends that prompted the hellish
purpose.

CHAPTER XII.

Thou trust'st a villain, he will take thy hand
And use it for his own; yet when the brand
Hows the dishonor'd member—not his loss—
Thou art the victim!
The Flight.

[figure description] Page 138.[end figure description]

When Pickett returned to his hovel on leaving
John Hurdis, his wife abruptly addressed him thus:

“Look you, Ben, John Hurdis comes after no
good to night. I see it in that smile he has. I know
there's mischief in his eye. He laughs but he does
not look on you while he laughs—it isn't an honest
laugh as if the heart was in it, and as if he wasn't
afraid to have every thing known in his heart. He's
a bad man, Ben, whatever other people may think;
and though he has helped you once or twice, I don't
think him any more certain your friend for all
that. He only wants to make use of you, and if
you let him go too far, Ben, mark my words, he'll
leave you one day in a worse hobble than ever he
helped you out of.”

“Pshaw, Betsy, how you talk—you've a spite

[figure description] Page 139.[end figure description]

against John Hurdis, and that's against reason too.
You forget how he saved me from his brother.”

“No, I do not forget it, Ben. He did no more
than any man should have done, who saw a dozen
about to trample upon one. He saved you, it is
true, but he has made you pay him for it. He
has made you work for him long enough for it, high
and low, playing a dirty sort of a game, carrying
letters to throw in people's paths, there's no
knowing for what; and telling you what to say
in people's ears, when you havn't always been certain
that you've been speaking truth when you did so.
I don't forget that he served you, Ben, but I also
know that you are serving him day and night in return.
Besides, Ben, what he did for you was what
one gentleman might readily do for another—I'm
not sure that what he makes you do for him isn't
rascal work.”

“Hush!” said Pickett, in a whisper, “you talk
too loud. Is Jane asleep?”

The watchful idiot, with the cunning of imbecility
which still has its object, closed her eyes, and put
on the appearance of one lost to all consciousness.

“Yes, she's asleep; but what if she does hear us?
She's our own child, though not a wise one, and it
will be hard if we can't trust ourselves to speak before
her,” said the mother.

“But there's something, Betsy, that we shouldn't
speak at all before any body.”

[figure description] Page 140.[end figure description]

“I hope the business of John Hurdis aint of that
character, Ben Pickett,” she retorted quickly.

“And what if it is?” he replied.

“Why then, Ben, you should have nothing to do
with it, if you'll mind what I'm telling you. John
Hurdis will get you into trouble. He's a bad man.”

“What, for helping me out of trouble?”

“No, but for hating his own brother as he does,
his own flesh and blood as I may say, the child that
has suckled at the same nipple with himself; and
what's worse, for fearing the man he hates. Now,
I say that the hate is bad enough and must lead to
harm; but when he's a coward that hates, then nothing's
too bad for him to do, provided he can keep
from danger when he does it. That's the man to
light the match, and run away from the explosion.
He'll make you the match, and he'll take your fingers
to light it, and then take to his own heels and
leave you all the danger.”

“Pshaw, Betsy, you talk like a woman and a
child,” said Pickett with an air of composure and
indifference which he was far from feeling.

“And so I do, Ben; and if you'll listen to a woman's
talk, it will be wise. It would have saved
you many times before, and it may do much to save
you now. Why should you do any business that
you're afraid to lay out to me. There must be
something wrong in it, I'm sure; and it can't be no

[figure description] Page 141.[end figure description]

small wrong neither, Ben; that you're afraid to tell
me. What should the rich 'Squire Hurdis want of
Ben Pickett the squatter? Why should he come
palavering you, and me, and that poor child with
fine words; and what can we, poor and mean and
hated as we are by every body, what can we do for
so great a man as him. I tell you, Ben Pickett, he
wants you to do dirty work, that he's ashamed and
afraid to do himself. That's it, Ben; and there's
no denying it. Now, why should you do his dirty
work? He's better able to do it himself, he's rich
enough to do almost what he pleases; and you, Ben,
you're too poor to do even what is proper. These
rich men ask what right a poor man has to be good
and honest; they expect him to be a rascal.”

“Well,” said the other sulkily, “we ought to be
so then, if it's only to oblige them.”

“No, Ben Pickett, we ought hardly to oblige
them in any thing; but, whether we would oblige
them or not, my notion is, we ought to keep different
tracks from them altogether. If we are too mean
and poor, to be seen by them without turning up
their noses, let us take care not to see them at any
time, or if we do see them, let us make use of our
eyes to take different tracks from them. There's
always two paths in the world, the one's a big path
for big people; let them have it to themselves, and
let us keep off it; the other's a little path for the

[figure description] Page 142.[end figure description]

little, let them stick to it and no jostling. It's the
misfortune of poor people that they're always poking
into the wrong path, trying to swell up to the
size of the big, and making themselves mean by doing
so. No wonder the rich despise such people.
I despise them myself, though God knows I'm one
of the poorest.”

“I'm not one to poke in big paths,” said Pickett.

“No! But why do big folks come out of their
road into yours, Ben Pickett? I'll tell you. Because
they think they can buy you to go into any
path, whether big or little, high or low, clean or
dirty. John Hurdis says in his heart, I'm rich;
Pickett's poor;—my riches can buy his poverty to
clean the road for me where it's dirty. Isn't that it,
Ben Pickett?”

The keen gray eyes of the woman were fixed on
him with a glance of penetration, as she spoke these
words, that seemed to search his very soul. The
eyes of Pickett shrank from beneath their stare.

“Betsy, you're half a witch,” he exclaimed with
an effort at jocularity which was not successful.

“I knew it was something like that, Ben Pickett.
John Hurdis would never seek you, except when
he had dirty work on hand. Now, what's the work,
Ben Pickett?”

“That's his secret, Betsy; and you know I can't
tell you what concerns only another and not us.”

[figure description] Page 143.[end figure description]

“It concerns you; it is your secret too; Ben
Pickett—it is my secret—it is the secret of that
poor child.”

The speaker little knew that the idiot was keenly
listening. She continued:

“If it's to do his work, and if it's work done in
his name, work that you won't be ashamed of, and
he won't be ashamed of when it's done, Ben Pickett,
then it's all right enough. You may keep his secret
and welcome; I would not turn on my heel to know
it. But if it's dirty work that you'll both be ashamed
of, such as carrying stories to Mary Easterby, who
is a good girl, and deserves the best; then it's but
too much of that sort of work you've done already.”

“It's nothing like that,” said Pickett quickly.
“But don't bother me any more about it, Betsy; for
if you were to guess a hundred times, and guess
right, I shouldn't tell you. So have done and go to
bed.”

“Ben Pickett, I warn you, take care what you
do. This man, John Hurdis, is too strong for you.
He's winning you fast, he'll wrong you soon. You're
working for him too cheaply; he'll laugh at you
when you come for pay; and may be, put to your
own account the work you do on his. Beware,
look what you're about, keep your eyes open; for I
see clear as day light, that you're in a bad way.
The work must be worse than dirty you're going

[figure description] Page 144.[end figure description]

upon now, when you are so afraid to speak of it to
me.”

“I tell you, Betsy, shut up. It's his business
not mine, and I'm not free to talk of it even to you.
Enough that I don't work for nothing. The worst
that you shall know of it will be the money it will
bring.”

“The devil's money blisters the fingers. And
what's money to me, Ben Pickett, or what is money
to you? What can money do for us? Can it make
men love us and seek us? Can it bring us pride and
character? Can it make me forget the scorn that
I've been fed on from the time I was a simpler child,
than that poor idiot in the corner? Can it bring sense
into her mind, and make us proud of her? Can it
make you forget or others forget, Ben Pickett, that
you have been hauled to the whipping post, and
saved from it only to be the slave of a base coward,
such as John Hurdis has ever been, and ever will
be?”

“No more of that, Betsy, if you please. You are
quite too fond of bringing up that whipping post.”

“And if I do, it has its uses. I wish you would
think of it half as frequently, Ben Pickett; you
would less frequently stand in danger of it. But I
speak of it, because it is one of the black spots in my
memory—like the lack of that child—like the scorn
of those around us—like every thing that belongs to

[figure description] Page 145.[end figure description]

us, as we are living now. Why will you not go as
I wish you, away from this neighbourhood? Let us
go to the Red River where we know no body; where
no body knows us. Let us go among the savages,
if you please, Ben Pickett, where I may see none of
the faces that remind me of our shame.”

“Why, so we will. Just as you say, Betsy. I
will but do some business that I'm bound for, that
will give us money to go upon and then—”

“No, don't wait for that. Let the money stay;
we have enough to carry us to the Red River, and
we shall want but little of it there. When you talk
to me of money you vex me. We have no use for
it. We want hominy only, and homespun. These
are enough to keep from cold and hunger. To use
more money, Ben Pickett, we must be good and
conscious of good. We must not stand in fear and
shame, to meet other than our own eyes. I have
that fear and shame, Ben Pickett; and this dirty
business of John Hurdis—it must be dirty since it
must be a secret—makes me feel new fear of what is
to come; and I feel shame even to sickness as I think
upon it. Hear me, Ben; hear me while it is in time
for me to speak. There may not be time to-morrow,
and if you do not listen to me now, you might
listen another day in vain. Drop this business of
John Hurdis—”

“I've promised him.”

[figure description] Page 146.[end figure description]

“Break your promise.”

“No! d—d if I do that!”

“And why not? There's no shame in breaking
a bad promise. There's shame and cowardice in
keeping it.”

“I'm no coward, Betsy.”

“You are! You're afraid to speak the truth to me,
to your wife and child. I dare you to wake up that
poor idiot and say to her, weak and foolish as she is,
the business you're going on for John Hurdis. You'd
fear that, in her very ignorance, she would tell you
that your intention was crime!”

“Crime!”

“Ay, crime—lies perhaps in a poor girl's ear—theft
perhaps—the robbery of some traveller on the highway;
perhaps—perhaps—Oh, Ben Pickett, my husband,
I pray to God, it be not murder!”

“Damnation, woman! will you talk all night?”
cried the pale and quivering felon in a voice of thunder.
“To bed, I say, and shut up. Let us have no
more of this.”

The idiot girl started in terror from her mattress.

“Lie down, child; what do you rise for?”

The stern manner of her father frightened her
into obedience, and she resumed her couch, wrapping
the coverlet over her head, and thus, hiding her
face and hushing her sobs at the same moment. The

[figure description] Page 147.[end figure description]

wife concluded the dialogue by a repetition of her
exhortation in brief.

“Once more, Ben, I warn you. You are in danger.
You will tell me nothing; but you have told
me all. I know you well enough to know that you
have sold yourself to do wrong—that John Hurdis
has bought you to do that which he has not the
courage to do himself—”

“Yet you say I am a coward.”

“I say so still. I wish you were brave enough
to want no more money than you can honestly get;
and when a richer man than yourself comes to buy
you to do that which he is too base to do himself,
to take him by the shoulder and tumble him from
the door. Unfortunately you have courage enough
to do wrong—there's a greater courage than that, Ben
Pickett, that strengthens even a starving man to do
right.”

Pickett felt that he had not this courage, and his
wife had before this discovered that the power was
not in her to endow him with it. Both parties were
compelled, when they discovered the idiot girl to
be awake and watchful, to forego their discussion of
the subject for the night; and when the woman did
resume it, which she did with a tenacity of purpose,
worthy of a more ostentatious virtue; she was only
successful in arousing that sort of anger in her

[figure description] Page 148.[end figure description]

companion, which is but too much the resort of the wilful
when the argument goes against them. It was
more easy for Pickett, with the sort of courage which
he possessed, to do wrong than right, and having
once resolved to sin, the exhortations of virtue were
only so many suggestions to obstinacy. With a
warmth and propriety infinitely beyond her situation
did the wife plead; but her earnestness, though
great, was not equal to the doggedness of his resolve.
She was compelled to give up the cause in despair.

CHAPTER XIII.

His was the fault; be his the punishment.
'Tis not their own crimes only, men commit;
They harrow them into another's breast,
And they shall reap the bitter growth with pain.
Landor.

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The messenger of blood departed the next day
upon his fearful mission. His calculation was to keep
due pace with his victim; to watch his progress;
command his person at all times, and to avail himself
of the first fitting opportunity, to execute the cruel
trust which he had undertaken. Such a purpose
required the utmost precaution and some little time.
To do the deed might be often easy; to do it secretly
and successfully, but seldom. He was to watch the
single moment in a thousand, and be ready to use it
before it was gone forever.

“You will not be gone long, Ben?” said the wife,
as he busied himself in preparation.

“I know not—a day, a week, a month!—I know
not. It matters little; you can do without me.”

“Yes, your wife can do without you—I wish that
John Hurdis could do without you also. I do not

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like this business, Ben, upon which he sends you
now.”

“What business? what know you of it?” he
demanded hastily. “Why should you dislike the
business which you know nothing about?”

“That's the very reason that makes me dislike
it. Why should I know nothing about it? Why
should a man keep his business from his wife's
knowledge?”

“Good reason enough, to keep it from the knowledge
of every body else. You might as well print
it in the Montgomery paper, as tell it to a woman.
There won't be a Methodist preacher that don't hear
of it the first week, and not a meeting in the country
that won't talk of it the second. They have quite
enough of other folks's affairs to blab, Betsy; we
needn't give them any of mine.”

“You well enough know, Ben Pickett, that this
sort of talk means nothing. You know I am not the
woman to make her own or her husband's concerns
the business of the country. I go not often to the
church. I do not often see the preachers, and there
is very little to say between us. It might be much
better if there were more; and you know well
enough, that I see few women and have no neighbours.
We are not the people to have neighbours—
what would tempt them? It is enough for me, Ben, to
stay at home, and keep as much out of sight as I can,

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as well on your account as on account of that poor
ignorant creature.”

“Pshaw! you talk too much of Jane, and think
too much of her folly. She is no more a fool than
most other girls of her age, and talks far less nonsense.
She's quite as good as any of them, and a
devilish sight handsomer than most of them. There's
hardly one that wouldn't be glad to have her face.”

“You mean me, father Ben, don't you?” said the
witless one, perking up her face with a smile and
raising it under the chin of Pickett.

“Go, Jane, go and put the things to rights on the
table, and don't mind what we're a saying.”

The girl obeyed reluctantly, and the father, tapping
her on the head kindly, the only parting which
he gave her, left the house, and proceeded to his
horse which was fastened to the fence. There he
arranged the saddle, and while thus employed his
wife came to him.

“Ben Pickett,” she said, resuming the subject of
her apprehensions, “I heard that Richard Hurdis
is going to the `Nation' to day.”

“Well! what of that!” said Pickett gruffly.

“Nothing but this, Ben; I'm afraid that his going
to the `Nation' has something to do with your journey.
Now, I don't know what it is that troubles
me, but I am troubled, and have been so ever since
I heard that Richard was going to day.”

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“And how did you hear it?”

“From Jane.”

“Jane, the fool! how did she hear it?”

“She is a fool, but there's no need for you to call
her so always, Ben. It's not right; it's not like a
father. As for where she heard it, I can't say; I
didn't ask her; perhaps from some of the negroes.
old Billy, from `Squire Easterby's was over here,
last night.”

“Last night! old Billy! at what hour was he
here?”

“Nay, I don't know exactly. He went away
just before John Hurdis came.”

Pickett appeared annoyed by the intelligence, but
was silent and concealed his annoyance, whatever
may have occasioned it, by strapping his saddle and
busying himself with the bridle of his horse.

“You say nothing, Ben; but tell me, I beg you,
and ease my mind, only tell me that the business
you're going upon don't concern Richard Hurdis.
Say, only say, you don't go the same road with
Richard Hurdis, that you didn't know that he was
going, that you won't follow him.”

“And how should I say such a thing, Betsy,”
replied the now obdurate ruffian, “when I don't
know which road he's going? How can I follow
him, if I don't know the track he takes?”

“That's not it—not it. Tell me that you won't

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try to find it, that you don't mean to follow him,
that—Oh! my God, that I should ask such a thing of
my husband—that you are not going after Richard
Hurdis to kill him?”

“Betsy, you're a worse fool than Jane;” was
the reply of Pickett. “What the devil put such
nonsense into your head? What makes you think
I would do such a thing? It's true, I hate Dick
Hurdis, but I don't hate him bad enough to kill
him, unless in fair fight. If he'll give me fair
fight at long shot, by God, I'd like nothing better
than to crack at him; but I'm not thinking of him.
If I had wanted to kill him, don't you think I'd a
done it long before, when he was kicking me about
like a foot-ball. You may be sure I won't try to do
it now, when he's let me alone, and, when, as you
say yourself, he's going out of the country. Damn
him, let him go in peace, say I.”

“Amen,” exclaimed the woman, “amen; yet,
look you, Ben Pickett. What you mightn't feel
wicked enough to do for yourself, you may be weak
enough to do for one who is more wicked than you
are. That's the misfortune of a great many people;
and the devil gets them to do a great deal of work,
which they wouldn't be willing to do on their own
account. Oh, Ben, take care of that John Hurdis
If you didn't hate Richard Hurdis bad enough to
kill him on your own score, don't let that cowardly

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John tempt you to do it for him. I know he hates
his brother and wants to get him out of the way;
for he wants to marry Mary Easterby; but don't let
him make use of you in any of his wickedness. He
stands no chance of Mary with all his trying, for I
know she won't have him; and so, if you work for
him, you will work against the wind, as you have
done long enough both for yourself and him. But
whether you work for him or not, hear me, Ben
Pickett; do nothing that you'll be ashamed or afraid
to hear of again. My mind misgives me about Dick
Hurdis. I wish you were not a-going—I wish you
were not a-going the same day with him.”

“Don't I tell you, Betsy, I'm not on his trail? I
shan't look after him, and don't care to see him.”

“Yes, but should you meet?”

“Well, what then? Would you have me cut and
run like a nigger's dog?”

“No, but I would not have you go to day. I
would rather you shouldn't meet.”

“We won't, be sure of that. I promise you, we
won't meet; and if we do, be sure we shan't quarrel.”

“You'll promise that, Ben? you'll swear it?” said
the woman eagerly.

“Ay, to be sure, I will; I swear Betsy, I won't
meet him, and we shan't quarrel, if I can help it.”

“That's enough Ben, and now go in peace, and

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come back soon. It's off my mind now, Ben, since
you promise me; but it's been a trouble and a fear to
me, this going of yours to day, ever since I heard
that Richard Hurdis was to be on the road.”

“Pshaw! you're a fool all over about Dick Hurdis,”
said Pickett with a burly air of good humour.
“I believe now, Betsy, that you like him better
than me.”

“Like him!” exclaimed the woman relapsing into
the phlegmatic and chilling sternness of expression
and countenance which were her wonted characteristics
in ordinary moods. “Like him! I
neither like nor dislike, Ben Pickett, out of this
paling. These old logs, and this worm fence, contain
all that I can expend feeling upon, and when
you talk to me of likes and dislikes, you only
mock at your own condition and mine.”

The man said no more, and they separated. She
returned to the house, and in a few moments he
leaped upon his horse, which was a light-made and
fast-going though small animal, and was soon out of
sight even of the idiot girl, who laughed and beckoned
to him, without being heeded, until his person
was no longer visible in the dull gray of the forests
which enveloped him.

“Fool!” he exclaimed as he rode out of hearing,
“fool to think to make me swear what she pleases,
and then to take the oath just as I think proper. I

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will not meet him, and still less will I quarrel with
him if I can help it; but I will try and put a bullet
through him for all that. It's an old score, and may
as well be wiped out now as never. This year is
just as good for settlement, as the next. Indeed,
for that matter, it's best now. It's much the safest.
He breaks off from one neighbourhood, and they
know nothing of him in any other. Well, as John
Hurdis said, the Choctaws have done it, or the gamblers.
Ben Pickett has been too long quiet, and lives
too far off from the nation, to lay it to his door. And
yet, by God, it's true what Betsy says, that John
Hurdis is a poor coward after all.”

It was in thoughts and musings, such as these—
sometimes muttered audibly, but most frequently
entertained in secret—that Ben Pickett commenced
his pursuit of me, a few hours only after I had begun
my journey. Circumstances, however, and probably
an error in the directions given him by my brother,
misled him from the path, into which he did not fall
until late the ensuing day. This gave me a start of
him which he would not have made up, had I not
come to a full stop at Tuscaloosa. But of this afterwards.

CHAPTER XIV.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways,
Beside the springs of Dove,
A maid, whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love.
A violet by a mossy stone,
Half hidden from the eye,
Fair as a star when only one
Is shining in the sky.
Wordsworth.

And yet lack!
Shakspeare,

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The afternoon of the day following that of
Pickett's departure was one of the loveliest among
the lovely days so frequent in the Alabama November.
The glances of the oblique sun rested with
a benignant smile, like that of some venerable and
single hearted sire, upon the groves of the forest,
which, by this time, had put on all the colours of the
rainbow. The cold airs of coming winter had been
just severe enough to put a flush-like glow into the
cheeks of the leaf, and to envelope the green, here
and there, with a coating of purple and yellow,
which served it as some rich and becoming border,
and made the brief remains of the gaudy garb of

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summer seem doubly rich, and far more valuable in
such decorations. Dark brown and blooded berries
hung wantonly from bending branches, and trailing
vines, that were smitten and torn asunder by premature
storms of cold, lay upon the path and depended
from over head, with life enough in them still, even
when severed from the parent stem, to nourish and
maintain the warm and grape like clusters which
they bore. Thousands of flowers, of all varieties of
shape and colour came out upon the side of the
path, and, as it were, threw themselves along the
thoroughfare only to be trodden upon; while, hidden
in the deeper recesses of the woodland, millions
beside appeared to keep themselves in store only to
supply the places of those which were momently
doomed to suffer the consequences of exposure and
to perish beneath the sudden gusts or the equally
unheeding footsteps of the wayfarer. Hidden from
sight only by the winter bloom, that absorbed all
space, and seemed resolute to exclude from all sight,
thousands of trees, of more delicate nature, already
stripped of their foliage, stood like mourning ghosts
or withered relics of the past—the melancholy
spider, the only living decoration of their gaunt
and stretching arms—her web now completely exposed
in the absence of the leaves, under whose
sheltering volume, it had been begun in secret. At
moments the breeze would gather itself up from the
dead leaves that strewed the paths of the forest, and

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ruffle lightly, in rising, the pleasant bed where it
had lain. A kindred ruffler of leaves and branches,
was the nimble squirrel, who skipped along the
forests, making all objects subservient to his forward
motion; and now and then the rabbit timidly stealing
out from the long yellow grass beside the bay,
would bound and crouch alternately; the sounds
that shake the lighter leaves and broken branches,
stirring her heart with more keen and lasting sensations,
and compelling her to pause in her progress,
in constant dread of the pursuer.

A fitting dweller in a scene of such innocence and
simplicity was the thoughtless and unendowed
creature that now enters it; her hand filled with
bush and berry and leaf, sought with care, pursued
with avidity, gathered with fatigue and thrown
away without regard. A thousand half formed
plans in her mind—if the idiot child of Ben Pickett
may be said to possess one—a thousand crowding,
yet incomplete conceits, hurrying her forward in a
pursuit only begun to be discarded for others more
bright, yet not more enduring; and from her lips a
heartfelt laugh or cry of triumph poured forth in
the merriest tones of childhood, while the tears
gather in her eyes, and she sits upon the grass, murmuring
and laughing and weeping; all by turns and
nothing long. From the roadside she has gathered the
pale blue and yellow flowers, and these adorn her head,

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and peep out from her bosom. Now she bounds
away to hidden bushes after flaunting berries, and
now she throws herself upon a bank and tears to
pieces the flowers and shrubs which have cost her
so much pains to gather. She sings and weeps by
turns as she thus employs herself, and prating in
idiot soliloquy at fits, she speaks to the flowers that
she rends, and has some idle history of each.

“There's more of blue than of the others, and
sure there should be, for the skies are blue, and they
take their colour from the skies. But I don't want
so much of the blue; I won't have so much; I must
have more yellow; and there's a little pink flower
that Mister John showed me long time ago, if I
could get only one of them; one would do me to
put in the middle. There's a meaning in that little
flower, and Mister John read it like a printed book.
It has drops of yellow in the bottom, and it looks
like a little cup for the birds to drink from. I must
look for that. If I can only get one now, I would
keep it for Mister John to read, and I would remember
what he tells me of it. But Mister John
don't love flowers, he does not wear them in his button
hole as I see Mr. Richard; and Miss Mary loves
flowers too; I always see her with a bunch of them
in her hand, and she gathers great bunches for the
fire-place at home. She reads them too like a book;
but I will not get her to read my little pink flower

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for me. I will get Mister John; for he laughs when he
reads it, and Miss Mary looks almost like she would
cry, and she looks at me, and she does not look at
the flower, and she carries me home with her; but
Mister John takes me a long walk with him in the
woods, and we gather more flowers together, and we
sit down upon the log, and pull them to pieces. I
wish he would come now. If he were with me, I
could go deeper into the woods; but they look too
black when I am by myself, and I will not go
alone. There's more than twenty bears in those
black woods, so mother tells me, and yet, when I
go there with Mr. John, I don't see any, and I don't
even hear them growl; they must be afraid of him,
and run when they know he's coming. I wish he
were coming to read my flower. I have one—I
have two—if he would but come. Oh me, mother!
what's that.”

The girl started from the bank in fear, dashing
down the flowers in the same instant, and preparing
herself for flight. The voice of the intruder reassured
her.

“Ah, Jane, my pretty, is it you?”

“Dear me, Mr. John, I'm so glad you're come.
I thought it was the black bears. Mother says
there's more than twenty in these woods, and tells
me that I musn't go into them; that they'll eat me
up, and won't even leave my bones. But when

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you're with me, Mister John, I'm not afraid of the
bears.”

“Humph!” was the unuttered thought of the new
comer. “Not the less danger perhaps, but of this
no matter.”

“So you're afraid of the bears, my pretty Jane?”
he said aloud.

“Ah no, not when you're with me, Mister John;
they're afraid of you. But when I'm by myself,
the woods look so black, I'm afraid to go into them.”

“Pretty idiot!” exclaimed John Hurdis, for it
was he; “but you're not afraid now, Jane; let us take
a walk and laugh at these bears. They will not
not stop to look at us, and if they do, all we have to
do is to laugh at them aloud, and they'll be sure to
run. There's no danger in looking at them when
they run, you know.”

“No, to be sure; but Mr. John—stop. I don't
know whether I ought to go with you any longer;
for do you know—” Here she lowered her voice
to a whisper, and looked cautiously around her as
she spoke; “do you know mother's been talking to
dad about you, and she says—but I won't tell you.”

And, with a playful manner she turned from him
as she finished the sentence, and proceeded to
gather up the flowers, which, in her first alarm, she
had scattered all around her. He stooped to assist
her, and putting his arm about her waist, they

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walked forward into the wood, the silly creature all
the while refusing to go, yet seeming perfectly unconscious
that she was even then complying with his
demand. When they were somewhat concealed
within its recesses, he stopped, and with some little
anxiety, demanded to know what it was that her
mother had said.

“I won't tell you, Mr. John, I won't.”

He knew very well how to effect his purpose, and
replied calmly,

“Well if you won't tell me, Jane, I will call the
bears—”

“No, don't,” she screamed aloud; “don't, Mister
John, I'll tell you every thing; did you think I
would'nt tell you, Mister John; I was only in play.
Wait now till I pick up this little pink flower,
Mister John, that's got the yellow drops in the
bottom, and I'll tell you all. This is the flower that
you read to me, Mister John; do now, that's a good
dear, do read it to me now.”

“Not now, Jane—after you tell me about your
mother.”

“Yes; but Mister John, would you set the bears
on me for true?”

“To be sure, if you wouldn't tell me. Come
Jane, be quick, or I'll call them.”

“No, don't—don't, I beg you. I'm sure it's nothing
so great to tell you, but I tell you, Mister

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John, you see, because mother didn't want you to
know. Dad and she talked out, but when they
thought I was awake, oh, then there was no more
talk for awhile; but I heard them all.”

“All what, Jane?”

“Oh, don't you know? All about you and Dad,
and Mister Richard, and how you hate Mister
Richard, and how Dad is to shoot him—”

“The d—l! You didn't hear that, Jane!” was the
exclamation of the thunderstruck criminal; his
voice thick with apprehension, his limbs trembling,
his flesh shrinking and shivering, and his eyes, full
of wonder and affright, absolutely starting from the
sockets. So sudden had been the revelation, it
might well have startled or stunned a much bolder
spirit than was his. He led, almost dragged her,
still deeper into the woods, as if he dreaded the
heedful ears of any passing traveller.

“What have you heard, Jane? what more did
your mother say? She surely said not what you
tell me; how could she know—how could she say
it? She did not say it, Jane, she could not.”

“Oh, yes, but she did; she said a great deal more,
but it's no use telling you.”

“How no use! Tell me all, Jane. Come my
pretty, tell me all that your mother said, and how
she came to say it. Did your father say it to her
first.”

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“Who, Dad! Lord bless you, Mister John, no.
Dad never tells mother nothing, and what she
knows she knows by herself, without him.”

“Indeed! But this about Richard and your
father; you don't mean that your mother knew any
such thing. Your father told her; you heard him
talking to her about it.”

“No, I tell you. Father wouldn't talk at all. It
was mother that talked the whole. She asked Dad,
and Dad wouldn't tell her, and so she told him.”

“Told him what! did she hear?”

“Yes, she told him as how you loved Miss Mary;
but Mister John, it isn't true that you love Miss
Mary, is it?”

“Pshaw! Jane, what nonsense. Go on; tell me
about your mother.”

“Well, I knew it couldn't be that you loved Miss
Mary. I don't want you to love her; she's a fine lady,
and a sweet, good lady, but I don't like you to love
her; it don't seem right; and—”

The impatient, anxious spirit of John Hurdis could
no longer brook the trifling of the idiot, which, at
another period, and with a mind less excited and
apprehensive, he would rather have encouraged than
rebuked. But now, chafing with excited feelings
and roused fears, he did not scruple to interrupt
her.

“Nonsense, Jane—nonsense. Say no more of

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Mary, but tell me of your mother. Tell me how
she began to speak to your father. What she said?
What she knows? And we'll talk of Miss Mary,
and other matters afterwards. What did she say of
Richard? What of me? And this shooting of your
father.”

“Oh, she didn't say about shooting Dad; no, no,
it was Mr. Richard that he was to shoot.”

“Well—well, tell me that—that!”

“Oh, dear me, Mr. John—what a flurry you're
in. I'm sure I can't tell you any thing when you
look so. You frighten me too much; don't look so,
Mr. John, if you please.”

The trembling criminal tried to subdue the appearance
of anxiety and terror, which the girl's
countenance and manner sufficiently assured him
must be evident in his own. He turned from her for
an instant, moved twice or thrice around a tree—she
meanwhile watching his proceedings with a degree
of curiosity that made her forget her fears—then, returning,
with a brow somewhat smoothed, and a half
smile upon his lips, he succeeded in persuading her
to resume a narrative, which her natural imbecility
of mind, at no period, would have enabled her to
give consecutively. By questions carefully put, and
at the proper moment, he at length got from her
the whole amount of her knowledge, and learned
enough to conclude, as was the truth, that what had

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been said by the mother of the girl had been said
conjecturally. His fear had been that she had stolen
forth on the previous night, and secreting herself
near the place of conference between Pickett and
himself, had witnessed the interview and comprehended
all its terms. However relieved from his
fear by the revelation of the idiot, he was still not a
little annoyed by the close guessing of the woman.
A mind so acute, so penetrating, so able to search
into the bosom, and watch its secret desires without
the help of words, was able to effect yet more; and
he dreaded its increased activity in the present business.
Vague apprehensions still floated in his soul
though he strove to dissipate them, and he felt a
degree of insecurity which made him half forgetful
of his simple and scarcely conscious companion. She,
meanwhile, dwelt upon the affair which she had
narrated, with a tenacity as strange as had been her
former reluctance or indifference; until, at length, as
she repeated her mother's unfavourable opinion of
himself, his disquiet got the better of his courtesy,
for he exclaimed aloud:

“No more of this nonsense, Jane. Your mother's
a fool, and the best thing she can do hereafter,
is to keep her tongue.”

“No, no! Mr. John,” replied the girl earnestly,
“mother's no fool, Mr. John; it's Jane that's a fool.

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Every body calls Jane a fool, but nobody calls mother
so.”

“I don't call you so, Jane,” said Hurdis kindly
sitting beside her as he spoke, and putting his arm
about her waist.

“No, Mr. John, I know you don't, and” in a
whisper, “I'd like you to tell me, Mr. John, why
other people call me so? I'm a big girl, and I can
run and walk, and ride like other people. I can
spin and I can sew. I help mother plant potatoes,
I can break the corn, hull it and measure it, and can
do a hundred things beside. I talk like other people,
and did you ever see a body pick flowers, and
such pretty ones faster than me, Mr. John?”

“No, Jane, I never did.”

“And such pretty ones too, Mr. John. Look at this
little pink one, with the yellow drops; come, read it
to me, now, Mr. John, and show me how to read it
like you?”

“Not now, Jane! some other time. Give me a
kiss now, a sweet kiss?

“Well there, no body asks me to kiss but you
and Miss Mary sometimes, Mr. John—sometimes I
kiss mother, but she don't seem to like it. I wonder
why, Mr. John—it must be because I'm a fool.”

“No, no, Jane, you're not a fool.”

“I wish I wasn't, Mr. John, I don't think I am.

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For you know, I told you, how many things I can do
just like other people.”

“Yes, Jane, and you have a sweeter little mouth
than any body. You kiss like a little angel, and
your cheeks are as rosy—”

“Oh, don't Mr. John, that's enough. Lord, if
mother was only to see us now, what would she say?
Tell me, Mr. John, why don't I want mother to see
me, when you're so good to me? And when you kiss
me so, what makes me afraid and tremble? It is
strange, Mr. John.”

“It's because your mother's cross to you, and cold,
and gets vexed with you so often, Jane.”

“Do you think so, Mr. John? But, it can't be;
mother isn't cross to me, Mr. John, and she hasn't
whipped me I don't know the day when. She don't
know that you walk with me into the woods, Mr.
John—why don't I want to tell her—it's so very
strange? She would be mighty vexed if she was to
see me now.

Hurdis answered her with a kiss, and in the next
instant the tread of a sudden footstep behind them,
and the utterance of a single word by the intruder
caused the simple girl to scream out, and to leap like
an affrighted deer from the arms that embraced her.

CHAPTER XV. Medea.

I thought as much when first from thickest leaves,
I saw you trudging in such posting pace.
But to the purpose; what may be the cause
Of this most strange and sudden banishment?
Fausta.

The cause, ask you? a simple cause, God wot;
Twas neither treason, nor yet felony,
But for because I blamed his foolishness.
Medea.

I hear you say so, but I greatly fear,
Ere that your tale be brought unto an end,
You'll prove yourself the author of the same.
But pray, be brief; what folly did your spouse,
And how will you revenge your wrong on him?
Robert Greene.

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Her fear seemed to possess the power of a spell
to produce the very person whose presence she most
dreaded. As if in compliance with its summons,
her mother stood before her. Her tall majestic form,
raised to its fullest height by the fever of indignation
in her mind, stood between her idiot daughter and
the astounded John Hurdis. He had sprung to his
feet on the instant when Jane, in terror, had started
from his embrace, and without daring to face the
woman, he stood fixed to the spot where she first confronted
him. Her meagre, usually pale and severe

[figure description] Page 171.[end figure description]

features, were now crimsoned with indignation—her
eyes flashed a fire of feeling and of character which
lifted her, however poor and lowly had been her
birth and was her station, immeasurably above the
base creature whose superior wealth had furnished
the facilities, and, too frequently in the minds of
men, provide a sanction, for the vilest abuses of
the dependence and inferiority of the poor. The
consciousness of wrong in his mind totally deprived
him at that instant, of those resources of audacity
with which he who meditates villany should always
be well supplied; and, woman as she was—poor,
old, and without character and command as was
the wife of the worthless Pickett—the sound of her
voice went through the frame of Hurdis with
a keenness that made him quiver. And yet the
tones were gentle; they were studiously subdued,
and from this cause, indeed, their influence was
most probably increased upon both Hurdis and the
daughter.

“Jane, my child, go home—go home!”

These were words not to be disobeyed by the
trembling and weeping idiot. Yet she looked and
lingered—she fain would have disobeyed them for
the first time—but the bony and long finger of the
mother was uplifted, and simply pointed in the
direction of their cottage, which was not visible from
the point on which they stood. Slowly at first, then,

[figure description] Page 172.[end figure description]

after she had advanced a few paces, bounding off
with the rapidity of fear, the girl hurried away, and
was soon lost to the sight of the two remaining persons.

When satisfied that she was no longer within
sound of their voices, for her keen eye had followed
all the while the retreating footsteps of the maiden,
she turned the entire force of its now voluminous
expression upon the man before her. Her gray eyebrows,
which were thick, were brought down by the
muscular compression of the skin of the forehead,
into a complete pent house above her eyes, and served
to concentrate their rays, which shot forth like
summer lightning from the sable cloud. The lips
were compressed with a smiling scorn, her whole
face partaking of the same contemptuous and withering
expression. John Hurdis stole but a single
glance at the features which were also full of accusation,
and, without looking a second time, turned
uneasily away. But the woman did not suffer him
to escape. She drew nigher—she called him by
name; and, though she spoke in low and quiet tones,
they were yet such that he did not venture to
persist in his movement, which seemed to threaten
as prompt and rapid a departure as that of the idiot.
Her words began, abruptly enough, with one of
the subjects nearest to her heart. She was not a
woman to trifle. The woods in which she had lived,

[figure description] Page 173.[end figure description]

and their obscurity, had taught lessons of taciturnity,
and it was, therefore, in the fulness of her heart
only, that she suffered her lips to speak.

“And wherefore is it” she demanded, “that Mr.
Hurdis takes such pains to bring the idiot daughter
of Ben Pickett into these secret places? Why do
these woods, which are so wild—so little beautiful,
and attractive—so far inferior to his own—why do
they tempt him to these long walks? And this poor
child, is it that he so pities her infirmity—which
every body should pity—that he seeks her for a constant
companion in these woods, where no eye may
watch over his steps, and no ear hear the language
which is uttered in her own? Explain to me this, I
pray you, Mr. Hurdis. Why is it that these woods are
so much more agreeable to you than your father's or
'Squire Easterby's, and why a gentleman, who
makes bold to love Mary Easterby, and who values
her sense and smartness, can be content with the
idle talk of an unhappy child like mine? Tell me
what it means, I intreat you, Mr. Hurdis; for in
truth—supposing that you mean rightly—it is all a
mystery to me.”

The very meekness of the woman's manner helped
to increase the annoyance of Hurdis. It was too
little offensive to find fault with; and yet the measured
tones of her voice had in them so much that
was bitter that he could not entirely conceal from

[figure description] Page 174.[end figure description]

her that he felt it. His reply was such as might
have been expected.

“Why, Mrs. Pickett, I meant no harm, to be
sure. As for the woods, they are quiet and pretty
enough for me; and though, it is true, that my own
or Mr. Easterby's are quite as pretty, yet that's no
reason, one should be confined only to them. I like
to ramble elsewhere by way of change, and to day,
you see, happening to see your daughter as I rambled,
I only jointed her and we walked together;
that's all.”

“And do you mean to say, Mr. Hurdis, that you
have never before joined Jane Pickett in these
walks?”

“To be sure not—no—”

“Ha!”

“Yes, that's to say, I don't make a practice of it.
I may have walked with her here once, or it may be.
twice before, Mrs. Pickett—”

“Ay, sir, twice, thrice, and a half dozen times, if
the truth is to be told,” exclaimed the woman vehemently.
“I have seen you, sir, thrice myself and
watched your footsteps, and heard your words—
words cunningly devised, sir, to work upon the
simple feelings of that poor ignorant, whose very
feebleness should commend her to the protection,
not the abuse, of a noble minded man. Deny it, sir,
if you dare. I tell you, here, in the presence of the

[figure description] Page 175.[end figure description]

eternal God, that I have heard and seen you walk
secretly in this wood with Jane Pickett more than
three several times—nay more, sir, you have enticed
her into it by various arts; and have abused her ignorance
by speaking to her in language unbecoming
in a gentleman to speak, and still more unbecoming
in a female to hear. I have seen you, and heard
you, sir, with my own eyes and ears; and that you
have not done worse, sir, is perhaps only owing to
her ignorance of your meaning.”

“You, at least, would have known better, Mrs.
Pickett,” replied Hurdis with a sneer—the discovery
of the woman being too obviously complete to leave
him any hope from evasion.

“Your sneer falls harmlessly upon my mind, Mr.
Hurdis—I am too poor, and too much of a mother,
sir, to be provoked by that. It only shows you to
me in a somewhat bolder point of view than I had
been accustomed to regard you. I knew well
enough your character, when I watched you in your
walks with my child, and heard the language which
you used in her ears—”

“Certainly a very commendable and honourable
employment, Mrs. Pickett. I give you credit for it.”

“Ay, sir, both proper and commendable when
employed as a precaution against those whose designs
are known to be improper, and whose character
is without honour. I well enough understand your

[figure description] Page 176.[end figure description]

meaning. It was scarcely honourable, you would
say, that I should place myself as a spy upon your
conduct, and become an eavesdropper to possess myself
of your counsels. These are fashions of opinion,
sir, which have no effect upon me. I am a mother,
and I was watching over the safety of a frail and
feeble child, who, God help her that made her so!
was too little able to take care of herself not to render
it needful that I should do so. It was a mother's
eye that watched—not you, sir, but her child—it
was a mother's ear that sought to know—not the
words which were spoken by John Hurdis, but all
words, no matter of whom, which were poured into
the ears of her child. I watched not you but her;
and learn from me now, sir, that you never whistled
her from our cabin that my cars caught not the signal
as readily as hers—she never stole forth at your
summons, but my feet as promptly followed hers.
Do you wonder now that I should know you as I
do? Ah, Mr. Hurdis, does it not shame you to the
heart to think that you have schemed so long with
all the arts of a cunning man for the ruin of a feeble
idiot scarcely sixteen years of age?”

“It's false!” exclaimed John Hurdis, hoarse with
passion; “I tell you, woman, 'tis false, what you say.
I had no such design.”

“'Tis true, before Heaven that hears us, Mr.
Hurdis; I say it is true,” replied the woman in

[figure description] Page 177.[end figure description]

moderate tones. “You may deny it as you please, sir,
but you can neither deceive Heaven nor me, and to
us your denial must be unavailing. I could not
mistake nor misunderstand your arts and language.
You have striven to teach Jane Hurdis an idea of
sin, and, perhaps, you have not succeeded in doing
so, only because nobody yet has been able to teach her
any idea—even one of virtue. But it was not only
her mind that you strove to inform. You have appealed
to the blood and to the passions of the child,
and but for the mother that watched over her, you
might have succeeded, at last, in your bad purposes.
Oh, John Hurdis, if Ben Pickett could only know,
what, for the sake of peace and to avoid bloodshed
I have kept to myself, he would have thrust his
knife into your throat long before this. I could have
stopped you in your pursuit of my child, by a word
to her father; for, low and poor as he is, and base as
you may think you have made him, he has pride
enough yet to avenge our dishonour. I have kept
back what I had to say to this moment, and now I
tell you and you, only, what I do know—it will be
for yourself to say whether Ben Pickett shall ever
know it.”

“Pshaw, woman, you talk nonsense: and but that
you are a woman, I could be very angry with you.
As for doing any thing improper with Jane Pickett,
I swear—”

[figure description] Page 178.[end figure description]

“No, do not swear; for if you do, John Hurdis,
if you dare swear that you had no such design, I
will swear that you belie yourself—that your oath
is false before Heaven, and that you are as black
hearted and perjured, as I hold you base and cowardly.
And if you did swear, of what use would
be your oath. Could you hope to make me believe
you after my own oath? Could you hope to deceive
Heaven! Who else is here to listen? Keep your
false oath for other witnesses, John Hurdis, who are
more blind and deaf than I am, and more easily, deceived
than the God who alone sees us now.”

“Mrs. Pickett, you are a very singular woman.
I don't know what to make of you.”

The manner of the woman had absolutely quelled
the base spirit of the man. When he spoke thus,
he literally knew not what he said.

“You shall know more of me, Mr. Hurdis, before
I have done,” was her reply. “My feelings
on the subject of my child, have almost made me
forget some other matters upon which I have sought
to speak with you. You questioned my child upon
the subject of a conversation between her father and
myself. She told you that we spoke of you.”

“Yes; I think I remember,” he said breathlessly,
and with feeble utterance.

“You do remember; you must,” said the woman.
“You were very anxious to get the truth from my

[figure description] Page 179.[end figure description]

child; you shall hear it all from me. You have sent
Ben Pickett upon your business.”

“He will not tell you that,” said Hurdis.

“Perhaps not; but I know it.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Dare you tell? No! And he dare not. The
husband may not show to his own wife, the business
upon which he goes. There is something wrong
in it, and it is your business.”

“It is not; he goes, if he goes at all, upon his
own, not mine. I do not employ him.”

“You do. Beware, John Hurdis; you are not half
so secure as you pretend, and perhaps, think yourself.
The eyes that watch the footsteps of a weak
and idiot child, will not be the less heedful of those
of a weak and erring husband. If Ben Pickett
goes to do wrong, he goes upon your business. If
wrong is done, and is traced to him, believe me—
for I swear it—I will perish in the attempt, but I
will trace it home to its projector and proprietor.
You are not, and you shall not be safe. I have my
suspicions.”

“What suspicions? I defy you to say I have any
thing to do with your husband.”

The boldness of John Hurdis was all assumed,
and the veil was readily seen through by the keen
sighted woman.

“I will confirm to your own ears the intelligence

[figure description] Page 180.[end figure description]

which you procured from my child. It was base
in me to follow and to watch over her safety—it
was not base in you to pick from her thoughtless
lips the secrets of her parents, and the private conversation
of her household. I will not ask you to
define the distinction between the two. She told
you the truth. I suspected that you were using Ben
Pickett to do the villany which you had the soul
to conceive, but not to execute. I know some villanies
on which you have before employed him.”

“What villanies mean you?” he demanded anxiously.

“No matter now—I may find them of more use
to me some future day than now. I will tell you
now what were my fears—my suspicions—when
you came to our cabin the last night and carried
Ben Pickett with you into the woods—”

“You followed us? You heard—you listened to
what was said between us?” was the hurried speech
of Hurdis, his apprehensions denoted in his tremulous
and broken utterance—in the startling glare of
his eyes, and the universal pallor of his whole countenance.
A smile of scorn played upon the lips of
the woman—she felt her superiority. She spoke,
after a moment's pause, during which the scorn of
her face changed into sorrow.

“Your cheek betrays you, John Hurdis, and confirms
my worst fears. I would that you had been

[figure description] Page 181.[end figure description]

more bold. I would have given much to have seen
you more indifferent to my answer. Could you
defy me now, as you did but a little while ago,
I should sleep much easier to night. But now I
tremble quite as much as you. I feel that all my
doubts are true. I would have forgiven you your
meditated wrong to my child could you have looked
and spoken differently.”

“God of Heaven, woman,” exclaimed John Hurdis,
with a feeling of desperation in his voice and
manner—“what is it that you mean? Speak out and
tell me all—say the worst—what is it that you know—
what is it you believe? Did you or did you not
follow us last night? Did you hear my conference
with your husband?”

“I did not!”

Hurdis was relieved by the answer. He breathed
freely once more, as he replied—

“Ha! say no more then—I do not care to hear
you now. I have had wind and fury enough.”

“You must hear me. I will tell you now what
I believe.”

“I will not hear you. Let me go. I have heard
enough. What is your belief to me?”

He would have passed her, but she caught his
arm.

“You shall—but for one moment.”

He paused, and like an impatient steed beneath

[figure description] Page 182.[end figure description]

a curb which chafes him, and from which he cannot
break away, John Hurdis turned in her grasp, revolving
upon the same ground while she spoke, and
striving not to hear the language which yet forced
itself upon his senses.

“I believe, John Hurdis, that you have sent my
husband to do some violence. He denies it, and
I have striven to believe him, but I cannot. Since
he has left me, I find my suspicions return; and
they take a certain shape to my mind, the more I
think of them. I believe that you have sent him
against your own brother whom you both hate and
fear—”

“Woman—you lie!”

He broke away from her grasp, but lingered.

“I will not call you man, John Hurdis—but I
will not think unkindly of you, if it be as you say,
that I lie. God grant that my fears be false. But
believing what I say—that you have despatched
my husband to do a crime which you dare not do
yourself, I tell you that if it be done—”

“He will be the criminal!” said Hurdis, in low
but emphatic tones as he turned from her. “He
will be the criminal, and if detected—if, as you
think, he has gone to commit crime, and such a
crime—the gallows, woman, will be the penalty,
and it may be that your hand will guide him to it.”

[figure description] Page 183.[end figure description]

The woman shrank back and shivered; but only
for an instant. Recovering she advanced—

“Not my hand, John Hurdis, but yours, if any.
But let that day come, no matter whose hand shall
guide Ben Pickett to such a doom, I tell you John
Hurdis, he shall have company. You are rich, John
Hurdis, and I am poor; but know from me that
there is energy and resolution enough, in this
withered bosom, to follow you in all your secret
machinations, to trace your steps in any forests, and
to bring you to the same punishment, or a worse,
than that which you bring on him. I am poor and
old—men scorn me, and my own sex turns away,
and, sickening at my poverty, forget for a while that
they are human, in ceasing to believe me so. But
the very scorn of mankind will strengthen me; and
when I am alone—when the weak man whom you
entice with your money to do the deed from which
you shrink, becomes your victim—beware of me;
for so surely as there is a God in heaven, he will
help me to find the evidence which shall bring you
to punishment on earth.”

“The woman is a fiend—a very devil!” cried
Hurdis as he rushed from the strong and resolute
spirit before him. Her tall form was lifted beyond
her ordinary height as she spoke, and he shrank
from the intense fire that shot through her long gray
eye-brows. “I would sooner face the devil,” he

[figure description] Page 184.[end figure description]

muttered as he fled. “There's something speaks in
her that I fear! Curse the chance, but it is terrible
to have such an enemy, and to feel that one is doing
wrong.”

He looked back but once ere he left the forest,
and her eyes were still fixed upon him. He ventured
no second glance; but, annoyed with a thousand
apprehensions, to which the interview had given
existence, he hurried homeward like one pursued,
starting at every sound in the woods, though it were
only the falling of a leaf in the sudden gust of November.

CHAPTER XVI.

You must eat men. Yet thanks, I must you con
That you are thieves professed; that you work not
In holier shapes; for there is boundless theft
In limited professions. Rascal thieves,
Here's gold.
Timon of Athens.

So I leave you
To the protection of the prosperous gods,
As thieves to keepers.
I bid.

[figure description] Page 185.[end figure description]

In the meanwhile, Ben Pickett, moved with no
such considerations as those which touched his wife,
set forth in pursuit of his destined victim. His
footsteps I may not pursue at present. It will be
enough that I detail my own progress. The reader
has already seen that I arrived safely at Tuscaloosa.
How I came to escape him so far, I cannot say;
since, allowing that he pursued me with even moderate
avidity, he must have overtaken me if he had
so purposed it. But, it is believed, that he mistook
my route. He believed that I had struck directly
for the river, on my nearest path to Chochuma. He
had no knowledge of my companion's business in
Tuscaloosa, and John Hurdis, being equally ignorant

[figure description] Page 186.[end figure description]

on that subject, could not counsel him. Whatever
may have been the cause of my escape so far, from
a foe whose aim was certain, and who had overcome
all scruples of policy or conscience—if, indeed, he
ever held them—I had reason for congratulating
myself upon my own good fortune, which had
availed for my protection against his murderous
purpose. But, conscious of no evil then, and wholly
ignorant of the danger I had thus escaped, I gave
myself no concern against the future; and with all
the buoyant recklessness of youth, pleased with
novelty, and with faces turned for a new world, my
companion and myself entered our strange lodgings
in Tuscaloosa, with feelings of satisfaction amounting
to enthusiasm. The town was little more than
hewn out of the woods. Piles of brick and timber
crowded the main, indeed, the only street of the
place, and denoted the rawness and poverty of the
region in all things which could please the eye, and
minister to the taste of the traveller. But it had
other resources in my sight. The very incompleteness
and rude want of finish, indicated the fermenting
character of life. The stagnation of the forests
was disturbed. The green and sluggish waters of
its inactivity were drained off into new channels of
enterprise and effort. Life had opened upon it; its
veins were filling fast with the life blood of human
greatness; active and sleepless endeavours—and a

[figure description] Page 187.[end figure description]

warm sun seemed pouring down its rays for the
first time upon the cold and covered bosom of its
swamps and caverns. To the young, it matters not
the roughness and the storm. Enthusiasm loves
the encounter with biting winds, and active opposition;
but there is death in inaction—death in the
sluggish torpor of the old community, where ancient
drones, like the old man of the sea on the shoulders
of Sinbad, keep down the choice spirit of a country,
and chill and palsy all its energies. There was
more meaning in the vote of the countryman who
ostracised Aristides, because he hated to hear him
continually called “the Just,” than is altogether
visible to the understanding. The customary names
of a country are very apt to become its tyrants.

Our lodging house was poor enough, but by no
means wanting in pretension. You would vainly
look for it now in Tuscaloosa. It has given way to
more spacious and better conducted establishments.
When we arrived, it was filled to overflowing, and,
much against our will, we were assigned a chamber
in common with two other persons, who were
strangers to us. To this arrangement we vainly opposed
all manner of objections. We were compelled
to submit. Our landlord was a turbulent sort of
savage, who bore down all opposition, and held to
his laws, which were not often consistent with one
another, with as hardy a tenacity as did the Medes

[figure description] Page 188.[end figure description]

and Persians. The long and short of it was that we
must share our chamber with two other men, or seek
lodgings elsewhere. This, in a strange town where
no other tavern was yet dreamed of, was little else
than a downright declaration that we might “go to
the d—l and shake ourselves,” and with whatever
grace given, we were compelled to take the accommodations
as they were accorded to us. We insisted
on separate beds, however, and here we gained our
point.

“Aye, you may have two a-piece,” was the cold
and ready answer; “one for each leg.”

Our objections to a chamber in connection with
strangers, did us no service in that wild community;
and the rough adventurers about, seemed to hold us in
no fair esteem on the strength of them. But they saw
that we were able to hold our own, and that, in our
controversy with the landlord, though we had been
compelled to yield our point, we had yet given him
quite as good as he sent; and so, they suffered their
contempt to escape in winks to each other, and muttered
sentences, which, as we only saw and heard them
indistinctly, we were wise enough to take no heed
of. Not that we did not feel in the humour to do
so. My comrade fidgetted more than once with his
heavy headed whip handle, and my own hand felt
monstrous disposed to tap the landlord on his
crown; but it was too obviously our policy to

[figure description] Page 189.[end figure description]

forbear, and we took ourselves off to our chamber as
soon as we could beat a retreat gracefully.

Well might our landlord have given us two or
four beds each. There were no less than twelve in
the one apartment which had been assigned us. We
chose our two, getting them as nigh each other as
possible, and having put our saddle bags in a corner
behind them, and got our dirks and pistols in readiness,
some on the table and some under our pillows,
we prepared to get to bed as fast as possible. Before
we had entirely undressed, however, our two other
occupants of the chamber appeared, one of whom we
remembered to have seen in the bar-room below, at
the time of our discussion with the landlord. They
were, neither of them, calculated to impress me
favourably. They were evidently too fond of their
personal appearance to please one who was rather
apt to be studiless of his. They were dandies—a
sort of New York dandies: men with long coats
and steeple crowned hats, great breast-pins, thick
gold chains, and a big bunch of seals hanging at
at their hips. “What the deuce!” thought I to myself,
“brings such people into this country. Such
gewgaws are not only in bad taste any where, but
nowhere in such bad taste as in a wild and poor
country such as ours. Of course, they cannot be
gentlemen; that sort of ostentation is totally incompatible
with gentility.” Their first overtures did not

[figure description] Page 190.[end figure description]

impress me more favourably towards them. They
were disposed to be familiar at the start. There
was an assumed composure, a laborious ease about
them, which showed them to be practising a part.
There is no difficulty in discovering whether a man
has been bred a gentleman or not. There is no acquiring
gentility at a late day, and but few, not
habituated to it from the first, can ever, by any art,
study, or endeavour, acquire, in a subsequent day,
those nice details of manners, that exquisite consideration
of the claims and peculiarities of those in
their neighbourhood, which early education alone
can certainly give. Our chamber companions evidently
strove at self complacency. There was a desperate
ostentation of sang froid, a most lavish freedom
of air about them, which made their familiarity
obtrusiveness, and their ease, swagger. A glance
told me what they were, so far as manners went;
and, I never believed in the sympathy between bad
manners and proper morals. They may exist together.
There's some such possibility; yet I never
saw them united. A man with bad manners may
not steal, nor lie, but he cannot be amiable; he cannot
often be just; he will be tyrannical if you suffer
him, and the cloven hoof of the beast must appear,
though it makes its exhibition on a Brussels carpeting.

These fellows had a good many questions to ask
us, and a good many remarks to make, before we

[figure description] Page 191.[end figure description]

got to sleep that night. Nor was this very much
amiss. The custom of the country is to ask questions,
and to ask them with directness. There the
southwest differs from the eastern country. The
Yankee obtains his knowledge by circumlocution;
and his modes of getting it, are as ingeniously indirect,
as the cow-paths of Boston. He proceeds as
if he thought it impertinent to gratify his desire, or—
and perhaps this is the better reason—as if he were
conscious of motives for his curiosity, other than
those which he acknowledges. The southwestern
man, living remotely from the great cities, and anxious
for intelligence of regions of which he has little
personal acquaintance, taxes, in plain terms, the resources
of every stranger whom he meets. He is
quite as willing to answer, as to ask, and this readiness
acquits him, or should acquit him, of any charge
of rudeness. We found no fault with the curiosity
of our companions, but I so little relished their manners,
as to forbear questioning them in return. Carrington
was less scrupulous, however—he made
sundry inquiries to which he received unsatisfactory
replies, and towards midnight, I was pleased to find
that the chattering was fairly over.

We slept without interruption, and awakened before
the strangers. It was broad day light, and,
hastening our toilets, we descended to the breakfast
room. There we were soon followed by the two,

[figure description] Page 192.[end figure description]

and my observation by day, rather confirmed my
impressions of the preceding night. They were
quite too nice in their deportment to be wise—they
found fault with the arrangements of the table, their
breakfast did not suit them—the eggs were too
much or too little done, and they turned up their
noses at the coffee with exquisite distaste. The
landlord reddened, but bore it with tolerable patience
for a republican; and the matter passed off without a
squall, though I momently looked for one. Little
things are apt to annoy little people; and I have
usually found those persons most apt to be dissatisfied
with the world, whose beginnings in it have
been most mean and contemptible. The whole conduct
of the strangers increased my reserve towards
them.

To us, however, they were civil enough. Their
policy was in it. They spoke to us as if we were
not merely friends but bed-fellows; and, in a style
of gentility exceedingly new to us, one of them put
his arm about the neck of my friend. I almost expected
to see him knocked down; for, with all his
gentleness of mood, Carrington was a very devil
when his blood was up, and hated every sort of impertinence—
but whether he thought it wiser to forbear
in a strange place, or was curious to see how
far the fellow would go, he said nothing, but smiled
patiently till the speech which accompanied the

[figure description] Page 193.[end figure description]

embrace was fairly over, and then quietly withdrew
from its affectionate control.

The day was rainy and squally—to such a degree
that we could not go out. How to amuse ourselves
was a question not so easily answered in a strange
country tavern where we had no books, and no society.
After breakfast we returned to our apartment,
and threw ourselves upon the beds. To talk
of home, and the two maidens, whom we had left
under such differing circumstances, was our only
alternative; and thus employed, our two stranger
companions came in. Their excuse for the intrusion
was the weather, and as their rights to the chamber
were equal to ours, we had nothing to say against
it. Still I was disquieted and almost angry. I
spoke very distantly and coldly in reply to their
speeches, and they quickly saw that I was disposed
to keep them at arm's length. But my desire, with
such persons, was not of so easy attainment. The
reserve of a gentleman is not apt to be respected,
even if seen, by those who have never yet learned
the first lessons of gentility: and do what I would,
I still found that they were uttering propositions in
my ears which I was necessarily obliged to answer,
or acknowledge. In this, they were tacitly assisted
by my friend. Carrington, whose disposition was
far more accessible than mine, chatted with them
freely, and what was worse, told them very nearly

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all of his purposes and projects. They too were
seeking land—they were speculators from New
York—agents for great Land Companies—such as
spring up daily in that city, and flood the country
with a nominal capital, that changes like magic gold,
into worthless paper every five years or less. They
talked of thousands, and hundreds of thousands, with
the glibness of men who had handled nothing else
from infancy; and never was imagination more
thoroughly taken prisoner than was that of Carrington.
He fairly gasped while listening to them.
Their marvellous resources confounded him. With
three thousand dollars and thirty negroes, he had
considered himself no small capitalist; but now, he
began to feel really humble, and I laughed aloud as
I beheld the effects of his consternation upon him.
Conversation lagged at length; even those wondrous
details of the agents of the great New York company
tired the hearers and, it would seem, the
speakers too; for they came to a pause. The mind
cannot bear too much glitter any more than the eye.
They now talked together, and one of them at
length produced cards from his trunk.

“Will you play, gentlemen?” they asked civilly.

“I'm obliged to you,” was my reply in freezing
tones, “but I would rather not.”

I was answered, greatly to my mortification, by
Carrington.

[figure description] Page 195.[end figure description]

“And why not, Dick? You play well, and I know
you like it.”

This was forcing upon me an avowal of my dislike
to our would-be acquaintance which I would
have preferred to avoid. But as it was, I resolved
upon my course.

“You know I never like to play among strangers,
William!”

“Pshaw, my dear fellow—what of that? come,
take a hand—we're here in a place we know nothing
about, and where nobody knows us. It's monstrous
dull, and if we don't play, we may as well
drown.”

“Excuse me, William.”

“Can't, Dick—can't think of it,” was his reply.

“You must take a hand or we can't play. Whist
is my only game, you know, and there's but three
of us without you.”

“Take Dummy!” was my answer.

“What, without knowing how to value him—Oh,
no! Besides, I can't play that game well.”

You may fight or eat, or speak, or travel with a
man, without making yourself his companion—but
you can't play with him without incurring his intimacy.
Now, I was somewhat prejudiced against these
strangers, and had so far studiously avoided their
familiarity. To play with them was to make my
former labour in vain, as well as to invite the

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consequences which I had been so desirous to avert.
But to utter these reasons aloud was to challenge
them to the bull ring, and there was no wisdom in
that. My thoughtless friend urged the matter with
a zeal no less imprudent in his place than it was
irksome in mine. He would hear no excuses, and
appealed to my courtesy against my principle,
alleging the utter impossibility of their being able
to find the desired amusement without my help.
Not to seem churlish I at length gave way. Bitterly
do I reproach myself that I did so. But how was
I then—in my boyhood as it were—to anticipate
such consequences from so seemingly small a source.
But in morals, no departure from principles is small.
All principles are significant—are essential—in the
formation of truth; and the neglect or omission of
the smallest among them is not one evil merely, or
one error—but a thousand—it is the parent of a
thousand, each, in its turn, endowed with a frightful
fecundity more productive than the plagues of
Egypt—more enduring, and not less hideous and
frightful. Take care of small principles, if you
would preserve great truths sacred.

As I have said, I suffered myself—it matters not
with what motives or feeling—to be persuaded by
my friend to play with him and the strangers. I
took my seat opposite to Carrington. The strangers
played together. Whist was the game—a game we

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both delighted in, and which we both played with
tolerable skill. The cards were thrown upon the
table, and we drew for the deal.

“What do you bet?” said one of the strangers addressing
me. At the same moment his companion
addressed a like inquiry to my partner.

“Nothing—I never bet,” was my reply.

“A Mexican,” said Carrington throwing the coin
upon the table. My opponent expressed his disappointment
at my refusal.

“There's no fun in playing unless you bet.”

“You mistake,” was my reply. “I find an interest
in the game which no risk of money could
stimulate. I do not bet; it is a resolution.”

My manner was such as to forbid any farther
prosecution of his object. He was compelled to
content himself as he might; and drawing for the
deal, it fell to him. He took the cards, and to my
surprise, proceeded to shuffle them after a fashion
which I had been always taught to regard as dishonourable.
He would draw single cards alternately
from top and bottom and bring them together; and,
in this way, as I well knew, would throw all the
trump cards into the hands of himself and partner.
I did not scruple to oppose this mode of shuffling.

“The effect will be,” I told him, “to bring the
trumps into your own and partner's hands. I have
seen the trick before. It is a trick, and that is

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enough to make it objectionable. I have no pleasure
in playing a game with all the cards against me.”

He denied the certainty of the result which I
predicted, and persisted in finishing as he had begun.
I would have risen from the table but my friend's
eyes appealed to me to stay. He was anxious to
play, and quite too fond of the game, and perhaps
too dull where he was, to heed or insist upon any
little improprieties. The result was as I predicted.
There was but a single trump between myself and
partner.

“You see,” I exclaimed as the hand was finished,
“such dealing is unfair.”

“No—I see not—It so happens, it is true, but it
is not unfair,” was the reply of the dealer.

“Fair or not,” I answered, “it matters not. If
this mode of shuffling has the effect of throwing the
good cards invariably into one hand, it produces
such a disparity between the parties as takes entirely
from the pleasure in the game. There is no
game, indeed, when the force is purely on the one
side.”

“But such is not invariably the result.”

Words were wasted upon them. I saw then
what they were. Gentlemen disdain the advantage,
even when fairly obtained, which renders intelligence,
skill, memory and reflection—indeed, all
qualities of mind—entirely useless. As players, our

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opponents had no skill—like gamblers usually they
relied on trick for success; and strove to obtain, by
miserable stratagem, what other men seek from
thought and honest endeavour. I would have risen
from the table as these thoughts passed through my
mind. We had lost the game, and I had had enough
of them and it—But miend entreated me.

“What matters one game?” he said. “It is our
turn now. We shall do better.”

The stake was removed by his opponent, and,
while I shuffled the cards, he was required to renew
his bet. In doing so, by a singular lapse of thought,
he drew from a side pocket in his bosom, the large
roll of money with which he travelled, forgetting
the small purse which he had prepared for his travelling
expenses. He was conscious, when too
late, of his error. He hurried it back to its
place of concealment, and drew forth the purse;
but in the one moment which he employed in
doing so, I could see that the eyes of our companions
had caught sight of the treasure. It
may have been fancy in me, the result of my suspicious
disposition, but I thought that their eyes
sparkled as they beheld it, and there was an instant
interchange of glances between them. Hurriedly
I shuffled through, and with an agitation which I
could not well conceal, I dealt out the cards. There
was a general and somewhat unwonted silence

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around the table. We all seemed to be conscious
of thoughts, and feelings, which needed to be concealed.
The cheeks of my companion were red; but
he laughed and played. His first play was an error.
I fixed my eye upon one of the strangers and his
glance fell bencath it. There was a guilty thought
busy in his bosom. Scarcely a word was spoken—
none unnecessarily—while that hand lasted. But
when it came to the turn of one of our opponents to
deal, and when I found him shuffling as before, I
grew indignant. I protested. He insisted upon his
right to shuffle as he pleased—a right which I denied.
He would not yield the point, and I left
the table. The fellow would have put on airs, and
actually thought to bully me. He used some big
words, and rising at the same time approached me.

“Sir, your conduct—”

I stopped him half way, and in his speech—

“Is insulting you would say.”

“I do, sir; very insulting, sir, very.”

“Be it so. I cannot help it. I will play with
no man who employs a mode of shuffling which
puts all the trump cards into his own and partner's
hands. I do not wish to play with you, any how,
sir; and very much regret that the persuasions of
my friend made me yield against my better judgment.
My rule is never to play with strangers, and
your game has confirmed me in my opinion of its

[figure description] Page 201.[end figure description]

propriety. I shall take care never to depart from
it in future.”

“Sir, you don't mean to impute any thing to my
honour. If you do, sir—”

My reply to this swagger was anticipated by
William, who had not before spoken, but now stood
between us.

“And what if he did, eh?”

“Why, sir—but I was not speaking to you, sir,”
said the fellow.

“Ay, I know that, but I'm speaking to you.
What if he did doubt your honour, and what if I
doubt it, eh?”

“Why then, sir, if you did—” The fellow
paused. He was a mere bully, and looked round to
his companion who still kept a quiet seat at the
table.

“Pshaw!” exclaimed William, in the most contemptuous
manner.

“You are mistaken in your men, my good fellow.
Take up your Mexican, and thank your stars you
have got it so easily. Shut up now and be quiet.
It lies upon the table.” The fellow obeyed.

“You won't play any longer?” he demanded.

“No,” was my reply. “To play with you, is
to make you, and declare you, our friends. We
will fight with you, if you please, but not play with
you!”

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To this proposition the answer was slow. We
were, at least, possessors of the ground. But our
triumph was a monstrous small one, and we paid for
it. The annoyance of the whole scene was excessive
to me. Carrington did not so much feel it.
He was a careless, buoyant, good sort of creature,
having none of my suspicion, and little of that morbid
pride which boiled in me. He laughed at the
fellows and the whole affair, when I was most disposed
to groan over it, and to curse them. I could
only bring his countenance to a grave expression,
when I reminded him of his imprudence in taking
out his roll of money.

“Ay, that was cursed careless,” he replied; “but
there's no helping it now—I must only keep my
wits about me next time; and if harm comes from it
keep a stiff lip, and a stout heart, and be ready to
meet it.”

William Carrington was too brave a fellow to
think long of danger, and he went to bed that night
with as light a heart as if he had not a sixpence in
the world.

CHAPTER XVII.

I heard myself proclaim'd;
And, by the happy hollow of a tree,
Escap'd the hunt. No port is free; no place,
That guard and most unusual vigilance
Does not attend my taking. While I may 'scape,
I will preserve myself.
King Lear.

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“The next day opened bright and beautiful, and
we prepared to resume our journey. Our fellow
chamberers had not shown themselves to us since
our rupture; they had not slept that night at the
tavern. Their absence gave us but little concern
at the time, though we discovered afterwards that it
had no little influence upon our movements. I have
already said that my companion held a claim upon a
man in the neighbourhood of Tuscaloosa, for some
hundred and thirty dollars, the price of a mule
which he had sold to him during the previous season.
To collect this debt had been the only motive for
carrying us so far from our direct route, which
had been to Chochuma. The man's name was
Matthew Webber; of his character and condition
we knew nothing, save that he was a small farmer

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supposed to be doing well. That he had not paid
the money before, when due, was rather an unfavourable
symptom; but of the ultimate payment of
it William had not the slightest doubt. He was
secured by the indorsed promise of a Col. Grafton,
a gentleman of some wealth, who planted about fourteen
miles from Tuscaloosa, in the direction of Columbus,
but fully eleven miles from the road. There
was a short cut to his house, and we proposed to
ride thither and obtain directions for finding the
debtor. He had once been Grafton's overseer and
the latter knew all about him. Our landlord, who
had grown civil enough to us, and who was really a
very good sort of body when taken in the grain,
freely gave us proper instructions for finding our
road by the short cut. Of Grafton he spoke with
kindness and respect, but I could not help observing,
when we inquired after Webber, that he
evaded inquiry, and when repeated, shook his head
and turned away to other customers. He evidently
knew enough to think unfavourably, and his glance
when he spoke of the man was uneasy and suspicious.
Finding other questions unproductive, we had our
horses brought forth, paid our charges, and prepared
to mount. Our feet were already in the stirrups,
when the landlord followed us, saying abruptly, but
in a low tone, as he reached the spot where we
stood—

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