Title: The Haunted Homestead - A Novel
Author: Southworth, Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte, 1819-1899
Language: English
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The Haunted Homestead

_A NOVEL_

BY MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH

Author of "Ishmael," "Retribution," "The Bridal Eve," "A Noble Lord,"
"The Deserted Wife," "Unknown," "The Lady of the Isle," "The Bride's
Fate," "Victor's Triumph," "The Wife's Victory," etc.

CHICAGO
M. A. DONOHUE & CO.



THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD.

    A residence for woman, child, or man,
    A dwelling-place--and yet no habitation;
    A house, but under some prodigious ban
    Of excommunication.--HOOD.


In childhood I always had a fearless faith in ghosts. I desired before
all sights to see them, and threw myself in the way of meeting them
whenever and wherever there seemed the slightest possibility of so
doing. Whenever there were mysterious sounds heard in the night, I
listened with breathless interest, arose from the bed in silent
eagerness, and went stealing on tiptoe through the dark house in the
hopes of meeting the ghosts. Once I met a severe blow on the nose from
the sharp edge of an open door, and once a tom cat, who made one spring
from the top of the pantry shelves upon my head, and another thence
through a broken window pane. I would have liked to fancy him a ghostly
cat, only I knew him too well for our own "Tom," the cunningest thief
that ever run on four feet. Another time, perambulating through the
house at midnight, I surprised a burglar, who, mistaking me in the
darkness for the master of the house, the watch, or an ambush, jumped
straight over my head (or past me, I hardly knew which in my
astonishment), and made his escape at the back door. But I must say that
I never met a ghost, or even a "vestige" of a ghost until--but I think I
will begin at the beginning and tell you the whole story.

At the Newton Academy, where I was educated, among two hundred fellow
pupils, I had but one bosom friend and confidante--quite enough in all
discretion for one individual, though you are aware that most young
ladies have at least a dozen. My female Pythias was Mathilde Legare, a
beautiful and warm-hearted Creole from New Orleans. Orestes and Pylades,
Castor and Pollux, the Siamese twins, are but faint illustrations of the
closeness of our friendship. To say that we were inseparable is nothing
to the fact--we were united, blended, consolidated; and the one "angel"
of Swedenborg formed of two congenial spirits, is the only sufficiently
expressive example of our union of hearts. It was of little use for me
to study a lesson, for though I had never looked at it, if Mathilde only
committed hers to memory I was sure, in some occult manner, to have mine
"at my fingers' ends"--or, on the other hand, if I studied, Mathilde
might play--she would recite her task just as well. Moreover, if I told
a story Mathilde would swear to it, and _vice versa_. In short, we two
were in all cases "too many" for all the rest of the school--principal,
assistant, masters and pupils--and we afforded a striking illustration
of the truth of Robert Browning's lines--though I suppose the latter
alluded to "a true marriage," and not a schoolgirl friendship:

    "If any two creatures grow into one
    They should do more than the world has done,
    By each apart ever so weak,
    Yet vainly thro' the world should you seek,
    For the knowledge and the might,
    Which in such union grew their right."

As Mathilde was rich and I was comparatively poor, this friendship
brought me many advantages, among which was the privilege of annual
travel and change of scene. About the first of every July, Mathilde's
father and mother would leave their sugar plantation in Louisiana, and
travel northward. They usually arrived at the Newton Academy about the
tenth of the month, in time to be present at the annual examination and
exhibition of the pupils. Upon these occasions, Mathilde, who possessed
quickness and vivacity, rather than depth or strength of mind, generally
achieved a brilliant success; though she often told me that her triumph
in being first at these milestones on the road to fame, was nothing more
than the success of the swift-footed, careless hare over the slow and
painstaking tortoise, who would win the race at the goal.

However this might be, Mr. and Mrs. Legare were equally proud of their
daughter's genius and beauty, and to reward her "industry and
application," as they called it, they took her each year to spend the
long vacation of July and August, with them, in making a tour of the
Virginia Springs, which are the most frequented by Southerners, for the
convenience of bringing their servants with them.

Upon one occasion, however--that of the vacation preceding the last year
of Mathilde's residence at school--Mr. Legare determined to vary their
usual route by going to the Northern watering places of Saratoga and
Ballstown. And, as usual, I, with the consent of my guardians,
accompanied the party as their invited guest.

We arrived at Saratoga at the very height of the season. In all, I
suppose that there might have been several thousand visitors at the
springs. The United States Hotel, at which we stopped, was uncomfortably
crowded. And, though Mr. Legare grumbled in a very old-gentlemanly way,
and Mrs. Legare wished herself at home again, Mathilde and I enjoyed the
crowd for the crowd's sake, and experienced the truth of the popular
adage of "the more the merrier."

At a place like that, even in the ballroom, "distinction" was almost as
impossible as it is said to be in London, where, now that the "duke" is
dead, no one is any one. Scarcely anybody was anybody at Saratoga that
season. Many a village beauty, the toast of her own little circle, and
many a city belle, the queen of her own coterie, who went thither,
reasonably expecting to make a "sensation," found herself and her claims
to notice lost in a brilliant multitude all more or less expectant or
disappointed.

I thought Mathilde, with her tall and beautifully rounded form, stately
head, pure olive complexion, shaded by jet-black ringlets, and lighted
up by laughing black eyes, bridged over with arch and flexible black
eyebrows--would attract some attention.

Not a bit of it! Heiress and beauty, as she was, Mathilde Legare was
merely one in the crowd. There were hundreds with equal or greater
claims to distinction. And so our beautiful Mathilde was not enthroned.
Of course she soon attracted around her a circle of old and new
acquaintances and had from them a due share of attention.

Among the first of these new acquaintances was a young gentleman of the
name of Howard. His introduction to our party, without being romantic,
was certainly marked by singularity. It occurred the third day after our
arrival, at one of the weekly balls at the United States. It happened to
be a fine, cool evening, and the assembly upon the occasion was
unusually large. The saloon was quite crowded, leaving but little room
for the motions of the dancers.

Mathilde was looking very beautiful that night. She wore a dress with a
three-fold skirt of very fine, transparent thale over rose-colored silk,
and which with every motion floated around her graceful form with a
mistlike softness and lightness; a bertha and falls of the finest lace
veiled her rounded arms and neck. She wore no jewels, but a wreath of
rich white heliotrope crowned her jetty ringlets, and a bouquet of the
same odoriferous flowers employed her slender fingers.

Yes! she was looking very lovely. Nevertheless, Mathilde, as well as
myself, seemed destined to adorn the sofa as a "wall flower" all the
evening, for set after set formed until every one was complete. The
music struck up and the dancing commenced, and still no one came near
us, nor did we even so much as see, within the range of our vision, one
single person that we knew.

Mathilde voted this "the very stupidest ball" she was ever at, and hoped
her papa would never come to Saratoga again.

I, for my part, fell into the study of faces, and through them into the
study of character, and through that into dreaming.

Presently a head--start not gentle reader, there was a living body
attached to it--attracted my particular attention. It was not because it
was above every other head present--though had not this been the case I
should not at that distance have seen it--nor was it because it was a
very handsome one--for there were others much handsomer; but it was a
very remarkable, characteristic, individual sort of head--a monarchical
head, with a forehead that in its commanding height and breadth seemed
the natural throne of intellectual sovereignty, with a strongly and
clearly-marked nose and mouth, with eyes full of calm power--that
surveyed the multitude below with the quiet interest of a king
inspecting his army on some festive parade day.

"_Magnus Apollo!_" were the words that sprang alive to my lips as I laid
my hand upon the soft, white arm of Mathilde and called her attention to
this stranger.

"Hush! he is looking this way," said my companion, blushing and casting
down her eyes.

I knew very well, if he was "looking this way," at whom he must be
looking, and so, did not feel Mathilde's embarrassment in again raising
my eyes to the "_Magnus Apollo_." When I did so I perceived that he was
in conversation with another gentleman, whom I recognized as Mr. ----,
the proprietor of the house. I saw Mr. ---- bow and precede the
stranger, conducting him to the presence of Mr. Legare, to whom he
immediately introduced him. I saw Mr. Legare and the stranger
approaching our quarter of the room, and I thought I understood it all.

I was not mistaken.

Mr. Legare presented the stranger as "Mr. Howard, of Boston," first to
me, whom he favored with a bow, but certainly not with a single glance,
and next to Mathilde, whom he almost immediately petitioned to become
his partner in the next quadrille.

Miss Legare bowed a gracious acceptance to his suit.

The presentation over, Mr. Legare went to rejoin his wife, who could not
endure to be left alone.

Mr. Howard remained standing before us, and soon, by the brilliancy,
variety and interest of his conversation, attracted and engaged both his
hearers. He was certainly a man of the most distinguished and commanding
presence that I had ever seen, and one for whom every hour's
acquaintance increased our esteem.

When the new quadrille formed, with a graceful bow he extended his hand
to Mathilde and led her to the head of one of the sets. He danced as
well as he conversed. Why should I run into detail? Mathilde's fancy was
captivated. They finished the quadrille, and for the remainder of the
evening Mr. Howard's attentions, though very devoted, were marked by too
much delicacy and good taste to attract notice from any one except her
to whom they were directed.

The impression made upon Mathilde was as yet not sufficiently deep to
render her reserved with me upon this subject. Consequently when the
ball was over, and we had reached our double-bedded chamber, my friend
broke forth in eager exclamations.

"Did you ever see such a fine-looking person, Agnes? And then his
conversation! how brilliant! and how varied! how much he must have
traveled! and then how well he dances!"

"Pshaw!" said I. "'Oh, what a fall was there,' 'from the sublime to the
ridiculous!'"

"Yes, but he does dance well! and let me tell you that very few men can
do so! he strikes the nice balance between _le grand_ and _la frivole_
in his manner! And then his name--Howard--_la crême de la crême_ of
aristocratic names. Don't you remember _Le Lion blanc_ of the house of
Howard?"

And so she rattled on, talking incessantly of the new acquaintance until
we went to bed, and I went to sleep leaving her still talking.

The next morning, I noticed that Mathilde spent more than usual time and
attention upon her toilette. She looked very pretty--when did she
not?--in her embroidered cambric morning dress, with no ornament but her
jetty ringlets flowing down each side her freshly-blooming face.

When we went downstairs, there was Mr. Howard waiting in the hall, to
offer Mathilde his arm to the breakfast table.

Afterward at the ladies bowling-alley who but Mr. Howard stood at
Mathilde's elbow to hand the balls? Who took her in to dinner? Who made
a horseblock of his knee and a stepping-stone of the palm of his hand
to lift Mathilde into her saddle? Who attended her in her afternoon
ride? In her evening walk? In the duet with the piano accompaniment at
night?

Howard--still Howard!

Until after several weeks of this association, at last papa opened his
eyes and inquired first of himself and next of his host:

"Who is this Mr. Howard, who is paying such very particular attention to
my daughter?"

"Mr. Howard, sir; Mr. Howard is a very talented young mechanic of
Boston," answered the proprietor.

"A--what?" questioned the astonished old gentleman.

"A very accomplished young machinist, and mathematical instrument maker,
sir, who has realized quite a handsome fortune by his patented
improvement in----"

"The foul fiend!" exclaimed the old aristocrat, throwing up his hands in
consternation, as he trotted off.

His daughter talking, dancing, riding, flirting with a mechanic! Oh!
horror, horror, horror!

The result of this was, that after Mr. Legare's perturbed feelings had
become somewhat calmed he called for his bill, settled it, took four
places in the morning coach, ordered his servants to pack up, and the
next day set out for the South.

He was very much disturbed; Mrs. Legare said nothing, but poor Mathilde
was miserable, having been made to feel that she had unwittingly brought
discredit upon herself and all her family.

Mr. Legare left Mathilde and myself at our school, and with his wife
proceeded to Louisiana.

I soon saw that the warm-hearted young Southern maiden really was, or
believed herself to be, the subject of a deep and unhappy attachment;
she became reserved to all, even to me, and her health suffered. As
weeks grew into months her indisposition increased. One day her emotion
broke the bounds of reserve, and throwing herself into my arms, she
exclaimed:

"Oh, Agnes! if Frank would only write to me I should not feel so
wretched!"

"Frank? who is Frank, my love?" I inquired in surprise, for I had never
heard this name among our acquaintances.

She blushed deeply. "Oh! I mean Mr. Howard, you know! Frank Howard."

"No--I did not know! Has it come to this? and do you call him Frank? And
do you, perhaps, correspond with him? Oh, Mathilde, Mathilde, my dear!
take care!"

"Oh! no, no, I do not correspond with him! never have done so! he never
even asked me! but after pa got so high with him, he looked mournful and
dignified, and took leave of me! Oh! he might write to me."

"Mathilde, knowing your father's sentiments, he would not, as a man of
honor, commence a correspondence with you. But tell me, dear, how far
this affair had gone?"

"Oh! very far indeed; he was going to ask me of papa that very day we
left!"

"Wait, Mathilde! you are so young! if this is anything more serious than
a passing fancy on both sides, he will delay until you leave school, and
then he will first seek you at your father's house. This is the only
course for a man of honor in such a case, you are aware."

"Um-m! little hope in seeking me at my father's house, with my father's
estimate of a mechanic! But I do not the least believe that Frank Howard
is a mechanic! He does not look like one!"

"Nonsense, my dear Mathilde! he is an intelligent Boston mechanic, who
has made a valuable invention that has brought him a fortune; that is
all about it."

Still Mathilde's health waned, and at last the principal of our academy
wrote to her parents, who came, and finding her condition more
precarious than they had anticipated, removed her from school and
carried her home. Mathilde could not bring against her friend the same
charge that she had brought against her lover; for I requested a
frequent correspondence, and faithfully kept up my part of it.

I remained at Newton for nearly twelve months after Mathilde had left.

And this time, passed in so great monotony by me, was full of event for
Mathilde and those connected with her. In the first place, she
accompanied her friends on a short visit to Europe, and returning,
entered society at New Orleans with some _eclat_.

Then followed for her father a succession of losses, one growing out of
another, until his fortune was so reduced as to make it necessary for
him to retrench and change his whole style of living.

Under such circumstances, his pride would not permit him to remain in
that part of the country where for so many years he had lived _grand
seigneur_.

His wife was a Virginian by birth and education, and in changing her
home preferred to return to her native State. Therefore Mr. Legare
purchased a small estate lying within a fertile gap of the Alleghanies,
to which, in the spring of the next year, he removed his family.

Up to this time Mathilde had heard nothing directly from her Saratoga
lover, but had learned, through the newspapers, that he had been
nominated to represent his district in the National House of
Representatives.

Hoping much from the two circumstances of her own reduction in worldly
fortune and her lover's elevation in social rank, which must bring them
nearer together in position, she had called the attention of her father
to the announcement of Mr. Howard's nomination; but her fond
expectations were soon dissipated by the old aristocrat's comment:

"Oh, yes, my dear, I see! Any upstart can get into Congress now. Really
a private station is the seat of honor; but the comfort remains that a
patrician by birth, is still a patrician, no matter how low his worldly
fortunes; a plebeian is still a plebeian, even though accident or
caprice may constitute him a legislator."

"And now what shall I do, Agnes?" wrote Mathilde, after recounting these
things.

"Hope! If Mr. Howard is as constant as you appear to be, you have
everything to expect from time and change ordered by Providence," was my
written reply.

I finally left school at the commencement of the summer vacation
following the spring in which Mr. Legare's family removed to their
mountain home in Virginia.

It was just before the ensuing Christmas that I received an invitation
from Mathilde to come up and spend the holidays with her at her father's
new home.

In extending this invitation, she wrote: "I do not know, dear Agnes, how
much or how little you may feel disposed to credit these modern,
so-called spiritual manifestations, these 'rappings,' 'table-tippings,'
etc., but I know your strong penchant for the supernatural and your
inveterate habit of ghost-hunting, and I do assure you, if it will be
any inducement for you to come to us, that our home contains as
inexplicable a mystery as ever frightened human habitants away, and
doomed a dwelling-place to desolation and decay, and this haunting
presence infests a house in a neighborhood, as yet innocent of
spirit-rappings, table-tippings, and 'sich like diviltries,' as it is of
railroads, steamboats and telegraph wires. But I shall say no more of
this mystery until I see you 'face to face' except this, that even my
unbelieving pa talks of selling the place unless the nuisance is
explained and removed."

I think that it was the existence of this darkly intimated spectre that
fascinated me to the point of accepting Mathilde's invitation.
Ghost-hunting was my one weakness--perhaps I should say monomania. I
secretly hoped that there might be a haunted chamber in the old house
and that they might put me to sleep in it; furthermore, that I might be
favored with an interview with the ghost. I resolved to go. No
persuasion had power to withhold me, no obstacle to prevent me. My only
brother was expected home to spend Christmas, but I could not wait for
him. I would, on the contrary, ask Mr. Legare to invite him to follow
me. The weather was very severe, the snow covered the ground to the
depth of two feet on a level, and what it might be among the ravines of
the mountains I was going to cross, I feared to conjecture;
nevertheless, to go I was determined.

It was a three days' and three nights' stage ride from Winchester, where
I lived with my guardian, to Wolfbrake, the home of the Legares.
Accordingly, in order to reach my journey's end on Christmas Eve, I set
out from home on the twentieth of December, and after three days and
nights of the roughest traveling, up hill and down, through the darkest
forests, along the banks of the most frightful precipices, across the
rudest and most primitive bridges thrown over the most awful chasms,
through mountain streams so deep and rapid that in fording them it was
often hard to tell whether we rode or rowed, finally, on the evening of
the twenty-fourth, I reached Frost Height, where the mules from
Wolfbrake, under the charge of Uncle Judah, already awaited me.

Although it was getting dusky, and the road down the snow-covered
mountain path to Wolfbrake was not of the safest description, even by
daylight, and might be considered dangerous by a starless night, yet
Uncle Judah, with the hard-headedness of a favored old family servant,
insisted that I should set forth immediately, as "Marse and mis' would
be 'spectin'" me to supper.

So, mounting my mule, and preceded by the old servant upon his jack, I
descended into the outer darkness of the downward mountain path.

In a little while it was quite dark, and I could neither see Judah on
his jack before me, nor even the narrow path under my feet. At every
step I seemed to be plunging down into some dark abysm of shadows below
shadows. I could not guide my course, but trusted to the habits and
sure-footedness of the mountain mule that carried me. A glimmering
light, shining up from the deepest depths of the darkness below,
indicated the position of Wolfbrake Lodge. There was always a strange,
mystic interest felt in approaching a place like that, for the first
time, amid the shadows of night. The undefined, shapeless mass of
buildings, the unseen boundaries, the unknown circumstances that awaits
us, all like some strange mystery, pique curiosity. And to these general
subjects of interest was added the particular one of the haunting
presence of which Mathilde had darkly written. I was yielding
imagination up to the fascination of these dreamy speculations, when my
mule, having reached the bottom, or else an obstacle of some sort--I
could not in the deep darkness decide which--stopped short. And
immediately I heard a sweet, familiar voice say:

"Is that you, Uncle Judah? Did Agnes come?"

"Yes, honey," replied the old man; and:

"I am here! where are you, dear Mathilde?" exclaimed I, in the same
instant.

"I am in the carryall! Uncle Judah, help your Miss Agnes off, and bring
her in here with me."

In obedience, the old man lifted me out of my saddle, and, to use his
own vernacular, "toted" me "through the slush," and set me in the
carryall beside Mathilde. I could not see her form, but I felt her arms
wound around me, and her lips against my face, searching for those other
lips that quickly met hers, and then:

"I am so overjoyed to see you, dear Agnes! It was so good of you to
come!" she said. "I couldn't wait! I had to order the carryall, and come
to meet you at the foot of the hill."

We were then about a half a mile from the house. Mathilde made the boy
that drove her get down and give place on the driver's seat to Uncle
Judah, and then take charge of the mules, to lead them home. And so we
proceeded through the snow-covered bottom toward the house.

As I said, it was so dark that I could not clearly distinguish the
outline of the buildings; but there appeared to be two houses, an old
one and a new one, joined by a covered piazza, and shaded by many trees.

We stopped before the door of the new house, from the parlor windows of
which a stream of light from the lamps within was pouring.

We were met by Mrs. Legare, who gave me a cordial welcome, and took me
at once to an upper front chamber, comfortably furnished, where a fine
wood fire burned, and a kettle of hot water stood upon the hearth, for
the convenience of warm ablutions.

"This is your room, my dear Agnes, where I hope you will find yourself
at home," said my kind hostess.

I thanked her, but secretly hoped that she would leave me alone with
Mathilde, to hear the mystery of the haunted presence explained, for as
yet we had no opportunity of a _tête-à-tête_.

But the old lady lingered with motherly solicitude, until I had washed
myself, and changed my traveling habit for a home dress; and then
directing Jacinthe or "Jet," as she was nicknamed, to restore the room
to order, she invited me down into the parlor.

As I left the chamber, I observed Jet's eyes start out like beads, and
she made a motion to follow us; but a peremptory gesture from her
mistress repelled her, and she remained, though evidently terrified at
the idea of being left alone.

"Can it be possible," thought I, "that the child is afraid to stay by
herself in the new house, when, of course, the supernatural inmate, if
there is one, must be a denizen of the old one?"

And at the same time I experienced a feeling of disappointed love of
adventure in being accommodated with a chamber so shining in freshness
and so distant in character as well as location from what I fancied must
be the scene of the mystery.

When we reached the parlor, we found a party of young people collected
to celebrate Christmas Eve. But scarcely were the introductions over,
before a servant opened the door and announced supper, and, conducted by
Mrs. Legare, we all went out by way of the hall and the covered piazza
to the dining-room in the old house, where the feast was spread.

I cannot stop to analyze the sensation with which I crossed the
threshold of this mystery-haunted house, and entered the quaint,
old-fashioned parlor, where the supper table was set. The polished oak
floor, the oak-paneled walls, the high, narrow, deep-set windows, the
tall, black-walnut chimney-piece over the broad fireplace, flanked by a
high cupboard in one corner, and a coffinlike clock in the other--all
whispered of those who had lived and died there long years before. There
was a well-spread and cheerfully-lighted table, and a merry, youthful
company assembled around it; but even these animating influences were
not sufficiently powerful to exorcise the thoughts of the dead--for,
talkative and frolicksome though they were, their talk was still of the
supernatural, of ghosts, and ghosts' seers. I did not talk--I was too
earnestly interested in hearing. And I listened breathlessly to learn
the mystery of the house. In vain! not a single allusion was made to a
spectre in connection with Wolfbrake Lodge. They ignored the
supposition. Perhaps they were really ignorant of it.

Supper over and cleared away, the young people returned no more that
night to the parlor in the new house, but prepared for a game of
"Snap-apple" in the old dining-room, which their romping could not hurt.

I was so weary with my three days and nights of riding, and so eager
besides for a _tête-à-tête_ with Mathilde, that I pleaded fatigue as an
undeniable reason for retiring before the games should commence. I hoped
that Mathilde alone would attend me. Not so. Mrs. Legare, apparently
watching for my withdrawal, joined her daughter and myself as we left
the room, and accompanied us to the chamber set apart for my use in the
new house. When we had reached this apartment, Mrs. Legare said:

"There is no one that sleeps in this house usually. We keep these
chambers principally for the use of our guests. No one will occupy any
room within it to-night except yourself, unless indeed you feel
afraid----"

"Afraid?" repeated I, in a tone that quickly called forth an apology.

"Oh! I know, my dear Agnes, that you are no coward; but I did not know
but that you might feel indisposed to sleep alone in a strange house."

"What? when it is a perfectly new house, Mrs. Legare? If, indeed, it
were an old-time house, I might be afraid of the traditional ghost,"
said I, watching in her countenance the effect of my words, and seeing
her, to my astonishment, turn pale, and send a quick, significant glance
to Mathilde, who averted her head.

"Ah!" thought I, "the old house is haunted! Would they would only let me
sleep there, where there is some chance of being delightfully
frightened."

"I was about to say, Agnes, that if you prefer, I will send one of the
negro women to sleep on a mattress in your room."

"By no means, Mrs. Legare. I shall fall asleep as soon as I touch my
pillow, and not wake until morning--so I should not be able to
appreciate the benefit of Peggy or Dinah's society."

"Very well, my dear, as you please. Here is a bellrope at your bed's
head--its wires run into the old house. If you should want anything,
ring."

I smiled, and assured my hostess that I wanted nothing but sleep.
Whereupon she called Mathilde, bade me good-night, and left the room.
Turning back, however, she said to me:

"Agnes, my dear, lock your chamber door after us."

"Yes, madam."

"Excuse me, my dear; but young people are forgetful--especially when
they are tired and sleepy. I think I should like to hear you lock it,
Agnes."

There was something in her caution that struck me as very singular--but
I laughed and went to the door, and after repeating my good-night, as
desired, shut the door in their faces, and locked it.

"There! have you heard me lock the door?" I inquired.

"Yes, my dear--all right."

"And is your mind at rest on that score?"

"I am sure that you have attended to my advice. Good night, and happy
dreams."

"Thanks, and the same good wishes! Good-night!" said I, in conclusion.

I listened, and heard them go downstairs, enter the parlor, and fasten
the windows, and secure the safety of the fire there--go to the back
hall door, and bolt and bar it--and finally go out by the front door,
and lock it after them.

Fastened up as I was in the house, I did not feel myself quite in
prison, because, should I, like Sterne's starling, want to "get out," I
could do so by the back door.

Now, I never could account for it, but no sooner was I left alone in
that room, resplendent as it was with newness, than a strange feeling of
superstition came over me, that I could neither understand nor escape.
It was in vain that I turned my eyes from the shining white wall and
freshly painted windows to the cheerful pattern of the carpet and
furniture drapery, and said that in this new and freshly furnished
chamber the supernatural was out of place--there grew upon me the
impression of an unearthly presence near; and the feeling, in spite of
all probability, that this--this was the scene of the household
mystery--this was the haunted chamber!

In this new aspect I examined it. It was the least like one that could
be imagined. It was a lofty, spacious, cheerful, double-bedded room,
with four large windows--two on the east and two on the west side--with
a fireplace in the south wall, and the heads of the beds, at some
distance apart, against the north wall. Between the two east windows was
a pretty dressing-table and glass; between the west windows was a neat
washstand with a china service; on each side of the fireplace were two
spacious clothes closets; before the fire sat two easy-chairs; in
intermediate spaces around the walls were half a dozen other chairs.

I examined the clothes closets, and found them entirely empty, and at
the service of my dresses; then I looked under the bed; then beneath the
drapery of the dressing-table; and finding nothing that should not be
there, undressed myself, said my prayers, blew out my candle, and went
to bed.

I could not sleep; my mind, my nerves, had for some reason become
unusually excited; and, despite of extreme fatigue, I lay awake. I
thought the room was too light; for, though the candle was extinguished,
a glowing fire burned upon the hearth, a few yards from the foot of my
bed, and the light of the now risen moon streamed into the east windows.
After turning from side to side, vainly wooing slumber, I arose and went
to close the east front windows. As I reached them with this purpose, I
stayed my hand a moment, while I looked out at the snow-clad, moon-lit
mountain landscape; below me was the bottom, bounded, not many furlongs
off, by the cedar-grown precipice, down which, that very evening, I had
come; under the shelter of that mountain, straight in the line of my
vision, lay the family graveyard of the former owner, in a copse of
evergreens, where the spectral-looking tombstones gleamed whitely among
the dark firs and cedars. Meditating upon those departed, I closed the
blinds of the front windows, and then went to the back ones.

The latter looked straight down into the uncurtained windows of the
lighted dining-room, where the young people were still at play. Above
these windows, and directly opposite to mine, were those of Mrs.
Legare's bedroom, now dimly lighted from the fire within.

With this proximity of the family, I felt less lonely, closed my blinds,
and returned to bed.

Still I could not sleep. The fire on the hearth, beyond my bed's foot,
flickered up and down, casting tall, spectral shadows, that danced upon
the walls, or stretched their long arms over the ceiling. For hours I
lay watching this phantasmagoria, until the fire died down, and the
tall, dancing shadows sank into a mass of darkness, before sleep came to
my wearied senses. But scarcely had I closed my eyes upon the natural
world before a strange vision, or dream, if you prefer to call it so,
passed before me. Methought I heard the click of a turning key; I opened
my eyes, and saw the door slowly swing back upon its hinges, and a lady
of dark, majestic beauty, dressed in deep mourning, and having a pale
and care-worn face, enter the chamber! Slowly and silently she walked to
and fro, her footfall waking no echo--her progress attended by no sound,
save the slight rustle of her silken robe! I was magnetized to watch
her, as with clasped hands and wide-open, mournful eyes, she walked in
silent, measured steps up and down the room. At length she paused in the
middle of the floor, fixed her eyes upon mine with a wild and mournful
gaze, slowly raised one hand from the breast upon which both had been
tightly clasped, and with her spectral finger extended downward, pointed
to the spot beneath her feet, and then as slowly resumed her former
attitude, and passed with measured steps from the room!

I tried to speak to her, to question her, but failed to utter a sound.
In an agony of distress I tried to call out, and in the effort to do so
awoke! awoke to find that I had been dreaming.

But, reader! the door that I had locked so carefully the night before,
was standing wide open, as when the dark woman of my dream had passed
through it!

Day was dawning. I shivered, both from superstitious excitement, and
from the cool draught of air blowing upon me from the open door. I drew
the cover closely around me and listened; but no sounds except the
undefined, low, pleasant murmur of awakening nature--the soft rustle of
the pines in the up-springing morning breeze, the flutter of the night
birds waking up in their branches, and the detonating echo of distant,
louder noises were heard. I arose softly and opened the east window
blinds, and then went back to bed to lie and watch the crimson light of
morning kindling up the orient.

An hour I lay thus, watching the dawn growing brighter and brighter unto
the perfect day. And then I heard a key turned in the hall door, and
some one come in and ascend the stairs. It was the little black maid
Jet, come to make my fire. As she entered I saw her eyes grow wild, and
she inquired:

"Miss Agnes, is yer been up, miss, to open dis yer door?"

"I have been up this morning, Jet," said I, not wishing to let her into
my full confidence. The answer seemed to set her at rest, for her
countenance lost its wild terror, and she proceeded with cheerful
alacrity to light the fire, fill the ewers and so forth.

Before she had got through with her task, there was a rush of many feet
into the hall, and up the stairs, and Mathilde and such of her young
friends as were already up and dressed, bounded into the room,
exclaiming:

"A merry Christmas! A merry Christmas, Agnes!"

Their arrival was enough to put to flight all the supernatural visitants
that Hades ever sent forth. They hurried me with my toilet; they worried
me to come down and see the Christmas tree, and get some eggnog.

I was carried away with their gay excitement, and almost forgot my
mysterious dream or visitant, but not quite; for all through the morning
greetings of the family, the eggnog drinking, the visit to the Christmas
tree, the distributions of presents, the merry breakfast, the arrival of
invited guests, the Christmas dinner party, the afternoon sports, and
the evening dance, I was possessed with the haunting presence of that
dark, handsome woman, and her majestic woe.

We danced in the dining-room through all the Christmas night; and it was
two o'clock in the morning before we separated.

Again, when I was about to retire, Mrs. Legare came to accompany me.

"I hope you rested well last night, my dear Agnes, though I have
scarcely had an opportunity of asking you to-day," she said, as we
entered my room.

"I did not wake until dawn, ma'am," I answered, evasively, for I had
determined, since they let me into no confidence upon the subject of the
household mystery, to keep my own counsel in regard to my dream and the
open door.

"You slept until dawn. That is well. I hope you will have as good a rest
for the few remaining hours of the night. Good-evening, my dear. Lock
your door after me," said Mrs. Legare, going out with a look of relief
and satisfaction.

As upon the evening previous, I turned the key upon my retiring hostess,
listened until I heard her pass out and secure the hall door, then
searched my room, undressed, said my prayers, and went to bed.

As I hinted in the beginning of this narrative, nature had made me at
once superstitious and fearless. In the supernatural I "believed without
trembling." And now alone, in this supposed-to-be haunted chamber, I lay
with an interest devoid of uneasiness, waiting the development of
events.

It was near day, when, overcome with watching, I fell asleep, and then,
as upon the night previous, I had a vision or dream (as you please to
call it). Methought the sound of a deep sigh awoke me, when looking up,
I saw, standing in the middle of the room, the fearful woman of my
dream, her finger pointed downward to the same spot, and, still pointing
thus, she receded backward until she disappeared through the open door.

I started up to call or stop her, and with the violence of my effort,
awoke! awoke to see the morning light shining in through the shutters
that I had neglected to close, and to hear little Jet letting herself in
at the hall door, to come up and light my fire.

Again on entering and seeing the open door, she cast an uneasy,
suspicious, frightened look around her, and said: "Yer allus gets up an'
opens dis door when yer hears me a comin', don't yer, Miss Agnes,
ma'am?"

"Yes, I heard you coming Jet," I replied, evasively, but the answer
satisfied my simple little maid, who went cheerfully about her tasks.

As it was not early, I hastened to my toilet and descended to the
dining-room, not to keep my kind hostess waiting breakfast.

They were all ready to sit down when I joined them, and we immediately
took our seats at the table.

Upon my plate I found a letter from my brother, which I asked and
obtained permission to open and read. It was a regretful refusal of my
invitation to him to join me at Wolfbrake to spend the holidays, upon
the ground that he had brought home with him a friend whom he could not
leave.

"Pooh! pooh! let him bring his friend along! Tell him so! Any friend of
your brother will be welcome here, Agnes!" said Mr. Legare, to whom I
communicated the contents of my letter.

I acted upon this permission, and wrote for my brother to come and bring
his friend. After I had finished and dispatched my letter, I joined a
party who were going out to dine. The dinner was followed by a dance,
and the dance by a moonlight sleighride home. But through all the
excitements of the day the image of the dark woman haunted my mind. And
again it was very late when I retired to bed.

As usual, Mrs. Legare and Mathilde saw me to my room, and, as before, I
locked the door behind them, and listened until I heard them leave the
house and secure the hall entrance. Then I hastened my preparations, got
into bed, and, thoroughly worn out with fatigue and loss of rest, soon
fell into a deep sleep. And a third time the dream or vision passed
before me. Methought I was awakened by a voice calling my name. I opened
my eyes, and saw--first the door stretched wide open, and then, standing
in the middle of the floor, the beautiful and majestic woman of my
former visions, but this time more sad and stern in aspect than before.
Fixing those wild, mournful eyes upon mine, and holding my gaze as it
were by a mesmeric spell, she slowly and severely pointed to the spot
beneath her feet, and saying, as it were, "Look!" passed in measured
steps from the room.

Once more in an agony I started up to call and stay her, but with the
effort awoke. The door that I had carefully locked stood wide open as
before. It was the same hour as that of my awakening upon the two
previous mornings. The day was flushing redly up the eastern horizon
beyond the mountains, and nature was awakening everywhere.

I could not now so readily shake off the influence of my dream. There
was something that I wished to ascertain before my little maid should
interrupt me; the reiterated gesture by the woman of my dream,
determined me to examine the spot upon which she had stood and pointed,
to see if, really, her action had any meaning. So I arose from my bed,
and, first securing the door, and turning the key straight in the lock,
that my little maid, should she come, might not spy my doings, I
removed the hearthrug took a pair of strong scissors and drew out the
tacks, turned up the carpet.

Reader! I had an attraction to the supernatural, but a mortal antagonism
to the horrible, and nearly swooned on seeing the spot to which the dark
woman of my vision had pointed deeply marked with a sanguine-crimson
stain! The very heart in my bosom seemed frozen with horror, and I felt
myself, as it were, turning to stone, when a loud knocking at my chamber
door aroused me. It was my little maid, whose coming, I, in my deep and
fearful abstractions, had not heard. I hurriedly replaced the carpet and
the rug, and went and opened the door.

"Yer sleeped soun' dis mornin', Miss Agnes, ma'am," said little Jet,
smiling as she entered. "I feared I scared you out'n your dream," she
added, noticing, I suppose, my horror-stricken face.

"You certainly startled me, Jet," I said, evasively. And while she
lighted the fire, I returned to bed to try to compose my nerves.

Between the horror I felt at the idea of sleeping another night alone in
an accursed room, where, it seemed, a crime had been committed, and my
intense desire to elucidate the mystery, I was at a loss how to act.
Only one thing I decided upon--to keep my own counsel for the present.

"De fire is burnin' fus-rate now, Miss Agnes, so you can get up an'
dress, if you likes, as break'as' is mos' ready," said my little
attendant. And taking her hint, I arose and hastened my toilet, in order
to be punctual at the morning meal of my hostess.

As I descended the stairs, I heard Mrs. Legare speaking to her daughter
in the parlor, where a fire was kindled every morning while there were
visitors in the house. She was saying:

"I tell you, Mathilde, it is all a delusion. Those who have never heard
the story, never see, or hear, or fancy anything unusual. You know now
Agnes has not been disturbed, and it is because she has heard nothing.
Whereas, if you had told her this history, she would have imagined,
Heaven knows what! all sorts of horrors! that is the reason I wished her
to hear nothing of it. She has slept undisturbed in that room. Let that
be known. Others will then not object to do so, and the report will die
out."

She spoke in a quick, low tone, and, seeing me coming, instantly changed
the subject. But my sense of hearing, always acute, was quickened by
intense interest, and I had heard more than she could have wished me to
know. She turned to me with a smile, and said:

"I hope that you have rested well, my dear Agnes."

I said, "As well as usual," and receiving Mathilde's morning kiss, took
her arm, and accompanied them into the breakfast-room.

It was some hours after breakfast, that day, when I went up into my
chamber to write letters. While thus engaged, I heard Mathilde coming
up, singing, and enter a chamber corresponding to mine, but separated
from it by the front hall.

"Are you there, Agnes?" she asked.

"Yes, dear. Shall I come to you?"

"_Si vous plait, mademoiselle_," she answered, gayly.

I went into the room, where I found Mathilde directing Jet in her work
of preparing the chamber for guests.

"I shall have to put your brother and his friend here together to sleep,
my dear Agnes, as we are so full. But, by the way, who is his friend?"

"That is just what I cannot tell you. John, in his wild, careless way,
simply said that he had a friend with him, as a reason why he could not
at once accept your father's invitation, and Mr. Legare as carelessly
and frankly wrote back for him to bring his 'friend' along with him."

"_Eh bien! cette l'ami inconnu_ must be content to lodge with John; we
can do no better."

"Since your house is not so large as your heart, _chere_ Mathilde."

Little Jet was engaged in removing the firescreen, preparatory to
lighting the fire to air the room. As she set this board down before my
eyes, I could scarcely repress the cry that arose to my lips. It was an
old, faded family portrait that had been put to this use. That was not
much; but--it was the portrait of the dark woman of my dream.

The same midnight eyes and hair, the same proud, stern, sad brow!

"Whose likeness is that, Mathilde?" I asked, when I had in some degree
recovered my composure.

"Oh! I don't know; it is a portrait of some member of the family of the
former proprietors, I suppose! We found it here with other rubbish,
considered, I suppose, of too little value to remove after the Van Der
Vaughans left; I washed its face and set it up for a firescreen. 'To
such vile uses,' etc. By the way, look at it! It is a very remarkable
countenance! Such expression might have been that of Semiramis when
ordering the execution of Ninus."

"No! I do not think so, there is no wickedness in this face! There is
strength, sternness, perhaps cruelty (if necessary)," I replied, still
studying the portrait. "Who could it have been?"

"I know not indeed! some old, old member of the Vaughan family."

"Nay, I do not think the portrait is of such ancient date! To be sure it
is dilapidated; but that seems to be more from abuse than from time.
And observe! the costume is modern."

"So it is!"

"I had not thought of that before! Well now since you said so, I begin
to surmise that this may be the portrait of Madeleine Van Der Vaughan."

"And who was she?" I inquired, with as much indifference as I could
assume.

"Oh! the last lineal descendant of the elder branch of the family and
the last heiress of this old estate; she married her first cousin,
Wolfgang Van Der Vaughan."

"And what was her history and her fate?" I inquired, striving to
restrain the betrayal of the intense interest I felt.

"Oh, her history was as painful as her fate was tragic."

"And--well?"

"Hush! there is some one coming! I will tell you another time!"

It was Mrs. Legare who entered, and smiling a sort of salutation to me,
and opening a letter she held in her hand, said:

"My dear Mathilde, we are to have more company. Your cousin Rachel
Noales is coming; she will be here this afternoon!"

"Oh! I should be so glad if we only had room for her!" exclaimed
Mathilde, impulsively, and then she blushed deeply in having spoken thus
freely of their crowded state in the presence of a guest.

"My dear Mathilde," said I, "as mine is a double-bedded chamber, I
should be very happy to have Miss Rachel for a roommate; that is, if it
would be agreeable to herself."

"Thank you, Agnes, dear. Agreeable! why it would be the very thing.
Rachel Noales is the greatest coward that ever ran! and would no more
sleep in a strange room, by herself, than she would in a churchyard! If
you had not kindly offered, some of us girls would have to take her in,
although we are all sleeping double now!"

"But are you sure, my dear Agnes, that you will not be incommoded,"
kindly inquired Mrs. Legare.

"Incommoded? Not in the least! The arrangement suits me to a nicety!" I
replied.

And so, in truth, it did; for let me confess that while I could not
prevail upon myself to shorten my visit, and leave the house with its
great mystery unsolved, the prospect of sleeping alone in that chamber
cursed with crime appalled me, but, in company with a companion of my
own age, it would be a very different affair.

"That horrid portrait! take it into the attic, Jet," said Mrs. Legare,
as her eyes fell upon the _ci devant_ firescreen.

The little maid took up the picture and carried it off as commanded.

Then there was a visit of inspection and preparation paid to my room.
Fresh sheets and more blankets were put upon the second bed, fresh
napkins laid, and then mother and daughter and little maid departed.

Through the remainder of that day I had no further opportunity of
learning from Mathilde the history of the dark lady.

Late that afternoon Uncle Judah was dispatched with the mules to Frost
Height to meet the stage-coach, and bring Rachel Noales to the house.
And about seven o'clock he returned, escorting the new visitor, for whom
we were waiting tea.

As Miss Noales was to be my roommate, I examined her with much more
interest than I had bestowed upon any other among my fellow-visitors.
Rachel Noales was an orphan, and was still in deep mourning for her
father, who had been dead about nine months. She was a very pretty,
timid-looking girl, with a fair face, soft brown hair and large hazel
eyes.

"Ah! my dear child," I thought to myself, "you are scarcely the most
proper denizen for a crime-cursed, haunted chamber."

And I made up my mind to protect her, if possible, from the knowledge
that would only make her wretched, and perhaps drive her away from the
place. As this was the fourth evening of Christmas revelry, and we had
all been up to a very late hour upon each of the three preceding nights,
it was moved, seconded, and carried by a large majority that we should
retire early on this and the succeeding evenings of the week, so as to
recruit a little for the New Year's festivity.

Accordingly, at ten o'clock we separated.

Mrs. Legare and Mathilde accompanied Rachel Noales and myself to our
chamber. And when our hostess and her daughter had seen that the room
was in perfect order, the fire burning well, the beds turned down, the
ewers filled, etc., etc., they took leave, waiting, as before, until
they had heard me lock the chamber door behind them. When they had
passed down the stairs and out at the hall door and locked it after
them, I turned around to meet the surprised look of Rachel Noales.

"Why, where have they gone?" she asked.

"Into the old house, to bed."

"Why!--do they sleep there?"

"Certainly--the whole family sleep there."

"And who sleeps here in the new house?"

"No one but you and I!"

"You don't mean to say that they have put us in this house to sleep
alone?"

"Why not? It is an adjunct to the other house, which is, besides, quite
full of guests. It was so when I came."

"And where did you sleep?"

"Here."

"Alone?"

"Certainly."

She looked at me with astonishment. And had my mind been sufficiently at
ease I should have enjoyed her naïve admiration. But it was not so; and
when I saw her draw her chair up in front of the fire, and sit down
immediately over that spot, I shuddered and spoke to her.

"Rachel, dear, don't sit directly in front of the fire; it is injurious
to the eyes."

She moved to one side and began to unfasten her dress preparatory to
going to bed. We were now ready. But before lying down, Rachel asked me:

"Is the door secure?"

"Yes, my dear."

"And the windows?"

"Yes."

Not quite content with my answer, Rachel went slyly around to all the
windows, and then to the door, to ascertain their security; then she
searched the closets, and finally got into bed.

I soon followed her example, but found myself more sleepless than upon
the preceding evening. I know not exactly how long I had lain awake,
thinking of the dead proprietors, of Madeleine Van Der Vaughan, and her
sad history and tragic fate (whatever they might have been), and of the
stern, dark woman of my dream, and of the blood-stained floor, and
trying to combine these materials into some coherent whole, when
suddenly I heard the lock click back, the door swing slowly open, and a
rustle, as of silken drapery, and I opened my eyes to behold the awful
woman of my dream standing in the middle of the room, and pointing
sternly to the blood-stained floor!

And in the very same instant that I heard and saw this, Rachel had also
been awakened, and was even now asking in frightened tones:

"Who is that?"

But there was no answer.

"Who is that?" again asked the girl.

And still there was no answer.

"Who--is--that?" she reiterated, emphatically.

No answer.

"Aunt Legare!--Mathilde!--Jet!--Who is it?"

No reply. But the tall, black-robed woman standing motionless, and
pointing with spectral finger to the spot on the floor!

"Oh! dear me! Agnes, Agnes!"

I answered:

"What, my dear?"

"Have you opened the door?"

"No, love."

"Have you been up at all since you laid down?"

"No, Rachel."

"Who opened the door?"

"I do not know."

"Didn't you hear it open?"

"Yes."

"And it is open now!"

"I see it is."

"But how came it open?"

"I do not know; perhaps it was not quite locked, and the catch flew
back."

"Oh, perhaps that was it," said Rachel; and, though her teeth were
chattering with a nervous tremor, she got out of bed, and went to the
door, to close and lock it, And, reader, the black-robed woman passed
out before her, and she saw her not.

I fell back upon my pillow, nearer swooning than ever I had been in my
life; for now I knew that this was no dream, but a vision--an apparition
to me, and to me only.

I slept no more that night.

And in the morning when I arose, and looked into the glass, I was
startled at the haggardness of my own face.

When we appeared at the breakfast-table, some of the young people
remarked my paleness, and said that I had been frolicking more than was
good for me. Then one of the company inquired of Rachel Noales how she
had rested.

"Not very well," Rachel answered; "I was frightened by the door flying
open in the middle of the night."

I noticed a quick, intelligent look pass between Mathilde and her
mother, while Rachel continued:

"I thought at first that it was thieves breaking in; but I know now that
it flew open because Agnes had not locked the door fast enough to hold
it."

"No, I had not," said I.

The arrival of the mailbag put an end to this discussion. The letters
were distributed at the table. Among them was one from my brother to Mr.
Legare, accepting his invitation for himself and his friend, whom he
begged to name as the Hon. Francis Howard, of Massachusetts, and
announcing the letter as a mere _avant courier_ of the party which would
reach Frost Height that afternoon.

Upon hearing the name of Frank Howard as the "friend" of John and their
expected guest, Mathilde flushed and paled, and was quite unable to
conceal from the interested scrutiny of her parents the emotion these
tidings caused her.

As for Mr. Legare, upon reading his name, he said: "Humph!" and "humph!"
very emphatically several times before he could get any further. But he
considered his hospitality implicated; nay, his honor pledged to receive
and treat with politeness the guest that he had so unconsciously
invited. He was a fine old gentleman, notwithstanding his
prejudices--was Mr. Legare.

So, in the afternoon, once more Uncle Judah was ordered to take the
mules and go up to Frost Height to meet the stage-coach, and bring two
visitors to the house; an order so little to the old man's satisfaction
that he vented his disapprobation in the exclamation:

"Ole masse better had set up 'Entertainment for Man and Beast' at once."

As usual, when expecting a new arrival of visitors, Mrs. Legare put back
her tea hour, and prepared a supper of extra luxuriousness. And Mr.
Legare brewed the great ancestral punchbowl to the brim with rich,
frothy eggnog, and set it away to "mellow," against the coming of the
gentlemen.

"My dear mother and father! they have noble hearts in spite of their
social conservatism! And you shall see that they will treat my Frank
with as much kindness and respect as if they did not consider him a sort
of wolf, prowling about after their one ewe lamb," said Mathilde, with
tears of affection brimming to her eyes.

"And you see, my darling, it is as I foretold you it would be. He is
seeking you now in your own home. And under what favorable
circumstances--the invited guest of your father. How very providential
the whole train of events! Trust still in Divine Providence; and if your
love is a true love, it will end happily," I answered.

And in my deep sympathy with Mathilde's joy, I almost forgot that I was
a haunted maiden, with some, as yet unknown, supernatural mission to
accomplish.

I was resolved, if possible, before the day should be over, to hear from
Mathilde the tragic story of Madeleine Van Der Vaughan, whose portrait
I had mentally identified as that of the awful visitant of my midnight
hours. The opportunity came, or rather, I made it. Mathilde had early
completed her toilet for the evening. I had done likewise. And at five
o'clock we found ourselves alone together in the drawing-room of the new
house. The lamps were not as yet lighted. The hickory fire had ceased to
blaze, and now only burned redly, showing out a strong, solid heat, in
what Uncle Judah called "solemn columns," and casting over the dark
chamber a sombre, ruddy twilight. We sat down by the fire together.
There would be no chance for the next half hour of being interrupted.

For Mr. Legare was still engaged at his breakfast in the dining-room.
Mrs. Legare was busy in her pantry and the kitchen, and the few servants
of the now reduced establishment were in constant attendance upon their
master or mistress.

Rachel Noales was upstairs in my chamber, dressing for the evening, and
the other young persons of the Christmas party were in the bedrooms of
the old house, similarly engaged.

There was not the slightest possibility of an interruption.

Mathilde commenced speaking.

"I believe you are pleased with your chamber, Agnes?"

"Charmed," I answered.

Without perceiving the _double entendre_ hidden in my reply, she said:

"And you have always slept well, then?"

"Never better," I replied; "in that chamber," I mentally added.

In her ignorance of this silent reservation, she was pleased with my
answer, and sat smiling quietly and studying, apparently, the glowing
coals of fire in the chimneyplace.

I broke her reverie by saying, in a careless, off-hand way:

"_Apropos de rien_, you have not told me the story of that mysterious
portrait yet."

"No, I haven't! But, indeed, I am not sure that the history of Madeleine
Van Der Vaughan has anything to do with that portrait, since I am not
sure that it is hers."

"No matter; take it for granted that it is; or at least tell the story
whether or not."

"Very well; listen, then," said Mathilde, settling herself comfortably
in her chair, and commencing the narrative.

"The Van Der Vaughans, as you may perceive by their name, are of
Teutonic origin, though by frequent intermarriage with other races, they
have no doubt lost, or modified, many of their national traits. Their
residence, in this part of the country, dates back to the time of the
first settlement of New York by the Dutch.

"Why this particular family should have wandered down to the backwoods
and mountains of Virginia remains a mystery, unless they were of a
patriotic and poetical turn, and found in her wild hills and boundless
woods something to remind them of the Hartz Mountains and the Black
Forest. However that may be, they came, took up a great tract of land,
built themselves a dwelling place (the old house adjoining this), and
settled down permanently.

"For a time they were prosperous, as others were, and then, by bad
agriculture, they grew poor, as others in this neighborhood did. If we
may believe tradition the poorer this family grew the prouder they
became, until at last, pride and poverty united, culminated in the
character and the circumstances of the last heiress of the elder branch
of the family, Madeleine Van Der Vaughan.

"At the age of twenty-five Madeleine Van Der Vaughan was left, by the
death of her father (her mother died long before), sole heiress of a
worn-out plantation and dilapidated house.

"Madeleine is reported to have possessed great and singular beauty--a
tall and imperial form, a fine head, with strongly marked and perfectly
regular features, a deep, rich complexion, and hair, eyes and eyebrows
all black as Erebus. Gifted and accomplished was she also, and, as I
stated, proud as Lucifer. It is said that this overweening pride
prevented her taking a husband from among her numerous visitors, none of
whom, though of the best families in the State, she deemed worthy of her
own "high alliance.""

"Until at last her relative, Ernest Wolfgang Van Der Vaughan, made his
appearance in her train and claimed her hand; a claim that was indorsed
by her acceptance.

"It is said that family pride had to do with this marriage much more
than love. However that might be, no sooner was the knot securely tied,
than Mr. Van Der Vaughan began to importune his wife to sell her land
and homestead that they might emigrate to the West. But in vain; for
Mrs. Van Der Vaughan would not, for an instant, entertain the idea of
alienating her patrimony.

"On the contrary, she had one ambition concerning her inheritance--an
ambition that reached the height of a ruling passion--and that was, to
resuciate the dead soil of the plantation and to rebuild the mansion
house.

"All Ernest Van Der Vaughan's property consisted in bank stock. All
Madeleine's estate was in worthless land and negroes. But she offered
him, as she would not have offered any other than a Van Der Vaughan, the
fee simple of her plantation, if he would only devote his money to the
restoring of the worn-out fields and the rebuilding of the homestead.

"Ernest did not like the plan, and he told her so. He explained to her
how, at one-tenth the outlay that he should have to make for manures and
for labor to resusciate this effete soil, he could go to Iowa and
purchase a large farm of the richest land and build a comfortable
dwelling-house and all needful offices around it.

"But it was in vain that he argued with her. She was a strong-minded,
self-willed woman, with one idea--one monomania--love for 'Old
Virginia,' and especially for her own portion of the soil. She
absolutely rejected the plan of emigration, and told Ernest, in the most
decided manner, that, go where he might, she never would desert her
birthplace.

"She was the stronger of the two, and she prevailed. Ernest embarked
nearly all his means in the doubtful enterprise of restoring the old,
worn-out fields and rebuilding the mansion, or rather, I should say,
repairing it, and building a new house beside it.

"Madeleine, on her part, kept her word. She executed a deed conveying
the whole property to her husband. And after he, in a fit of generous
abandonment, tore that deed and threw it in the fire, she made a second
one, caused it to be recorded, and thus rendered it irrevocable, before
she told him anything about it.

"She went even further than this, and aided him in every possible way in
his work of restoration. To retrench expenses, so that every spare
dollar should go to that enterprise, she discharged her housekeeper,
reduced her establishment of servants, and took upon her own shoulders
the additional burdens lately borne by those whom she had discharged
from her service. She worked hard and constantly. No one knew how
severely she toiled--not even her husband, until her labors seriously
affected her health. Then Ernest Van Der Vaughan remonstrated. But she
smiled and pointed to the growing fields and to the rising mansion.

"Yet the restoration of the lands and the elevation of the house was a
work of years. Often progress was arrested by the want of funds, and
then, though it cost the mistress many severe heart pangs, one after
another of the old family servants were sold to raise the necessary
amount, and their places in the field had to be supplied by fresh drafts
upon the small household establishment, until at last the mistress was
reduced to one maid-of-all-work about her person.

"I do not think your citizens, Agnes, dream of how much labor devolves
upon the mistress of a large plantation in circumstances such as these.
Even when assisted by an efficient housekeeper, and many well-trained
servants, the duties are onerous, sometimes oppressive, Madeleine Van
Der Vaughan had deprived herself of nearly all help; but most willingly
she bore her self-assumed burden, only showing distress when some
financial exigency compelled her to wound humanity. She gave her heart,
her life, to one object of her ambition. Yes--literally, this was so;
for it was observable that as the carefully tended land recovered, she
lost vitality, and as the mansion arose, she sank.

"It was in glorious autumn, when the richest wheat harvest that had ever
been reaped in the State was gathered into the barns of Wolfbrake, and
the finest corn crop that had ever grown in the valley, stood ripe in
the fields, that the house was finished.

"So much money had been spent and so many debts remained to be paid,
that there was but little to expend upon furniture, and Mrs. Van Der
Vaughan could not appoint her house in a style so gorgeous as would
have satisfied her ambition. However, it was furnished in the manner
that you now see, which, after all, is much handsomer than anything that
was known to the grand old Van Der Vaughans in their grandest days of,
no doubt, fabulous grandeur.

"It was about the first of November that the last of the Van Der
Vaughans removed into this house.

"The plastering of the sleeping-rooms was not so well dried as had been
supposed. This was soon ascertained by Mr. Van Der Vaughan, who advised
and entreated his wife to delay the removal.

"But when had Madeleine Van Der Vaughan yielded to any will but her own?
With the impatience and fever of a long desire, she hastened to take
possession of her new residence.

"Although the weather had continued fine, with westerly or southerly
winds, up to the day of removal, yet then the wind shifted to the east,
blowing up masses of dark clouds and cold mists, followed by rain and
even sleet.

"Alas! worn out by self-assumed, unnecessary burdens, Madeleine Van Der
Vaughan was in no condition successfully to meet a change of weather and
other circumstances. Moreover, she, so earnest in her ambition, so
zealous for ostentation, was fatally careless in regard to her own
personal comforts. There was no grate or stove in her chamber, or in any
other room in the house; all depended upon open fireplaces, which,
however handsome, cheerful and poetic they may look, are not always just
the very best things for damp houses in severe weather.

"Mrs. Van Der Vaughan's chamber could not be properly dried and heated.
The consequence was that she took a severe cold, which fell upon her
lungs, and from which she, in her enfeebled state, had not power to
recover. She dropped into a rapid consumption, and in six weeks from
her triumphant _entrée_ into her new house, she was borne thence to the
family burial-ground, that you may see from your windows."

"Poor lady! What room did she occupy?"

"Yours."

"And--she died there?"

"Yes; she died there, a victim, I am sure, of her own impatient,
feverish ambition."

"Do not judge her harshly."

"I do not. This is the reputation she has left behind her."

"Yet it may not have been her true character. Reputation is one thing,
character is another," said I, falling into thought, and then reflecting
that much yet must remain to be told, to give me a sure clew to the
household mystery.

"Well, what else?" I inquired.

"What else, my dear? Why, nothing else. I have told you all her story to
her death," said Mathilde, uneasily.

"But, after all," said I, "one of the most interesting things in the
connection, is your father's purchase of this fine property."

"Ah, true! Well, after the death of his lady, Ernest Van Der Vaughan
removed back into the old house, and closed up the new one. In the
course of a few weeks he advertised the property for sale, but months
passed, and no purchaser appeared willing to give him the price set upon
the estate.

"A year went by, and Mr. Van Der Vaughan made the acquaintance of a
young lady, Alice Brightwell, who was, it is said, as strong a contrast
as possible to his late wife; for Alice was young, and fair and gay,
loved music, dancing and company, and had not a regret, a care, or an
ambition in the world.

"It must have been the attraction of antagonism that united the hearts
of this dark and sombre man of thirty, and this laughing, careless girl
of nineteen, for it is said that they were greatly attached to each
other.

"At all events, after a brief courtship, and a briefer engagement they
were married; and when Mr. Van Der Vaughan proposed to her, as he had to
his first wife, that they should emigrate to the West, she, in her gay,
adventurous love of novelty, eagerly assented, notwithstanding that to
go with him thither, she must leave her parents, brothers and sisters.

"Once more the property came into the market, and my father, seeing the
advertisement, and desiring to remove to Virginia, opened a
correspondence with the proprietor, then made a visit of inspection, and
finally became the purchaser of the estates.

"When the transfer was about to be made, my father, pointing to the
family graveyard, inquired of Mr. Van Der Vaughan whether he did not
feel an unwillingness to sell that piece of ground, and told him that he
might readily make an exception of that plot, and retain it in his own
right.

"But Mr. Van Der Vaughan replied that he did not really care to own a
foot of ground on the estate.

"My father then told him that if he would like to retain the graveyard
it should make no difference in the price of the whole already agreed
upon--for my father, you see, Alice, felt a sort of hesitation in buying
the place without exempting the bones of the old family from the
purchase.

"But Mr. Van Der Vaughan had no scruples of the sort.

"'No,' he said, 'Mr. Legare, if I were to retain possession of the
graveyard, I and my heirs after me, would own an acre of ground in the
very midst of your estate, which, as it stands now, might make no
difference, as I shall never return to claim it, and could make no use
of it if I did; but which might embarrass you very much should you ever
wish to sell the property.'

"That was good reasoning enough, I suppose, and, at all events, the sale
was completed without the exception.

"We moved into the house, and Mr. Van Der Vaughan and his bride departed
for Kansas."

"And he really, when he might just as easily have avoided it, sold the
bones of his wife and her ancestors to a stranger!"

"Even so, my dear Agnes, and believe me, that we all felt as much
shocked as you look."

"But," said I, fixing my eyes upon her face, where the flickering
firelight made the shadows play, "the stranger has not been able to
retain the peaceable possession of his purchase!"

"What--what mean you, Agnes!" exclaimed Mathilde, in alarm.

"I mean that the late proud lady of Wolfbrake still carries the keys,
and unlocks doors at will!"

"Heavens! do you know that?"

"Ay! I know much more than that. I know the portrait that performed the
humiliating office of firescreen in the next room is the likeness of the
haughty Madeleine Van Der Vaughan! I know, beside----"

"What more do you know?"

"That our travelers have arrived!" I said, as the sound of footsteps and
voices at the hall door fell upon my ear.

It was true. We were interrupted.

As if "borne on the wings of love," the slow old stage-coach was so much
earlier that evening that our friends arrived an hour earlier than we
had expected them, while Mrs. Legare was still superintending the
arrangement of her supper-table, and Mr. Legare was grating nutmeg over
his huge bowl of eggnog, so there was no one to welcome the visitors
except Mathilde and myself.

As they entered the parlor we arose and advanced to meet them.

"Mathilde! Miss Legare! Can it be possible! This is, indeed, indeed, a
joyous surprise," exclaimed Frank Howard, as he recognized his ladylove,
and with an eager smile extended his hand; while my brother, without
ceremony, embraced me cordially.

"I thought you knew to whom you were coming," said Mathilde, with simple
candor.

"No! I scarcely dared to hope for such happiness!"

"Hey-day! Hal-loe!--do you know anybody here, Frank?" exclaimed my wild
and thoughtless brother.

But before Mr. Howard had time to answer, I pinched Jack's arm, turned
him around, and presented him to Miss Legare.

The refined and elegant presence of Mathilde immediately brought my rude
cadet to order, and he gracefully expressed the pleasure and honor he
felt in being permitted to make her acquaintance.

Miss Legare welcomed my brother with more cordiality than she had
bestowed upon her lover.

And I turned to receive Frank Howard's offered hand, and responded to
his expressions of satisfaction at the present opportunity of renewing
our acquaintance.

When these rather commonplace ceremonies were over Miss Legare invited
her guests to be seated, and we resumed our chairs. A deep blush settled
upon the beautiful face of Mathilde.

But, whatever might have been the emotions of Mr. Howard, he suppressed
them through that regnant self-control that ever distinguished his
manners. And he was the first to perceive the entrance of Mr. and Mrs.
Legare, and to arise and advance to receive them.

My brother presented Mr. Howard to Mr. Legare, who received him with
cordial politeness, and in his turn introduced him to Mrs. Legare, who
smilingly welcomed him to Virginia.

Certainly Howard had nothing to complain of in his reception. There was
not the slightest lack of respect and kindness, and not the least
over-doing of ceremony, which would have been still more offensive. All
was natural and genial, as if there had not once existed a strong
hostility to Frank Howard, the machinist. I was charmed at the manner
with which my dear host and hostess completely overcame their
prejudices, or at least suppressed them, and treated Mr. Howard in all
respects as an honored and welcome guest, and did this assuredly not in
the spirit of hypocrisy, but of hospitality, as they understood its
requirements.

Soon Rachel Noales and the other young persons of the Christmas party
came in, were introduced, seated, and conversation became general and
free. This afforded me the coveted opportunity of having a moment's talk
aside with my brother.

"Johnny! tell me now, and tell me quickly, and truly--was there any
design on you or your friend's part to get him invited here?"

"Design! bless you, no!" replied my brother, opening wide his great gray
eyes.

"I thought not; for, if the truth must be told, honest Johnny was
anything but a diplomat."

"Well, there was no conscious manoeuvring on your part, but was there
not on his?"

"Why, bless you, no! Why should there have been?" "'Why should there
have been?' Oh, Johnny! Johnny! where are your perceptive faculties?
You will never be wideawake enough for a soldier!"

"I don't know what you would be at."

"I suppose not. But did you observe nothing interesting in the meeting
between Mr. Howard and Miss Legare?"

"Oh, oh, oh, oh! Whew ew-ew-ew! Is that it?"

"Yes."

"That's what you meant when you pinched my arm black and blue?"

"Yes."

"A sorry dog. He never hinted one word about this to me."

"He had no right to do so, nor must you speak of it."

"Eh! why?"

"Because--but I had better tell you all about it. They met about three
years ago for the first time. It was at Saratoga, where he was making
quite a figure. The acquaintance had ripened to friendship, and
something more when 'papa' bethought himself to inquire who this very
distinguished-looking gentleman might be at home among his own people,
and was informed that he was--a machinist by trade! Recall to mind the
passion of Desdemonia's proud patrician 'pa' on discovering that he had
a black-a-moor for a son-in-law, and you may be able remotely to
conceive the consternation of Mr. Legare. He hurried his family away
from Saratoga, and forbid the name of Howard to be mentioned in his
presence. The lovers never corresponded, and never met until this
evening! You may judge how much cause for speculation there is in this
meeting."

"Yes--but within these three years great changes have taken place. Mr.
Howard is a distinguished man--a man of fortune, and of acknowledged
talent--one of the lawgivers of the nation. And Mr. Legare and his
family are reduced from wealth to a moderate competency."

"Yes, I know; but that does not change the old aristocrat's manner of
regarding the affair. He contends that a gentleman born is always a
gentleman, and a peasant always a peasant, notwithstanding the
vicissitudes of fortune, that may enrich the one and impoverish the
other."

"Or rather, he contended so--it belongs to the past tense. Look at him
now--see what deference he pays to Mr. Howard's opinions."

"The mere politeness of the host. Take nothing for granted from that."

"Nay, but Frank Howard is a gentleman of whom any father might be proud
as a son-in-law."

"Very likely. But Mr. Legare is not 'any' father. However, what I wish
to know is, whether Frank Howard did not use you to procure the 'bid'
that brought him hither?"

"No, indeed!"

"How came it, then, you artful boy, that you took just the course, and
the only course, by which you could procure him an invitation?"

"I don't understand you."

"You innocent! How came it, then, that you wrote to Mr. Legare, you
would be very happy to obey his summons, and spend the holidays at
Wolfbrake, but that you had a friend with you whom you could not leave,
and whom you took care not to mention by name?"

"Oh, because I never gave the matter a moment's thought. When I got Mr.
Legare's letter, I just sat down and answered it right off, and
mentioned my friend merely as my friend. If I had, as you seem to think,
been fishing for an invitation for him also, I certainly should have
mentioned him by name and title as the Hon. Frank Howard, of
Massachusetts, etc., etc., etc."

"In which case you certainly would not have been invited to bring him
here."

"Probably not, but I did not know that. What knew I of the hostility, or
even of the acquaintance, between the parties? I acted only in simple
honesty."

"The best way to act, my dear Johnny."

"And so blundered into helping the lovers."

"Not so. You were providentially led."

"Well, as soon as ever I received the invitation, I hastened to write
and give the name of my friend to our host, as I should have done at
first, if I had dreamed of his being invited to accompany me. And as for
Frank Howard, he was as innocent of design as myself. He knew nothing
about the matter until I showed him Mr. Legare's last letter, and
pressed him to go with me. He then asked me if Mr. Legare was any
relation of the Legares, of Louisiana. I said I believed he had brothers
in Louisiana, but I was not certain, as I knew very little of the
family. Then he told me that he had had the pleasure of meeting a Mr.
Legare, of Louisiana, at Saratoga, and should feel happy in making the
acquaintance of any of his family; and there the conversation stopped.
Frank was evidently as much astonished as delighted at the unexpected
meeting with his ladylove."

"I am glad to know it," said I.

And then, not to continue the rudeness of an aside conversation, I took
my brother to Rachel Noales, and left him with her, while I joined my
kind old host.

Supper was soon after announced, and we were all marshaled into the
dining-room, where a sumptuous feast was spread, over which we lingered,
eating and drinking, with epicurean leisure, and talking and laughing
for more than an hour. I said we--but I should rather say they--for I
could not eat, or talk, or laugh. At last the long-drawn meal came to an
end.

The company adjourned to the drawing-room, and an hour was passed in
pleasant conversation, and then, in consideration of the fatigue of the
newly-arrived guests, we separated for the night.

In the hall I noticed a diminutive page, of the African race, who
rejoiced in the chivalric name of Emmanuel Philibert, which was adapted
to daily and popular use by the abbreviative of Phlit. Phlit was
standing, and solemnly holding a light in one hand and a bootjack in the
other, waiting to attend the two gentlemen to their bedroom.

But Mr. Legare took upon himself the office of groom of the chambers,
and accompanied his latest guests to their apartment.

Rachel Noales and myself reached ours about the same time. We heard the
voice of Mr. Legare taking leave of the gentlemen for the night; we
heard him and the little waiter Phlit, go downstairs and out at the hall
door, fastening it after them.

"I will take care that this is secured to-night," said Rachel, going and
carefully locking our door, and then trying it to be sure that it was
fast. "That will do," she said, when she had satisfied herself of its
security.

Then, as we were very weary, we prepared to retire. We were soon in bed.

Rachel was soon asleep.

Not so myself. I lay perfectly still, almost breathless, waiting the
developments of the night. And, reader, it was while lying thus wide
awake, and gazing straight out through the window to the spot where the
family tombstones gleamed white and spectral in the moonlight among the
dark firs, that my ear was struck by the click of the recoiling lock,
and, turning, I saw the door swing slowly open and my dark-robed
midnight visitant enter. Though wide awake as at this moment, I was
deprived, by excess of awe, of the power of speech or motion. Slowly
the spectre advanced and stood as before, pointing to the dark-red spot
hid beneath the carpet under her feet. I essayed once more to speak to
her, but such terror as her presence had never before inspired froze my
utterance. I listened, wondering if my companion in the other bed was
conscious of this supernatural presence in the room; but the deep and
regular breathing of Rachel assured me that she was sleeping soundly,
the deep sleep of fatigue.

And all this while the black-robed woman stood holding my eyes with her
fixed and burning gaze, and pointing to the spot on the floor. Then,
letting her arm fall slowly to her side, she passed, in measured steps,
from the room, and through the door that swung to, gradually, and closed
behind her. Again I essayed to cry out, but the spell was still upon me,
and no sound escaped my paralyzed lips. While lying thus, I heard once
more the recoiling click of a lock, and the swing of a door upon its
hinges; but this time it was not our own but another door--that of the
opposite chamber, where my brother and his friend slept.

"Who's there?" I heard John call out, in no pleasant voice, and seeming
evidently annoyed at the disturbance.

There was no answer.

"Who's there?" he repeated.

No answer.

"Who's there?"

Continued silence.

"Phlit!"

No reply.

"Phlit!"

No reply.

"Phlit!"

Dead silence.

"Jet! Is that you?"

The silence of the grave continued; until at last the calling of my
brother awoke his companion in the other bed.

"What is the matter, John?" I heard him ask.

"Why, some one has unlocked our door and entered, and I can't make them
speak; but shoot me if I don't find them out!" said my brother, jumping
out of bed and beginning to strike a light.

"You have been dreaming."

"Have I? Look there, then!"

"Well, I see the door is open; but you probably forgot to lock it."

"I'll make sure of it now, then," said John, banging the door violently,
locking it with a resonant force and proceeding to search for the
supposed intruder. Of course the search was fruitless, and, with many
grumbles and threats, he went back to bed.

My brother had not seen the supernatural visitant to his room, who, go
where she might, appeared only to me.

While turning these things over in my mind, again I heard John's lock
turn and his door swing open, and almost simultaneously his voice called
out:

"What the demon does this mean? Who are you then?" as he jumped out of
bed, relocked the door, struck a light and proceeded once more vainly to
examine the room.

"Well, this is certainly the most inexplicable thing I ever knew in my
life!" exclaimed John, with an intonation between astonishment and
indignation.

"Oh! I really suppose you did not lock the door properly," replied
Howard, getting up and going to ascertain the state of the case. And I
heard him unlock and lock the door several times, and finally locking it
fast, he said:

"There! now I will guarantee that it will stay shut!" and went back to
his couch.

I do not think that more than fifteen minutes had passed before I heard,
for the third time, their lock fly back and their door swing open.

"By Jupiter! This is past belief!" exclaimed Mr. Howard, while my
brother, without speaking, jumped out of bed and struck a light.

They searched the room. They came out thence and searched the hall. They
went up into the garret and searched the rooms over our heads. And,
finding no one, they returned, wondering and conjecturing to their
chamber, and for the third time that night fast locked their door.

"Take the key out, John," said Mr. Howard. And John withdrew the key and
took it to bed with him.

About fifteen minutes more passed and then--"click!" flew the lock, open
swung the door, and out of bed jumped John, in a state of mind between
affright and rage.

"John, never mind! It is clear that the door will not remain closed;
leave it open; to-morrow I will look at the lock and see what is amiss,"
said Mr. Howard.

And for the fourth time that night I heard my brother muttering like
distant thunder, go back to his bed.

But I do not think that he slept that night, and I am sure that I did
not.

In the morning I felt weary, and certain that if this mysterious
visitation continued, I should go mad. As I was dressing before the
toilet mirror, the reflection of my own face in the glass startled and
terrified me, it looked so pale, wild and haggard, and not unlike the
awful face of the midnight spectre. When Rachel and myself were dressed
and ready to go down, I opened the door. And just at that moment my
brother and Mr. Howard came out of their chamber and bade us
"Good-morning."

"Were you at our door last night, Agnes?" John asked me.

"At your door, John? Certainly not."

"Wasn't you, though?"

"Assuredly not. What should have brought me there?"

"Well, somebody was, that's all!" said my brother, while Mr. Howard
silently looked what he did not say.

We all went down together to the parlor, where a fine fire was burning,
and Mathilde, in her fresh morning beauty, waited to welcome us.

And soon our host and hostess entered, and in a few moments the
breakfast was announced, and we all adjourned to the table.

Breakfast was served long before the usual hour, that the gentlemen of
our party might make an early start upon the fox hunt that Mr. Legare
had arranged for that day.

While we were still at the table, Mrs. Legare bethought herself to hope
that the gentlemen had rested well; when my brusque and thoughtless
brother John said:

"No, indeed, my dear madam! We were 'fashed wi' a bogle' all night
long."

"Sir?"

"He means, madam, that we could not by any means keep our door locked,
and had finally to give up the attempt," explained Mr. Howard.

A deathly paleness overspread Mrs. Legare's face. I knew she regretted
the question that she had been tempted to ask, and now she receded from
the subject.

Mr. Legare, who had kept his eyes averted and turned a deaf ear to the
disclosure, now adroitly changed the topic by speaking of the hunt.

The horses were neighing with impatience in the yard, and as soon as the
gentlemen arose from the breakfast-table, they prepared themselves,
mounted and rode off to their day's sport.

It proved a very successful chase, for they took the brush before twelve
o'clock and returned with fine appetites to the excellent dinner set
upon the table at two in the afternoon.

The evening was passed in quiet hilarity, and we separated at a
comparatively early hour.

But that night, reader! It passes all my powers of description. I had
always been in the habit of "saying" my prayers before retiring; but of
late, since I had been habitually haunted, I had taken to praying
devoutly before going to bed. I prayed with unusual earnestness this
night, and then I retired to my couch. So wearied out in body was I
that, despite of mental excitement, I soon fell asleep.

I do not know how long I had slept, probably several hours, for it was
near day, when I was awakened by a strong light and a great noise.

I opened my eyes and collected my senses to find that both proceeded
from the opposite bedroom, where Mr. Howard and John were up with a
lighted candle, looking about for the mysterious and persevering
intruder upon their slumbers. The light from their room streamed across
the hall and through the open door into ours and fell upon the tall,
dark-robed, stern-visaged haunter of my chamber, where she stood
pointing her spectral finger to the spot upon the floor. A moment she
stood thus, and then, as before, passed slowly from the room and through
the open door, that, without hands, closed behind her.

The silvery beams of the full moon poured through the two east windows,
and in its light I now saw Rachel Noales sitting up straight, stark and
still in her bed.

"Rachel! Rachel!" said I, "what is the matter?"

"Heaven and earth, Agnes, we are haunted!" she gasped, rather than
spoke.

"Have you seen anything, Rachel?" I asked, now hoping that she had, for
I felt it terrible to be alone in my spectral experiences.

"No, no, I have not seen anything! But that door! that door! that I am
sure I fastened so carefully, was unlocked without a key, and opened
without hands! I heard and saw it, for I was laying awake!"

"Let us hope that you were mistaken, Rachel."

"No, no, impossible! Oh, I would not sleep another night in this house
for the wealth of the Indies!"

While we were talking, the fruitless search proceeded in, the opposite
room, until at length it was given up and the friends retired.

Rachel left her bed and came into mine, where she lay and trembled.

Scarcely fifteen minutes of peace and silence passed ere the lock of
both doors flew back, and the doors swung open.

Rachel began screaming; the occupants of the opposite chamber started
up, exclaiming in every variety of interjection. I arose and donned my
double wrapper, and put my feet in slippers, to go and procure
restoratives, for Rachel had fallen into spasms.

"For Heaven's sake, what is the matter, Agnes?" inquired my brother, who
had put on his dressing-gown and come to the door.

"Oh, the Lord only knows!"

I had seized a bottle of cologne from the dressing-table and began to
deluge the face and hands of Rachel, while my brother went and brought
his candle and put it inside of our door.

"Do go and wake up Mrs. Legare, John; I can do nothing for Rachel; I
never saw anybody in hysterics before, if this is hysterics!" said I,
feeling both frightened at the condition and angry at the weakness of my
patient.

But, even while I spoke, Mr. Howard, who during this time had been
hastily dressing himself, went downstairs to the old house in search of
assistance.

The family were speedily aroused. Mr. and Mrs. Legare hurried into the
new house. The lady herself entered the chamber where Rachel, as often
as her eyes opened in the haunted chamber, fell into new spasms.

"She will not recover until she is removed from this, Mrs. Legare," I
said.

"Perhaps not; assist me to put her wrapper on, and we will take her
down, and lay her on the parlor sofa," my hostess replied.

And after we had dressed our patient, we carried her down stairs, where
the fire was still smoldering, and only needed replenishment.

When the wood was brought and thrown on, and the fire blazed up
brightly, lighting and warming the whole room, and the shutters were
unclosed, and the rising sun smiled in upon us all, I felt that the
gladsome scene was enough to put to flight all the ghosts in Hades, and
all the superstitious terrors that ignorance is heir to. I almost began
to doubt that I was haunted; and would have done so, but for the sombre
and disturbed countenance of my host, who, as soon as Rachel Noales was
soothed and put to sleep on the sofa, turned to us and inquired:

"Now, my friends, will you be so good as to explain the cause of your
disturbance?"

"A mere trifle, sir," said my brother, brusquely; "the house is
haunted."

"You, of course, do not speak seriously; you cannot credit such
absurdities."

"My dear, sir, I never believed in ghosts until within the last two
nights; but now, with such evidence before me, I should be the most
unbelieving of infidels to refuse credence," said my brother, with a
mixture of gravity and banter in his tone, that made it impossible to
think him in earnest.

"Will you be so kind, Mr. Howard, as to enlighten us?" inquired Mr.
Legare, turning toward that gentleman.

"Since you desire me to do so, my dear sir. Well, then, for the two
nights we have passed beneath your very hospitable and delightful roof,
our rest has been somewhat disturbed----"

"Somewhat disturbed! It has been altogether broken up!" interrupted my
brother.

"Be silent, John," I whispered, pinching him.

Mr. Howard went on:

"By an inexplicable circumstance, namely, the flying open of the doors,
after we had carefully and securely locked them."

"We haven't slept a wink since we have been in the house. We have spent
the nights in jumping up out of bed to lock the doors, and only to have
them unlocked and fly open in our faces," said John.

"I thank you, gentlemen, for the information you have given me. Agnes,
my dear, have you been disturbed?"

"Yes, sir."

"How?"

"In the same manner, sir, by the unaccountable flying open of the door
after I had locked it," said I, suppressing the fact, or fancy, of the
mysterious midnight visitant.

"My dear, you have never complained of this before."

"No, sir."

"Why?"

"Because it was more an affair of interest than of complaint. I wished
first to investigate alone."

"And have you done so?"

"As far as was possible."

"With what result, my dear Agnes?"

"With no satisfactory one, sir."

"Friends," said the old gentleman, turning toward the assembled guests,
"it is vain to deny that a mystery does exist, and for the whole term of
my residence here, if not before, has existed in this house, that has,
heretofore, defied all investigation. Many of you have heard of the
circumstances under which the transfer of property was made. You
have heard that Madeleine Van Der Vaughan, the last inheritrix
of this estate, was a high-spirited, haughty, self-willed woman,
with one idea--the regeneration of her patrimonial estate; that
everything--money, health, peace, conscience, life itself, was
sacrificed to her monomania; that at last she died a victim to her own
ruling passion; that her husband married again, sold the estate, even
unto the very graveyard where her body lay, and left the neighborhood;
that I became the purchaser; and, finally, that since I have lived in
the house not one chamber door has been secure from a seemingly
supernatural opening.

"The superstitious among my servants, and poor, ignorant neighbors,
ascribe all these mysteries to the presence of Madeleine Van Der
Vaughan's restless ghost, still haunting the scene of her toils,
ambitions and disappointments. Modern spiritualists would, without
doubt, ascribe it to the agency of spirits. I believe in none of these
absurdities. But the annoying mystery remains unexplained, and I would
give 'the half of my kingdom' to him who should elucidate it."

The old gentleman, at the conclusion of his speech, looked around for an
answer among his audience.

"Do you not think that there may be a defect in the locks, sir?"
inquired Mr. Howard.

"Oh, 'I cry you, mercy,' sir! Such a possibility did not in the very
first instance escape us. The locks have been taken off and examined,
and no perceptible defect could be discovered. The half--'the half of my
kingdom' to the knight who shall rid me of this mysterious key-bearer."

I saw, by the twinkle of Mr. Howard's eyes, that he possessed a clew to
the mystery. I saw him exchange glances with Mathilde, who had just
joined us, looking blooming as Hebe in her fresh morning toilet.

Now, I was always a bashful girl--I mean moderately so; therefore, I
never could account for the spirit that entered and moved me to say and
do what I soon said and did. I happened to be standing beside Mr.
Legare, and his hand rested caressingly upon my head, when he repeated:

"'The half of my kingdom' to the knight that shall deliver my castle
from this dragon."

I answered:

"Oh, your majesty! Never offer the half of your kingdom! None but a
mercenary wretch would undertake the enterprise for such a bribe! Offer
the hand of your princess, and a thousand lances shall be laid in rest
for such a prize!"

I do not know whether he discovered the serious meaning under my
lightly-spoken words, for he fell into the humor of the jest, patted me
on the head, and said:

"Agreed! the hand of my princess to the brave knight who shall deliver
me from this plague!"

"I accept the challenge!" said Mr. Howard, "and promise that in
twenty-four hours the mysterious carrier of the keys shall be
vanquished!"

"It is a treaty! It is a treaty!" exclaimed one after another of the
young men and maidens who were present.

Mr. Legare looked around in some confusion at being taken up so
seriously, and then laughing, said:

"Very well--agreed! I ratify the compact, Mr. Howard; though I don't
believe your part of it can be fulfilled. And now to breakfast!"

We adjourned to the old house--all who were in the secret wondering in
what manner Mr. Howard would undertake to exorcise the key-demon; but
all discussion was waived for the present, while we dispatched the
necessary business of the table.

After breakfast, Frank Howard asked for a horse and rode up to Frost
Height.

He was absent two hours, at the end of which time he returned, bringing
with him a set of locksmith's tools, and flat piece of board, such as
show-locks are sometimes screwed upon for a sign.

When he had brought these things into the new house he challenged Mr.
Legare and all who wished to see the mystery evolved, to accompany him
to the chambers above.

Of course, everybody accepted the invitation.

We all went first into the gentlemen's room, and stood around in a
semi-circle, with our faces toward the door, and our eyes fixed upon the
lock and Frank Howard. First he turned the key, and begged that we would
observe that all was fast, and watch the result. Then he came away, and
we waited with our eyes fixed upon the lock.

In a little less than fifteen minutes we both heard and saw the catch
fly back, and the door swing open!

I cannot tell you with what a superstitious thrill we all shuddered,
though this was in broad daylight, and in the mutually supporting
presence of a dozen persons, and, though there was a machinist on the
spot, professing himself ready to demonstrate that this was a purely
mechanical phenomenon!

"There! ladies and gentlemen, you all see the action!"

"We all see!"

"No hand near the lock!"

"None!"

"There could have been no deception."

"Assuredly not," we all declared.

"Oh, certainly not--I have seen the thing twenty times," said Mr.
Legare.

"And I indorse your declarations, sir; you were right. There was no
deception--there is none! It is a purely mechanical phenomenon! But,
listen! Spiritual powers reside in mechanical forces. Every year we live
elucidates this mystery, though none but the deepest thinkers see this
truth in all its importance. Look you! a savage thinks that there is a
diabolism in the self-action of a watch--in the reflection of a
looking-glass. We think both mysteries to be simple mechanical
combinations! Pray look at the lock before us. I observe that it is
Harmon's patent. Poor Harmon, a demented machinist, scarcely knew what
he would be at, and so undertook to make an invaluable improvement in
the common door-lock. This is one of his; its intricate machinery has
got out of order, and hence 'the fantastic tricks before high heaven'
that these rooms have witnessed! I am about to take off the lock, to
prove what I have stated, as well as to remedy the evil."

"Oh, sir, that has been tried--I have seen it done--hope nothing from
that!" exclaimed Mr. Legare.

"Patience, my dear sir!" said Frank Howard, taking up the tools with so
much of the air of a man accustomed to the handling of them that old Mr.
Legare winced and fidgeted.

But Frank speedily took off the lock, and brought it to us for
inspection.

"Here! you notice that nothing seems amiss," he said.

"Nothing in the world--I told you that before," replied Mr. Legare.

"Furthermore, if now I were to turn the key, it would remain turned."

"Certainly, while the lock is off the door, it looks exactly right, and
behaves exactly right; but just put it on the door and lock it, and in
from ten to thirty minutes, more or less, it will fly open."

"Exactly; that is what I am about to explain," said Frank Howard, taking
up a flat, smooth piece of board, and laying it upon the table; and then
he took the lock, laid it on the board, screwed it tightly, turned the
key and said:

"It is not the circumstance of this lock being attached to the door that
has caused it to act in this manner; for I will prove to you that if the
same lock be screwed tightly to any other resisting object--as, for
instance, this board--it will act in the same irregular manner. Watch it
now, and you will see."

We did so, and in a few minutes we saw the catch fly back, as before.

"I will tell you the reason," said Mr. Howard, unscrewing the lock from
the board and inviting us to look on.

"Now, though there seems to be no defect whatever in this lock, yet in
truth the whole inside machinery has started slightly outward. This does
not affect its right action while detached; but when attached, the
continued pressure of the board to which it is fastened, gradually acts
upon the spring, and causes the catch in a given time to fly back, and
unlock, and the force with which this occurs opens the door. I can well
imagine that such unexplained movements, occurring in the middle of the
night, should have rather a supernatural effect. But the evil can be
remedied in a few minutes."

And then, while we were all dumb with astonishment, Frank Howard took up
his tools, went to work, and in about twenty minutes fixed the inside of
the lock, and replaced it on the door.

"Now," said he, "if ever this door comes open again without hands, I
will consent to forfeit the fair reward of my triumph. And now, friends,
I will go to work and mend the other."

And, inviting us to precede him, he passed out, locked the door, gave
the key to Mr. Legare, and begged him to take notice that the door would
remain fast until he (Mr. Legare) might choose to open it, or to give up
the key.

We reached the other chamber door, where twenty minutes' work served to
rectify the error. Then, locking that, as he had done the other, he
called me to witness that it should remain fast until I should use, or
give up the key that he placed in my charge.

We then went downstairs, Mr. Legare having one key safe in his pocket--I
having the other secure in mine.

It was the last day of the old year, and company were expected in the
evening--not to dance, but to watch it out.

Mrs. Legare went to attend to her extra housekeeping duties, and the
young ladies retired to their chambers to arrange their dresses for the
next day.

Mr. Legare, Frank Howard, my brother John, and the other gentlemen, took
their guns and game-bags, called their dogs, and started off "birding."

I went into the parlor where Rachel Noales still lay upon the sofa, in
the state of exhaustion that had succeeded her fright in the morning,
and told her that the mystery of the locks was discovered, and
explained, as far as I could, the process of demonstration. And Rachel
rallied from that hour.

I had reassured her, but who should reassure me? I was still very deeply
disturbed. True, the mystery of the opening doors was satisfactorily
explained. True, that my midnight visitor might have been an optical
illusion, produced by the mysterious surroundings acting upon my
highly-susceptible temperament. And true, also, that the resemblance
between my visionary woman and the portrait of Madeleine Van Der
Vaughan, might have been a mere fancy. But the spot of blood on the
floor. Who should explain that?

From time to time, during that day, I slipped upstairs to examine the
state of the doors; they remained fast.

The gentlemen dined out, but joined us at an early tea. Nothing was said
of the event of the morning, until, as we arose from the table, little
Phlit sidled up to his master, and asked for the keys so that he might
make fires in the bedrooms, "for de ladies an' gemlen to dress for
ebenin.'"

"The deuce! You tell me that the doors remain fast?" demanded Mr.
Legare, turning around upon us all.

I assured him that they did. He was too polite to doubt my statement;
but he wished to see for himself.

We followed him, and found him in a state of admiration before Mr.
Howard's door. When he had gazed some time at that, and tried it in
various ways, he turned about and went to mine, which he proved in the
same manner. And having found that both remained fast locked, without
mistake, he extended his hand to Frank, and said:

"Candidly, Mr. Howard, I did not believe in your success until this
moment. You have fairly vanquished the ghosts!"

Frank Howard took the offered hand, and bowed gravely and silently, as
he again resigned it. The doors were then opened, and Phlit admitted to
do his duties. And we separated to prepare for the evening watch-party.

It was eight o'clock when our friends from the neighborhood came in; and
after partaking of a bowl of eggnog in the dining-room, we adjourned to
the parlor, where we passed four hours in very pleasant social
intercourse, conversing, singing and reading. And as the clock neared
the stroke of twelve, Mr. Howard took a volume of Tennyson, and in an
affecting manner read his tender and beautiful "Requiem of the Dying
Year." All were moved, and as the reader finished, the tears were
running down the cheeks of Mathilde, who said:

"Oh! I do not know how any one, even the most thoughtless, can bear to
'dance out the old year!' I could no more do it than I could dance
beside the deathbed of a dear old friend! But I must not greet the
infant New Year with tears," she exclaimed, and dashing aside the
sparkling drops that spangled the roses of her cheeks, and turning to
her parents, she said:

"Dearest father! Dearest mother! Let me be the first to wish you a Happy
New Year, and many, ever happier returns of it!"

"You make our anniversaries happy, best child; now tell us truly what
shall be our New Year's gift to you?" said Mr. Legare, while Mrs. Legare
silently embraced her daughter.

Blushing deeply, Mathilde whispered one word to her father, who
repressed a rising sigh, and asked:

"Is this so? Must this be so, my dearest child?"

"Yes, my father."

"Then am I doubly bound to do what I am about to do, Mr. Howard!"

Frank Howard stepped eagerly forward.

"Mr. Howard! I always settle outstanding debts at the first of the
year," said Mr. Legare, taking the hand of Mathilde and placing it in
that of Frank Howard, who gently pressed it, as he answered:

"Sir, I believe that for years, I have possessed the priceless heart of
this dear maiden, but her fair hand, I would prefer to owe to her
father's approval and good-will, rather than to a mere accident."

"Sir, there are no such things as accidents! I am sixty years old who
say it! And as for the rest, sir, 'her father's approval and good-will'
always follows his esteem and respect, and now goes with his consent!
God bless you! Be true to Mathilde!"

"May Heaven deal with me as I with her!" said Frank Howard, earnestly.

While this important little family aside was going on the other guests
were wishing each other a "Happy New Year," and chatting and laughing
too merrily and noisily to hear what was there passing.

And now they asked for their cloaks and hoods, which Rachel Noales and I
flew to bring; and in less than half an hour all the evening visitors
had departed, and the returning sound of their sleighbells died away in
the distance.

We that were left separated and retired. When we reached our chamber
Rachel and I locked the door and went to bed.

We were sufficiently wearied out to go fast asleep, and sleep until late
in the morning, when the loud knocking of little Jet at our chamber door
aroused us. I jumped up and went and opened it.

"De doors do stay shet fas' 'nuff now!" exclaimed my little maid, with a
broad grin, as she entered.

"Yes, Jet; thanks to Mr. Howard."

"Ain't him a smart gemlan, dough? Wunner if him's a wizard?"

"I really do not know, Jet. You must ask your Miss Mathilde."

"Law! Do she know?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Den I ax her, sure."

And so my little maid proceeded to light the fire.

This was a New Year's day, and a large company was expected to dinner.
And it was upon this occasion that the engagement of the Hon. Frank
Howard, of Massachusetts, and Miss Mathilde Legare, was announced.

But little is left to be told. For the remainder of my stay I rested in
undisturbed peace, suffering no recurrence of opening doors and midnight
visitors. I was almost sorry that my ghostly mysteries had found so
commonplace a solution--a mechanical defect taking the place of the
phantom key, and an optical illusion explaining my midnight vision!--all
was accounted for except the spot of blood upon the floor! Upon the
morning of my departure, I called Mathilde into the room, and striking
an attitude like that of the woman of my vision, I silently pointed to
the hidden spot, and gazed at Mathilde, to discover consciousness in her
countenance.

But Mathilde first looked back in innocent surprise, and then
recollecting herself, said:

"Oh! you allude to a stain there; yes, it is a pity! The men who were
painting red lines on the doors over-turned the paint-pot and made a
deep, ugly, crimson stain; and, like the spot of blood on Bluebeard's
key, 'the more we scrub it the brighter it grows!' The next time a
carpenter happens to be at work here, mamma intends to have it planed
out."

So much for my last hold upon the supernatural! Let me repeat--the
phantom key, a mere mechanical defect; the spot of blood, a mere stain
of paint; and the midnight spectre, an optical illusion!

But the reader may ask, how I account for the resemblance between the
woman of my vision and the portrait of the ill-fated Madeleine Van Der
Vaughan? I answer, that at this distance of time, I regard it as the
effect of imagination only, as was the whole vision!

It was about two months after the conclusion of my Christmas visit that
I was summoned to Wolfbrake to act as bridesmaid for Mathilde, for it
was immediately after the rising of Congress upon the fourth of March,
that Mr. Howard went up to claim the hand of his betrothed. They were
married upon the seventh. It was a wedding in the fine, old-fashioned
country style, with a ball and supper the same evening, and dinner
parties and dancing parties, given successively by the neighbors, in
honor of the bride, almost every day and night for the next two weeks.

They have now been married several years, and have several
children--boys and girls. Frank Howard now holds a "high official"
position in the present administration. And old Mr. Legare is justly
proud of his gifted son-in-law. As Mathilde is too much of a Creole to
bear the rigor of a New England climate they divide the year, spending
the summer in Massachusetts and the winter in Virginia "with the old
folks at home."

And year after year I have visited them there, and slept in the haunted
chamber, but never, since the locks were mended, have I been troubled by
an opening door, or a midnight ghost!



THE PRESENTIMENT.



CHAPTER I.

THE QUADROON.

    Oh! yet we hope that, somehow, good
      Will be the final goal of ill,
      To pangs of nature, sins of will,
    Defects of doubt and taints of blood.--TENNYSON.


There was an account of an execution item that met my eyes in glancing
over the columns of a newspaper. It made no more impression upon me at
the time than such paragraphs make upon you or any of us. My glance
slided over that to the next items, chronicling in order the success of
a benevolent ball, the arrival of a popular singer, etc.; and I should
have forgotten all about it had not the execution occurred near the
plantation of a dear friend, with whom I was accustomed to pass a part
of every year. From that friend I heard the story--a domestic tragedy,
which, for its inspirations of pity and terror equaled any old Greek
drama that I ever read. I know not if I can do anything like justice to
the subject by giving the story in my own words.

Near the city of M----, on the A---- river, stood the plantation of Red
Hill. It was one of the largest cotton plantations in the South,
covering several square miles, but it was ill-cultivated and
unprofitable.

The plantation house was situated a mile back from the river, in a
grove of trees on the brow of the hill quite out of the reach of fog and
miasma.

At the time I speak of, it was owned by Colonel Waring, a widower, with
one son, to whom he had given his mother's family name of Oswald. The
ostensible female head of this house was the major's own mother, Madam
Waring, an old lady of French extraction, and now fallen deeply into the
vale of years and infirmities. The real head was Phædra, a female slave,
and a Mestizza[1] by birth. Phædra had one child, a boy, some two years
younger than the heir of the family. Notwithstanding the want of a lady
hostess at the head of the table, there was not a pleasanter or a more
popular mansion in the State than Colonel Waring's. Indeed, he might be
said to have kept open house, for the dwelling was half the time filled
with company, comprising old and young gentlemen, ladies and children.

[Footnote 1: The Mestizza is half Indian, half negro.]

Without any one habit of dissipation, Colonel Waring was a _bon-vivant_
of the gayest order, who loved to play the host, forget care, and enjoy
himself with his friends and neighbors. He was benevolent, also; no
appeal to his heart was ever slighted. He was frequently in want of
ready money, yet, when he had cash, it was as likely to be lavished in
injudicious alms-giving, as expended upon his own debts or necessities.
I have heard of his giving a thousand dollars to set up a poor widow in
business, and at the same time put off his creditors, and go deeper into
debt for his negroes' winter clothing. In the times when the yellow
fever desolated the South, his mansion year after year became the house
of refuge to those who fled from the cities, yet were unable to bear the
expense of a watering place. His house was a place where the trammels of
conventionalism could, without offense, be cast off for a while.
Children might do as they liked; young people as they pleased; and old
folks might--dance, if they felt lively. "It was at Colonel Waring's,"
was sufficient explanation of any sort of eccentricity.

Madam Waring, in her distant chamber, was not much more than a "myth,"
or, at best, a family tradition; yet her name undoubtedly gave a
sanction to the presence of ladies in a house, which, without her, they
would probably never have entered.

The Mestizza was scarcely less of a myth. Everybody knew of her
existence, and there were few who did not understand her position as
well as that of the beautiful boy Valentine, who was the constant
companion of Oswald; but Phædra was never seen, nor was her presence to
be guessed, except in the well-ordered house, and the delicious
breakfasts, dinners and suppers, prepared under her supervision, and
sent up to the guests.

Colonel Waring had his enemies. What man has not? And even among those
who at times sat at his board, and slept under his roof, it was said
that "justice should go before generosity;" and that Colonel Waring, by
his reckless charities and lavish hospitality, wronged both his
creditors and his heir. Others whispered that he plunged into the
excitements of company for the purpose of drowning thought or
conscience; and if a stranger came into the neighborhood, and found
himself, as he would be not unlikely to do, the guest of Colonel Waring,
he would be told by some fellow-visitor that the late Mrs. Waring, the
wife of the colonel, had died, raving mad, in a Northern lunatic asylum.

And, among the women, it was whispered that in dying she had deeply
cursed the Mestizza and her boy.

However that might be, it is certain that Phædra had always manifested
the most sincere attachment to the lady's son; and from the time that
Oswald was left an orphan, at the age of six months, to the time of her
death, no one could be a more devoted nurse or a greater child-spoiler
than she was to him. Phædra's nature was despotic, and every one on the
plantation had to yield to Master Oswald, or they would find rations
shortened, holidays refused, work increased, clothing neglected, and be
punished in numerous indirect ways, not by their most indulgent of
masters, but by the influence of the Mestizza. Even her own son was
scarcely an exception to the universal homage she exacted for Oswald. He
had two claims upon her--in the first place, in her eyes he was the
young master, the heir-apparent, the Crown Prince--and then he had "no
mother."

And the boy on his side repaid his nurse's devotion by the most sincere
affection, both for her and for his foster brother, Valentine.

Oswald "took after" his father, both in the Saxon fairness of his fresh
complexion, flaxen hair, and lively blue eyes, and in the hearty
benevolence and careless gayety of his disposition. Like his father,
also, he lacked self-esteem, and the dignity of character that it gives.
Nay, he had not half so much of that quality as had the son of the
Mestizza, whose overweening pride won for him the name of "Little
Prince."

Valentine was an exquisitely beautiful boy; he was like his Mestizza
mother, in the clear, dark-brown skin, and regular aquiline features;
but, instead of her straight black locks, he had soft, shining,
bluish-black hair, that fell in numerous spiral ringlets all around his
neck, and when he stooped veiled his cheeks. In startling, yes, in
absolutely frightful contrast to that dark skin and raven black hair and
eyebrows, were his clear, light-blue, Saxon eyes! One who understands
scientifically, or feels intuitively, the nature of such a fearful
combination of antagonistic and never-to-be-harmonized elements of
character, fated without the saving grace of God, to become the
elements of insanity and crime, cannot look upon its external outward
signs without shuddering.

Think of it; and wonder, if you can, at anything in his after life!
Think of a boy combining in his own nature the ardent passions and
impulsive temperament of the African negro, the tameless love of freedom
of the North American Indian, and the intellectual power and domineering
pride of the Anglo-Saxon. Place him in the condition of a pet slave;
leave him without moral and Christian instruction; alternately praise
and pamper or condemn him--not as his merit, but as your caprice
decides; let him grow up in that manner, and, as it seems to me, the
result is so sure that it might be demonstrated in advance.

Both the boys were great favorites with the visitors who frequented the
house. Oswald, as the son of the host, and also for his bright, joyous,
frolicsome nature; and Valentine, for his beauty, wit, and piquant
sauciness. Willingly would Phædra have kept the lad away from the "white
folks," but Oswald would not suffer his playmate to be separated from
himself. Nor when the visitors had once discovered Valentine's value as
an entertainer, would they have spared him.

The lads did not seem in the least to understand their relations as
young master and servant, but behaved in all respects toward each other
as peers--the quicker and more impulsive nature taking the lead as a
matter of course. And that nature happened to belong to the Mestizza's
son.

Valentine had the keenest appreciation of pleasure, and the quickest
intelligence in discovering the way to it. In all their boyish
amusements, Valentine was the purveyor; in all their adventures, he was
the leader--Oswald entering into all his plans, and following all his
suggestions, with the heartiest good-will. And, in all their childish
misdemeanors, he was the tempter, and always, also, the willing
scapegoat--that is to say, when in a fit of generosity to shield Oswald,
he voluntarily assumed all the blame, he was perfectly willing to take
all the punishment; but, on the contrary, if both were discovered _in
flagrante delicto_, and he only punished, then at such injustice, he
would fly into the most ungovernable fury, that would sometimes end in
frenzy and congestion of the brain. It was these maniacal fits of
passion that procured for him the sobriquet of Little Demon, conferred
upon him by the negroes of the plantation, in opposition to that of
Little Prince, given him by the visitors at the house.

Often, too, the boy gave evidence of reflection and of feeling, beyond
his years; as, for instance, once, when he was but nine years old, a
lady, who delighted in his childish beauty, grace, and wit, allowed him
frequently to ride in the carriage with her, and accompany her, when
making visits, or on going to places of amusement. One day, when she was
gently stroking his silky curls, he suddenly dropped his head into his
hands, and burst into tears.

"Why, Valley! what is the matter?" she asked, again caressing his
beautiful head. But, at the gentle caress and the gentle tone, he wept
more passionately than ever. "Why, Valley! what is the matter? Have I
hurt your feelings? Have any of us hurt your feelings?" she asked,
knowing his sensitive nature, and imagining that some thoughtlessness on
her part, or on some one else's, might have wounded it. "Have any of us
hurt your feelings, Valley?"

"Yes, you have! all of you have! and you do all the time!"

The lady laughed, for it struck her as very droll to hear such a charge
from the spoiled and petted boy. But the boy went on to speak with
warmth and vehemence:

"You all treat me like a little poodle dog, or like a monkey; for you
feed me, and you dress me up, and pet me, and laugh at me, and by and by
you will drive me out."

Another time, he was sitting in the parlor with a lady, who had diverted
herself a good deal with his precocious wit and intelligence, and had
allowed him to play with the rings on her fingers, the bracelets on her
wrists, and the pearls that bound her dark tresses, and then to follow
her to the piano, and stand close by her side while she played and sang,
until suddenly down dropped his head upon his hands, and he burst into a
passion of tears. The lady broke off in astonishment, turned around,
drew him up to her, took his hands from his face, and looked kindly at
him, without saying a word. But the boy dropped upon the floor, and
crouching, wept more vehemently than before. The lady stooped and raised
his head, and laid it on her lap, and laid her hand soothingly upon his
silken curls, but spoke no word. When his passion of tears had passed,
and he had sobbed himself into something like composure, he looked up
into her face, and said:

"You did not laugh at me, Mrs. Hewitt, and you didn't ask me what I was
crying for; but I couldn't help it, because--because I know this good
time will go away; and I shall get taller, and then you won't let me
stay and hear you talk, and hear you sing, and--and--and--I wish I never
could grow any taller. I wish I may die before I grow older."

Ah! poor, fated boy! would indeed, that he had died before he grew
taller! before those evil days his childhood's prophet heart foretold!

But they came on apace.

The first trial that he suffered might seem light enough to an outside
looker-on, but it was heavy enough to Valentine. When he was eleven
years of age, and Oswald nine, Oswald was sent to school, and he
remained at home.

Up to this time they had been playmates and companions, faring alike in
all respects, and sharing equally all pleasures, even the favors of the
visitors.

Now, therefore, Valentine keenly felt the new state of things, which in
more than one way deeply grieved his heart; first, in the separation
from his friend and playmate whom he dearly loved; and then in the
denial of knowledge to his thirsting intellect, for there existed a
statute law against educating a slave--a law, too, that was of late very
strictly enforced, except in the case of children, who frequently
transgressed it, and always with impunity; for slaves are often taught
to read and write by their nurslings, the master's children.

Valentine was thus far kin to us all, that he was a lineal descendant of
Eve, and inherited all her longing desire for forbidden knowledge. And,
in like manner, Oswald had received a goodly portion of that Adamic
propensity to do just precisely what he was commanded not to do.

No grief of Valentine could long be hid from Oswald, and it followed, of
course, that when he discovered the great trouble of his playmate to be
his desire for education, all that Oswald learned at school by day was
taught to Valentine at home by night. And peace and good-will was once
more restored to the boys.

Thus the time went on till the lads were fourteen and sixteen
respectively.

Then Oswald was placed as a boarder at an academy in a neighboring city.
Before leaving home, Oswald had begged, prayed, and insisted upon
Valentine being permitted to accompany him, and had finally gained his
object--an almost unheard-of indulgence--but one, nevertheless, that
could not be refused by the father of his cherished son. So Valentine,
ostensibly as a servant, but really as friend and companion, accompanied
Oswald to his school.

Here also Oswald took every opportunity to impart his acquired knowledge
to his companion.

And now Valentine's taste in literature and art began to develop itself.
His mind was by no means an "omnium-gatherem." _Belle-lettres_, rather
than classic lore or mathematical science, was his attraction.
Astronomy, botany, poetry, rhetoric, oratory, elocution, music,
painting, and the drama--these, and other studies only in proportion as
they related to these, were his delights. An æsthetic rather than a
strong intellect distinguished him. A love of beauty, elegance, and
refinement, in all things--in art, science, and the drama, as well as in
his own person, dress, and surroundings--began to reveal itself. And
those who did not understand or like Valentine, began to sneer at him
for a _petit-maitre_ and a dandy.

A change began to creep over the relations between the youths. Oswald
was no longer a boy, but a young man. He could no longer instruct his
companion, because he would thereby render himself obnoxious to public
opinion, as well as to the laws of the State, to which his age now made
him responsible. Neither could he bear the good-humored jests and the
ridicule of his school-fellows, who bantered him unmercifully upon his
friendship for his "man," calling them the foster-brothers, the Siamese
twins, Valentine and Orson, etc.; and Valentine was beginning to suffer
from the occasional slights, neglect, contempt, and inequality in temper
of his young master, when fortunately the scene changed. Oswald was
withdrawn from the Academy of M----, and sent to the University of
Virginia, whither Valentine, as his valet, attended him.



CHAPTER II.

THE MANIAC'S CURSE.

    Life is before ye! Oh, if ye would look
    Into the secrets of that sealed book,
    Strong as ye are in youth and hope and faith,
    Ye would sink down and falter, "Give us Death!"--FANNY KEMBLE.

Oswald Waring remained three years at the University of Virginia, and
during the whole of that period he had not returned home once. The
vacations had been spent at various Northern watering-places, to which
he went, accompanied by his inseparable companion and valet, Valentine.
His fellow-students at the university often warned him of what they
called the reckless imprudence of taking his slave with him to the
North, expressing their belief that one day the fellow would give him
the slip. But Oswald laughed, in his reckless, confiding good humor, and
declared, if the rascal could have the heart to leave him, he was
perfectly welcome to do so, at the same time expressing his belief that
the boy understood his true interests too well to do anything of the
sort. But the fact was, Valentine loved his master much too well to
leave him lightly.

Oswald Waring never distinguished himself at the university, or anywhere
else, for anything but good nature, generosity, and reckless
extravagance. He never graduated; but at the close of his third year,
being some months past his legal majority, he left the university
finally, and went on a tour through the Northern States and Canada,
before embarking for Europe. He was accompanied, as usual, by Valentine.

And the youth did not avail himself of that opportunity to leave his
master, perhaps from the fascination of their easy, careless, roving
life, as well as the affection that bound them together.

Mr. Waring had reached New York, on his return from Canada, and was
making a short stay in that city, previous to embarking for his European
travels, when he received a letter from his father's attorney, Mr.
Pettigrew, announcing the death of old Madam Waring, and the extreme
illness of Colonel Waring, and pressing for the immediate return of his
son.

Mr. Waring lost no time in commencing his homeward journey, and attended
by his favorite, in less than a fortnight from the day of leaving New
York, he reached the city near to which was his father's plantation.

But there fatal news met him. He was too late. The virulent fever of
that latitude had quickly done its work; and Colonel Waring's funeral
had taken place the week previous. As this result had been dreaded by
Oswald, the shock of hearing of it lost half its force. There was
nothing to do but to hasten to the plantation, to examine into the
confused condition of affairs there. Leaving a note for Mr. Pettigrew to
meet him there the next day, Oswald took a carriage, and, with Valentine
by his side, drove rapidly out to the plantation. They were met by
Phædra, who had been tacitly left in sole charge of the house, and who
saluted her young master with grave respect, and greeted her long absent
son with a silent pressure of the hand, deferring all expression of
interest in or affection for Valentine, until they should be alone
together.

The next morning Mr. Pettigrew arrived, and the examination of the
condition of the estate of the deceased began.

The lawyer expressed his opinion that there was no will of his late
client in existence; and, further, that none had ever been made by him.

Colonel Waring had never spoken to him, as his legal adviser, upon the
subject, as he would have been likely to have done had he contemplated
making one. Colonel Waring was a hale, sanguine man, in the prime of
life, and not likely to entertain the thought of the contingency of his
own death. And the fever that terminated his existence had been too
sudden in its attack and delirium--insensibility and death had followed
with too fatal rapidity, to admit of such a possibility as his executing
his will. However, a search for a possible one was instituted; the
library, secretaries, bureau, strong boxes--in fact, the whole house was
ransacked for a will, or some memento of one; but neither will, nor sign
of will, could be discovered.

Perhaps the person most deeply interested in the search was Phædra. As
soon as her quick intelligence discovered that there was a doubt
relative to the existence of a will, her interest became intense. When
coming into the house to attend her young master or the lawyer, she
paused, loitered near them; and, whenever she was allowed to do so, she
assisted in the search with a zeal not equaled by either of the others.
And when at last this search was abandoned as fruitless, she looked so
unutterably wretched, as she hurried from the room, that both gentlemen
gazed after her in astonishment.

"Why, what is the matter with Phædra?" inquired Mr. Waring, looking
interrogatively at the lawyer.

"She is disappointed, most probably."

"But in what respect? I do not understand."

"She was a favorite slave, was she not?"

"Yes--that is to say, she was a very faithful servant to my late father,
and was very well treated. But what has that to do with it?"

"Why, that she probably expected to be left free by your father's will."

"And that accounts for her anxiety that the will should be found."

"I think so."

"What a fool that woman must be! Free, indeed! Why should she want to be
free--at her age, too. What can be her object? What would she do if she
were free? How in the world came she to get such an idea into her head?
Who could have put it there, do you think?"

"No one, I suppose."

"But how should she ever think of such nonsense as her freedom?"

"It is a notion they all have, I believe."

"A notion! I should think it was a notion, and a very foolish one, on
her part; I am really half inclined to cure her of her folly by setting
her free, and letting her try her freedom on, to see how it fits.
Nothing but experience will teach ignorant creatures like herself."

"I've noticed, in the course of my practice, a good many such instances
of folly as hers."

"They are, the best of them, a set of the dullest and most
ungrateful----. Now, I want to know if there are not hundreds of white
women who would jump at such a situation as Phædra's?"

"Quite likely."

"Why, where could the fool be better off, or freer, if that's her whim?
She is mistress of the house--absolutely to all intents and purposes,
mistress of the house. All the money for domestic expenses passes
through her hands; she carries the keys, governs the maids, and arranges
everything to suit herself."

"And her master, too, let us hope, sir."

"Yes, yes; I do not complain of her good management or her fidelity. In
fact, I should be very unjust to do so, for she is everything that I
could desire in these respects. And to render exact justice in this
tribute, I may say that it would be difficult, and, more than that, it
would be impossible, to replace her. It is these considerations, you
see, that vex me so, when I hear of her hankering after her freedom.
Freedom from what, I should like to know? In what respect does her
position now differ from that of any respectable white woman, filling
the situation of housekeeper?"

"Really, I wish the conversation had not arisen. Certainly, Phædra's
absurd notions were not of sufficient importance to occupy so much of
our attention. Now, then, to business."

And the lawyer and the heir were soon deep in the papers and accounts,
which they found in such hopeless confusion as promised many weeks, if
not months, and perhaps years, of legal and financial diplomacy to
settle.

Phædra, when she had left the room in such a state of strange
excitement, had hurried off in search of her son.

Valentine was in his master's chamber, surrounded by the trunks and
boxes that had been sent after them from New York, and had but that day
arrived. Half of them were opened and unpacked, and a part of their
contents scattered all over the floor. They consisted of books,
pictures, statuettes, vases, and other beautiful fancies, that Valentine
had persuaded his master to collect in New York, during the visits he
had made there while residing at the University of Virginia.

And in the midst of the picturesque and beautiful confusion, Valentine
sat, reclining in an easy chair, fascinated, spellbound by an
illustrated volume of Shakespeare's plays. It was a new purchase of his
master's, made evidently without his knowledge, for it came in a box of
books direct from the bookseller, and that was now unpacked for the
first time.

Valentine had taken the costly book from its double wrapper of coarse
and of tissue paper, and merely meant to look at it before placing it in
the bookcase; but that single look was fatal to his resolution for
industry that morning, for he threw himself back in his master's easy
chair, and was soon deep in the spells of the magic volume.

Hour after hour passed, and there he sat, his body in his master's
lounging-chair, surrounded by the beautiful litter of books and
pictures, statuettes and vases, flutes and eolian harps and other toys,
and his spirit enchanted and carried captive by the master magician to
attend the fortunes of King Lear. The spirit-music, of which his ear was
still conscious, came not from the eolian harp in the window, that
vibrated to the touch of the breeze, but from some old minstrel harper
at the court of King Lear; and the perfume that filled the room came not
from the magnolias of the grove outside, but from rare English flowers
tended by Cordelia, for his soul was not in America in the nineteenth
century, but in ancient Britain in the age of poetry and fable.

He was aroused from his daydream by the entrance of Phædra, in more
excitement than he had ever seen her betray.

Without a word spoken, she fell upon his neck, and, clasping him
closely, burst into tears; then, quickly sinking down by his side,
clasped his knees, dropped her head upon them, and wept convulsively.

Astonished and alarmed, Valentine tried to raise her, exclaiming:

"Mother! what is the matter? Mother! why, mother! what ails you? What
has happened?"

But she clung around his knees, and buried her face, and wept as she had
never wept before.

Using all his strength, the youth forcibly unclasped her arms, and got
up, and raised her, and placed her in the chair that he had vacated.

"Now, mother, what is the matter?" he asked, bending affectionately over
her.

"Oh, Valentine!" she said, as soon as she could speak for sobbing, "Oh,
Valentine! after all, there is no will!"

"No will!" he repeated, in quiet perplexity, for he did not quite
comprehend the cause of her excessive emotion. "No will, did you say,
mother?"

"No! no! no! no!" she repeated, tearing her hair, "there is no will!
although he promised--and I felt sure he'd keep his word--I never
doubted it, because he was an honorable man, after his fashion--there
was no will!"

"Well, my dear mother, what of that, that it should distress you so?"

"What of that? Oh, Valley! Valley! what a question!"

"Indeed, I do not know why you should take the non-existence of a will
so much to heart, mother," he said, soothingly.

"Oh, Valley! Valley! Master promised faithfully that he would leave you
free, and leave you money to take you to France, or to some other
foreign country. And he broke his word to me! Master broke his pledged
word to me, who served his family so faithfully so many years. I didn't
ask for freedom for myself, only for you!"

"Mother, don't take it to heart so! don't go on so, don't."

"Hush! hush! it is the Spanish woman's curse falling on us--me! She
cursed me, dying."

"My own dear mother, the curse recoiled upon her own head, for she died
mad. It never reached you, who did not in any way deserve it. It was
you that was wronged, not her, I am sure."

"Yes, yes, it was I that was wronged! It was I that was wronged! I came
to my master with his other property--with his land, and with his
negroes. I had no mother, for my mother died when I was but seven years
old. I was brought up by an old negro, named Dinah. I was but fourteen
years old when I came into the possession of my master, along with his
patrimony."

"Don't look upon things in that light, mother; don't talk in that wild,
imbittered way," said Valentine, taking both her hands, and looking
gently and fondly on her. But she snatched her hands away, and covered
her face, and was silent for awhile--then she spoke:

"I know it hurts you. I know it goes to your heart like a knife; but it
is true, true as--as that I might have been tempted to take your life
and my own, had I seen how this was to end!"

"I am very glad you did not, mother, I am sure."

"Will you always say so?"

"As I hope to be saved, yes, mother," replied the youth, half smiling,
to raise her spirits.

"Ah, you think so now. Will you think so in the future?"

"Yes, mother! I will pledge you my word to think no other way forever,
if that will satisfy you."

"Yet, oh, Valley! that Spanish woman's dying curse! It haunts me now
upon this day of the fall of all my hopes for you; it haunts me, it
hangs over me like a funeral pall! It oppresses and darkens all my
soul!"

"My dear mother, don't be superstitious, if you do inherit a tendency in
that direction from both sides of your ancestry. Forget that violent
woman's curse; and whatever you do, don't make it fulfill itself, by
believing in it. And believe that if any evil befall us, it will not
have come from that angry woman's malediction. Why, if I thought that
the imprecations of the angry and malignant could bring down curses from
heaven upon the heads of the innocent, I should turn pagan, and worship
beasts. Besides, as I said before, it was not her, but you, who was
injured. And if any one could have had the right to utter maledictions,
it was you; yet you never did it."

"No, Heaven forbid! I took things as a matter of course; and though my
heart was almost broken, I made no complaint, far less ventured on any
reproach; for I am sure I thought master would do no great wrong; and I
thought he acted much better than his neighbors, when he promised that
you should be free, and should go to France, and learn a profession. But
he broke that promise. Oh, he broke his pledged word and honor, and the
woman's curse is surely falling."

"Think no more of that, mother; she had no power to curse you."

"I never did her harm, in deed, or word, or thought. I never deserved it
from her, whatever I deserved from Heaven. It was the old Bible story of
Abraham and Sarah and Hagar acted over again on this plantation, only
this was a great deal worse, as I look upon it now, though then I
thought it was all right, hard as it was to bear. I had been keeping
house for master four years, and you were nearly a year old, when one
winter he went to New Orleans, to spend a month or two. He stayed the
whole winter. I did not know that he married there, for he never wrote
to tell me, and I never read a newspaper. How should either happen, when
I could not read nor write? Well, in the spring, instead of coming home,
he sent a message with some directions to the overseer, but no word
about his being married, only that he was going abroad for awhile. Well,
he went, and he stayed away for a year. And then he came home by way of
New Orleans, where he stopped to buy furniture, that he sent up before
him, in charge of an upholsterer, who was to fix it all up. But still no
word of his marriage. I might have guessed something, from the
refurnishing of the house; but I did not, because my heart was so taken
up with the thought that master was coming home, and how nice everything
should be for him when he should come. I afterward knew that my master
had written to Mr. Hewitt, to come over and tell me to prepare to meet
my new mistress; but Mr. Hewitt, for the sake of what he called the
joke, left me in ignorance, so that madam might find me and you when she
should come. Well, I don't want to talk any more about this. The
afternoon that master was expected to arrive, I was on the watch. I was
standing on the portico, holding you by the hand, when I saw the
carriage approach. It came up very rapidly, and my heart beat thick and
fast, as if it would suffocate me. I could not help it, Valley! When the
carriage stopped, my master got out first, and handed out a lady, and
led her up the stairs. And while the whole scene was swimming before me,
he said to the lady, 'This is your maid, madam'; and to me, 'Phædra,
attend your mistress.' I had no business to faint, I know, because I was
only master's poor housekeeper, and I might have expected this thing
that had happened; but it came so suddenly, so unexpectedly, and my
heart had been beating so high only the minute before, that I could not
help it. One single glimpse of her great, black eyes, and the sight left
mine, and I fell, like a tree. You see this scar upon my forehead; it
was where my head struck the sharp edge of the stone step, when I fell
down. When I came to myself, I was in old Dinah's cabin. You were there,
too. I was very stupid from the blow I had received in falling, and
could not more than half understand old Dinah's mumbled consolations.
And I was almost as stupid the next morning, when my master paid me a
visit, and stood there, and advised me not to be a fool, and asked me
what I had expected--and told me that I had behaved very badly, very
badly indeed; that he had hoped I had had more sense, and more regard
for his comfort; but that I had acted abominably--I had spoiled his
domestic peace for he did not know how long. That I had given madam such
a shock on her first arrival, too, that he did not believe she could
ever endure to look upon my face again; that she was in strong hysterics
now; that I ought to have had more consideration for him, than to have
brought him into so much trouble. But that women are a great curse,
anyhow, with their abominable selfishness and jealousy----"

"Stop, stop, mother!" gasped the boy, "I shall go mad, if you tell me
more."

She raised her eyes and looked at him and grew frightened at his looks.
His face was gray, and his features haggard, with the struggle in his
bosom. His hand clutched his breast as if to grapple with some hidden
demon there.

After awhile, Phædra resumed, softly and quietly:

"Hush! he was not naturally cruel. I never knew him to do a cruel thing
wantonly or knowingly. But many people do not understand or make
allowance for others who have naturally more tender hearts than theirs.
He did not know how I felt----"

"Mother! mother! for Heaven's sake!"

"Dear Valley, let me go on and tell this story for the first and last
time. I felt that I had to tell it some day; the day is come; let me
finish--finish for my own justification, for I would be justified to
you. Well, I never entered the lady's presence again, of course, and,
from that day to this, was only my master's faithful servant, and no
more. As soon as I was able to travel, my master sent me with you into
the town to hire out. I found a good place, where we lived several
years. I never even saw my master's face all the time, but strange
reports went around, notwithstanding. People said that Colonel Waring
and his lady lived very unhappily together; that they quarreled very
often; that she was mad with jealousy of the Mestizza; that every time
the colonel came in town, there would be a dreadful scene upon his
return home. At last it is certain that my master left off visiting the
city altogether, and did all his business there by deputies. But the
lady's attacks of passion or hysterics became periodical, returning at
regular intervals, and in the course of the first year she became a
confirmed lunatic. Before the end of the second year, it became
necessary to put her under restraint. Finally, she was taken to a
Northern lunatic asylum, in the hope of cure, and there, at the end of a
few months, she died raving mad, and hurling down imprecations upon me.
It was generally reported then, as now, that jealousy had driven her
mad; but it was not true--Heaven knows that it was not true, any more
than it was true that she had a just cause for her jealousy. For if ever
I saw insanity in any creature, I saw it in her great staring eyes the
first and only time I ever set mine upon her face. No; jealousy did not
cause her madness, but her madness caused her jealousy!"

Phædra paused, and, with her head bent upon her hand, remained silent
some moments; then she resumed:

"When that unfortunate lady had been dead some time, and one nurse after
another had been intrusted with the care of her child, and had failed to
give satisfaction, my year at last being up with my city employer, my
master took me home, to mind Master Oswald. It was the first time I had
seen the baby, although he had come home with his mother, and was in the
carriage with his nurse at the very time that she first set foot upon
the threshold of her new home. Master Oswald was about two years old
when I first took charge of him; and if my heart had been ever so seared
and hardened, it could not but have been touched at the sight of that
motherless infant--so puny, neglected and suffering, as he looked. Well,
I took care of him--Heaven knows I did--excellent care of him, or he
would not be living now. But he doesn't remember that. How should he,
indeed, when even his father did not remember it, although many, many
times, when he saw how his heir thrived under my care, he would praise
me, and promise me such great things for my own poor boy. Well, I was
sure he would keep his word. He has not done so; and I could find it in
my heart to pray for both your death and mine!" exclaimed Phædra, with a
short, sudden sob, as if she were on the eve of another burst of violent
emotion.

"Do not grieve, mother; Mr. Waring has not done ill by us, I am sure. I
have had as happy a life with him as my own nature will permit. I could
not have borne life with a master less good-natured and tolerant. In
truth, if our mutual relations had been reversed, I fear that I should
not have been so uniformly kind as he. In fact, barring a little
selfishness, where his habits and personal comforts are concerned, he is
one of the very kindest of men. You know how he has regarded us both,
from his boyhood----"

"Until he left home--he changed to us from that time."

"Only for a while, when he was at school, and his classmates laughed at
him for his attachment to me, and he grew angry and ashamed to show it;
now he is his old self again. And, mother, there is but one obstacle to
his realizing for us the hopes his father disappointed."

"And what is that, Valentine?"

"His affection for us both, that has in it a certain alloy of
selfishness, as, indeed, many other people's affections for others also
have. He loves us both, in a different way; and he loves his own comfort
in us. He would not like to lose his faithful, motherly housekeeper, or
his confidential, attached valet; or that either the one or the other
should have the power to leave him at will. Ah, mother, I can understand
Master Oswald better than any one else in the world can. I can read his
heart like an open book; and, moreover, I can in most things wind him
around my finger like a string. Look at these things. Why do you suppose
he collected them? He doesn't care for anything like this, but I delight
in them, and so I persuaded him to collect them to adorn his rooms. I
did not do so for my own gratification alone, but that I really did wish
to see him cultivate a refined taste. Now, we are soon going to Europe.
Why? Do you think he wished to go at first? No; he never would have
thought of it. It would have been a great deal too much trouble to take
the lead in such a plan, but I thought he ought to make the grand tour,
like other young men of fortune; besides which, I had a desire to travel
myself. So I persuaded him that a gentleman of fashion (as he desires to
be thought, you know) ought to see Europe. So we go! Why, bless his
easy, good-natured heart, I have such great power over him--may I never
abuse it! that ninety-nine days out of a hundred it is I who am master!"

"But the hundredth day, Valentine!"

The boy's face suddenly changed.

"I had rather not think of that, mother," he said, in an altered voice.

Phædra's face also changed. It was as if a thundercloud had suddenly
crossed the sun, and darkened all the room. The mother spoke first, and
her voice was deep and hollow, as she said:

"Valentine! Valentine! you have said that in ninety-nine days of a
hundred you can govern your master. Oh, my son, pray God to give you
grace on that hundredth day to govern yourself!"

"Mother! Mother! Why do you say that to me?" exclaimed the boy, with a
shudder.

"I do not know why--or if I do, I dare not tell you. A heavy weight is
on my heart; I cannot shake it off. You are going away soon! I must warn
you now; I may not have another chance, or may not feel able to do it.
Oh, Valentine, learn self-control, try to keep your temper always under.
Ay! seek the grace of God; there is such a thing, though your poor
mother has not got it, and only wishes she had. Seek it, Valentine--it
is your best safety; in every time of trial and temptation, it is a
steadfast support. I know it, though I haven't got it; I know it,
because I've seen it in many others."

Valentine was looking at her with the most intense expression of
countenance.

"Anger is a short madness, is it not, mother? So it was with me, at
least, when I was a boy; and how those frenzies of passion, into which I
would be thrown, used to terrify me when I came to my senses! I used to
be haunted with a fear that, in some such mad and blind fury, I
might----"

"Hush! oh, hush! Pray to God!" exclaimed Phædra, turning pale.

"Well, but of late years I have been able to control myself, and have
also suffered less provocation."

"Ah, yes; less provocation."

"Well, mother, I will promise you, faithfully, at least, to exercise
habitual self-control. As for your other subject of anxiety, be at rest.
Oswald Waring has his fits of generosity, in which even his sensual love
of his own comforts is forgotten. And I shall take advantage of one of
those moods to procure our manumission--not that I am sure I shall leave
him, even after that is obtained."

All that is necessary to record of their conversation ended here. In a
few minutes after, Phædra left the chamber to attend to her domestic
affairs.

In the course of a few weeks, Mr. Waring hurried the completion of all
the business to which his personal attention was indispensable; and
then, attended by Valentine, he set out for his European travels,
leaving the further settlement of his estate in the hands of Mr.
Pettigrew.



CHAPTER III.

THE BOTTLE DEMON.


    Oh! that men should put an enemy in
    Their mouths to steal away their brains; that we
    Should, with joy, pleasance, revel, and applause,
    Transform ourselves into beasts!
    Oh! thou invisible Spirit of wine,
    If thou hast no name to be known by,
    Let us call thee Devil!--SHAKESPEARE.

After an absence of fifteen months, Oswald Waring and his inseparable
companion, Valentine, returned home.

Not in all respects was the master or the man improved by travel, as
circumstances soon demonstrated.

Mr. Waring brought back the same benevolent, careless, mirthful, yet
occasionally arrogant temper, that had always distinguished him; and
Valentine, the same affectionate, aspiring, quick, inflammable nature,
that made his conduct so uncertain.

The character of Oswald might have been easily read in his personal
appearance. He was a rather handsome specimen of a pure Anglo-Saxon; he
was of medium height, of a stout and well-set form; with a round head,
smooth, white, receding forehead, shaded with thickly clustered curls of
auburn hair; prominent, clear, light-blue eyes, whose prevailing
expression was that of frank mirthfulness; a straight nose; a
well-curved, but rather sensual mouth; and a full, rounded chin, that,
altogether, made up a countenance whose chief characteristics were good
nature, sensuality and gayety. His dress was equally remarkable for the
costliness of its material and the negligence of its arrangement; and
left the point at issue, whether the costume were the more extravagant
or the more slovenly. His manners were marked by habitual cheerfulness,
good temper and love of merriment. And, though he rarely emitted a flash
of wit, he was ever the quickest to appreciate that gift in others; and
it must have been a dull jest, indeed, that his ready laugh did not
hail. And it is not unlikely that to his sincere, hearty, contagious
laughter he owed a great deal of his popularity among men, and women
too. For who does not love a good laugher?

Valentine was in almost every respect the antipodes of his master, yet
resembled him in this, that his nature also might be easily read in his
dark but singularly beautiful face. I use the term "beautiful" instead
of the other term "handsome" advisedly, as more proper to the subject
under description. Valentine was rather below the medium height, and
slightly but elegantly formed, with a stately little head, delicate
aquiline features, a complexion dark as a Spaniard's, bluish-black hair
falling in many well-trained curls around the dark face, and light-blue
eyes so deeply veiled under their thicket of long, close lashes, that it
was only in moments of excitement, when they suddenly lightened, that
their strange, startling, almost terrible contrast to the blackness of
the hair and darkness of the skin could be noticed. In the matter of
dress, Valentine was fastidious to a degree. In other circumstances, he
might have been an exquisite and a _petit maitre_, as his master often
laughingly called him. As it was, the youth was undeniably a dandy; but
his love of dress was to be attributed fully as much to his innate love
of order, beauty, and propriety, as to his coxcombry. His fine
raven-black hair--his "favorite vanity," was carefully kept, and trained
to fall in those faultless ringlets; and it is upon record, that when
the owner was not in full dress, that "splendid head of hair" was
carefully bound down from injury by sun or dust, under a double silk
bandanna, arranged in the graceful folds and twists of a Turkish turban.
Valentine's "foppery" was a never-failing source of merriment to his
fun-loving master--though I think the boy's love of dress could scarcely
with fairness be called foppery, since he was never known to try the
effects of his most elegant toilet upon the hearts of any of the young
girls of his class, until his own heart was seriously engaged.
Valentine's deportment was characterized by habitual pensiveness and
reserve, occasionally broken by sudden unaccountable fits of excitement,
strange flights of fancy, and startling, frightful paroxysms of passion,
having many of the features of incipient insanity. These were
undoubtedly to be attributed to the antagonistic constituents of his
nature. What alchemy but the all-powerful grace of God could ever
harmonize the discordant elements of a being deriving his descent from
three races so different as the Indian, the Negro, and the Saxon, and
reconcile him to the position in which this boy was placed?

Mr. Waring, soon after his return home, began to lead a wild, reckless
life. He kept bachelor's hall at Red Hill, in extravagant style.

Frequent dinners, suppers, and wine parties, with cards, billiards,
dice, etc., converted the quiet old country house into a scene of wild
midnight orgies, with drinking, song-singing, and gambling, that
threatened soon to leave the young spendthrift without a house to revel
in, or a dollar to revel on.

And almost every day, when there was not a party at the house, Valentine
would have to drive his master in the buggy to the town. Upon such
occasions, the master would go to some favorite restaurant or billiard
saloon, or perhaps to some wine or card party, to which he had been
invited, while the man would take the buggy to the livery stable, and
lounge about town until the small hours of the morning, when he would
rouse the sleepy groom at the stables, get his buggy and horse, and take
his master home. Sometimes Mr. Waring would be slightly elevated by the
wine he had drank, but never to the degree of intoxication.

At first, and for a long while, Valentine resisted the temptations of
the life into which he was led; but, in the course of time, those
listless hours of waiting in town wore away his good habits; and it at
last happened that, while the master was gambling and drinking in some
splendid saloon, the man would be imitating him in some humbler scene of
dissipation. And when he would have to drive Mr. Waring home, it not
unfrequently happened that both were under the influence of wine.

To poor Phædra, who happily had some time since found that grace of God
that she had so long and humbly and earnestly desired, this conduct in
her young master and her son gave the greatest distress and anxiety.
With Valentine she often and earnestly expostulated; and the impressible
boy, for boy he continued to be to the day of his death, would promise
with tears in his eyes, to amend. Even with Oswald Waring, using the
privilege of the old nurse, she ventured to reason, faithfully,
fearlessly, sorrowfully.

But, in his thoughtless, good-humored way, he laughed in her face,
called her a well-meaning old woman, but advised her to attend to her
own concerns.

Yet Phædra did not slacken in making what poor opposition she could to
the approach of ruin.

It was not the least deplorable and dangerous feature in the mutual
relations of Oswald Waring and his favorite slave that their mutual
positions often seemed temporarily reversed. Valentine would, upon
occasions, seem, or really for the hour be, the leader, and Oswald the
follower.

Unfortunately, Mr. Waring was singularly wanting in those qualities that
command habitual respect from inferiors; nay, he even lacked
self-respect and the dignity that it gives; while, more unhappily still,
his servant Valentine possessed a large share of self-esteem, that, in
his excitable nature, would, under provocation or temptation, rise to
insufferable insolence. And this frequently placed them in false and
trying attitudes toward each other. It was a baleful circumstance, too,
that when, under the effects of wine, the master fell from easy
good-nature into maudlin tenderness and sentimentality, varied by
eccentric impulses of domineering authority, all of which was extremely
distasteful and irritating to the servant, whose pride, instigated by
the like baleful spirit, would rise to an intolerable arrogance. It was
a situation full of dire bodency to both.

It happened one evening that Valentine had driven Mr. Waring into town
to be present at a wine and card party. It was late at night, or
speaking more accurately, early in the morning, when they were returning
home. It was difficult to say which of the two was most excited. Mr.
Waring was in his most maudlin mood of familiarity, Valentine
in his most insolent humor. Each perceived the intoxication of
the other, without being conscious of his own state. Oswald broke
out in a bacchanalian song, which he sung all wrong, and by
snatches--occasionally, in a sudden fit of maudlin affection, varying
the performance by throwing his arm around his servant, and hugging him
closely. Valentine bore this once, but, the second time it was repeated,
he shook his master's arm off, exclaiming: "I am not one of your
companions." But Oswald laughed aloud, rolled himself from side to side,
and breaking out into another low song:

    "Life is all a wariorum,
      And we cares not how it goes!"

"You will frighten the horses presently. Can't you behave yourself with
common decency?" exclaimed Valentine, shaking off the hand that had been
laid upon his shoulder.

    "Let them talk about decorum,
      As has characters to lose,"

sang the inebriate, chuckling and slapping the boy upon the back.

"If you do not be quiet, I'll get out of this buggy, and leave you to
drive home as you can," said Valentine, impatiently.

This seemed to amuse the other very much; he burst out into a peal of
laughter, falling back, and clasping his knees, and rolling with the
tipsy enjoyment of the joke. When he had laughed himself into a fit of
the hiccoughs, and hiccoughed himself into comparative calmness, he
still seemed to enjoy the drollery of the idea, and recommenced laughing
and singing by fits, and slapping Valentine upon the back.

"I tell you, if you do not quit this, I will get out!" exclaimed the
boy, angrily. "You a gentleman!"

This language, instead of rousing Oswald to anger, seemed to strike him
as the drollest of speeches, for he fell back into another peal of
laughter; and when he had recovered himself he began, not in
displeasure, but in a maudlin, jesting way, and with a very thick
utterance, to taunt Valentine:

"Why, you ins'lent f'low, do you know who you're talking to? You're a
spoiled negro--that is what you are! Now, don't you know, if I wa'n't
the most forgivin' f'low in the world, that I'd have you tied up and
whipt for such language?"

"Me?"

It is utterly impossible to convey in words any idea of the fierce,
savage, almost demoniac glare of hatred and defiance with which that
single monosyllable was uttered. But it was lost upon the tipsy master,
who replied, nodding and chuckling:

"Yes, you, my little fellow! and I think it will have to be done, too,
to bring you to a sense of your condition. Sit down, sir! What the devil
do you mean by standing up and looking at me in that way?"

Valentine had risen to his feet, still unconsciously holding the reins,
but no longer guiding the horses, who went on their own way, while he
stood and glared at his master, with an almost maniacal light blazing
from those pale-gray eyes.

"Sit down, sir, I say! What the h--ll do you mean? Sit down, I say, or,
by the Lord Harry! I'll do as I've threatened!"

This is not a proper scene to go on with. Both were mad with wine, and
one also with rage. The master, though not angry, nor by any means
disposed to punish, grew every moment, from very wantonness, more
taunting in his manner--the man became each instant more insolent; words
rose higher between them; Valentine grew frenzied, dashed his clenched
fist with all his strength into his master's face, and sprang from the
buggy, leaving him to his fate.



CHAPTER IV.

AN HUMBLE WEDDING.

    Habitual evils change not on a sudden,
    But many days must pass, and many sorrows;
    Conscious remorse and anguish must be felt,
    To curb desire, to break the stubborn will,
    And work a second nature in the soul,
    Ere virtue can resume the place she lost.--ROWE'S ULYSSES.


Valentine awoke the next morning with a heavy weight upon his heart and
a thick cloud over his brain.

The first fact that attracted his attention was the circumstance that he
was not in his own apartment, but in his mother's bedchamber. A small
wood fire was burning in the fireplace, and a teakettle was hanging over
the blaze; the red hearth was neat and bright, and the only window was
darkened by the lowered paper blind.

Phædra sat in her flag-bottomed elbow-chair, at the chimney corner; her
work was on her lap, but she sat with her hands clasped upon it in
idleness, and in an attitude of deepest grief. Such was the picture
immediately before him.

He could not tell the hour, but supposed it to be near midday. He
strove, through the aching of his head and heart, to recall the latest
events of his waking consciousness, before he had fallen into the sleep
or the insensibility from which he had just recovered. And, as memory
came back in a rushing flood, bringing the hideous phantoms of the
previous night's history, overcome with shame and sorrow, he groaned
aloud, and buried his face in the pillow. Still he was in ignorance of
what had occurred after he had sprung from the buggy; and in terror for
what might have happened to Mr. Waring, whom he had left there to guide
as he could, in a state of extreme intoxication, the frightened and
rearing horses.

Phædra arose and approached the bed.

"Mother! tell me what has happened, for I remember nothing after getting
home," said the boy, in a voice half smothered in emotion.

But Phædra sank down by the bedside, buried her face in the coverlid,
and sobbed.

"Mother! tell me the worst at once. Was he thrown out? Is he dead?"
asked Valentine, in a deep, breathless, husky voice, as he raised upon
his elbow and leaned forward, his light eyes, from the tangled thicket
of his dark hair, turning upon her like coals at a white heat.

"No, no, he is not dead. But it was a very narrow escape. Oh! Valley,
such a good Providence, my boy," she said, taking his disengaged hand
and hugging it closely to her bosom, and weeping over it, as if that
hand had been saved from some great calamity.

"Tell me all about it, mother."

But Phædra was sobbing and choking, and could not utter a word more
then.

"Where is he now, mother?" asked Valentine, after a little while.

"In his room--unable to rise, but out of danger, the doctor says."

A few more minutes passed in silence. Phædra rose and resumed her chair
and her needlework, though the sudden sobs and deep heavings of her
bosom betrayed the storm of grief still beating.

"Mother," said Valentine, after a few moments longer, "can you tell me
now all about it? How did I get home? How did he? What happened to the
buggy?"

"Oh, Valentine, first of all, you came home in a state that made my
heart sick to see. I can't tell you how; but I hope never to see the
like again. I could not have got you upstairs without help, but I
managed to get you in here, and to bed, without any one seeing you."

"Mother----"

This single word, uttered in a tone of deepest regret, and humiliation;
and then his voice broke down, and he covered his face with his hands.

"I had not more than got you to bed, when a violent barking of the dogs
startled me, and I went out, and found it was master that Mr. Hewitt's
niggers had brought home on a door. Dr. Carter, who was coming home from
a night call, had found him lying on the side of the road that runs
along by Mr. Hewitt's cotton field. And he had ridden up to Mr. Hewitt's
house, and roused up the old gentleman and some of the niggers; and they
took a barn door off its hinges, and spread a bed and laid him on it,
and brought him home. It was well that it happened to be Dr. Carter who
found him; for he stayed with him all night, and that has been the means
of saving his life. Oh, Valley, it was such a kind Providence that saved
him!" said Phædra, breaking off suddenly, and clasping her hands.

"And this morning, mother?" said Valentine, anxiously.

"Oh! This morning the horses were found near the stables, with a part of
the gearing hanging to their necks; and the buggy was found on the road,
broken all to pieces."

"I don't mean them--I mean Mr. Waring."

"He is out of danger this morning, as I told you before. He was stunned
and very much bruised by being thrown from the buggy, but not otherwise
injured."

"What does he say about the accident?"

"He says he doesn't know much about it. He says he supposes he must have
been taking too much wine, and that the horses got unruly, and he
couldn't manage them; and that was how they threw him out, and broke
the carriage."

"Mother! I must get up and go to him now!" said Valentine, hastily.

"Oh, stop! Stay one moment, Valentine! Lie there, and let me speak to
you! I have been praying for you all night, in my master's room, here,
wherever I have been. Reflect; have you no thanks to offer to the Lord
for his providential care, when you so little deserved it? And no
sorrow, Valentine, for what has passed, and no promises for the future?
Oh, Valentine, how is this course you and your master have begun, going
to end?"

"Mother! for my own part, I can affirm that this is the first time I
ever was in such a state as you saw me in last night. All I feel about
it, shall be said in this one oath--I will never taste intoxicating
drink again, so help me Heaven--and shall be proved every day of my
life, in the way I keep it!" exclaimed Valentine, impetuously,
earnestly, tearfully.

Phædra grasped his hand once more, and hugged it to her heart, and
prayed "God bless" him.

"And now, mother, I must get up and go to him."

Phædra brought his clothes from the closet in which she had put them,
and then left the room, while Valentine arose and dressed himself, and
went to his master's apartments. It was in painful doubt and humiliating
embarrassment that he sought Oswald Waring's presence. He got to the
door, knocked, and at the words, "Come in," he entered.

Mr. Waring was in bed, and looking very pale and ghastly; and as
Valentine saw him, a pang shot through his heart at the thought that,
but for the merciful intervention of Providence in averting the
consequences of his own rash anger, Oswald Waring might have been lying
there--not a sick man, but a dead one! And a secret vow to forsake
intemperance, in all its forms, material and moral, was made in
Valentine's mind, and registered in heaven.

"Is that you, Valley, old fellow? I had begun to fear that you had
suffered more than myself, when I asked after you this morning and they
told me you were sick. Were you thrown out, also?"

"Good Heaven," thought Valentine, as a new light burst upon him; "he
does not recollect what happened. He must have been much further gone
than myself."

"Well, old fellow, why don't you answer me? I asked you if you were
thrown out. Don't be afraid to tell me, for you see I'm a great deal
better; besides, seeing you there alive and well, I shall not be much
shocked to hear of what might have happened, you know. Come! where were
you pitched, and how much were you hurt, and who picked you up? Tell me,
for I can't get the least satisfaction out of anybody here."

"I was not thrown out--I sprang out."

"When the horses were rearing? A bad plan that, Val.; that is, if you
really did it as you think you did. For my part, I doubt if you know
anything more about it than I do myself; and if my soul were to have to
answer for my memory, I could not tell whether I jumped out or was
thrown out. Bad course we've been pursuing, old boy; like to have cost
us both our lives, really has cost me that beautiful buggy--that is
ruined, they tell me. Bad course; bad course, Val. Not safe for master
and man both to be glorious at the same time. Another evening, old
fellow, do you try to keep sober, when you think it likely that I shall
be--otherwise."

"I never mean to touch another drop of intoxicating drink as long as I
live, sir, so help me Heaven!" said Valentine, fervently.

"Oh, pooh, pooh! old fellow. Resolutions made with a bad headache, the
day after a frolic, are as worthless as the oaths sworn in wine the
night previous, both being the effects of an abnormal state of the soul
and--stomach. Now, wine is a good thing in moderation--it is only a bad
thing in excess. Don't look so dreadfully downcast, old fellow, nor make
such dismally lugubrious resolutions. 'The servant is not greater than
his master,' says the good Book; and, if I was overtaken, how could you
expect to escape? Give me your honest fist, old fellow; those who have
had such a d--d lucky escape together might shake hands upon it, I
should think," said Oswald Waring, offering his hand.

Valentine took it and squeezed it, and then, in the warmth of his
affectionate nature, pressed it to his heart, while tears welled to his
eyes--tears, that came at the thought how nearly he had occasioned the
death of this man--this man, who, with all his faults, had, from their
boyhood, been ever kind, generous, forbearing--more like a brother than
a master. All that was unjust and galling in their mutual relations was
forgotten by Valentine at that moment; he only remembered that they had
been playmates in childhood, companions in youth, and friends always, up
to the present, and that he had narrowly escaped causing Oswald's death;
and, in the ardor and vehemence of emotion, he pressed the hand that had
been yielded up to him, to his heart, exclaiming in a broken voice:

"It was my fault, Master Oswald, all my fault; but I will never--never
touch any sort of intoxicating liquor again--never, as the Lord hears
me."

"Oh, tut, tut! you best fellow that ever was in the world! Who asks you
for any such promises? Only promise that when there is a wine supper or
card party in the wind, or any other signs of the times in the sky to
warn you, you will take care to keep sober, knowing that I shall be
likely to be something else. Wine is a good servant, but a bad master."

"Not good for me, ever, Master Oswald; certainly not good for me;
probably not so for you, either."

"Come, come; you exceed your license, Valentine. You're a pretty fellow
to preach to me, after nearly breaking my neck. However, that's
ungenerous, after once forgiving you; so we'll say no more about it
forever. But don't preach to me, whatever you do. Phædra nearly wears my
patience out."

"Can I do anything to make you more comfortable, or help the time
along?"

"N-o-o, I think not. Dr. Carter says I must keep quiet, and my head
begins to ache now; so you had better darken the room, and leave me to
rest."

Valentine closed all the shutters, and let down all the curtains, and
then asked:

"Shan't I sit here, Master Oswald, to be at hand in case you should want
anything?"

"No! Lord, no! it must be a d--l of a bore to sit in a dark room, with
no better amusement than to watch somebody going off to sleep. No; go
and take care of yourself, old fellow. I can ring if I should want
anything," said Oswald, cheerfully.

"Always so very considerate when he is in his right mind," thought
Valentine, as he took the tasseled end of the bellrope and put it in
reach of his master's hand, before leaving the room.

That was the last time that Valentine saw his master in his right mind
for many weeks. The effects of his fall, acting upon a system weakened
and vitiated by dissipation, was much more serious than any one had
foreseen. Before night a brain fever, with delirium, had set in, and,
for days after, the life of Oswald Waring hung upon the feeblest chance.
For many weeks of his illness, Phædra and Valentine nursed him with the
most devoted affection. Poor Phædra prayed constantly for his recovery,
and also for his reform, and solicited every Sabbath the prayers of the
congregation of her church in his behalf. And Valentine, in deep
despair, daily accused himself of his master's death, as if he had
purposely stricken a fatal blow, and Oswald were already dead. The long
days and nights of watching by the side of the sickbed, that might at
any hour become a deathbed, were very fruitful in good to Valentine.
There he learned to hate and dread the demon anger, that had caused him
so much misery; there he came to listen with patience and reverence to
his poor mother's tearful pleadings and counsels; there he began to
pray. It was six weeks before Mr. Waring left his room, and one more
before he was fully restored to health. And this brought midsummer--a
season that camp-meetings were frequent in the neighborhood.

This summer there was much greater excitement than ever before among the
religious revivalists. The Rev. Mr. M---- and several others, equally
eloquent and successful field preachers, were making a circuit of the
country. Their fame always preceded them as an _avant courier_, and
crowds congregated to hear them.

There was a camp-meeting held, by permission of the owner, in a magnolia
grove where there was a fine spring, upon the grounds of Mr. Hewitt, Mr.
Waring's nearest neighbor. And it was given out that on Sunday morning
the eloquent field preacher, M----, would address the assembled
multitudes. There was a great deal of excitement and anticipation among
all classes in that quiet rural district; and when the Sabbath came,
congregations forsook their own churches, and assembled to hear M----.
Crowds after crowds gathered; some went with the avowed purpose of
getting converted; some to get revived; many to get excited; and most
from motives of idle curiosity. Poor Phædra went for the candidly
expressed purpose of being warmed and comforted. Valentine went to drive
his master, who went only to kill a dull day.

Now, not only was Phædra praying with all her soul's strength for her
son's conversion, but naturally that desired consummation was one of the
most likely things in the world to eventuate; for Valentine's nature was
just the one to be most deeply affected and impressed by the magnetic
power of a man like M----, and he was also in the most favorable mood
for receiving such impressions. And while hundreds around him were
swayed, as by a mighty wizard's wand, under the wonderful eloquence of
the most potent preacher since the days of Wesley and Whitefield,
Valentine was deeply and almost fearfully excited.

And from that Sabbath, during the whole time of Mr. M----'s sojourn in
the neighborhood, the boy was a regular attendant upon his ministry, and
in the end was numbered among his converts. This is not the place to
call in question the Rev. Mr. M----'s sincerity or consistency as a
Christian; those who knew him best, believed him to be perfectly sincere
in his religious enthusiasm, however inconsistent was sometimes his
conduct. And, though it may be true that some of his converts were his
only, and not God's, as they afterward demonstrated by their
backsliding, yet it is equally true that many shining lights in the
Christian Church at this day ascribe their first awakening to Christian
life, under Divine Providence, to the electric power of M----'s
eloquence. At the time that I write of, the people of that neighborhood
adored him as an angel sent from God; though some years after the same
people hunted him as a wild beast, from village to village, until old,
poor, ill and exhausted, he died alone--a fugitive from their insane
wrath. But to return.

M---- had succeeded in reviving the religious spirit of that district;
and when he departed, he left behind him many new but zealous laborers
in that vineyard of the Lord.

Among the most enthusiastic in the field of the colored mission of
Magnolia Grove was Valentine. His sincere, ardent, earnest soul; his
natural gift of eloquence; his sympathy with those in his own condition,
if not strictly of his own race; his better education, and even his
beauty of person, grace of manner, and sweetness of voice, all combined
to make him the most popular and effective, and best beloved of all the
class-leaders in the colored mission of Magnolia Grove. "Brother
Valentine's" class was the largest and most important in the church. If
ever Brother Valentine was announced to address the meeting upon any
given day, there was sure to be a crowded house. And if ever Phædra held
a prayer meeting in her quarter, there was sure to be a crowd to hear
Brother Valentine speak.

Among the most zealous of the church members, and among those who never
failed to be present at Phædra's weekly prayer meetings, was a young and
pretty quadroon, named Fannie. She was a free girl and an orphan, and
was employed as shop girl in a hair dresser's and fancy store kept by a
respectable old French couple in the city of M. But though her home and
her business was in town, and there were also two or three "colored
missions" in that place, yet Fannie preferred to walk out every Sunday
morning to the little log meeting-house in Magnolia Grove. And those who
were envious of Fannie's beauty did not scruple to say that she came out
so far for the sake of hearing Brother Valentine pray or exhort, or to
let him hear her sing; for Fannie had a voice that might have made her
fortune, had she been white, and had it been cultivated. However that
might be, Phædra loved Fannie as if she had been her own daughter, and
she always took her home from meeting, to dine and spend the afternoon
at Red Hill. And after an early tea, Valentine always walked home with
Fannie to the city.

It is also true that Valentine became a frequent customer at Leroux's,
the hair-dresser's and fancy store where Fannie was employed; and as
Valentine not only made his own but also his master's purchases, and as
he had a _carte blanche_ for the same, his custom was of no trifling
importance to the establishment. But, valuable as was this patronage, as
soon as the proprietors began to suspect the nature of the attraction to
their store, they felt it to be their duty to warn the young girl, which
they would do in something like these terms:

"Take my advice, Fannie, and send that young fellow about his business;
he may be a very good young man, I dare say; but he is a slave, and
never will be able to do anything for you," Monsieur Leroux would say.

"You are free, Fannie, and you are very pretty, and all that; and you
might look a great deal higher than that," would say Madam Leroux.

"Think, _ma fille_, if you take him, you will always have yourself and
your family to support, for you never can have any help from a slave
husband"--thus Monsieur Leroux.

"Consider, _mon enfant_, if you marry him, he may be sold away next
year, or next month, even! How would you like that?" thus Madam Leroux.

And Fannie would blush, or smile, or pout, or drop a tear, or say to
herself:

"Poor Valley! Maybe something may happen to set him free! Maybe I might
work hard, and save money enough to"--she could not bring herself to say
buy--"ransom him! And, anyhow, it is not his fault if he is not free.
And it must be hard enough, the dear knows, to be as he is, without my
letting him think that it makes any difference to me."

Obstacles and objections which, to cooler-hearted and clearer-headed
people would seem very formidable, if not entirely conclusive, were but
slight impediments in the way of these humble lovers.

Long courtships and protracted engagements are not common among
quadroons, and in this case were not favored by Valentine. He had won
little Fannie's heart and consent to speak to her employers, who, having
advised her against the match, and holding no authority to go further in
their opposition, gave a reluctant consent, with their good wishes and
blessing.

Valentine had, all through the courtship, the hearty approbation of
Phædra; and, lastly, he had none but his master to consult.

Mr. Waring rallied Valentine unmercifully upon his intended marriage;
swore that, seriously, it was a pity such a fine young fellow as
himself, who was such a favorite among the girls, should leave his gay
bachelor's life, to tie himself down to a wife and family; asked him
what he should do for kid gloves and perfumery, if he had to give all
his pocket money to Fannie and the children; and finally made him a
wedding present of a hundred dollars, and advised him to go out and hang
himself.

In the following Christmas holidays, the slaves' annual Saturnalia in
the South, the marriage of Valentine and Fannie took place. A mad
marriage it was, where the bride had no dower and the bridegroom not
even the ownership of his own limbs to work for their support. An
impossible marriage it would seem, had it not really taken place, and
did we not know, for a certainty, that such marriages between the free
and the enslaved frequently took place.

Phædra gave a serious little Methodist wedding, and invited all her
favorite brethren and sisters of the church to be present. And the young
master loaned his dining-room for the occasion, and invited himself to
do the lovers the honor of his personal attendance at the marriage
ceremony. And he gave the little bride two testimonials of his friendly
consideration--one in the form of a pretty wedding dress, that was
gratefully received; the other in the guise of a hearty embrace and
kiss, that was not quite so thankfully accepted.

"But now, mommer," whispered little Fannie, in the course of the
evening, to Phædra, "Valley's young master has been so very kind and
generous to us all, s'pose now he was to make Valley a present of his
free papers, for a wedding gift to-night--to surprise us, you know; to
see how delighted we'd all be, and to hear what we'd say. I think he
might; 'deed, I shouldn't wonder if he did, only for the pleasure of the
thing, you know. Should you, mommer?"

Phædra sighed; but, then, not to damp the girl's spirits, she replied:
"He may do that some day, honey."

"Something seems to whisper to me that he is thinking of it to-night,
mommer! Ah! the Lord send he may! Wouldn't we be happy? Valley would
have a place in the same store with me; it would suit him, too; he has
so much good taste! And then we could have such a pretty little home of
our own! 'Deed, I believe he is thinking about it now. Look at him. I
shouldn't be the least surprised to see him call Valley aside, and clap
him on the shoulder, and call him 'old fellow,' and tell him he is a
free man!"

The girl had read aright the thoughts of the master. Angels, who
saw the future, with all the phantoms of its bright or dark
possibilities--angels, who loved the goodness latent in his own abused
nature--angels were whispering to him: "Make this young couple
supremely happy--give him only the common right to himself, into which
every creature is justly born--and then rejoice in their exceeding great
joy!"

And never had the face of Oswald Waring looked so bright, benignant and
happy, as when he, for a moment, entertained this thought.

"But pshaw!" he said to himself, directly. "Am I Don Quixote the
younger, that I should be guilty of such a piece of extravagant
generosity? Absurd! I really must begin to learn moderation at some time
of my life. St. Paul says: 'Let your moderation be known unto all men.'"

Now, what on earth can the angels reply, when the other party quotes
Scripture against them? Nothing, of course; and Oswald Waring had no
more generous impulses that evening. But oh! if he had only listened to
those angel whispers; if he had only realized poor little Fannie's
romance; if he had only, for once in his life, yielded to his impulse to
commit that mad, rash, extravagant piece of Quixotism, as he called the
act which, for a moment, he had dreamed of performing--from what
impending anguish, what temptations, crime, and remorse, would they not
have been redeemed!



CHAPTER V.

A CLOUDED HONEYMOON.


It had been arranged, as the best plan for all parties, under present
circumstances, that Fannie should retain her situation as shop-woman at
Leroux's hair-dressing and fancy store, where they were anxious to keep
her as long as possible.

With Valentine's hundred dollars, and fifty dollars that had been made
in overwork by Phædra, a room was taken in M----, and neatly furnished.

And there Valentine and Fannie went to housekeeping, after this fashion:
Fannie, still tending Leroux's shop all day, ate and slept at home,
where Valentine visited her once a week, or oftener, whenever he could
do so.

In the meantime, as winter advanced, Mr. Waring's health was fully
re-established; and, as many of his favorite boon companions, who had
been absent on their summer tours, returned to the neighborhood, Oswald
began to resume his former habits of extravagant and reckless
dissipation. Deer-hunting, coursing, partridge-shooting, and other field
sports, occupied the mornings; and dinner parties, oyster suppers, and
other entertainments, accompanied and followed by wine-drinking,
song-singing, card-playing, and similar orgies, at home or abroad,
filled up the afternoons and evenings.

Again were Valentine's services brought into requisition three or four
nights of every week, to drive his master to the city at dusk, and home
again at dawn. Upon these occasions, Valentine would drive Mr. Waring
first to the clubhouse, restaurant, or billiard-saloon, that happened to
be his destination for the evening, set him down, take the carriage and
horses to the livery stable, leave them, and then go to Leroux's and
stay with Fannie until the hour of closing the store arrived, when he
would take her home.

Valentine, from his "gentlemanly" appearance, dress, and address, as
well as from his perfectly trustworthy character, was not an unwelcome
visitor at the store, where, behind the counter and by the side of
Fannie, he made himself so useful that Monsieur Leroux would often
speculate as to the possibility of getting him for an assistant. This
also was Valentine's and Fannie's great ambition; but it was a vain
one, for his personal attendance was considered indispensable to his
master's comfort.

Valentine's standing order, upon these occasions of their night visits
to the town, was to be in waiting with the carriage for Mr. Waring at
twelve o'clock. And the man was obliged to be punctual, though he had
often to wait two or three hours for the coming of the master. And, as a
general fact, the longer Mr. Waring remained among his boon companions,
the more intoxicated he became; and when at last he appeared, all the
old humiliations and provocations of Valentine's former days were
renewed. You know what these were. It would be vain repetition to
describe them again.

All this was, in every respect, very trying to the poor boy. He
religiously adhered to his resolution of abstinence from all spirituous
liquors, and constantly and prayerfully struggled against the
ebullitions of his own impetuous temper. But the life he led acted
nearly fatally upon a very fragile organization; and all individuals of
antagonistically-mixed races are known to be frail. The continued loss
of rest, habitual irregularity in food and sleep, affectionate anxiety
upon account of his master, tender solicitude for his own gentle, little
wife, frequent and excessive provocation from Oswald, all combined to
wear and fret his originally excitable temperament to a state of
unnatural nervous irritability, that could scarcely sustain with
calmness the rudeness of the shocks to which, in his false position, he
was constantly exposed; and therefore he was very frequently--to use his
own expression at the "love feasts"--in great danger of falling from
grace.

Reflecting upon this portion of the poor, doomed boy's life;
recollecting the great, the almost superhuman struggle his spirit was
making against the terrible, combined powers of evil; of his discordant
organization; his fiery, impulsive temperament; his unfortunate
education; his unhappy position, and his exasperating surroundings, all
antagonistic, false and fateful, we find his parallel nowhere in modern
times, and are forced to think of the age of antiquity, and of those
mighty but ineffectual struggles of some foredoomed mortal, like
OEdipus, in the power of the angry Fates.

Upon poor Valentine's silent, deadly struggle, none but the pitying eye
of our Father looked. And nothing but a miracle could have averted its
final and fatal issue; and miracles are not wrought at the expense of
moral free agency. There came at last a day--an awful day--when the boy
spoke, and others heard, of that fell struggle with the powers of
darkness.

But we anticipate. The dark and trying seasons were relieved by brighter
ones, alternating like night and day.

The hours spent with Fannie, either in the gay, lighted shop, among a
thousand objects of taste and beauty, and occupations shared with her,
and congenial to his own æsthetic fancy, or in their little home, that,
despite of poverty, Fannie's taste had made beautiful, were seasons of
unclouded happiness, in which all care was forgotten.

There were sunny hours, also, when Mr. Waring's better nature was in the
ascendant; when he would feel like gratifying his own benevolence, and
making Valentine happy, by fair promises of making him free; of setting
him and Fannie up in the hair-dressing and fancy business, which he
would laughingly declare to be exactly suited to Valentine; that Val
could be the barber, and Fan the ladies' hair-dresser; and that they
could have a nice little house in an eligible street, with the dwelling
above, and the shop below. Thus he would talk, indulging his good humor
at the small expense of his breath, and amusing himself with noticing
the effect of his words upon Valentine's sensitive nature, playing upon
its chords of hope and fear, as if his heart had been a harp, and his
own the experimenting hand that tried its strings. Perhaps he intended
to realize, at some future day, these expectations that he raised; at
least, at the time of speaking he wished to please the boy by infusing a
hope; but, alas! he only disturbed him, by exciting and aggravating his
old passionate aspiration after liberty.

But, besides those happiest hours spent with Fannie, there were other
seasons of forgetfulness, and of almost unalloyed bliss. These were the
Sabbath services and the weekly meetings, where the ardent, zealous soul
of the young man found its expression in eloquence that reached the
hearts of all who heard him, either in exhortation or in prayer.

He was very much beloved by the brethren, and especially by the sisters,
of the Magnolia Grove Mission.

There was, however, two or three among the class-leaders who objected to
Valentine as being too much given to the vanities of this world, and who
found great stumbling blocks in Valley's shining, black ringlets, and
neat and even elegant dress. But as the fiend really did contrive to
find his way into sinless Eden, so jealousy might possibly have crept
into a "love feast" among Christian brethren and sisters; and
Valentine's beauty, grace, eloquence and consequent pre-eminence, among
the men, and popularity with the women, might have been the true ground
of offense to his less gifted brothers.

However that might be, Valentine, perceiving only the ostensible matter
of complaint, half resolved to give up his taste in dress and sacrifice
his cherished ringlets, and seriously consulted Fannie upon the subject.

But Fannie would not listen to such a proposition with a moment's favor,
and said that brother Portiphar and some of the others had such a grudge
against beauty that they would turn all the Lord's fair roses and lilies
into lobelia and rue, if they could. And Fannie's single opinion and
vote outweighed all the others, and Valentine's hyperion curls continued
to be an offense in Israel.

Thus passed the winter and spring. This first half year, with all its
shadows, was yet the fairest portion of the young pair's married life.
Toward its close clouds began to gather darkly and threateningly over
their heads.

In the early part of summer Fannie was necessitated to give up her
situation at Leroux's, and confine herself to such work as she could
perform in the privacy of her own room, such as fine sewing and fancy
work, which was not very lucrative; but even this resource in the course
of a few weeks had to be abandoned, for Fannie was unusually delicate,
and sadly needed rest and some one to take care of her for a while. And
just about this time, late in July, Mr. Waring made up his mind to go to
the North and spend the remainder of the summer in a tour among the
fashionable watering-places. Of course, he designed to take his servant
with him. In vain Valentine, hoping in the proverbial "good nature" of
his master, proffered his earnest request to be left behind, urging the
state of Fannie's health as the reason.

"Pooh, pooh, nonsense!" Mr. Waring could not spare the servant that was
used to his ways. Fannie must do without her husband, and take her
chance, as all those of her class had to do. Surely she must have known
what she had to expect when she married a slave man.

"And now, Valentine, don't bore me any longer with the subject. You were
a great fool to get married at all; and if you trouble me further, you
will make me regret ever having given my consent to that foolish
measure," concluded Mr. Waring.

Valentine controlled his own rebellious emotions, and leaving Fannie as
comfortable as under the circumstances he could make her, accompanied
his master to the North.

They visited first the Virginia Springs, then Niagara, Saratoga, Nahant,
and at the end of three months, returned home.

In close attendance upon his master, Valentine was obliged to pass
through M---- without stopping to see his wife.

But the next day, at his first disengaged hour, he set out for the city,
where he found Fannie the mother of a little girl of six weeks of age,
and reinstated in her former position at Leroux's.

Fannie was very happy, and gave a cheering account of all that had
occurred. Everybody had been very kind to her; the sisters of the church
had visited her often; Phædra had been with her, and Madame Leroux had
made her many presents.

All this relieved and delighted the youthful husband and father; and
when he pressed his infant daughter to his bosom, he wept tears of joy
at the thought that her mother's heritage of freedom would be hers.

Some peaceful days followed this, in which Valentine, oblivious of every
cause of disquietude, enjoyed the perfection of domestic happiness.

Then, early in November, Mr. Waring determined to go to New Orleans, to
prosecute his acquaintance with a young widow, a native and resident of
that city, whom he had met at Saratoga, and with whom he had been very
much pleased. His servant was, of course, required to attend him, and
upon this occasion Valentine obeyed without a single demur.

On reaching New Orleans, Mr. Waring took rooms at the St. Charles Hotel.
Apparently his suit prospered, for their stay in that city was prolonged
through November and December. And Valentine had no opportunity of
visiting his girlish wife until after the new year.

Then Mr. Waring hastily, and in the highest spirits, returned home, to
settle up certain necessary business with his lawyer appertaining to
troublesome creditors, and give some commendable directions to his
housekeeper touching the rearrangement of his disorderly bachelor's
hall. This occupied two or three weeks, during which time Valentine,
when not in close attendance upon Mr. Waring, found opportunities to
visit his beloved Fannie, and caress the infant, of whom he was dotingly
fond.

The first of February Mr. Waring went again to New Orleans to meet his
engagement with Madam Moriere, his promised bride.

Their marriage was arranged to take place immediately, to save the delay
of the seven weeks of Lent, just at hand, and during which no strict
Catholic, such as madam professed to be, would dare to enter into the
"holy state" of matrimony.

Immediately after the ceremony, the newly-married couple set out on a
bridal tour.

Mr. Waring was attended by his favorite servant, and madam by her maid,
a French _grisette_, who "made eyes" at Valentine, and otherwise
harassed him with her coquetries during the whole journey. And this
conduct of Finette first suggested to Valentine's mind the probability
that, during his own enforced, long and frequent absences from home,
some one as unprincipled as Finette might be making love to his own
pretty Fannie, unprotected and exposed as she was in that French
hair-dressing establishment. Valentine might have been sure of that; but
Fannie, with her wise and affectionate consideration for him, had never
troubled the transient happiness of his sojourn with her by any
histories of the petty vexations that disturbed her own life during his
absence. Besides, Fannie, with all her innocence, was city bred, full of
experience and the wisdom it gives, and quite capable of taking care of
herself. And Valentine never would have dreamed of the possibility of
such annoyances for her had not the behavior of Mademoiselle Finette
made the suggestion. And now the thought gave his excitable heart a
great deal of disturbance, and made him very anxious to return home. Of
course, Valentine's impatience did not expedite that desired event.

The bridal party were absent six weeks, and finally reached home about
the middle of April--a most enchanting season in that climate,
corresponding in its advanced state of vegetation with our June, but
much more beautiful in the luxuriance and variety of its trees, shrubs,
vines, fruits and flowers, than any season in our latitude. The Red Hill
mansion was very lovely in its grove of magnolias. The internal
arrangement of the house reflected great credit upon Phædra; and madam
condescended to express much satisfaction with her new home and her good
housekeeper.

As upon all former occasions, Valentine had been in too much
requisition, when they passed through M----, on their way home, to stop
and see Fannie; but the next morning Mr. Waring dispatched him to the
city to attend to the careful packing and sending out some baggage that
had been left, of necessity, the evening before, at the hotel.

And Valentine availed of that opportunity to visit his small family.

He found Fannie as pretty and as glad to see him as always, and his
little darling Coralie, now seven months old, more beautiful and
attractive than ever; but he could not linger with them; his duties to
his master obliged him, in less than an hour, to tear himself away again
and hasten with madam's trunks and boxes to Red Hill.

The necessity of leaving his treasures so soon again after so long an
absence depressed Valentine so much that Fannie hastened to console and
cheer him. He was not, after all, more unfortunate in that respect, she
said, than sailors and soldiers, nor was she more to be pitied than
their wives.

And she sent him off, comforted with the promise that she would get
leave from Leroux and come out the next morning with her baby to spend
the day with Phædra at Red Hill.

Fannie kept her word, and, during her visit the next day won her way so
well into the good graces of madam that that lady expressed a kind
interest in her and her little child, made them some pretty presents,
and promised to facilitate as much as possible the frequent visits of
Valentine to his wife and child. And the lady remembered and performed
her promise so well that unusual indulgence was extended to Valentine,
who was by her intercession enabled to pass every night with his family.

Mr. Waring, in his attachment to his bride, seemed for the time quite
won from the extravagance and dissipation of his late bachelor life. He
remained at home and addressed himself with commendable zeal to the
management of his plantation, to the improvement of his land, his stock,
his machinery, and agricultural system in general, and also, after his
own blundering fashion, to the amelioration, comfort and welfare of his
people.

Valentine, no longer distressed for or by his master, divided his
attention between the manifold light duties that occupied him all day at
Red Hill, and the evenings spent in assisting Fannie in her business
behind the counter of Leroux's shop, and for which he now received a
regular payment, in consideration of the fact that he stood at the post
and performed the duties of Monsieur Leroux, whose age obliged him to
leave the shop at an early hour of the evening, just as the custom was
beginning to grow brisk. Thus they were enabled to add many little
comforts to their humble home, and also to lay up a trifle against the
chance of darker days.

Every alternate Sabbath they attended meeting together at Magnolia
Grove, and afterward dined with Phædra at Red Hill, and went home at
night; and, on the intervening Sabbath, when there was no service at the
Grove Mission, Phædra would come into town and go to church with the
children at the Bethel (colored) Mission of M----, and afterward take
dinner with them, before returning home in the evening.

Thus passed the halcyon days of spring, preceding the awful moral storm
which ended in that "household wreck."



CHAPTER VI.

PROPHETIC.

    The look, the air that frets thy sight,
      May be a token that below,
    The soul has closed in deadly fight
      With some eternal fiery foe,
    Whose glance would scorch thy smiling grace,
    And cast thee, shuddering, on thy face.


Spring in the South is a season of the most enchanting beauty. Forests
of odoriferous, blossoming trees, thickets of sweet-scented shrubs, and
fields of fragrant wild flowers fill the atmosphere with their delicious
perfume; climbing vines twine around the trees and overgrow the fences,
transforming them into arbors and to hedges of flowering plants of
matchless bloom and fragrance; while myriads of bright-winged birds
enliven all the sunny air with their glad melody. It is a season and a
scene no lover of nature could look upon without rapture.

But the summer, with its advanced luxuriance of beauty, too often brings
malaria, pestilence and death.

The promise of the spring to one in Valentine's condition had been too
fair to last for any length of time. Clouds began to gather over his
head. First, as Mr. Waring went no longer to town to spend his evenings,
it followed as a matter of course that he frequently required
Valentine's services at that hour at home. On inquiring for his servant
upon these occasions, and receiving the answer that Valentine had gone
to town to see his wife, he would grow angry, and exclaim, with an oath:

"I have never had any good of that boy since his foolish marriage. In
town every night! This thing is getting to be insufferable, and shall be
stopped."

And one morning, when Valentine returned, Mr. Waring told him that he
was not to take himself off to see his wife every evening, but that in
future he must ask permission to do so.

Now, anger was Valentine's easily besetting sin, the one dangerous
internal foe he had constantly to combat. Now, indignation rose and
swelled in his bosom. And not from fear or from policy, but from
Christian principle, he strove to quell its ragings. He answered only
with a bow, and left the room for that silent, solitary struggle with
himself that no eye but the Father's ever witnessed. He obeyed the
mandate; it was galling, but he obeyed it; and each evening presented
himself to his master with something like this style of request, which,
as a compromise between asking a permission and intimating a purpose,
was not so difficult to make:

"I have got through all my business here for to-day, sir, and am ready
to go to town if you don't want me."

"Very well; take yourself off; only be sure to come back early in the
morning, to be ready when I rise," would be the frequent answer. "The
proud rascal! I believe he would almost as lief die as ask leave to do
anything; but it is my own fault; I have treated that boy like a
brother, until he is so spoiled as to be quite above his condition," Mr.
Waring would add, half jesting, half in earnest.

But sometimes, when Valentine asked, leave would not be granted him; and
this occasioned an irregularity in his nightly attendance at the shop,
that finally obliged Monsieur Leroux to say to him:

"Valentine, my man, unless you can attend better, I shall have to
discharge you altogether, and get a full clerk, which would be better
anyway, as he could be here all the time."

Full of trouble at this prospect, Valentine the next day mentioned this
to his master, who, happening to be in an ill-humor, answered:

"What the fiend is all that to me, sir? Old Leroux is liable to
prosecution for hiring your services at all without a permit."

"But it was in over-hours--in my own time," remonstrated Valentine.

"Your own time! Pray, sir, what time is that? I have yet to learn that
you have any time of your own!"

Valentine suppressed his indignation, but that was as much as he could
do. He dared not trust himself to reply.

"Leave the room! The sight of you irritates me. And be very thankful
that I do not prosecute your friend, old Leroux, with his mulatto clerks
and shop-girls! These beasts of Frenchmen have not the slightest idea of
the distinctions of race."

Silently, Valentine left the room, to retire and have another wrestle
with his pride and anger.

That evening he was not permitted to go to see Fannie; and, from that
time the permission to visit her was less and still less frequently
granted.

Finally, old Leroux, who had long delayed the step for poor Fannie's
sake, hired a clerk, and Valentine lost his over-hour situation, and
with it many fair though humble hopes and prospects. He was much
depressed; but Fannie bid him do right, trust in God, and cheer up; and
said that she would probably get her own salary raised, and that they
would get on very well.

Now, whether his marriage had changed his feelings toward Valentine, or
whether it was Valentine's marriage that in time and effect grew
displeasing to him, or whether both these causes combined to produce an
estrangement between the master and the man, I know not; but certainly
their mutual relations were changing for the worse. The master grew less
considerate and indulgent, and more arrogant and exacting toward his
poor servant; and that servant had a daily struggle with his own
indignant sense of outraged manhood. Still, Fannie soothed him.

"Govern your temper, dear Valley, and God will bless you. Never mind me
and Coralie; we shall get along well enough; and we can see each other
Sunday at church, and Thursday at prayer-meeting, anyhow," she would
say, cheerfully.

True, Fannie had her baby always with her, and that was a great comfort
to the youthful wife and mother for the absence of her husband. They
might have looked for some aid from the intercession of Mrs. Waring; but
alas! for fair and false hopes, her romantic interest in little Fannie
that had been but a frail spring blossom of her own happy bridehood,
soon withered; and, added to that, her influence with her husband had
waned with her honeymoon. So, between her indifference and her
inability, together with her ignorance of the facts--for Valentine
seldom had sight or speech alone with his mistress, or, when he had, was
too proud and reserved to complain, and Fannie, from native modesty,
would rather endure than plead--little aid was to be expected from Mrs.
Waring's interference in behalf of the young couple.

The gathering clouds of fate darkened and deepened over the head of the
doomed boy. His little home in the city was visited with sickness.

First, his little Coralie was taken ill. No father in this world,
whatever his nature or degree might be, ever loved his infant with a
more passionate attachment, than poor Valentine felt toward his little
Coralie; she was the darling of his heart and eyes, the light and joy of
his present, and the hope of his future. It was for her own sake that he
wished to save money--to educate her. Daily he thanked God that she was
born free.

Now, his bright, beautiful Coralie was pining away under a complication
of infant disorders.

A sick and suffering child is one of the most distressing objects in
nature, especially when that child is but a babe, and cannot, as the
nurses say, "tell where its trouble is," and can only look at you with
its pleading eyes, as if imploring the relief you cannot give. You who
have ever had an ill and suffering infant, always pining and moaning
with its aching head, too heavy for the slender, attenuated neck,
dropped upon its nurse's or its mother's shoulder, yet still often
looking up with a faint little smile to greet you when you come to take
it, or piteously holding out its emaciated arms to coax you back when
you are called to leave it--you can estimate the distress of the poor
young father, living three miles distant from the sick child, that might
at any hour grow suddenly worse, and die; and only permitted to visit it
occasionally at the pleasure of others.

Fannie's health, never strong, began to fail; loss of rest night after
night, with the sick child, joined to the fatiguing duties of her
situation, which she was still obliged to retain as a means of support,
exhausted her strength.

The poor infant, bereft all day of both parents, and left in charge of
an old, free negress, that lived near the shop, had the sad, unnatural
grief of home-sickness added to its other suffering, and so pined and
failed day by day.

This state of things lasted for some weeks.

After a night of suffering to the child and sleeplessness to herself,
Fannie would rise in the morning, and, though nearly blind, giddy and
fainting from habitual loss of rest, she would set her room in order,
eat a morsel of breakfast, bathe and dress the little one, collect all
the articles it would need, and prepare its food and medicine for the
day; and, lastly, dress herself with neatness and taste, for it was very
necessary that the shop girl should look as well as possible; take her
sick babe in one arm, and its basket of necessaries in the other, lock
her door, and set out for the shop, stopping on her way to leave the
child and its basket at Aunt Peggy's hut, where there was no cradle or
rocking-chair, but, what was perhaps as well, a pallet laid in the
coolest part of the room.

Here Fannie would sit and rest a moment, while she nursed her child, and
then she would lay it down upon the pallet and leave it, thankful if the
little creature happened to be sleeping peacefully, wretched if it
chanced to be wakeful and to be wailing after its mother.

One morning, when Fannie had lingered beyond her hour for going to the
store, trying to put to sleep or to pacify the suffering child, she
finally laid it down upon the pallet, and, with many kisses and soothing
words and promises to come back soon, tore herself away; but, just as
she reached the door the little one struggled upon its feeble limbs,
staggered toward her, and fell, with its weak hand clasping her skirts.

Fannie burst into tears, took the babe up in her arms, sat down upon a
chair, and, pressing the little sufferer to her bosom, caressed and
soothed it, and promised never to leave it again; and, speaking to the
old woman, said:

"Please go over to Leroux's, Aunt Peggy, and tell monsieur that I can't
come to-day on account of poor little Coralie; and I don't know when I
can come--so he may, if he chooses, look out for somebody else to fill
my place."

The prudent old woman expostulated, asked Fannie what she would do for a
living if she gave up her situation at Leroux's, and advised her to hold
fast, saying that the child might die, and then, there! she couldn't get
the place again so easy as she had lost it.

But Fannie was firm. Pressing the infant closer to her bosom, she
replied: Yes; that little Coralie might die, and then the thought of how
often she had left the poor baby grieving for her mother would break her
heart; that it was no use for any one to talk; come what might, she
never would leave the sick child again.

Aunt Peggy carried the message, and brought back the reply that Madam
Leroux had always expected this trouble to come upon Fannie; that she
had always said so; and that Fannie would find her words true, that this
was only the beginning of the troubles she would meet, for having been
so lost to her own interest as to marry a handsome slave man, whose very
hands were not his own, to help her.

Fannie said that she would trust in God, unto death and beyond death;
for that often she thought the best way in which He could right His
children's wrongs, and comfort their afflictions, was by taking them
from this sad world to His own heaven.

Truly, the poor young creature needed all this faith to enable her to
bear the troubles that were, and those that were to come. She carried
little Coralie back to her own poor room. She sought out what plain
sewing and clear starching she could get to do in her own home; but this
was very little, now that so many of the ladies and gentlemen among whom
she hoped to get employment had left the city for the Northern
watering-places. It brought her a very scanty income; and as, out of
this, room rent, fuel, light, food, clothing, medicine and other
incidental expenses had to be paid, and as, besides, she would not
suffer little Coralie to want any comfort, or even any luxury, that she
could procure for her by her own exertions and self-denial, it followed,
of course, that she herself went without a sufficiency of the real
necessaries of life; and so, privation being added to her other ills,
accelerated the decline of her health.

Valentine could only come to see them once a week. He would come Sunday
morning, spend the day in nursing his darling, tear himself from her
clinging baby arms, and return, almost broken-hearted, at night.

This was the condition of things when the yellow fever made its
appearance at M----. This was nothing new--the pestilence was no
stranger, it was an annual visitor at M----.

But this summer the fever appeared in its most terrible aspect, with all
the malign, virulent and fatal characteristics of the plague.

I am not about to harrow your feelings or my own with any minute details
of the misery that ensued as the pestilence advanced; of the physical
agony, from pain, fever, thirst and famine; of the wretchedness, from
bereavement, poverty and desertion; of the mental anguish, from terror,
grief, horror and despair. The pestilence brings in its dread train
almost every form of physical and moral evil; at the same time,
providentially, it calls forth to combat these the most exalted virtues
in the human character. You have only to call to mind the ravages of
the yellow fever throughout the South in the past to estimate the
horrors of the pestilence at M----. The people by hundreds fled the
city; those that remained, by thousands died.

The population, reduced to less than one-half, consisted chiefly of the
poorer classes, who could not get away, and of those heroic souls whom a
high sense of Christian duty or simple humanity had retained in or
brought to the scene of misery.

A dense, copper-colored cloud hung low, like a pall, over the
plague-stricken city; its air was considered deadly to the newcomer that
breathed it.

All intercourse between M---- and the surrounding plantations was
interdicted. The greatest anxiety was felt by the planters, lest the
fever should break out in their families, or, where it would be more
likely to make its first appearance, among the slaves; the greatest
precautions were taken to avert such a dread misfortune. The masters and
their families confined themselves strictly to their own domains, and
the slaves were positively forbidden to approach the city, or even the
highways leading thitherward. As many of the neighboring negroes had
friends or relatives living in the city, and as their affections are
known to be rather obstinate and daring, to insure safety, a voluntary
police was organized by the planters, whose duty it was, in turn, to
guard the highways, and see that no negro passed without a written
permit from the master or mistress.

Preventives of disease and disinfecting agents were diligently sought
after. Alcohol, in the form of wine, brandy and whisky, was supposed to
be a sovereign safeguard against the pestilence. I do not say that it
was laid down as a medical dogma that an habitual inebriate enjoyed
immunity from contagion; but I do say, what will probably shock my
temperance readers, that all persons were counseled by their physicians
to keep themselves always slightly under the influence of alcohol, so
long as the pestilence should last. And most people took the advice,
finding, at least, something in the half-stimulating, half-stupefying
effects of liquor to brave or dull the sense of danger. Wine and brandy
were freely used in the planter's family; whisky was freely circulated
among the negroes of the plantation. Some among them of the Methodist
persuasion and the temperance society demurred at breaking their pledge;
but even these, when made to understand that the whisky was to be taken
as medicine, by the advice of a physician, felt their consciences set at
rest upon the subject, and never was doctor's stuff swallowed with less
repugnance than their grog was taken, three times a day.

Valentine held to his principles; he would not break his pledge. In vain
for a long time his master, and even his mistress, remonstrated with
him.

Circumstances altered cases; times were changed; self-preservation was
the first law of nature; in view of the present danger, his pledge was
not binding; "for if he kept his pledge, he might lose his life," they
would argue.

"That was the Lord's affair; all he had to do was to keep his pledge;
and if he should die, so much the better; life had no charms for him,"
Valentine would reply.

And in truth the wretched young man was much to be compassionated. His
wife and child alone and helpless in the midst of the plague, exposed to
the united horrors of pestilence, famine and solitary death from
desertion; himself forbidden to seek them at their utmost need. Thrice
had he escaped and sought the city, and as often had he fallen into the
hands of the voluntary police; they did not maltreat him, except
inasmuch as they would not suffer him to pass without a permit from his
master, and this permit could not be obtained. He could think of
nothing but his wife and child. Were they living, and suffering
unimagined miseries? Were they among the uncounted dead, whose rude
coffins lay one upon another, three or four feet deep, not in graves,
but in trenches? He did not even know. But all his thoughts by day, and
his fitful dreams by night, were haunted with the forms of Fannie and of
Coralie. He saw little Coralie in every phase of memory, and hope, and
fear. He saw her bright and beautiful, as she had been in the sweet
springtime; he saw her pale and pining, as he had seen her last in her
wasting sickness; and he saw her lying dead in her coffin, and woke with
a loud cry of anguish. His heart, his spirit, seemed broken.

Seeing his haggard and despairing looks, his mistress expostulated with
him, and counseled the use of wine or brandy, saying that the depressing
effects of the atmosphere were felt by everybody, even by those living
in the country; that it affected all persons with despondency, causing
them to look only on the darkest side of all things; and that it was
only to be counteracted by the stimulating effects of alcohol.

At last Valentine followed this counsel and took the prescribed
"medicine." Not to prevent contagion did he take it, though that purpose
would have exonerated him from the charge of a broken pledge; but to
dull the poignant sense of suffering, which was greater than he could
bear.

Oh, fatal day that he placed again to his lips the maddening glass! All
have seen how dangerous is such a relapse. It is generally a sudden and
hopeless fall. It was so in the case of this poor fellow. He took the
first glass, and, liking its effects, took a second and a third before
stopping. If he awoke in the morning to remember his troubles, he drank
all day to forget them, and fell at night into a heavy sleep. He
zealously followed the medical prescription--nay, he quite overdid it,
and kept himself not "slightly" under the influence of alcohol. And in a
short space of time, if his master or his mistress remonstrated with
him, it was not for total abstinence from intoxicating spirits, but for
the opposite extreme of an habitual intemperance. Such was the state of
affairs at Red Hill for a few weeks, during which Valentine had no
direct or certain intelligence of Fannie and his little child.



CHAPTER VII.

CAIN.

    I pray thee take thy fingers from my throat:
    For though I am not splenetive and rash,
    Yet have I in me something dangerous,
    Which let thy wisdom fear. Hold off thy hand!--SHAKESPEARE.


One morning, near the last of August--yet, stay! Such mornings dawn
unheralded by any sign to warn us what the fated day shall bring forth
ere its close. Such mornings dawn as other mornings do--the doomed men
and women rise as other people do--as you or I arose this morning, upon
the dread day that unpremeditated crime or sudden death shall fix their
mortal doom forever.

That morning Mr. Waring arose, feeling rather unwell and irritable,
which was no unusual circumstance of late, for he was chafing between
two conflicting interests, one of which called him away, while the other
bound him at home. He was very anxious, with his wife, to leave the
neighborhood of the infected city; but, in the present condition of
affairs he hesitated to trust the plantation and negroes to the care of
the overseer.

Valentine arose with the same heavy heart that had marked his waking
hours for many days, yet dressed himself and combed his raven black
curls with the habitual regard to neatness and beauty that had become a
second nature. And it was curious to see how this habit of neatness and
elegance lasted through all the darkest hours of his life.

Phædra got up and attended to the arrangement of the house and the
preparation of breakfast with her usual exactness.

Mrs. Waring, suffering from the debilitating effects of the weather,
indulged herself in the morning, and breakfasted in bed.

No foreboding was felt by any one; no token in sky or air, or
circumstances without, of presentiment within their hearts, warned them
of calamity, crime and sudden death at hand. That morning, after
breakfast, Valentine strolled listlessly out toward the public road
leading to the town. It was his daily habit. It had been commenced in
the hope of meeting some one from the city who might be able to give him
news of Fannie and her little child. And though he never met with
success, he still rambled thither every day, as well from force of habit
as from the faint hope that he might yet hear of them. He strolled to
the highway, met his usual ill-success, and, after lingering an hour or
two, sauntered dejectedly toward home.

When he reached a lane that separated his master's plantation on the
right from Mr. Hewitt's on the left, his attention was arrested by the
sound of a low voice. He listened.

"Hish-sh! Walley, come here--here to the gap."

The voice proceeded from behind the hedge, formed by a thick growth of
Spanish daggers, that completely covered the fence on the left of the
lane. There was a small broken place in it, toward which Valentine
sauntered indifferently. He saw on the other side the huge head of a
gigantic negro, a jet-black, lumbering, awkward, good-natured monster
enough, who belonged to Mr. Hewitt, and who sported the imposing
cognomen of "governor."

"Well, Governor, is that you? What do you want with me?"

"Hish-sh, Walley, don't talk so loud! our oberseer ain't far off.
Brudder 'Lisha, he bin out from town."

"Well!" exclaimed Valentine, with breathless interest, bending forward.

"W'en you hear from Fannie las'?"

"Not for two weeks. Why do you ask? Have you heard from her? Speak! oh,
for Heaven's sake, speak!" exclaimed Valentine, breathlessly.

"Fannie done got de feber."

"Oh, God!"

"Brudder 'Lisha, he done bin 'ere dis mornin' and tell we-dem."

"Oh, Heaven! oh, when was she taken? Who is with her? Is she----"

"Dunno nuffin 'tall 'bout it, 'cept 'tis she's got de feber. Brudder
'Lisha, he done bin dere to her place, an' heern it."

"Where is Elisha?"

"Done gone right straight back to town."

"And that is all the satisfaction you can give me," cried Valentine,
beside himself with distress.

"Yaw, yaw! I trought how I'd watch arter you, and tell you--'long as
you'd like to hear it. Hish-sh-sh! Walley, stoop down here close, till I
whisper to you."

"What now!" exclaimed Valentine, in new alarm, bending his ear to the
huge negro's lips.

"Hish-sh-sh! Walley, I wish how it wur my 'ooman as had de yaller
feber!"

"Wretch!"

"An' wish we-dem's white nigger oberseer had it too!"

"What do you mean?"

"And I wish dey bofe might die long of it."

"Wretch! I say again!"

"Trufe, brudder! dat's me jes'! I'se de wretch! an' I wish how dis same
wretch might hab de feber long o' de oder two, an' how I might die long
of 'em, and how we might all go up to Marster's trone, and have de case
'cided whose wife dis 'ooman is for to be."

"Governor! What! do you mean to say that the new overseer is tampering
with your wife's fidelity to you?"

"Hish-sh! he ain't fur off. Dunno what de debbil you mean wid your big
words. But she lub fine dress, an' he gib it to her; she berry putty,
mos' white, you know, an' he sen' me way off to de furres' fiel' to
work."

"Why don't you talk to her?"

"'Taint no use; she 'ny eberyting."

"Why don't you speak to your master?"

"'Tain't no use; he won't nebber hear no 'plaints gin de oberseer."

"I am very sorry for you, poor fellow; and I would like to give you
comfort and counsel, but I must hurry away from you, and try to get
leave to go to town, and see poor dear Fannie. If I were you, Governor,
I would speak to Major Hewitt upon this subject. He never would permit
such a wrong done you."

"'Taint no use, I tell yer! But nebber min', Walley, listen yer; some ob
dese yere days I fixes him!"

Valentine started at the demoniac look that, in a man usually so mild,
accompanied these vague words; and, bidding the negro a hasty
good-morning, he ran along the lane until he reached the house.

His own heart and brain were wild with grief and alarm as he hastened to
the presence of his master, whom he did not doubt would now, in this
extremity, permit him to go to the city.

Mr. Waring, in an irritable frame of mind, was walking up and down the
front piazza, as Valentine stepped upon the floor.

"Well, what now?" he exclaimed, testily, at the sight of the young man's
agitated countenance.

"My wife, sir; she has got the fever."

"Sorry to hear it, but--how did you hear it, sir? I hope no one from
that place has had the temerity to set foot upon these premises, in face
of the prohibition?"

"No, sir; I happened to meet with Governor, Major Hewitt's man, and he
had seen an acquaintance of ours from the city, who came from Fannie's
house this morning and brought the news."

"I wonder Major Hewitt does not take better care of his own interests
than to permit stragglers from the city to infest his place. He will
bring the pestilence among us before we know where we are," said Mr.
Waring, angrily.

"But, Fannie, sir--my poor wife----"

"Well, what of her? I am sorry, of course--really sorry, Valentine. It
is a pity you ever got married; if you had not, neither you nor Fannie
would have had so much trouble. It was a very foolish piece of
business!"

"Perhaps it was, sir; but people who love each other have a sort of
propensity to get married. It can't be helped, I suppose; it's a way
they've got."

"And a bad way--very bad way--that I ought never to have sanctioned."

"Nor imitated, sir!"

"You are an impertinent fellow! But I overlook that. There is some
difference, I should judge, between you and me, and I certainly ought
never to have consented to your taking that girl."

"It is too late to say that now, sir!" said Valentine, with a sigh so
heavy that Mr. Waring inquired, quickly:

"So you repent it, do you?"

"No; God Almighty knows I do not!" replied Valentine, with sorrowful
earnestness; adding, "but, oh, sir, I am losing precious time. I came
here to ask you for a permit to go to town and see my wife."

"A permit! A permit to go to town, and to visit a woman ill with the
very pestilence we are all doing our best to guard against? A permit to
go there, and take the fever just as sure as you go, and bring back and
spread the contagion among hundreds, whom we are all doing our best to
guard from the pestilence! Impossible, Valentine! I wonder you could be
so unreasonable as to ask it!"

"Unreasonable that I should want to go and see my suffering wife?"

"Yes--under the circumstances. Yes, I am sorry for her, Valentine, and
sorry for you, though I cannot say that your manner is very respectful.
Still, I am very sorry for you; and if it were possible for me to do
anything for your relief, I would do it--as it is, I regret that I can
do nothing."

"Oh, sir! Master Oswald, you could let me go to town," pleaded
Valentine.

"At the imminent hazard of your own life, and the all but certainty of
bringing the pestilence upon this plantation."

"All do not get the fever who are exposed to its influence; neither do
they always spread contagion into the healthy places they chance to
visit," reasoned the young man.

"The risk is too great," replied the master, curtly.

"Would you think it too great if your own wife were the one concerned,
sir?" argued Valentine.

"Be more respectful, sirrah! There is some difference, I should say!"
retorted the master, angrily.

"Yes, there is a difference!" cried Valentine; "and when I see anything
to respect----" Suddenly he stopped. Swift as lightning came the thought
that if he refrained from provoking his master now and came to him an
hour hence, when he should be in a better humor, the prayer that he now
denied he might then grant. Controlling his rising indignation, he
bowed, turned abruptly, and went off.

"Impudent rascal! he was just about to say something that I should have
had to knock him down for; and then he thought better of it, and
stopped--it's well he did! Poor fellow, I am sorry for him, too; but it
is all his own fault! If he were not so presumptuous, he would not feel
so badly. That is the very deuce of it; for that prevents him from
seeing that there is a difference." Such were the reflections of Mr.
Waring as he continued to pace up and down the front piazza.

Valentine has mastered his anger, but he could not control the terrible
anxiety that preyed upon his heart; Fannie suffering, Fannie dying,
deserted, alone; little Coralie perishing from neglect--these were the
torturing visions that maddened his brain.

He went and told Phædra, who wept bitterly at the sad story; but yet
sought to comfort her son, and inspire hope, by promising to go herself
and tell Mrs. Waring, and get her to intercede with her husband for
Valentine.

This was done, but with little success; for, though Mrs. Waring was
moved to compassion, and went to her husband and besought him to take
compassion upon Valentine and send him to seek his sick wife and trust
in Providence to avert all evil consequences, Mr. Waring was not only
firm in his refusal, but also exhibited no small degree of impatience at
her interference. Unwilling to inflict a hopeless disappointment upon
the poor fellow, Mrs. Waring tempered the report of her ill-success by
saying that, though Mr. Waring had now refused her petition, she still
hoped that he would think better of it and grant the permit.

Yet all this time Fannie might be dying, and her child perishing for
want--every moment was precious beyond price!

Phædra sought her master's presence, and pleaded with him--pleaded by
her long years of faithful service; by her devoted care of him in his
feeble infancy; by the days of his childhood, when he and Valentine were
playmates; by all the long years, as boys and as men, those two had
passed together, inseparable companions, until the marriage of each; by
her own devoted attachment to them; by his love for his own wife; by
every sweet affection and holy thought, to have compassion on her son,
his own foster-brother, and let him go and minister to his
sick--probably his dying wife. Phædra pleaded with more eloquence, but
with not more success, than the others.

Some substances melt under the action of water--others, in the same
element, turn to stone. Instead of melting Mr. Waring's obduracy seemed
to ossify under the effects of tears and entreaties. He told Phædra,
firmly, that he did not mean to gratify one man at the hazard of
exposing many to contagion. And at the dinner-table, speaking partly in
justification of his own line of conduct, and partly in apology for the
manner in which he had met Mrs. Waring's intercession of the morning, he
said:

"You emphasize this matter too much, madam; this Fannie is, after all,
but one sufferer among thousands; you also mistake in endowing these
creatures with the same acuteness of feelings that we possess; there is
a difference, madam! there is a difference! I wish I could make people
understand that there is a difference; neither Valentine nor Phædra seem
to have the slightest conception of this difference."

"I must confess that in that respect I share their obtusity," remarked
madam, while Mr. Waring, in apparent self-satisfaction, went on with his
dinner.

But was he really satisfied with himself? Who shall answer?

Meantime, Valentine wandered about, consumed with sorrow and anxiety.
Doubtless, he would have run away and endeavored to reach the town, but
he knew how carefully the avenues thither were guarded, and how
desperate was the attempt that he had already thrice before made to
elude the police. It would involve a loss of several hours to make the
attempt, which, if it should fail, as it was altogether likely to do,
would entirely preclude him from all possible chance of seeing Fannie;
therefore he thought best to make another appeal to his master before
taking the last desperate step. He knew by experience that the hour
after dinner always found Oswald Waring in his best humor.

It was then that he sought him.

He found him--not, as before, walking in the front piazza, where the
afternoon sun was now shining, but reclining on a settee on the back
piazza that was now in the shade. He lay languidly fanning himself with
one hand, while he held a pamphlet that he was reading in the other.
Valentine had resolved not to provoke him by any hasty words, as he had
used in the morning. He resolved to govern his own spirit, to approach
his master respectfully, humbly. He did so.

"Master Oswald!"

Mr. Waring looked up, seemed annoyed, and hastened to exclaim:

"Now, Valentine, if you have come again about going to see your sick
wife, and all that humbug, I tell you it is no manner of use. I have
been wearied nearly to death already with fruitless importunity, and I
want to hear no more of it."

"Oh, sir!"

"I tell you it is of no use to talk to me!"

"Ah, but Master Oswald, only listen, even if you do no more!" pleaded
Valentine, in the fond hope of an ardent nature, that, judging from the
earnestness of his feelings, believes that if he gains a hearing, he
gains his cause.

"Well, well! but I warn you it will be wasted breath."

"Ah, sir, do not say so! I am nearly crazy with trouble, sir, when I
think of Fannie and poor little Coralie. She was very poor, sir, and the
child was very sick, even before the pestilence appeared. Now she has
the fever in that horrible place, with no one to help her or to take
care of the poor child. She may be dying, sir, even while I speak! she
may be dying, as many of the poor in that doomed city die,
deserted--alone--but for the famishing infant, whose cries add to her
own sufferings; she may have, as many of the poor have, famine and
burning thirst added to her fever, with no one near to place to her lips
a morsel of food or a drop of water! Think of it, sir! My God! do you
wonder that I am almost frantic?" cried the young man, earnestly,
beseechingly clasping his hands.

"An imaginary picture altogether, Valentine," coolly remarked Mr.
Waring.

"A common reality among the poor of the city, this dreadful season, sir.
You know it. You have heard it and read it. And she is very poor, sir.
She and the child often suffered, even before the pestilence came and
stopped her work with all the rest. Judge what her condition must be
now. Oh, my God!" cried the young man, in a voice of agony.

"Your fears exaggerate the case, Valentine. There are almshouses and
hospitals, and sisters of charity and relief funds, and all those sort
of contrivances for the very poor."

"Yet you know, for I heard you read it, that all these places are full,
that the relief fund failed to meet all the demands made upon it; and
you know, besides, that all the poor white people have to be taken care
of, before the colored people are thought of."

"Of course, there is a difference, you know. I wish, once for all, you
would understand that fact," said Mr. Waring, replying only to the
latter proposition. Then he added: "Your fears magnify the danger; the
yellow fever cannot last forever, and she may get well."

"Not one in ten do--I heard you say it."

"Well, she may be that one."

"What, sir, with all the privations of her lot?"

"Yes, why not? You are out of sorts, Valentine. Go into
the house and take a drink; it will set you up--in the
dining-room--sideboard--left-hand corner--some fine old Otard
brandy--help yourself; it will make a man of you."

"Thank you, Master Oswald; but that is not what I came for."

"What the devil did you come for, then, you troublesome fellow; tell me,
and let me go to sleep," exclaimed the master, impatiently turning on
his settee.

"I came to beg and to pray you, Master Oswald, for a permit to go to
town."

"And you cannot have it, Valentine; so you may save your prayers. Once
for all, if you and your mother, and madam, your mistress, to back you,
were to pray from now till doomsday, you--cannot--have--it. Do you
understand?" said his master, stolidly.

Valentine governed his own rising anger; it was as much as he could
possibly do; he could not suppress his grief, but broke forth in a voice
of agony:

"Oh! Fannie, Fannie, Fannie, and her little child!"

"D----n it, sir, stop your howling, or go somewhere else to howl. What
the devil is Fannie or her brat to me? If they are suffering, it is her
own fault; she had no business to marry a slave, whom she could never
expect to help her. And if their sufferings afflict you, it serves you
right; it is a just punishment for your cursed folly in marrying a free
woman, with no master to look after her or her children."

"I will be silent! I will be silent!" thought Valentine, as he turned
from his master.

A storm was raging in his breast; all the fierce passions of his nature
were aroused; rage, grief, terror and despair, made a hell of his bosom.
In passing through the hall, he suddenly dived into the dining-room,
poured out and drained a half tumbler of the strong brandy; then he
hurried through and out of the front door, to make ready for his flight.

These preparations were soon made, and Valentine commenced his journey.

The highway leading to M---- was bordered on one side by the hedge of
Spanish daggers that skirted the lower cotton-fields of Major Hewitt's
plantation, and on the other side by a causeway, that shut off an
extensive cypress swamp that formed a portion of Mr. Waring's estate.
Avoiding the middle of the road, Valentine leaped over the causeway,
and, though he waded half a leg deep in water, he made his way safely
under the shelter of the wall and the shadows of the trees.

He had waded thus a mile, on his way toward the city, when the sound of
a voice, singing a Methodist hymn, and approaching from the opposite
direction, arrested his attention. He knew the hymn, and the voice,
that, in turn, sang and intoned it, and, by them, recognized, before
seeing, Elisha, the colored class-leader of his own congregation, the
man who had that morning brought the first news of Fannie's illness. A
new, intense anxiety seized him. Elisha came from the direction of the
city. "Might he not bring some later intelligence of Fannie?" he
inquired of himself, as he hastened to climb the wall of the causeway,
and peered through the parasitical vines that clung to the top, to
survey the scene.

Lying between the dark-hued cypress swamp and the high hedge that shut
off the cotton-fields, the road stretched westward, one long, irregular
vista of yellow light shining in the last rays of the setting sun; and
solitary, except for the lonely figure of the old negro preacher, who,
stick and bundle slung across his shoulder, came trudging onward, and
beguiling his way with chanting the refrain of a wild, weird revival
hymn, in strange keeping with the time and circumstances:

    "Go, wake him! Go, wake him!
    Judgment day is coming!
    Go, wake him! Go, wake him!
    Before it is too late!"

"Hist! Elisha! Elisha!" called Valentine, in a hushed, eager voice.

"Who dar?" exclaimed the old negro, starting back so forcibly that the
stick and bundle vibrated on his shoulder.

"It is I, Elisha! Come here, quickly. How is Fannie, my dear, suffering
Fannie? Quickly! You have seen her since morning?" cried Valentine, in a
low, vehement tone.

"Brudder Walley! I 'clar'; de werry man I lookin' arter!" said the old
creature, approaching the causeway.

"Tell me! tell me! how is Fannie?" cried Valentine, impatiently.

"Ah, chile! we-dem mus' 'mit to de will o' Marster," sighed the old
preacher.

"For Heaven's sake, be plain! Is she--is she still living?" questioned
the youth, in an agony of anxiety.

"Wur, when I lef' dar, chile! wur, when I lef' dar! Dat all I can say
for sartin 'bout libbin'."

Valentine groaned deeply, asking:

"When did you see her? Tell me everything--everything you know about
her."

"I happen in dar, to 'quire arter her, 'bout noon. I fin' her all alone,
berry low, berry low, 'deed. Flies, like a cloud, settled on her face;
she onable to lif' her han', drive 'em 'way; lip bake wid thurst; and
she onable han' herse'f a drap o' water."

"Oh, God! and the child--the child!"

"'Prawlin' on de floor, kivered with flies an' dirt, cryin' low an'
weak, like, for hunder."

"Elisha, I must hurry; I must fly! Turn back, and walk a little way with
me, while you tell me more; but if you see any one coming or going on
the road, whistle, to warn me, for I have no permit," said Valentine,
dropping behind the causeway, and plunging along through the water
toward the city.

They could no longer see each other, and their conway.

"How you gwine cross bridge widout 'mit, Brudder Walley?"

"I don't know; I must try. Tell me more about Fannie."

"Well, you know, 'out my tellin' you, how I tuk up de chile offen de
flure, an' wash it, an' dress it, and git milk, and feed it. An' how I
go for water, and wash her face, and give her drink, an' fan de flies
offen her, till she come to her min', like; an' how I'd stay 'long o'
her till dis time, ony when she come to herself, she put her two hans
togedder, so she did, de chile, and begged an' prayed me to come arter
you, her 'dear Walley,' to come an' see her once more 'fore she died,
an' take de poor baby home long o' you. An' so, dough I done travel dis
yer yode once afore to-day, I takes my staff in my han' an' I sets off;
an', franks be to de Lor', dey can't sturve me from trav'lin' de
highway, dough I daren't now-a-day put my fut offin it, or onto one o'
der plantashunes. So, now, bress de Lor', here I is; an' long as I wur
so hoped up as to fall in 'long o' you, all I got to do now is, to
'company of you back to de city."

In a few earnest, fervent words, Valentine thanked his friend, and then,
saving all his breath, and concentrating all his energies, in silence he
toiled on, knee-deep in water and ankle-deep in mud, through the cypress
swamp toward the city.

Old Daddy Elisha took up the burden of his hymn, and sang or intoned
various portions of that weird melody as he walked.

Valentine, behind the causeway, in the shadow and the silence, passed
unquestioned; but Elisha was frequently hailed by some vigilant member
of the voluntary police. If personally known to the questioner, he was
allowed to pass; if not, he was required to show his papers; a light had
to be struck to examine them, and all this took up so much time, that
although Elisha had the high road to walk upon, and Valentine the swamp
to wade through, the latter far outstripped the former, and arrived
first at the bridge over the A---- River.

To cross this bridge was the only means from this direction of reaching
the city; but the bridge was guarded at both ends by the patrol, or
voluntary police; to elude their vigilance was the only desperate part
of Valentine's undertaking.

The river was broad, deep and strong in current; no one had ever dreamed
of the feat of swimming across it. It was bordered on this side by a
marsh so deep that, in the attempt to pass it, a man of moderate size
and strength must have been swallowed up.

The bridge was a continuation of the road and causeway, flanked by
parapets extending across the river, and joining the road on the
opposite side.

Valentine never thought of the impossible feat of wading the marsh and
swimming the river, neither did he dream of attempting to cross the
bridge in the very face of the patrol guard that twice before had
arrested him; but he projected a scheme almost equally wild and
hopeless. This plan was to cross the river by clambering along the water
side of this parapet--a plan involving less risk of discovery by the
patrol, certainly--but undertaken at the most imminent peril of death,
by losing hold and dropping into the river below.

Valentine waded on through the cypress swamp, until the trees grew more
sparsely, and the mud under the water became deeper and more treacherous
as it merged into the marsh nearest the river.

The poor fellow then clambered along, now on the broken causeway, his
eyes all on fire with vigilance, and now dropping down into the swamp,
and so in more peril and difficulty he went on, until he reached the
place where the marsh merged into the river, and the road and causeway
into the bridge and parapet.

Here he heard the patrol guard in their little guard-house laughing and
talking over their drink, for they, too, had to keep the pestilence at
bay with alcohol.

Here he attempted to gain the parapet, and in doing so, set in motion
some alarm bell, at whose first peals he found himself suddenly
surrounded, and in the hands of the patrol.

"My good fellow, that feat has been tried once before, so we prepared
for the second, you understand," said one of his captors.

They all knew Valentine; with most of them he was a great favorite,
though to others he was, for the sole reason of his natural superiority,
very obnoxious.

While Valentine stood overwhelmed with despair, he discerned Major
Hewitt among the party; and gathering some hope from the presence of
that gentleman, he clasped his hands and appealing to him, said:

"Oh, Major Hewitt, you know me, sir! You have known me from childhood!
Your dear lady knew me, too, and was very kind to the poor quadroon boy,
when he was a child. And you know my poor little Fannie, too! Sir, my
heart is breaking--that is nothing, but she is dying! Sir, my wife is
dying, alone--not of the fever only, but of starvation, of thirst, of
neglect, of bereavement of all aid; and she sends to me, sir--sends to
pray me to come and see her poor face for the last time, and take her
orphan baby from her dead arms, lest it die, too! You are powerful,
Major Hewitt! Speak the word, and these gentlemen will let me pass!"

"Valentine, my poor boy, if your sorrow had not crazed you, you would
understand at once that I cannot do so! But I tell you what I can do for
you; I can persuade these gentlemen from detaining you in the
guard-house, and I can write a note of intercession to your master.
Return to him, Valentine--take my horse! There he stands; go to Mr.
Waring; tell him what you have told me! Give him my note; he will not
refuse you the permit, and when you have it, ride back hither as fast as
you please," said the major.

He scribbled a note in haste. Valentine mounted the horse, received the
missive, and, thanking the major from the depths of his heart, rode off.
He met and hailed Elisha, told him in a few words what had passed, and
added:

"Go on to the city, Elisha! Go to my dear Fannie! Tell her, if she can
still hear your words, that I shall be with her in two hours, or die in
the effort. No! do not tell her a word to alarm her! Say I will
certainly be with her in two hours! For I will! despite of earth and
h--ll, I will!"

Valentine galloped swiftly toward home, reached the lawn gate, sprang
from his horse, secured the bridle, and hastened up to the house. There
was no one in front; he entered the hall, looked into the dining-room;
it was empty; he ran in, poured out a glass of brandy, drank it at a
draught, and passed through the house to the back piazza, where he found
his master, pacing up and down the floor. Mr. Waring had grown heated
and angry between the frequent potations and the irritations of the day.

"Well, sir!" he said, turning abruptly to Valentine, "what now? How dare
you enter my presence again, after your insolent conduct of this
afternoon?"

"Master Oswald, I am very sorry if, in my great trouble, I was surprised
into saying anything wrong. Will you read this note, sir?" said
Valentine, trying, for Fannie's dear sake, to quell the raging storm in
his bosom.

Oswald Waring took the note with a jerk, tore it open impatiently, and,
casting his eyes over it with a scornful curl of his lip, tossed it
away, exclaiming:

"Tush! Major Hewitt is a fool! Where did you get that, sir?"

Valentine hesitated.

"I ask you where you got that note, sir?"

"From Major Hewitt's own hand, Master Oswald," replied Valentine, at
last.

"By ----! don't prevaricate with me, sir! Where did you see Major
Hewitt, then? That is the question!"

Again Valentine was silent.

"What the demon do you mean, sir, by treating my questions with this
contemptuous silence?" demanded Mr. Waring, angrily.

"Master Oswald!" began Valentine, seriously, impressively; "I will
answer your question truly; but, first, let me beg you, let me pray you,
by all your hopes of salvation, to listen to me favorably; for I swear
to you by all my faith in Heaven, that it is the very last time I will
make the appeal!"

"I am glad to hear it, you troublesome, confoundedly spoiled rascal! For
it is the very last minute that I will bear to be trifled with!"

"I met Major Hewitt on the bridge----"

"On the bridge! On the bridge! Why, you insolent scoundrel; do you dare
to stand there and tell me to my face that, in direct violation of my
command, you attempted to go to town?"

"Sir! sir! listen to me! my worst fears are confirmed! My poor Fannie is
dying, as I feared she might die--alone! deserted! dying not only of
pestilence, but of famine and thirst, and every extremity of
wretchedness! She sent a faithful messenger, praying me to come and see
her once more, but once more, to close her eyes and receive the orphan
child. Oh! could I disregard such an appeal as that? would not any man,
or, I was about to say, any beast, risk life, and more than life, if
possible, to obey such a sacred call? I would have periled my soul! Can
you blame me?"

"They turned you back! They did right! Thank Heaven that I am disposed
to consider that sufficient punishment under the circumstances and am
ready to forget your fault. Go, leave me, sir--stop! into the house! not
out of it! you're not to be trusted, sir."

A volcano seemed burning and raging in the young man's breast;
nevertheless, he controlled himself with wonderful strength, while he
still pleaded his cause.

"Major Hewitt felt my position, sir! He had compassion on me, and wrote
that note. Give heed to it, sir! The time may come when, on your own
deathbed, or by the sickbed of one you love, and fear to lose, and pray
for, it may console and bless you to remember the mercy you may now show
me; the Good Being has said, 'Blessed are the merciful, for they shall
obtain mercy.' Give me the permit, sir! let me go and comfort my dying
Fannie! Oh! I do beseech you!"

"Will you have done worrying me? Major Hewitt is an old dotard! The
mercy you selfishly crave for yourself would be cruelty to all the other
negroes! Once more, and for the last time, I tell you, and I swear it by
all the demons, I will not give you the permit!"

"Then, by the justice of Heaven, I will go without it!"

"What?"

"I will go without it! If I cannot pass the bridge, I will swim the
river! Aye, if it were a river of fire!" exclaimed Valentine, losing all
self-control, and breaking into fury.

"Why, you audacious villain! You shall not stir from this house!"

"Neither man on earth nor demon from h--ll shall stop me!" broke forth
the man, in a voice of thunder, striding off.

In an instant Mr. Waring had intercepted him, holding up a light cane,
and exclaiming:

"Stand back, you villain!"

Valentine came on with the evident intention of attempting to pass.

Mr. Waring met him with a sudden, sharp blow with his cane across the
face.

And as Valentine, giddy and blinded for an instant with the blood that
streamed from the cut, staggered backward, Mr. Waring, by another heavy
stroke with the loaded end of the cane, felled him to the floor, and
proceeded to follow up his victory with several other severe blows.

But Valentine was struggling to his feet, and at last sprang up--reeled,
righted himself, cleared the blood from his eyes, glared around; and
just as Mr. Waring had broken his cane with a final stroke over his
shoulder, Valentine saw and seized a heavy oaken stool, and, aiming one
fatal blow with all his force, struck his master in the face! The heavy
leg of the oaken stool, aimed with all the strength of madness, crushed
the eye--entered the brain, and Oswald Waring fell, never to rise again!

But Valentine was maddened! frenzied! and showered blows upon the dying
man like one unconscious of his acts, until the agonized screams of
women brought him slightly to his senses, when he found himself seized
between Mrs. Waring, who was, amid her frantic shrieks, trying to pull
him away, and Phædra, who was crying, distractedly: "Oh! Valentine,
you've murdered him!"

He glared from one to the other, in the amazed, bewildered manner of one
half wakened from a horrible dream; looked at the mutilated form before
him; looked at the strange weapon in his hand--the foot-stool, with its
legs clotted with blood and hair; and then, with a violent start, and an
awful change of aspect, as if, for the first time the reality, the
horror and the magnitude of his crime had burst upon his consciousness,
he stood an instant, and casting the weapon from him, broke from the
hands of the women, cleared the porch at a bound, rushed across the
yard, leaped the fence, crossed the road and plunged into the shadows of
the cypress swamp beyond.

       *       *       *       *       *

That night, as Fannie lay on the wretched bed of her poor room, in
darkness and solitude, and in the semi-delirium of fever, suddenly an
apparition, like some ghastly phantom of her husband, gleamed out from
the surrounding shadows, stooped over, raised her in its ghostly arms,
chattered, raved wildly, incoherently, and--was lost; whether really
from the room, or only from her failing consciousness, is not
certain--and, indeed, how much of this scene was an actual occurrence,
and how much of it was the mere phantasmagoria of frenzy, the sufferer
never knew!



CHAPTER VIII.

THE APPARITION.

    Ye seem to look on me with asking eyes!
    Listen! and I will tell a fearful story!
    Since I remember aught about myself,
    A strange heart sickness almost like to death,
    A deep remorse for some unacted crime,
    For some impossible, nameless wickedness,
    Was on me--in its prophecy I lived;
    No wretch dragg'd on to execution
    E'er felt more horrid pangs than then stirr'd up
    My spirit with remorseful agony.--JOHN WILSON.


Eighteen months had passed since the murder of Oswald Waring, and yet
the murderer had not been apprehended. Though, upon the night of that
fatal catastrophe, both the regular and volunteer police had turned out
in great numbers, and scattered themselves over the neighborhood in
pursuit of the criminal; though trained sleuth-hounds had been made to
smell his clothing, and had been set upon his scent; though, thus with
men and dogs, the authorities had hunted him throughout the State, and
had offered the largest rewards for his betrayal or apprehension, this
length of time had passed, and he had not been arrested.

Mr. Waring having died intestate, his property, according to the laws of
that commonwealth, fell to the next of kin.

His childless widow inherited none of her late husband's wealth, but
returned to New Orleans, and thence retired to the country, to live upon
her own reserved patrimony.

The plantation fell into other hands, and the planter passed out of
memory.

Valentine, with his crime and his fate, overlaid by newer excitements,
was already sinking into oblivion. He was supposed to have escaped from
the State. But there were three faithful friends who knew that, in all
this time, the miserable young man had never left the neighborhood, or
wandered five miles from the blood-stained floor of his crime.

Phædra was set free. The quadroons and mestizzas, with all their fiery
vehemence of temperament, have perhaps less of real vital stamina than
any other race. They cannot bear up under any great mental or physical
pressure. Phædra, by the terrible blow that had fallen upon her, was
crushed into premature age and decrepitude. And, as a useless old crone,
she was suffered by her new master to retire to a lone cabin in the pine
barrens above the cypress swamp, and, without being required to work,
was supplied with rations of food and clothing upon an equal footing
with the plantation laborers.

But this poor Naomi, in her desolation, had also her Ruth.

Fannie had almost miraculously recovered from the yellow fever; and, in
the mental imbecility that had attended her convalescence, she had been
long shielded from the knowledge of the calamity that had fallen upon
them all; and at last so gradually did the facts of the catastrophe
enter her mind that she could never after say when or how she first
learned the sum of her misery; and thus she was spared the sudden shock
that must certainly have proved fatal to her.

No one could look upon that fragile form and thin face, with its fair,
transparent pallor, and large, mournful eyes, and not know her heart was
breaking.

What kept her life power going?

Something that was not the love of her child, or of her poor, old
mother! Something that occasionally varied that look of hopeless,
incurable sorrow, with a wild and startled expression of extreme terror,
suggestive of insanity. Some people thought it was insanity, but they
were mistaken; her reason was sound, though her heart was broken.

Fannie kept a little thread and needle shop; she owed the little shop to
the benevolence of Mrs. Waring; for, to the honor of that poor lady be
it spoken, even in the midst of her own awful sorrow, she had remembered
and succored her humble sister in adversity. Fannie's little shop
thrived moderately, and afforded herself and child a decent living, and
the means of alleviating some of the miseries and adding to the few
comforts of her poor mother.

Early every Saturday evening Fannie would close her little shop and take
her child and walk out to Phædra's cabin, to remain until Monday
morning. And these seasons, spent in reading the Scriptures, in prayer,
and in mutual consolations, were the least unhappy in these poor
women's lives.

Phædra's decrepitude confined her closely at home.

But the brothers and sisters of her church did not leave her alone in
her sorrow. They came frequently, they ministered to all her
necessities, material and spiritual, as far as she had need, and they
had power. They held a weekly prayer-meeting at her house.

And these Thursday evening meetings were sources of great comfort to the
desolate woman.

Fannie was frequently present at them. And the old negro preacher,
Elisha, was invariable in his punctual attendance. There was also
another, a constant, though an unknown and unsuspected worshipper among
them.

Valentine's name had long died off from every tongue, as his memory
seemed to have expired from every heart. Even in comforting Phædra her
friends never designated the nature of her grief; and, in praying for
the Lord's mercy upon their "aged sister in her sore affliction," they
never named that affliction's cause. And though the unhappy man was
remembered in their petitions, it was in silence and in secrecy.

One Thursday evening, while the March winds were piping through the pine
barrens, Phædra was holding a prayer-meeting in her cabin.

There were about twenty negroes, both men and women, present.

Among them was the old preacher, Elisha, who led the devotions.

Fannie was also present, with her child. And the look of wild anxiety
that occasionally varied the heart-broken expression of her face seemed
now fixed; her usually patient, suffering countenance was absolutely
haggard with terror, and strong shudders shook her frame.

Phædra watched her with great uneasiness.

Meantime the meeting went on in its services, and they sang, prayed and
exhorted in turn. It was not what is technically called a "good"
meeting. Few seemed to enjoy the privilege of prayer, or to possess the
gift of exhortation. The very singing was tame and lifeless. There
seemed to be some spell of heaviness cast over all. At last, toward the
close of the evening, an aged brother arose, and began in a strain of
such wild eloquence, as deep, earnest, fervid emotions confer upon
untutored minds, to exhort his brethren and sisters of the church upon
the subject of their apathy and lukewarmness. I can do no justice to
that wild, eyrie style of oratory. It impressed, affected and strongly
excited his hearers. He concluded with _outre_ expressions and
gesticulations:

"And why, my brethren, is this freezing spell of spiritual cold cast
over us? Why can we not pray, or exhort, or sing, or take sweet counsel
together? Why can we not love, or fear, or feel? Why will not the Spirit
of God come down to us? Why will not the Lord inspire and accept our
prayers? Is it because there is 'some accursed thing hidden' among us?
Is there an Achan in our camp? I charge you, brother, sister, whoever
you be, repent! speak! cast the foul sin from your soul!"

He was interrupted by a deep, hollow voice that proceeded from an
obscure corner, where a seeming old woman sat crouching, her form
enveloped in a long cloak, her head hidden in a deep sunbonnet.

"Yes! there is 'an accursed thing hidden' in your midst! and I am the
Achan in your camp!" And the figure arose, and the cloak fell, and the
bonnet was dropped, and the stranger stood revealed.

"Valentine! Valentine!" cried Fannie, in a voice of agony.

He crossed quickly through the astonished group, to the spot where she
cowered. He stooped and spoke to her a few earnest words, and sat her
down where she could drop her poor, young head upon the lap of the
trembling, sorrow-stricken Phædra, while he stood up and gazed upon the
crowd, who remained, stunned with consternation into silence.

Valentine was frightfully changed in the last eighteen months. His flesh
had wasted from his bones, until it left him almost a walking skeleton;
his skin had darkened, and his eyes had sunken, and concentrated their
fires until they burned like two imbedded stars; his voice was
cavernous. While the negroes present returned his gaze in silent awe, he
spoke:

"A price is on my head! the Governor, or the State, will purchase and
emancipate any man here who will deliver me up to death. It is written
that 'a murderer shall hang on a tree!' It is every man's duty to
deliver, if he can, a felon up to justice! It is every man's duty here
to procure, if he can, his own freedom! Therefore, it is doubly some
man's duty to take me into custody. I have determined to die for my
deed! Doubtless, I could go at any time, and surrender to the
authorities. But in that case I should not do the little good I am now
desirous of doing. I should not in dying procure some one of you his
freedom! Therefore, I wish that one of you take me in custody, and
attend me to M----. Come, choose! elect, or cast lots for him who is to
be the freeman. Brother Portiphar----"

Before Valentine could say another word the old preacher, Elisha, who
had been gradually getting over his astonishment, and, recovering his
self-possession climbed over stools and chairs and the crouching forms
of women and children, and made his way toward Valentine, whom he
embraced with his left arm, while he closed his lips by laying over them
his right hand.

"Hush, Brudder Walley, hush! You don't know what you'se a-sayin' of.
You'se a prophesyin' of de ole law 'stead o' de new gospel! 'Sides
which, would you temp' any brudder here to sin an' slave his 'mortal
soul, sake o' freein' of his poor, perishin' body? Hush, Brudder Walley,
an' let me prophesy. Bredren and sisters, is der a man or a woman in de
soun' o' my voice as 'ould 'cept his free papers on de terms as Brudder
Walley offers--at de price of a brudder's life an' a sister's happiness?
Which ob yer here 'ould buy his freedom wid the price ob Walley's blood,
and Phædra's and Fannie's tears? Would you, Brudder Portiphar? or you,
Sister Deely? or you? or you? No, not one ob you. Now, brudders an'
sisters, I'se got a proposition to make. Fust, bolt dat door, Brudder
Isaac, an' see to de fastenin' o' dat winder, Sister Hera; no knowin'
who'se 'bout. Now, let's speak low. An' what I want to propose is dis
yer: dat ebery brudder makes a pledge afore he leabes dis room to be
silent as to which has happen here dis night. Let Brudder Walley no more
be lef in de power an' temptations ob de enemy; let him feel hissef free
to 'tend our prayer-meetin's here in peace an' safety, for all as is
happened of to-night. Let us pray wid him, an' try to 'lieve his poor
soul ob its load o' sin an' sorrow!"

Elisha would have spoken longer, but here Portiphar arose, and said, in
effect, that he did not fully agree with Brother Elisha; that he doubted
whether they should be doing right to conceal Valentine, especially when
the conscience of the latter urged him to the expiation of his crime.

Elisha could scarcely wait for the other to finish his remarks before he
arose in a hurry, and said, in effect, if not in these words, and with
some vehemence also, that he was the last to make light of the guilt
that Valentine had brought upon his own soul, but that he also knew,
and no one else knew so well, the maddening provocation that had driven
him to his crime. That he prayed the sin might be washed away by
repentance and faith in the Redeemer; that, for this reason, he wished
Valentine to feel safe in coming among them, to share their prayers, and
hymns, and exhortations, and all their other means of grace; that,
undismayed and undistracted by the worldly sorrows of imprisonment,
trial and impending execution, he might have time to work out his
salvation! That therefore he should shield his sinful brother until they
could prove to him that the gallows was a means of grace, "which I don't
believe it is," concluded old Elisha, as he sat down in quiet triumph,
for he saw that every man and woman among the warm-hearted creatures
present coincided in sentiment with himself, and that Portiphar was put
down and silenced, if not convinced.

And Phædra and Fannie ventured once more to raise their drooping heads
and look about them. Alas, for their feeble hopes! Valentine, still
standing, and still agonized, waved his hand for silence and attention,
and then spoke.

He told them he had already repented, if that were the word to express
the horrible remorse of blood-guiltiness that had long preyed upon his
heart, and consumed his flesh and blood, and left him what they saw him.
But did they, he asked them, suppose that he had repented only since the
fatal deed? No, no! but for years and years before that catastrophe he
had suffered with that uncommitted crime. Did they think that the act
was premeditated, then? Yes, in one sense it was premeditated, although
entirely unintentional, and so abhorrent that he would have gladly died
to escape committing it. The deed was premeditated, inasmuch as it had
long loomed up before him, a black mountain[2] in his forward path of
life, from which it was impossible to turn aside; to which every breath
and every step drew him nearer and nearer. That the first time he caught
a glimpse of this awful phantom of his future was while he and Oswald
were still boys. He had been provoked and exasperated to frenzy by his
playmate, and, in his utter madness, had struck and tried to kill him.
The reaction from that fit of passion had been terrible. The next
occasion upon which arose darkly before him this inevitable doom was
when his master and himself were youths. One night he was driving Oswald
home. Both were intoxicated; they quarreled; his master threatened him
with the lash; he lost his reason and his very eyesight, and all his
senses, in a dark tempest and whirlwind of mad and blind fury, and
struck with all his strength to destroy. By Heaven's mercy, that blow
was not fatal. But the recovery of his own senses from that frenzy of
anger was more horrible than anything he had ever before experienced.
From that time he had never been able to exorcise the haunting presence
of that black phantom, standing waiting for him at the terminus of his
earthly path, from which he could not escape; to which every breath and
every step drew him nearer and nearer! From that time he had felt in
some baleful moment of extreme exasperation, some irresponsible moment
of mad and blind passion, he should strike a fatal blow. Yet he said he
agonized in soul to escape that black crime; he struggled to conquer his
angry passions; he sought the grace of God, and hoped that he had
possessed it; he swore off from alcohol, that stimulus might not be
added to his other excitements to anger--to the inevitable provocations
arising from his temperament, position and circumstances--provocations
that were constantly exasperating his soul to madness. For years, he
said, no eye but the Lord's had seen the desperate war his spirit had
waged with the powers of evil within and around him, and waged
successfully, until one trying season, when, in the utter prostration of
sorrow and despondency, he had been tempted to place again the maddening
glass to his lips--tempted by the sophistry that prescribed the moral
poison as a medicine; then he lost the habit, and at last the power of
self-control, and one fatal day, when amazed and bewildered with
exceeding sorrow, and stung to frenzy with the sense of wrong-suffering
and cruelty, he had struck the blow that laid his master dead before
him.

[Footnote 2: I use here the precise words of the unhappy man, as they
were repeated to me.]

"Heaven knows I was not thinking of doing it; in my deep sorrow of the
preceding days the phantom of my predestined crime was exorcised. I had
not even that to warn me; the hour was entirely unguarded. I struck in
self-defense. He had intercepted and knocked me down, to prevent me from
going to see my sick wife. Blind and giddy, and furious, I struggled to
my feet, and seized the first weapon that offered, a three-legged stool,
and struck with all my strength; but when I saw the leg crush through
his eye and brain, one lightning thought told me that he was killed, and
thenceforth all the world was against me, and I against the world; and
then waves of blood and clouds of fire seemed to roll up around me, and
rage in a horrible tempest; reason fled utterly, and I knew nothing more
until near midnight, when I came to myself upon the floor of Fannie's
room; and even then, in my vague remorse and horror of half-conscious
blood-guiltiness, I seemed to be some other thing than myself--perhaps
some lost soul in perdition! Brother Elisha, Heaven bless him, was
bending over me. It was to him I owed the preservation of my life. It
was by his counsel and assistance that I disguised myself in poor
Fannie's clothing, which fitted me well enough for the purpose. He even
crimped my hair and tied up my head in a woman's turban. And he found
and thrust Fannie's free papers in my bosom, and then led me off to his
own home. Well, in this disguise, and by keeping very close, I contrived
to elude the vigilance of the police, until a surer place of safety was
provided for me near this cabin. For eighteen months I have eluded the
police; but think you, my brothers and sisters, that, for one moment, I
have escaped the avenger of blood? No! no! After the crime he found me
even in the first moments of my waking consciousness; his clutch has
never been relaxed from my heart; it compresses now, even to
suffocation; the death that you would save me from I die every hour of
my life; I can bear it no longer; I must die once for all, and have done
with it; I should have resigned myself into the hands of the law, and,
in the final expiation, long since found rest, but for Fannie's grief
and terror. But now, even her tears and prayers must not hinder me; even
for her peace it is better I should give myself up to die, and have it
over, for now she lives in the midst of alarms; hereafter, when all is
over, she will at least have quiet."

"Quiet! yes, the quiet of death, for I never can outlive you, Valley!"
said Fannie, in a low tone of despair.

He laid his hand fondly on her bowed head, but without comment resumed
his discourse.

"I was about to surrender myself to the public authorities, when I
reflected that, by giving myself up to my brothers in the church, I
might confer the blessing of freedom upon some one among you, since that
was one of the rewards offered for my arrest. Here I am! Which of you
will make himself a free man to-night?"

He paused a moment, looking around upon the little assembly; and then
fixing his eyes upon a handsome, intelligent-looking, young man, to whom
the gift of freedom might well seem the most desirable of goods, he
said:

"Brother Joseph, will you take me into custody?"

"May the enemy of souls take me in custody, and never let me go, when I
do!" promptly replied young Joe.

"That's you, my boy! And may the same fate befall any one else who would
do the like!" exclaimed old Elisha, emphatically.

A murmur of approbation ran around the little assembly and revealed the
fact that the feelings of the majority were with the speakers.

"Brother Walley! you think yourself a very guilty man. But no one ever
craved freedom more than you did, and yet you know you would never o'
bought your freedom at the price o' any man's life, no matter how fur
forfeit his life might be! An' now, Brudder Walley, please don't think
us so much wus than yourself."

When the little assembly heard this, with one voice (and one exception)
they declared that they would die before they would betray Valentine.
And Elisha, to confirm their faith, went around with the Bible in his
hand, and administered to each an oath of fidelity and silence upon the
subject of Valentine and the transactions of that night.

But when he came to old Portiphar, the latter declared that he had a
scruple against taking an oath on the Evangelists, but readily gave his
promise to be secret.

Valentine, with grateful but troubled looks, regarded these proceedings,
until Phædra and Fannie, taking advantage of the popular sentiment, came
to him, and, one on each side, seized his hands, besought him, for their
sakes, not to cast away his slender chance of safety.

What was to be done? Love was almost irresistible, and life, perhaps,
even at the worst was sweet; he had come to the resolution to deliver
himself up to justice; but that could be done at any time; and for the
present it could be deferred. He embraced his mother and his wife, and
bade them rest quietly, as he would proceed no farther in the matter
now.

The meeting soon after broke up.

One by one the members of the little community took leave of Valentine,
promising to guard his secret, and remember him in their prayers.

After all the others had departed old Portiphar still lingered. And when
the room was quite clear, he called Valentine to the door and said:

"Brudder Valley, I'se a poor man, wid a fam'ly o' chillun, an' ef so be
you'se 'termin' on gibbin' o' yourself up I wouldn' min' walkin' far as
the squire's office wid you myself."

"Thank you, Portiphar; I will inform you when I need your services.
Good-night," replied the young man, shutting the door upon him.

Portiphar had not proceeded half a dozen steps on his way before he felt
himself seized by the shoulder, and he recognized as his assailant the
strapping negro, young Joe, who, holding him tightly, said:

"See here, Daddy Fox! I thought what you was up to, so I stopped to give
this 'vice! Ef Valley's took up, we shall all know who slipped the
bloodhounds on him, an' then some dark night somethin' will happen to
you so sudden you won't never know what hurt you! Tain't only me, but a
great many more is a-watchin' of you!"

And with this brief and pithy exordium Joe released Portiphar, or rather
spurned him forward, and went his own way. This threat put the old man
in a cold sweat of terror. He knew the strong fellow-feeling among his
own class; that, even in the dangerous number of twenty persons, it
would keep Valentine's secret; that he himself was suspected as a
traitor; that, if Valentine should now be arrested, his own life might
not be safe with those of the meeting who were not professing
Christians; and he resolved to guide himself accordingly.

Several weeks passed in safety to the wretched young man.

But, released from the awful solitude and silence of his own
heavily-burdened soul, free to come among a few of his fellow-creatures,
free to speak of the deep sorrow and remorse that consumed his heart,
among those who pitied and shrank not from him, who prayed for and with
him, Valentine's mind began to recover its healthy tone; he did not
cease to mourn his crime, but he mourned no longer as one without hope;
he was again received into the little brotherhood of the church, the
simple ceremony being performed in the lone cabin; again he became the
man of fervent prayer and eloquent exhortation; and powerful, far more
powerful, was he now, through his terrible experiences and profound
repentance, than ever he had been.

To his confidant brother, Elisha, he was accustomed to say:

"I know I shall not finally escape the earthly punishment of my crime. I
know that sooner or later it must come; nor do I wish to avoid it; yet
will I do nothing to hasten its arrival; but when it shall come, I will
accept it."

To which Elisha would reply: "Our lives are in the hands of the Lord,"
or words to that purpose.

Weeks grew into months, spring ripened into summer, and summer waned
into autumn, and still Valentine lived unmolested.

At length, however, near the last of September, a rumor got afloat that
Valentine, the murderer of Mr. Waring, was concealed somewhere in the
neighborhood of his late master's residence. How this report first got
in circulation no one seemed to be able to tell; though how the secret,
known to twenty people, had been guarded so long may be more of a
subject for conjecture to many minds. Be that as it may, the peace of
the unhappy little family was gone forever. Phædra's lonely cabin in the
pine barrens and Fannie's humble home in the city were subject to sudden
invasions and searchings by day and by night. Their weekly
prayer-meetings were surprised and broken up. But no trace of Valentine
could be discovered; as unexpectedly as he had appeared, so suddenly had
he again disappeared. The earth seemed to have swallowed him.

But this could not last forever; and upon the third of October Valentine
was arrested under the following suspicious circumstances:

A police officer, stationed in concealment behind a hedge of Spanish
daggers that bordered a lane crossing the highway at right angles, and
running midway between the pine ridge and cypress swamp, saw what seemed
a young negro woman coming down the lane. She was poorly and plainly
clothed, and wore a long sunbonnet. There was nothing whatever in her
manner or appearance to attract attention. Yet this police officer
watched her closely. Presently, coming up the lane from an opposite
direction, appeared the figure of an old negro. The policeman favored
him also with a share of notice. Meeting the seeming woman, the old man
laughed, held out his hand, and exclaimed, in a clear voice:

"Ha! Brudder Walley! Good-morning! Walking out to take a little air,
eh?"

"Hush! for Heaven's sake, don't speak so loud or call me by name. Yes,
I have stolen forth for a breath of fresh air."

"Glad to hear it. Which way is you walking, Brudder Walley?" inquired
the other, raising his voice.

"For the Lord's sake, I beg you will not call me by my name, or speak so
loud!"

"No danger at all, Brudder Walley; no one in sight!" exclaimed the old
man, louder than ever. "Which way did you say you wer' goin', Brudder
Walley?"

"I am going home."

"Well, Brudder Walley, let me go long wid you dis time. I'd like to see
Sister Phædra," pleaded the old negro.

"Come along, then; but be careful."

They walked up the lane together, and then struck into the pines. The
policeman followed them, and, himself unseen, keeping them in sight,
traced them into the cabin of Phædra.

Then having, as it were, pointed his game, he ran back as fast as
possible, sprang over the hedge, ran down the lane, crossed the highway,
sprang over a second hedge dividing the road from Major Hewitt's
plantation, hastened up to that gentleman's house, gave the alarm,
procured the assistance of the overseer and the gardener, both Irishmen,
and with this reinforcement hastened back to the scene of action.

They found Phædra's cabin quiet enough. To the knock of the policeman
the old woman's voice responded, "Come in."

They entered, and found no one within except Phædra and the old negro
preacher, Portiphar--no sign of Valentine. As the cabin contained but
one room, with but one door and window, and no loft or outbuildings, the
premises were easily searched. The little room was also very scantily
furnished; a rag carpet concealed the rough floor, a rude bed stood in
one corner, a cupboard in another, an oak chest in a third, a pine table
in the fourth; a couple of chairs, a few stools, etc., completed the
appointments. The cupboard was opened, the big chest ransacked, the bed
and bedstead pulled to pieces, the chimney inspected, but no trace of
the fugitive could be found.

Phædra was questioned; but she sadly shook her head and remained dumb.

The old negro preacher was examined, but he replied evasively, that he
had just come, and knew nothing about it, while at the same time he kept
his eyes strangely fixed upon the corner of the room occupied by
Phædra's bed.

Yet, the policeman had pulled that bed to pieces and found nothing, and
now did not know what to make of Portiphar's pertinacious gaze. At last
a bright idea struck him. He took the poker and began sounding the
floor. He went on sounding foot by foot until he approached the bed.
Turning then, he saw Phædra's face haggard with the most frightful
expression of terror and anxiety. Dragging the bedstead away by main
force he began to sound the corner. The floor returned a hollow echo; he
was satisfied.

It was but the work of a moment to turn up the carpet, to lift up a
loose plank and to discover the mouth of the excavation below.

He knelt upon his knees and peered down into the cavern; the mouth only
opened in the corner of Phædra's cabin; the cavern itself extended under
and beneath the house. He peered down into the darkness for a few
moments, and then called, in a not unkindly voice:

"Valentine, my poor fellow, you may as well come out; the game is up
with you!"

A moment passed, and then Valentine, indeed, appeared above the opening.

"Give me time to change my dress, Mr. Pomfret," he said, for he was
still in his woman's gown.

This was granted. The change was soon effected, and he came forth and
gave himself up, only saying, as they took him away:

"Mother, tell my friends that the traitor at your side betrayed me to
death!" And he regretted these words as soon as they were spoken.

Phædra had not heard them; she seemed praying--she had really fainted.



CHAPTER IX.

THE TRIAL.

      You few that love me,
    And dare be bold to weep for such as I--
    My gentle friends and fellows, whom to leave
    Is only bitter to me, only dying--
    Go with me, like good angels, to mine end,
    And when the long divorce of death falls on me,
    Make of your prayers one most sweet sacrifice,
    And lift my soul to heaven.--SHAKESPEARE.


The news of the arrest of Valentine spread rapidly over the city and
surrounding country, creating everywhere an intense excitement, and
reviving all the deep interest that had been felt two years before, at
the epoch of the crime.

This excitement prevailed all around Fannie, yet she knew nothing of it,
or at least of its cause. There was no one found willing to carry this
sorrowful intelligence to her, whom it most concerned; and she remained
in total ignorance of the arrest of her husband until the next day,
which being Saturday, she was looking forward, as usual, to an early
closing of the shop, and a walk out into the country, to spend the night
and the Sabbath with her old mother, and to comfort Valentine, when,
unexpectedly, poor Phædra, recovered in some degree from the shock she
had received, and accompanied by Elisha, arrived at her daughter's
humble little home.

With all possible consideration and gentleness the old negro preacher
broke the intelligence of Valentine's imprisonment to Fannie.

But, alas! if all fateful antecedents had not led her to anticipate this
consequence, what further possible preparation could fit her to receive
such intelligence? And, indeed, in any event, what preparation would
soften such calamity?

Poor Fannie's frame was very delicate, and her heart by many blows had
become physically feeble, and was, at best, a very imperfect instrument
of her will. Had it not been so, the poor girl might have better borne
up; as it was, she succumbed to the new blow, and a night of dangerous
illness followed.

Yet, the next morning Fannie insisted on leaving her bed, and though
apparently more dead than alive, and having to be supported between
Phædra and old Elisha, she went to the prison to see Valentine.

All prisons are, of course, wretched places; but the jail of M---- was
one of the most wretched of its kind. Comparatively small, shamefully
overcrowded, close, ill-ventilated and pestilential, it insured nothing
but the safe custody of the bodies of its miserable inmates. Evidently
reform had not even looked upon its outer walls, far less opened one of
its doors or windows.

For greater security Valentine had been confined in the condemned cell.
A slight irregularity, but one of which no one had the right to
complain. Although, under circumstances less tragic it must have seemed
ludicrous to associate the graceful and almost girlish delicacy of poor
Valentine's figure with danger to the security of bolts and bars and
prison walls.

Howbeit, in the condemned cell Valentine was placed, and there Fannie
and her companions found him.

Valentine received them with great composure, that was only slightly
disturbed when Fannie, upon first seeing him, threw herself, with a cry
of passionate sorrow, upon his bosom.

When the turnkey had left the cell, and locked them all in together,
Valentine addressed himself to soothing Fannie. And after a while,
favored by the exhaustion that followed her vehement emotion, he
succeeded in quieting her.

After a little conversation, the old preacher invited all to join him in
prayer, and, kneeling down, offered up a fervent petition for the divine
mercy on the prisoner. Through the whole of the interview, all were
impressed by the perfect composure and cheerfulness of Valentine. He
seemed like a man who had cast a great weight from his breast, or in
some other way had been relieved from a heavy burden. Though his manner
was perfectly free from any charge of reprehensible levity, there was
certainly an elasticity of spirit in all he said or did, that was as
strange as it was entirely sincere and unaffected. Was this because he
felt that he had nothing further to hope or fear, and trouble had ceased
with uncertainty? Whatever was the cause, his mood happily influenced
others, and they grew quiet and cheerful in his company.

"Dearest friends," Valentine said, afterward, to Elisha, "these things
that have occurred were obliged to happen; no power on earth could have
prevented them; and the power of Heaven never intervenes to perform
miracles, or to avert evil at the expense of moral free agency. I am
not a predestinarian, Brother Elisha, but I know that certain causes
must produce certain effects, as surely as given figures produce known
results. As I told you before, I always knew that this was to be my
fate. From the first moment that I was provoked to strike Oswald Waring,
I have seen this crime and this fate before me, like a horrible cloud. I
would try to close my eyes to it--try to forget it. In vain--for even in
my brightest moments it would fall suddenly like a funeral pall around
me, blackening all the light of life. When poor Oswald Waring lay dead
before me, I did not realize the crime more intensely than I had by
presentiment a hundred times before. And when I shall stand, as I shall
very soon do, upon the scaffold's fatal drop, with the cord around my
neck, and the cap that is about to shut out the last glimpse of this
world's sunshine from my eyes, descending over my face--even in that
supreme moment, I know I cannot feel the situation more acutely than I
have done prophetically a thousand times before!

"This prophetic feeling was the secret horror of my whole life. I dared
not confide it to any one; therefore, it preyed upon my spirits, driving
me at times almost to insanity. Yet, friends, there was nothing occult
in this presentiment. It was but the swift and sure inference of certain
effects from certain causes. It was rather a helpless foresight, than
second sight. Well, the worst has come! I am calmer and happier now than
I have been for many long, sad years. This fate is not nearly so
horrible in reality as it seemed in anticipation. The only earthly
trouble that I have is in the thought of my little family. Comfort them,
Brother Elisha! Help them to bring all the power of religion to their
support. Time and religion cures the worst of sorrows; it will cure
theirs. Only, in the meantime--in the hour of their greatest trial, and
the first dark days that follow it--watch over them, sustain and comfort
them, and lift up their hands to God, Elisha."

"I will--I will, indeed, Brudder Walley," promised the old preacher.

Valentine was not left alone in his trials. The friends of the Methodist
church flocked around, and one or another was always with him. The
clergymen of every denomination took a great interest in his situation
and character. And the better Valentine was known, the deeper this
interest grew. In advance of his trial, the press took up his case, and
the papers were filled with accounts of visits that this or that
gentleman had made him; conversations that one or another clergyman had
held with him in his cell; and with descriptions of his good looks,
graceful manners, intelligence, knowledge, conversational powers and
eloquence--all "so remarkable in one of his race and station." It would
seem, indeed, as if, unhappily, the good points of the unhappy young man
had never been known or suspected, until crime had brought him
prominently before the public. If there was anything to be regretted in
the great sympathy that was felt for him, it was that the sympathizers
kept up too much fuss around him for the good of one of his excitable
temperament, and thus prevented the self-recollection and sobriety that
befited the solemnity of his situation. Through the kindness of these
friends, the best counsel that could be prevailed upon to take up his
hopeless cause was retained, to defend Valentine in the approaching
trial.

There was one affecting circumstance that occurred just before the
sitting of the criminal court. Mrs. Waring had been subpoenaed to attend
as a witness for the prosecution. She came up from Louisiana; and, soon
after her arrival in the city, she sought out the poor, little, obscure
wife of the prisoner, and gave her what comfort she could
impart--telling her, that though she was the principal witness, her
testimony would not bear hard upon Valentine, whom she felt persuaded
was mad, and unconscious of his acts at the moment she witnessed them.
And that she hoped his life might yet be spared, for she felt convinced
that capital punishment was in no case a corrector or a preventor of
crime. And that, if the trial should terminate unfavorably, she would
petition the governor for a commutation of the sentence. And that her
petition, under the circumstances, would be the most powerful that could
be presented. These and other merciful promises and reviving hopes did
the gentle-hearted widow infuse into the poor girl's sinking heart.

And, oh! how Fannie knelt, and covered the lady's hands with loving
kisses, and bathed them with grateful tears. And Mrs. Waring, when she
left her, went directly to the most eminent lawyer in the city--one who
had indignantly repulsed a clergyman who wished to retain him for the
prisoner--and, after telling him very much what she had told Fannie
relative to the character of her own testimony, succeeded in retaining
him to defend Valentine; for this gentleman seemed to think that the
favorable opinion and testimony of Mrs. Waring would make a very great
difference in the respectability, popularity and security of the cause
that he no longer hesitated to embrace.

Of course, there was much diversity of opinion in regard to Mrs.
Waring's course. All wondered at her, many censured her, while a few saw
in her conduct the perfection of Christian charity. But, like all who
have thought and suffered much, and profited by such experience, Mrs.
Waring was indifferent to any earthly judgment outside the sphere of her
own affections; and so, ignorant and regardless of popular praise or
censure, the lady went calmly on her merciful course.

The day of the sitting of the court drew near, when, one morning, a
bustle in the gallery leading to Valentine's cell attracted the
attention of the latter, and he had just concluded that the officials
were bringing in a new prisoner, when the noisy group paused before his
own door, unlocked it, and introduced Governor, Major Hewitt's big
negro. With a few parting words, the turnkey and the constable left him,
went out, and locked the door.

Then, for the first time, Valentine recovered from his surprise, and
spoke to the newcomer.

But Governor, standing bolt upright until his tall figure and large head
nearly reached the low ceiling, looked the image of stupor, and answered
never a word.

Valentine knew, of course, that he was in desperate trouble, or he would
not be in that cell. Kindly taking his hand, he led him to the bed, and
made him sit down upon it. He was as docile as the gentlest child,
though seemingly more stupid than any brute. And it was hours before he
recovered sufficiently to tell Valentine the cause of his arrest.

The story gathered from his thick and incoherent talk was this: He
himself was a huge, black, unsightly negro, painfully conscious of his
personal defects. He was married to Milly, a pretty mulatto woman, whom
he loved with the idolatrous affection that often distinguishes his
race, and who had loved him in return, for the wealth of goodness under
his rude exterior.

And he had been very happy with his wife and two little girls, until the
new overseer came.

This person was a young, unmarried man, and his name was Moriarty. He
took a fancy to Milly; used to stop every day at the door of her cabin,
to ask for a drink of water; then, after a while, he got into the habit
of going into her cabin to sit down and rest, and was never in a hurry
to go away.

If there was any work to be done in the overseer's house, Milly was
always sent for to do it, and always detained a long time. Governor was
dispatched to labor upon the most remote part of the plantation; and
whenever a messenger was required to go upon a distant errand, Governor
was selected.

Poor fellow! he was not acute enough to be suspicious, or bad enough to
be jealous. On the contrary, he was very good-natured, stupid and
confiding. And he might have gone on forever, without suspecting that
there was anything wrong, had not Milly, upon every Sunday and holiday,
appeared in finery better than any of her companions could sport, and so
excited their envy, quickened their perceptions and stimulated their
tongues.

And rudely enough were the poor husband's eyes opened, and from that
time no more wretched man than Governor lived upon this earth. He
expostulated with Milly, who tearfully confessed to receiving presents
from the new overseer, and protested her innocence of everything but
their acceptance. And it is probable that up to this time, and for a
long time after, Milly, who sincerely loved the ugly, but good-hearted
father of her children, was innocent of everything except vanity; and
could she have been delivered from the power of the tempter, would have
remained blameless.

But there was no such deliverance for her. And now commenced the most
troubled life that could be imagined for the husband. He felt that Milly
still loved him with undiminished fidelity, but he knew, also, the power
of temptation and of example. How many virtuous women were there on that
or any other plantation? Why, virtue was not taught them--was not
expected of them; and if they were born with the instinct, it was soon
lost among a class where licentiousness was the rule and integrity the
exception. The generality of this misfortune among his fellow-slaves did
not make it any the less painful to this poor man to see his beloved
Milly tempted from his bosom.

And he saw, with increasing anguish, that Milly, notwithstanding her
penitence and tearful declaration that she would be faithful to Governor
forever and forever, could not prevent the daily calls of the overseer
at her cabin, and dared not disobey his commands, when he summoned her
to work in his house.

Governor was still and ever kept at work upon the most distant parts of
the plantation, and the overseer still and ever appropriated as much as
he possibly could of Milly's time and services. There was no help for
them.

Major Hewitt, in many respects a kind master, had, for his peace, long
closed his ears to complaints of the slaves against their overseer, and
Governor knew full well that his master would hear not one word against
Mr. Moriarty.

Why lengthen a sad story? All the women of the plantation knew that,
sooner or later, Milly would have no right to look down from her pride
of integrity upon them. Yet it was some time--more than a year--before
she was numbered among the frail ones.

And then, as guilt is so much more circumspect than innocence, poor
Governor was deceived into a fool's paradise of confiding love, and led
to believe that the overseer had entirely abandoned the persecution of
Milly.

This blind confidence lasted until one day, when one of those sudden
little breaks of water, so small that its surface might be covered with
two hands, yet, withal, the herald of that terror of the Gulf planters,
a devastating "crevasse," appeared in the midst of a valuable field,
and it became necessary to arrest its progress at once.

A party of negroes was dispatched to the spot, and Governor was sent
with them. In the course of a few hours, the crevasse had made dangerous
progress, and they had to work until very late at night. But it was
early when the overseer left them.

It was between eleven and twelve o'clock when a young negro from the
quarters came down to the works, and, taking Governor aside, whispered
something in his ear.

Down went the man's shovel, and away he sprang, and--all on fire with
rage and jealousy--a man no longer, but an unreasoning brute--ran and
leaped, bounding over everything that came in his way, and taking a
bee-line to his cabin, the door of which he burst open.

A moment and the overseer lay dead, slain by the hand of the injured
husband.

Governor did not hurt a hair of Milly's head; even in his mad and blind
rage he had spared her, still so beloved. Neither did he attempt to save
himself by flight, but lay moaning and groaning upon the cabin floor
until he was taken into custody.

This was the substance of the story related to Valentine.

"I'se sorry I killed him, Brudder Walley! dough I hardly knowed what I
was a doin' of. I'se sorry, dough it was all so tryin' from fuss to
las'. Yes! I is berry sorry, dough it ain't no use to say it, 'cause I
knows how, ef it wur to do ober agin', I should be sure to do it ober
agin'! so, what's de use o' pentin'?"

Valentine pressed his hand in silence, scarcely knowing what to reply
just then, sadly thinking of the many thousands whose positions were
just as false, as trying, as maddening, as his own and Governor's had
been.

About noon that day, Major Hewitt came into the cell to see his slave.
The Major was very much overcome at the sight of Governor, and spoke
with great feeling.

"Oh, Governor! my heart bleeds for you, and for what you have done, my
poor fellow! Oh! Governor, why, why did you take your revenge in your
own hands, in this horrible manner? Why did you not, long ago, complain
to me? I would have seen you righted."

"Ah, Marse Major, you never would hear no 'plaints we-dem made against
the oberseer. It's been tried often, and you never would!"

"Yes, but my poor fellow! in such a case I would have listened to your
complaint. I would have protected your family peace at every cost. If
necessary, I would have discharged Moriarty. Yours was an exceptional
case, and I would have attended to it."

"Ah, Marse Major, honey! I dessay you think you would now, as it has
come to dis yer! But you wouldn't o' done it, Marse Major, honey! 'deed
you wouldn't, 'cause you see it has been tried afore, an' you never
would listen to nothin' 't all 'bout de oberseer. It's on'y 'cause it's
come to dis yer you thinks different," said Governor, sadly, but
respectfully, and even affectionately.

Major Hewitt did not reply; perhaps he felt that the slave had spoken
the truth, for he looked extremely distressed, and told him that he
would engage the best counsel to defend him; that no cost should be
spared, even to the half of his estate, to save him.

And Major Hewitt kept his word, and hastened to secure the best legal
aid to be had for Governor.

The day of the trial was at hand. It was known that two were to be tried
for similar offenses. But every one was interested in Valentine, and no
one, except his master, seemed to care one farthing for Governor. Those
who saw him said he was "an ill-looking fellow," and there left the
subject.

Valentine was the first arraigned. When his case was fully investigated,
it was obvious to all minds that on the fatal encounter in which Mr.
Waring fell, Valentine had struck only in self-defense--only after his
own blood had been drawn, and he had been once felled to the floor. But
then the blow had been fatal. And though he was well and ably defended,
yet the verdict rendered against the prisoner was "Willful Murder."
Valentine heard the verdict, and afterward received his sentence
quietly, as a matter of course. At its conclusion, he bowed gravely, and
was conducted from the court-room.



CHAPTER X.

THE SCAFFOLD.

    Oh! judge none lost, but wait and see,
      With hopeful pity, not disdain;
    The depth of the abyss may be
      The measure of the height of pain.--HOUSEHOLD WORDS.


When Valentine's little family circle received information of the
verdict that laid low their last hopes, Phædra met the misfortune with
that sad resignation which we often see in those whom either time or
sorrow has aged, and which we are apt to think owes its calmness as much
to the exhausted energies of the sufferer as to any higher cause. Fannie
heard the issue of the trial with wild grief, and a day and night of
illness intervened before she could go and see the condemned.

The conviction of Valentine was immediately followed by the arraignment
of Governor. The trial of the latter was even shorter than that of the
former had been. He was ably defended by the counsel employed by his
master; but nothing could have saved him. And the jury, without leaving
their seats, brought in their verdict of "Guilty." His sentence followed
immediately. It was, however, pitiable to observe that the poor wretch
did not understand one-half of what had been done or said during the
whole course of his trial. And when he was conducted back to the prison,
and locked in with Valentine, he said to the latter:

"Well, Walley, ole marse up dere on de bench put a black nightcap on his
head, an' said somethin' 'r other 'bout hangin'; but I reckon he only
did it to scare me, 'cause I saw by his face how his heart was a
softening all de time."

After his condemnation to death, Valentine's friends were more devoted
to him than ever. Day and night, one or more of the brethren of the
church was with him. And one sister, especially, who was known by the
name of "Sister Dely," divided her attentions between him and his little
family, who equally, or more, needed comfort. Again the papers were
filled with descriptions of this "extraordinary boy," as Valentine was
called. Interviews held with him by clergymen were reported at length.
His likeness was taken in prison, and wood-cutted in a pamphlet report
of his trial. In a word, the unhappy young man became for a while a
local notoriety. And this was ascribable, not to the nature of the
catastrophe, which, unfortunately, was but too common in that section of
country, but to the individuality and character of the condemned.

And another circumstance connected with this tragedy was so strange that
I must not omit to record it. A rumor got out that old Portiphar had
betrayed Valentine into the hands of the law, and that a number of
negroes in secret meeting had sworn the death of the traitor whenever
and wherever either one of them could take him. This matter was
carefully investigated by those most interested; but though they could
obtain no sort of satisfactory information, yet their suspicions,
instead of being dissipated, were so strongly confirmed, that it was
deemed advisable for the officers who had arrested Valentine to come out
under oath with the declaration that Portiphar had not by the remotest
hint put them upon the track, but that the discovery of the fugitive
under the disguise of female apparel had been entirely accidental.

This declaration, duly sworn to and attested, was embodied in a short
address to be read to the negroes, printed on handbills, and posted and
distributed all over the city and surrounding country. And for some
little time this was supposed to be quite sufficient to allay excitement
and insure security. But in a day or two it became evident, in some way,
that the negroes did not believe the sworn statement of the police
officers. And as it was thought best to get rid of unsafe property,
Portiphar, who had lurked in concealment for some weeks, was sold by his
master to a New Orleans trader, and the neighborhood breathed freely
again.

The petition to the Executive for the pardon of Valentine, got up under
the auspices of Oswald Waring's widow, failed of success, as every one
had predicted that it must. And when this last little glimmering light
of earthly hope went down, Valentine sedulously addressed himself to
preparation for eternity.

It was piteous to observe Governor at this time. Any one, to have seen
him, must have perceived at once that he was no subject for capital
punishment. But no one, except his master and Valentine, was the least
interested in him. Alas! poor wretch, he was not even interested in
himself! When the refusal of the Executive to pardon Valentine had been
received, it was affecting to see the efforts of Governor to console
what he supposed to be the disappointment of his fellow-prisoner.

"Don't you mind, Walley! Dey's only doin' dis to scare we! Sho! dey's no
more gwine to hang we, nor dey's gwine to heave so much money in de
fire! Sho! we's too walable. I heern de gemmen all say what fine,
walable men we was--'specially me! Sho! dere's muscle for you!" said
Governor, drawing himself up, jerking forward both arms with a strong
impetus, and then clapping his hands upon his nether limbs.

"Sho! You think dey's gwine to let all dat here go to loss? Ef it were
only whippin' now, dey might do it! but making all dis here muscle dead?
Sho! what de use o' dead nigger? What good dat do? Sho!"

And, with this strong expletive of contempt, Governor sat down. Strange
and sad as was the fact, this poor, stupid creature was thoroughly
persuaded that his own and Valentine's life were perfectly safe. He knew
that, living, he himself was worth at least twelve or fifteen hundred
dollars, for he had more than once heard himself so appraised; and that,
dead, he was worth just so much less than nothing as the cost of his
burial would be. And from these facts he drew the inference that he was
far too valuable to be executed. And he persisted in looking upon the
whole train of events, comprising his arrest, imprisonment, trial and
condemnation, with all the pageantry of court-room, judges, lawyers,
juries and officers, only as a solemn show, got up to frighten him and
his fellow prisoner. Nothing could disabuse him of this illusion; for,
if once any idea got fixed in his poor, thick head, it was just
impossible to dislodge it. In vain Valentine endeavored to enlighten him
as to his true position; Governor would reply, with a compassionate
look:

"Oh, sho! you's scared, Walley! you's scared! Tell me! I knows better!
Dey's not such fools as to hang we! ca'se what would be de use, you
know! Sho!"

The Methodist preacher exhorted and prayed with Governor, to as little
purpose. He could not be made to believe in the fact of his
fast-approaching death.

"Oh, sho, Walley! I doesn't say nuffin' 't all afore dem, 'cause you see
'taint right to give de back answer to de ministers; but dey's league
'long o' de oders, Walley! Dey's league 'long o' de oders. Can't scare
dis chile wid no sich! Tell you, Walley, dead nigger ain't no use, but
dead expense! So what de use o' hanging of him? Sho!"

This interjection usually finished the argument.

The day of execution approached. Valentine divided his time between
preparation for death, interviews with his family and friends, and the
composition of an address that he wished to deliver upon the scaffold.
This address embodied a great portion of Valentine's life--experiences,
as they are already known to the reader. When it was finished in
manuscript, it was submitted to the perusal of the attendant clergymen.
Some among them warmly approved the address, and declared it to be the
most eloquent appeal they had ever met. Others reserved their opinion
for the time, and afterward asserted that it was the most powerful
sermon that they had ever seen or heard.

The day before the execution came. And now I must inform you that it is
to "Sister Dely" I am indebted for the report of the scenes that
occurred in her presence in the condemned cell that day. Dely had
obtained leave from her mistress, Mrs. Hewitt, to go to the prison, to
take leave of her Valentine.

It was about ten o'clock, on Thursday, the 23d of December, when she
reached the city. All the town was preparing for Christmas. When she
entered the condemned cell, she found no one there except the two
prisoners. There were two cot bedsteads at opposite sides of the cell,
and one small iron stove against the wall, between the beds, and
directly opposite the door by which she entered.

On her right hand, as she came in, sat Governor upon his cot, watching,
with lazy interest, the employment of his fellow-prisoner, which, in
sooth, was strange enough for one of his position.

Valentine was standing at the little table, and engaged in ironing out a
cravat, while on the cot near him lay spread out a shirt just ironed, a
satin vest, newly pressed, and a full suit of black broadcloth, well
brushed.

And Dely knew at a glance that the poor fellow, true to his habits of
neatness to the last, was preparing to present a proper appearance upon
the scaffold.

"Was there no one to do that for you, Valentine?" said Dely, after her
first greeting.

"No, child, there was not. Mother and poor Fannie are in too much
trouble to think of such a thing."

"I would have done it for you, Valentine."

"No matter, child; it is done now," said the young man, laying the
folded cravat upon the cot, and then turning around and sitting down by
the side of Dely.

"I wish, Delia, that you would try to open the eyes of Governor to the
realities of his position. Poor fellow! he is fully persuaded that
to-morrow, instead of being executed, we shall be set at liberty."

Delia turned her eyes in wonder toward Governor, who sat upon the side
of his cot, smiling and shaking his head in the most incredulous manner.
Delia shrank from the task that Valentine would have imposed upon her,
and only said:

"We will pray for him, Brother Valentine. Governor, won't you kneel down
with us, and pray for yourself?"

Governor said that, as praying could not do anybody any harm, he
reckoned he would, to please Dely, though he did not see the use of it.

They all knelt, and this humble handmaid of the Lord, who was peculiarly
gifted in prayer, offered up a fervent petition in behalf of the
prisoners, and especially for Governor.

They had just risen from their knees, when the door of the cell was
opened, and the jailer entered, accompanied by another official, who
nodded to the inmates, and then, beckoning to Valentine, requested him
to step forward.

Valentine obeyed, and the man, drawing a measuring-line from his pocket,
told him to stand up straight. Valentine drew himself up with as much
composure as ever he had shown when, in his earlier days, he was getting
himself fitted for a Sunday suit of clothes. The operator proceeded to
measure his subject across the shoulders. And when this was done, he
stopped, drew a paper and pencil from his pocket, and, leaning on
Valentine's late ironing table, put down some figures. Then he took the
line again, and carefully measured him from the crown of his head to the
heels of his shoes, and made a second note.

Then telling Valentine that he was done with him, he beckoned to
Governor, who had been looking on with open-mouthed amazement, and who
now came forward, and braced himself up with the utmost alacrity and
cheerfulness. Indeed, he was smiling from ear to ear, as he exclaimed,
triumphantly:

"Tell you all so! We ain't had no winter clothes guv us yet, and dey's
done sent de tailor to fit us!"

The operator with the line, on hearing this, dropped his measure, and,
with emotions divided between astonishment and compassion, gazed at the
poor wretch, who remained smiling in delight. No one else spoke, and,
after a moment, the official picked up his line and resumed his work.

"Wen'll de clothes be ready for me?" inquired Governor, with great
interest.

"I am not taking your size for clothes," answered the operator, gravely.

"No! What den?" inquired Governor, in astonishment, but without the
least suspicion of the truth.

"Don't you know?"

"No! I doesn't! What is it?"

"Well, you know, at least, that you are to die to-morrow. And I am
measuring you for your coffin."

Governor made no reply, neither did the smile pass at once from his
face. He no longer refused to believe in his approaching fate, but the
idea was very slow in penetrating his brain.

The carpenter, having now completed his errand, left the cell in company
with the turnkey. Governor went and resumed his seat upon the side of
his cot, and remained perfectly silent, only not as cheerful as he had
been, and occasionally putting up his hand and rubbing his head, and
seeming to ponder. At last he said, dubiously, however:

"Brother Walley, honey, I'se beginnin' to be 'fraid, arter all, dat dey
tends for to hang us, sure 'nough! Dey wouldn't carry de nonsense dis
far 'out dey did, would dey? 'Sides which, dey wouldn't go to de 'xpense
o' coffins, would dey?"

"No, Governor," said Valentine, going over and sitting down beside him,
and taking his hand and continuing: "Governor, by this hour to-morrow
you and I will be over all our earthly troubles."

Slowly, slowly the truth was making its way to Governor's consciousness.
His face clouded over, but he seemed to grow more stupid every instant.
To all Valentine's speeches he answered never one word, not seeming to
hear or to understand them.

Dely could not bear this. Bursting into tears, she went and dropped upon
her knees before Governor, and took his two hands in hers, and wept over
them, and begged and prayed him, for his soul's sake, to listen to her
words. Governor was only a recent acquaintance; he was not, as Valentine
was, an old friend; yet it almost broke her gentle heart to see him
thus--so stolid, so unconscious, so insensible.

They were interrupted again, this time by a clergyman and one other
gentleman, a member of the church.

Dely was now obliged to return home. She took an affectionate leave of
Valentine and of Governor, telling them that she should pray for them
constantly, and that she should be on her knees, praying for them, in
their last hour of trial.

The minister found Valentine well prepared to meet his doom. But when he
turned his attention to the other condemned man, he found, to his
dismay, that he could not make the slightest impression upon Governor.
The unhappy creature no longer doubted what his doom would be; but, as I
said before, the truth very slowly entered his mind; and, alas! as it
entered it seemed to press him down, and down, into deeper and more
hopeless apathy, until at last he sat there silent, senseless, crushed.
They could not pray with him; they could only pray for him.

The next day, Christmas Eve, dawned brightly for almost all the
world--darkly enough for the condemned.

An early hour of the morning had been appointed for the farewell
interview between the prisoners and their families. Such partings are
always distressing beyond conception, and I shrink from the pain of
saying much about them.

Governor had but few friends, his fellow-slaves, who came over very
early in the morning to take leave of him, and who, finding him so
apathetic, went away comforted, with the belief "that Governor did not
seem to mind it."

His miserable wife came alone, to drop weeping at his feet, and implore
his dying forgiveness for the part she had had in bringing him to this
awful pass.

Governor, partially aroused from his torpor, awoke sufficiently to put
his arm around her shoulders, and say:

"Don't cry, chile; I doesn't bear you no malice. You couldn't help it,
chile, no more 'an I could; things was too much for us bofe. Don't cry;
I loves you same as ever."

This gentleness almost broke the penitent woman's heart, and she went
away weeping bitterly, wringing her hands and wishing most sincerely it
were possible for her, the most guilty one, to die in her husband's
stead. After this visit Governor sank into a still deeper stupor of
despair, from which nothing had power to arouse him.

Directly after this followed the last interview between Valentine and
his little family.

Phædra and Fannie came in, accompanied by old Elisha, who carried little
Coralie in his arms. I cannot describe the anguish of this parting.

Phædra perhaps bore it best of all, with a strange hopeless fortitude
that reminded one of Governor's stolidity, only saying that though life
was sorrowful even at its happiest, it was, thank Heaven! short at its
longest; and that she should not be many days behind her son.

But Fannie was wild with sorrow, and utterly inconsolable. When the
moment of final separation arrived, she fainted, and was borne from the
cell, as one dead, in the arms of the old preacher. Phædra followed,
leading little Coralie.

The execution was to be a public one. And the authorities published a
card in the daily papers, formally inviting the masters of the city and
the surrounding country to give their slaves a holiday upon this day, to
enable the latter to attend the execution of Valentine and Governor. And
as the morning advanced toward noon so numerous was the multitude of
negroes that gathered in from all parts of the country, and so great was
the excitement that prevailed among them, that the powers saw the
mistake they had made by issuing this general invitation, and felt great
alarm as to the result.

The marshal called upon the militia and the city guards to turn out and
muster around the scaffold to insure the safe custody of the prisoners
and the execution of the sentence.

The scaffold was erected upon a gentle elevation, on the west suburb of
the city. A crowd of many thousands, each moment augmented, was gathered
upon the ground. But the two companies of militia made a way through
this forest of human beings, and formed around the foot of the scaffold.

It was about eleven o'clock that the prisoners were placed in a close
van, in company with the marshal and a clergyman, and escorted by a
detachment of the city guards, were driven to the place of execution.
The presence of the guards was needed to force a passage through the
compact and highly-excited crowd. The prison van was kept carefully
closed, and the condemned with their attendants remained invisible until
the procession had passed safely through that stormy sea of human beings
and gained the security of the hollow square formed by the bayonets of
the militia around the scaffold.

The van drew up at the foot of the steps leading to the platform. The
police officer that stood behind the vehicle jumped down and opened the
door, and handed out the prisoners, who were followed closely by the
marshal and the clergyman.

The marshal immediately took charge of Governor, to lead him up the
stairs.

The clergyman drew Valentine's arm within his own, to follow.

And the police officer was joined by the deputy marshal, who brought up
the rear.

And so the sad procession ascended those fatal stairs--Governor in a
deep stupor, or looking as if he did not understand what all this
pageant meant; Valentine with grave composure, as if he felt the awful
solemnity of the moment, and was prepared to meet it. The scaffold was
very high, and was reached by a flight of more than twenty steps.

When the prisoners and their escort gained the platform they stood in
full view of every individual of that vast concourse of people. Their
appearance was hailed by acclamation from the multitude below, and
huzzas of encouragement or defiance, shouts of derision and cries of
sympathy were mingled in one indistinguishable _mêlée_ of noise.

The prisoners were not prematurely clad in the habiliments of the grave,
as is usual upon such occasions, but were attired in ordinary citizen's
dress.

Governor wore his best Sunday suit of "pepper and salt" casinet, and
looked a huge, shapeless figure of a negro, in which the sooty skin
could scarcely be distinguished from the sooty clothes.

Valentine looked very well, though pale and worn. He wore a suit of
black broadcloth, with a white cravat and gloves, and his natural
ringlets were arranged with that habitual regard to order and neatness
which was with him a second nature.

Valentine held in his hands the manuscript address that he wished to
make to the assembly. He had been promised by the authorities an
opportunity of delivering this address, before the parting prayers
should be said. He stood now with his copy in his hand, only waiting for
the noise to subside before his commencing. Governor stood by his side,
in stolid insensibility.

But Valentine had been deceived to the last moment. He was not to be
permitted to deliver his address; the authorities feared too much its
exciting effect upon the tumultuous assembly below. The marshal had
received his instructions, and had given private orders to his deputy
and assistants.

Valentine was still letting his eyes rove over the "multitudinous sea"
of heads, waiting for a calm in which he might be heard, when his eye
fell upon Major Hewitt, who had been absent all day at the capital, and
had but just returned from his last fruitless attempt to move the
Executive in behalf of the condemned, and who, without leaving his
saddle, had ridden up at once to the scene of execution. He could not
penetrate the crowd, but remained on horseback on its outskirts. At the
same moment the figure of Major Hewitt caught the eye of Governor, and
roused him from the torpor of despair into which he had fallen--roused
him to an agony of entreaty, and, stretching out his arms to his master,
he cried, with a loud voice that thrilled to the hearts of all present:

"Oh, marster! I allus looked up to you as if you were my father and my
God! Save me now! save me from under the gallows! Oh, marster----"

Major Hewitt turned precipitately and galloped away from the scene.

The condemned were not aware that they stood upon the fatal trapdoor.
They did not notice, either, that, at a signal from the marshal, the
attending clergyman stepped aside and the deputy and assistants gathered
in a little group behind. Governor still had his arms extended in wild
entreaty after his flying master, and Valentine was still waiting for
silence, when suddenly, in the twinkling of an eye, their arms were
bound, the cords slipped over their heads, the caps drawn over their
eyes, the spring of the bolt touched, and, without one instant's
warning, or one word of prayer or benediction, they fell, and swung
beneath sky and earth.

"In the name of Heaven! why have you done this thing?" asked the
terribly-shocked minister, who was altogether unprepared for the
suddenness of the execution.

"In another five minutes an attempt would have been made at rescue,"
answered that official.

       *       *       *       *       *

This tragedy spoiled the Christmas festivities of many more than were
immediately connected with the sufferers. If the reader cares to follow
the sad fortunes of the survivors, I have only to tell them that Phædra
outlived her son but one short month; and Mrs. Waring kindly took Fannie
and her child away from the scene and associations of their calamity, to
her own quiet and beautiful country home in East Feliciana. Major Hewitt
is a "sadder," and, let us hope, "a wiser man," since he no longer
closes his ears to the complaints of his suffering people.

One word more. The tragic story in which I have endeavored to interest
you is, in all its essential features, strictly true. Not that I mean to
say that in all the scenes word followed word precisely in the order
here set down, though generally the language used has been faithful to
the letter, and always to the spirit of the facts. Valentine and
Governor lived, suffered, sinned, and finally together died, for the
causes and in the manner related. My means of minute information were
very good. The tragedy occurred but a few years ago, in a neighborhood
with which I am familiar. It excited at the time great local interest,
but never probably got beyond "mere mention" in any but the local
papers. In relating it I have delivered "a round, unvarnished tale," and
have not colored the truth with any adventitious hue of fancy. The
subject was too sacred, in its dark sorrow, for such trifling. Only, for
the sake of some survivors, a change of names and a slight change of
localities has been deemed proper.



THE SPECTRE REVELS.



TALE OF ALL HALLOW EVE.

    Black spirits and white,
    Blue spirits and gray,
    Mingle, mingle, mingle,
    Ye that mingle may.--SHAKESPEARE.

    O'er all these hung a shadow and a fear!
    A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
    That said as plain as whisper in the ear,
    The place is haunted!--THOMAS HOOD.


"Did I ever see a ghost, friends? Um-m--Well! ghost is not the modern
name for such an apparition. It is called 'imagination,' 'optical
illusion,' fancy, fever, or something else--never 'ghost,' which makes
no difference in the nature of the thing, however. 'A rose by any other
name would smell as sweet.' Yes! I have--I have gone through more than
seeing them--I have known them!"

"Ghosts?"

"No, I repeat to you the term is obsolete--optical illusions. Though to
be sure the ghostly experience that has left the deepest impression upon
my mind--and that this anniversary especially recalls, was no optical
illusion."

"What! was it a real ghost story, though? and did it happen to you?"

"You shall hear."

It was the thirty-first of October, All Hallow's Eve, a ghostly season,
as every one properly posted in ghostly lore knows very well. A dreary
storm of rain and wind was beating against the windows; but the fire on
the old sitting-room hearth was burning warmly, the candles were not yet
lighted, our father, the pastor, had not returned from a sick call, and
with a delightful show of expectation we all gathered around the fire to
hear Aunt Madeleine's ghost story.

It is now more years than I care to remember, she began, since we moved
from the old forest of St. Mary's, up to the town of W.

Our family then consisted of our grandmother, Mrs. Hawkins, my sister
Alice (your mother, dears), and two old family servants, Hector and his
wife Cassandra.

That removal was the first great memorable epoch in my own and my
sister's lives. We had never seen anything approaching nearer to a town
than the little hamlet of St. Inigoes, and though W. was just exactly
the drowsiest old city that ever slept through centuries and slept
itself to death, yet to us, coming from the forest farm, it seemed a
very miracle of life, enterprise and excitement.

We reached our home in Church street just about the last of October.

At first the change was delightful to us. We were never weary of
exploring the streets and reading the signs, and--as we gained
confidence and ventured into the shops--of examining the marvelous
treasures of silks and satins and laces and jewelry and china, and "all
that's bought and sold in city marts."

I recall the first six months of our residence in W., while the novelty
still lasted and all was beautiful illusion, and think that no mere
worldly event can ever give me such true pleasure again.

Ally and I told each other over and over again that "the city was the
true Arcadia!" that there all poetry, romance and adventure was to be
found, and that it was like scenes in the "Arabian Nights."

We were never weary of exploring new quarters--even the narrow, squalid
lanes and alleys with their dilapidated houses and ragged denizens, had
a grotesque attraction for us--and often we would stand gazing at some
wretched tenement, with falling timbers and stuffed windows, and
speculate about the life of the people within.

And besides the wonders of treasures and pleasures--there was the daily
recurring astonishment at the convenience of the place.

We could scarcely get used to the idea that when we wanted a skein of
silk or a paper of needles, it was only necessary to go across the
street, or around the corner to get them, instead of putting the mare to
the gig and riding seven miles to the nearest store; or that when we
went out to tea, we had only to walk a square or so, instead of driving
from three to ten miles; or that we might stay out until bedtime,
instead of ordering the horses to start for home at sunset.

And then the comfort of being able to walk out dry shod over the clean
pavement, in all weathers, instead of in the winter being obliged to
ride in a carriage, plunging axletree deep through lanes of mud and
water, or worse still, being weather-bound by the state of the roads.

In fact, so charmed were we all with this walking with impunity at
unaccustomed times and seasons, that the old carryall gathered dust in
the coach house, and Jenny, the mare, accumulated fat in the stable.

But if the autumn in the city seemed so delightful to us rustics, what
shall I say of the winter, when the lecture rooms and concert halls were
thrown open, and when evening parties were given? There seemed to us no
end of enchantments.

I should have told you that when we first went to town we had but one
acquaintance there. It was with the family of our Uncle and Aunt
Rackaway. They had a large family of growing sons and daughters, of
which our dear Cousin Will (your own respected father, girls), was the
eldest, the handsomest, the wildest, and the best beloved. Will Rackaway
soon initiated us into all the innocent amusements of the season--took
us to evening meetings, lectures, concerts, exhibitions of every sort,
except the theatre, which our grandmother could not be persuaded to
regard as an innocent amusement.

We were a social family, and soon collected around us a very agreeable
neighborhood circle, some one or two of whom would drop in upon us every
evening when we were at home, or else invite us out. Ally and I extended
our acquaintance among young people whose parents occasionally gave
dancing parties, at which we were always present, and which, therefore,
our good grandmother felt bound to sometimes reciprocate. You are not to
suppose that our days passed in a round of fashionable dissipation.
Nonsense! nothing of the sort. We were rather a staid, domestic
family--but upon the whole what a contrast this to the long, monotonous
evenings in the farm house!

Well, so passed that winter, so full of future consequences--that winter
in which Ally's gentle spirit first won the heart of her wild Cousin
Will. All pleasures pall! Before the season was over, the streets, the
shops, the shows--all the wonders and glories of the city had lost their
attraction with their novelty.

When the spring came, we had grown just a little weary of city life.
With April, a spring fever for sowing, and planting, and pruning, and
training came upon us. But, alas! there was nowhere to sow or plant--our
back yard was flagged, and our front one paved. And there was nothing to
prune or train--four forlorn trees, trimmed by city authorities into the
shape of upright mops, standing upon the hard pavement before our door,
were the only apologies for vegetation near us, and they looked as
exiled and homesick as ourselves. Mrs. Hawkins also missed her chickens
and turkeys, and we all felt the loss of the cows.

"Ah, if we could only get a house away to ourselves, a house in the
suburbs, with ground around it, where we could be private, and have
shade trees and a garden, and cows and poultry, and all that, within
easy walk to the city, how happy I should be," said grandmother,
sighing.

"Ah, yes! if we only could! then we should enjoy the pleasures of both
city and country life," said I.

"'Oh, that would be joyful, joyful, joyful, joyful!'" exclaimed Ally,
quoting the chorus of a popular hymn.

"Ah! well, we must keep our eyes open, and see what we can find," said
our grandmother.

The street upon which we lived was narrow and closely built up. It led
down half a mile to a long bridge that crossed the river. Consequently
this street was the great thoroughfare of country people coming into
town, to market, or to shop, or upon any other errand.

Among those who came every day was one old man, who was quite an
eccentric character, and who is still remembered by the aged inhabitants
of W----. Dr. H---- always wore a cocked hat, a powdered wig, a black
velvet coat, double waistcoat, ruffled shirt, knee breeches, long hose
and silver buckles, and carried a gold-headed cane, keeping up in his
age the style and costume of his youth.

He came in town every morning in a gig driven by a servant as old and as
quaint as himself.

He returned every evening.

The doctor was a never-failing object of interest to us. The little
information we could get respecting him only whetted our curiosity to a
keener edge. We learned from Cousin Will that he had no family and no
society; that he lived alone in a secluded country house, called the
Willow Cottage, with no companion except the aged servant seen always
with him; that he had a traditional reputation of having possessed great
skill in his profession, and that he now followed a limited practice
among his old contemporaries in the city.

So much of authentic facts.

Besides these it was rumored that, years before, he had married a lovely
young girl, who had been persuaded or forced to sacrifice her youth and
beauty and a prior attachment, to his wealth and age and infirmities;
whose short life had been embittered by his jealousies, and whose sudden
death, under suspicious circumstances, had not left him free from
imputations of the gravest character.

This was all we could learn of the doctor; and you may depend that our
interest in him was deepened and darkened. We watched him with closer
attention. His hard, sharp features, his deep-set eyes, whitened hair,
and thin, bent figure, took on a sinister appearance, or we fancied so.

However that might be, we felt more shocked than grieved when one
morning the news came that the doctor was found at daybreak dead in his
bed, with dark marks upon his neck as from the pressure of a thumb and
finger!

The news spread like wildfire. The long-closed doors of the Willow
Cottage flew open to the public, and its darkened chambers to the
sunlight. Crowds flocked thither; the old servant was examined and
discharged, no suspicion attaching to him; the coroner's inquest met,
and, after a session of twelve hours, rendered its sapient verdict:
"Found dead," which, of course, greatly enlightened the public mind. The
old servant obtained a home in the almshouse, and the Willow Cottage
passed to the next of kin.

These events occurred in the month of May. About the middle of June the
weather became so hot, the streets so dusty, that the city grew
intolerable to us. During winter the town of W---- had afforded a
pleasant contrast to the country; during summer it was quite the
opposite. In the height of our discontent one morning Will Rackaway came
in.

"The Willow Cottage is for rent! Here is a chance for you!"

"The Willow Cottage for rent! Oh, that is delightful," said Ally and I
in a breath.

"Who has the renting of it?" inquired grandmother.

"Well, the agent is out of town; but I got the key from his clerk, and
if you'll order Jenny put to the carryall, I'll drive you out there to
look at it. I think it will be let cheap, for the associations of the
place are so gloomy that none but a strong-minded woman like Aunt----"

"A Christian woman, you mean, Will."

"Well, yes, a Christian woman, like Aunt, would venture to live in it."

Mrs. Hawkins had in the meantime put her hand to the bell, summoned
Hector, and given him an order to get the carryall ready for a drive. We
were soon in the carriage, and half an hour's drive took us down the
street, across the long bridge to the other side of the river, and to
the Willow Cottage.

There is, as I have noticed always, a remarkable fitness in the names
given to country houses. This was certainly the case with the present
one. There was not a willow near the place.

A few yards from the end of the bridge, and to the right hand of the
highway, a disused, grass-grown road led through a close thicket of
evergreens, some quarter of a mile on to an open level area, of about a
hundred acres of exhausted land, grown up in broom sedge and completely
surrounded by the pine forest.

In the midst of this area stood a red stone cottage, consisting of a
central building of two stories, flanked each side by wings of one story
in height. The central building was finished by a gable roof front, with
a large single fan-shaped window just above the front portico.

The cottage stood in the midst of a garden of about one acre, shaded
with many trees and surrounded by a substantial stone wall, parallel to
which, on the inside, was a hedge of evergreens, and on the outside
another hedge of climbing and intertwining wild rose, eglantine and
blackberry vines.

An iron gate, very rusty and dilapidated, admitted us to the grass-grown
walk that led between two rows of black-oak trees to the front portico
of the central building.

We entered a small front hall, behind which was a large, square parlor,
in the rear of which was a long dining-room. The wings on the right and
left consisted each of a bedchamber, entered from the front hall. There
was but one room above stairs, a large chamber immediately over the
parlor in the central building, and lighted by the fan-light in the
front gable.

The kitchen, laundry and servants' rooms were in another building in the
rear of the cottage; they were not joined together, but stood, as it
were, back to back, presenting to each other a dead wall without door or
window, and about two feet apart, thus forming a blind alley.

I have been thus particular in describing the house, that you may better
understand the story that follows.

"The builder who designed this was certainly demented," said one of the
party, pointing to the blind alley, with its waste of wall.

Will laughed.

"I have noticed, Madeleine, that quite as much of character is shown in
the construction of houses as in the cut of physiognomies."

"But, upon the whole, I like it," said the other.

And so said every one.

There was a stable, a coachhouse, a henhouse, a smokehouse, and, in
fact, every possible accommodation for the household. The fruit trees
and vines were teeming with fruit, which also lay ripening or decaying
in great quantities upon the ground. The rose bushes had spread the
grass with a warmer hue and sweeter covering.

We filled our old carryall with fruit and our hands with flowers and
prepared to return home. Ally was in ecstacies. So was Cousin Will. So
was our grandmother, as much as a self-possessed and dignified matron of
the old school could be said to be. As for myself, I could not sleep
that night for thinking of our removal to the fine old place. We had
unanimously resolved to take it.

Alas! we had reckoned without our landlord. Upon inquiry of the agent
next day we learned that the place was already let to a man who intended
to make it a house of summer resort, for which its convenient distance
from the city, its cool and shady and secluded site, and its extensive
grounds, numerous shade trees and fine fruit, and many other good
points, peculiarly adapted it.

We were very much disappointed, but our regret was somewhat modified
when we ascertained that it was let at a preposterous rate of rent, that
a prudent woman like our grandmother never would have undertaken to pay.
So we resigned ourselves to the inevitable.

However, in a week or two we were so fortunate as to rent a small, neat
house on the opposite side of the road from the Willow Cottage, and
nearer to the bridge. We immediately moved into our new home; and
grandmother sent Hector down into the country to bring up her poultry,
and drive up her cows--a business that he took but three days to
accomplish.

We were thus settled in our suburban residence, with which, by the way,
we were not quite content. It was too small, too exposed to the rays of
the sun, the dust of the road and the eyes of the passengers; it was too
new also, and the shrubs and flowers had not had time to grow, and
then--we had been disappointed of Willow Cottage.

In addition to these drawbacks, and even worse than these, was the fact
that we were annoyed all day long and every day by the troops of
visitors, on foot and on horseback, in sulkies and buggies, all bound
for the Willow Cottage.

And, worst of all, we were disturbed all night by the noisy passage of
these revelers returning home.

On Sundays and Sunday nights this was insufferable. It seemed as if ten
times as many revelers went out in the day and came back ten times as
much intoxicated and as noisy in the night! Our poor old Cassandra vowed
that when we changed the farm for the city house it was bad enough, but
when we changed the city house for the suburban cottage, "we jest did
it--jumped right out'n de fryin' pan inter de fire!"

However, a terrible event soon occurred at the Willow Cottage that
crowded everything else out of our heads.

It was the night of the Fourth of July. All day long crowd after crowd
had passed our house on their way out there. From early in the morning
until late at night the road was kept clouded with the dust, that
settled upon everything in and around our house. We were glad when, late
at night, the revelry seemed to cease, and we were permitted to be at
peace.

We retired, and, exhausted by the exciting annoyances of the day, I fell
asleep. I know not how long I had slept, when I was suddenly aroused by
the noise of many persons hurrying past the house in apparently a state
of great excitement. In another moment I perceived that all the family
had been aroused as well as myself. They hurried into my room, which was
the front chamber of the second floor, and thus from a secure point
commanded the street. We all crowded to the two windows, left the
candles unlighted that we might not be seen, and remained as mute as
mice that we might not be heard.

The stars were very bright, and we could distinctly see the hurrying
crowd in the road below. Some were running in the direction of the
Willow Cottage, while others were hastening thence. These opposite
parties, meeting, would exchange a few vehement words and gestures, and
then speed upon their several ways.

At last a man, running against another immediately under the window,
inquired:

"For Heaven's sake, what is the matter at the Willow Cottage?"

"Don't stop me, for the Lord's sake! O'Donnegan, the landlord, has
killed young Keats, the only son of Colonel Keats! I am running to fetch
his father!"

"Heavens and earth! another murder within that accursed house! That is
the third!" exclaimed the questioner, in a voice of horror.

The men separated in opposite directions, the one running toward the
town, the other toward the scene of the outrage. The same questions and
the same answers were quietly heard between other meeting parties, who
separated, running in opposite ways, as the first had done. The dreadful
news was thus confirmed.

We drew back our heads and looked each other in the face in
consternation. We knew none of the parties concerned, yet we could not
compose ourselves to sleep that night.

The next day was a terrible one to the friends of the murdered and the
murderer.

Once more--the third time--a coroner's inquest sat upon a dead body at
the Willow Cottage. But this time their verdict, made up after a careful
investigation and patient deliberation, was of a more fatal character.
It was that "The deceased came to his death by blows upon the head from
a bludgeon in the hands of Patrick O'Donnegan."

O'Donnegan, who was under arrest, awaiting the verdict, was then fully
committed to stand his trial at the approaching session of the criminal
court.

The establishment at the Willow Cottage was broken up, the furniture
sold, the house closed, and the premises once more advertised for rent.
But now with the bad odor hanging around the place, no one wished to
take it, and the house remained idle upon the proprietor's hands.

Meantime the trial of O'Donnegan approached. He was arraigned, convicted
and sentenced, in a shorter space of time than I ever heard of in the
trial of any criminal. Many people thought that the prosecution was
conducted in a vindictive spirit, and that the friends of the deceased
exerted every faculty, sparing neither influence nor expense in the
pursuit of a conviction. They retained the best counsel in the country
to assist the State's attorney, while on the other hand the poor wretch
of a prisoner had no defense except that appointed for him by the court.
However that might be, in the short space of one month from the time of
committing the homicide, he was sentenced to die, and in six weeks from
his conviction he expiated his crime upon the scaffold.

It was about the middle of September, of that eventful year, when a
rumor arose--as all rumors arise, mysteriously--that the Willow Cottage
was haunted; that ghostly lights flitted through its chambers; that
ghostly revelers held midnight orgies in its deserted halls; and that
the murderer and the murdered still played their game at ninepins, or
waged their last war along its lonely corridors.

While these reports were rife in the neighborhood, our Grandmother
Hawkins turned a deaf ear, or threw in a good-humored, sarcastic word to
the marvel-mongers--upon one occasion launching at them and us the
time-honored proverb:

"You will never see anything worse than yourselves, my dears."

"I believe you, mistress, honey! for long as I lib on dis yeth, and
feared as I is o' ghoses, I nebber see nothin' worse nor myse'f
yet--dough, the Lord betune me an' harm, I sartinly saw de debbil
once--I did," observed old Cassy, sapiently.

"If no one else takes the Willow Cottage beforehand, just wait until my
term is up here, and then if Mr. Buzzard will let it to a small, quiet
family on anything like reasonable terms, you'll see how we meet
spectres," said our grandmother.

"Too late, Aunt Rachel! The Willow Cottage is let," exclaimed Will
Rackaway, who had a few minutes previously joined our party.

"Let, is it? Ah! well, I hope it is not to another rum-seller!"

"No, indeed! to another guess tenant! to Colonel Manly, of the ----
regiment, who is now ordered to join General Armistead, in Florida, and
who takes the cottage as a pleasant country home for his wife and
children during his absence."

"Hum-m me! then we shall have neighbors. I am very well reconciled,"
said Mrs. Hawkins.

A few weeks after this conversation the new tenants were settled in the
Willow Cottage, and the colonel embarked for Florida.

Grandmother Hawkins was rather slow and ceremonious in all her dealings
with society. Therefore she "took her time" in calling upon Mrs. Manly.
Consequently, upon the very morning that she set out to pay that lady a
visit she met a train of furniture drays proceeding from the premises,
and heard to her great astonishment that the family were moving away.

"And they have been only here a week!" exclaimed the old lady, by
unmitigated astonishment thrown for a moment off her guard.

Significant looks and mysterious gestures were the only comments made by
the servants upon the subject.

And Mrs. Hawkins, thinking it improper to push inquiries in that
quarter, sent in her respects and good wishes to Mrs. Manly, and then,
without having alighted from her carryall, gave the order to turn the
horse's head homeward.

You may judge the surprise with which we heard the news of this
flitting; but as our grandmother had asked no questions, she could give
us no information.

Others, however, were not so discreet. Inquiries were made and
answered, and soon the news flew all over the country that Mrs. Manly,
upon account of the mysterious noises that nightly disturbed her rest,
found it impossible to live in the house.

The cottage remained idle for some weeks, and then was taken by another
family, who stayed ten days, then vanished--whispering the same cause
for their abandonment of the premises.

The excitement of the neighborhood increased. There was nothing talked
of but the haunted house. Large parties visited the spot during
daylight, who, after the most curious investigation, found nothing
unusual about the looks of the place. But no tenant could be induced to
take it, and it remained idle for several weeks, at the end of which
time a family from down the country moved up, and reading of this fine
place to let, and not knowing its "haunted" reputation, engaged it at
once. The name of the newcomers was Ferguson. The neighborhood waited
the event in deep interest.

Upon the day after their settlement at the cottage, as we were just
about to sit down to our very early breakfast, there was a knock at the
door, followed by the entrance of a good-looking, motherly, colored
woman, who announced herself as "Aunt Hannah, ole Marse Josh Ferguson's
'oman," and stood waiting.

"Well, Hannah, you look tired--sit down on that stool and let us know
how we can do you good," said Mrs. Hawkins.

"Thanky, mist'ess--no time to sit, honey; 'deed I hasn't--I come to see
if you would 'form me where I could buy a little drap o' cream, for ole
marse coffee. Our cows; hasn't riv' from below yet."

"You cannot buy cream at all in this neighborhood, but I will supply
your master, with great pleasure, until his cows come home."

"Thanky, mist'ess! thanky, honey! I 'cepts of it wid all de comfort in
life! An' if so be you-dem wants any plums, or pears, or squinches, for
'serves, we'd s'ply you in like manner."

After this Aunt Hannah came every morning for her pitcher of cream. One
morning I overheard her talking with Cassy in the kitchen.

"How you dew likes your new place?" inquired Cassy.

"Hush, honey!" exclaimed the other, with an air of deep mystery.

"Lord! 'deed, now?" whispered Cassy.

"Trufe I'm telling you!" replied Hannah.

"Do any one sturve you o' nights?"

"Hush, honey!"

"Who?"

"Dead people."

"The Lord betune us and harm!"

"Hush, honey! Don't let on! We's gwine 'way; but de family don't want it
should be known as dey leave for sich a cause."

"I unnerstans! The saints betune us an' sin!"

A few days after this conversation Mr. Ferguson's family left the Willow
Cottage; and the excitement of the neighborhood upon the subject of the
haunted homestead received a tremendous impetus. As it had been once
visited from motives of incredulous curiosity, it was now avoided in the
spirit of superstitious dread. It was believed to be unlucky to the
visitor. All the worst rumors about the former proprietors were revived
and credited. It was said that a curse rested upon the house where
marriage faith and friendship's trust and hospitality's laws had each in
succession been basely betrayed--upon the house of three reputed
murders!

Only Mrs. Hawkins stoutly stood up for the defense of the Willow
Cottage.

"Three murders! nonsense! three stage plays! The doctor's young wife
fretted herself into illness, and died of heart disease, poor thing. She
was not, therefore, murdered. The old doctor himself lived to a good age
and died in a fit. Was he murdered? I guess the coroner's jury knew! The
unhappy young man Keats lost his life in a sinful revel--a warning to
all youth. What guilt, then, rests upon the comfortable home and
beautiful garden? Did they suggest wine-bibbing and brawling? Pshaw! I
am ashamed of people's want of logic. Only wait until my term is up
here, and then see if I do not move into the house, and stay in it,
too!"

This decision of Mrs. Hawkins produced different effects upon each of
her family. I for my own part had a natural turn for melodramatic
heroism--admired Joan of Arc, Margaret of Norway, Philippa of Hainault,
and all the lion-hearted, eagle-eyed, battle-ax heroines--and wished for
the opportunity of imitating them. I had an aspiring, courageous spirit,
but weak nerves; and so I stoutly seconded the move to move, though my
heart quailed at the idea of our living alone in the haunted house.

Ally's trust in her grandmother was so perfect that she resigned herself
in confidence to her decision.

The old negroes were possessed with the direst fore-bodings, but feeling
that it would be vain to remonstrate, only shook their heads and
muttered something to the effect that "old mist'ess'" confidence in
herself would be sure to have a check some day.

Mrs. Hawkins was as good as her word. She began in her steady, energetic
way to tie up parcels and pack boxes of such things as were not in daily
use, in anticipation of moving. There was no competition for the
possession of the deserted mansion. Mrs. Hawkins engaged it at a very
moderate rate of rent.

And upon the 31st of October--the ghostly anniversary of Hallow E'en--a
day ever to be remembered, we began our removal to the haunted house.

It was a dark, overcast day.

Mrs. Hawkins, who seldom stopped for weather, was anxious to get all her
effects safely housed before the rain, or at least before night. So,
very early in the morning, accompanied by Alice and attended by old
Hector, she drove over to Willow Cottage to have fires lighted in the
damp house, and to receive and dispose of the furniture as it should
arrive.

Myself and Will Rackaway, who came to help me and old Cassy, remained in
charge of the house to dispatch the furniture. It was a hard day's work,
I assure you. And as the twilight hours passed the sky grew darker, and
the air damper and colder. A gloomier and more depressing day could
scarcely be imagined.

It was nearly night when at length we dispatched the last cartload of
effects, locked up the house, and got into the old carryall that had
returned for us. Old Cassy sat with me on the back seat, and old Hector,
who drove for us, sat beside Will Rackaway, in front. The rain was now
falling in a fine, slow drizzle. Perhaps it was the dark and heavy
atmosphere, fatigue, and the approach of night, that so oppressed my
spirits, but I well remember the feeling of gloom and terror with which
I crossed the highway and entered upon the grass-grown and shadowy road,
through the thicket that led to Willow Cottage. It was a very dark and
silent scene--no sight but the trees, that, like lower and heavier
clouds, met and hung over our heads; no sound but the stealthy, muffled
turn of the wheels over the wet and fallen leaves.

"The road to the haunted house is a very ghostly one! I think, for my
part, Mark Tapley would have found this a fine place to get jolly in,"
said Will, twisting his head around to look at me.

But he had quickly to recall his attention, for his first words had so
upset the equanimity of our driver that he had allowed his horse to run
full tilt into the trees. Will seized the reins from the shaking hands
of old Hector and soon righted the carryall.

At last we emerged from the thicket, and saw dimly the great open area
girdled with its pine forest, of which I have already spoken.

Only like a denser group of shadow was the old Willow Cottage, in the
midst of its ancient trees, in the center of that open space.

We followed the road through the broom sedge across the field until we
drew up at the rusty iron gate of the cottage.

There we alighted, and, leaving old Hector to drive the carryall around
to the stable door, we entered and went up the long grass-grown walk
between the black oaks, until we reached the house.

The doors and window blinds were all closed, and the faint light within
gleamed fitfully through the chinks where the framework was warped.

The front door was not locked, and we entered at once into the hall that
ran parallel with the front of the house, and formed, in fact, a sort of
anteroom to the large parlor that lay behind it. From this hall, besides
the central door before us that led into the parlor, there was a door on
the right hand and one on the left, leading into the side bedchambers in
the wings; and by the side of the right-hand door, nearer the front
wall, was the staircase leading up to the large chamber in the gable
end, that was lighted and ventilated by that fan-shaped window seen in
the front of the house over the portico.

We passed through the hall, and through the large, empty parlor behind
it, and entered the long dining-room in the rear.

There we found Mrs. Hawkins and Alice awaiting us among the piled-up
furniture.

"You look tired and out of spirits, Madeleine. You must have worked
harder than we did."

"How have you got on?" I inquired.

"Why, we have arranged the bedchambers and the kitchen--that is all. We
have left the dining-room and parlor and hall to be put to rights
to-morrow. But Hector has got the supper ready, and set the table in the
kitchen; let us go in there; it is warmer. Come, girls--come, Will."

As I before mentioned, the kitchen, pantry, laundry and servants' rooms
were in a building behind the dwelling-house, not joined to it, but
standing back to back with it at a distance of three feet. So we had to
go out of doors to enter the kitchen.

I remember even now the sense of comfort I experienced on entering that
cozy room. It was a stone room, with a great fireplace, in which blazed
a fine fire, a wide, high dresser, upon which shone, tier upon tier,
rows of bright metal and clean crockeryware; in the middle of the floor
was an inviting table, upon which smoked an abundant supper.

"Ah!" said Will, with an appreciating glance at the board; "thus
fortified, we can meet the enemy!"

"Can you spend the night with us, Will?" inquired Mrs. Hawkins.

"Oh, no! must return; mother doesn't know I'm out!" replied the youth.

Accordingly, after supper Will prepared to take his leave of us.

"Before you go, Will, I wish you to take Hector and the lantern and go
over every foot of the grounds, and all along the walks, to see that
everything is safe here," said our grandmother.

"Of course, of course, noble lady! Order the seneschal and the luminary,
and I will reconnoitre the state of the fortifications!" said Will, as
he buttoned up his coat.

By the time he had drawn on his gloves Hector appeared at the door with
the lantern, and they sallied forth. I looked through an end window, and
found strange amusement in watching the progress of that lantern up one
shadowy walk and down another, and along the hedged wall, until at last
it approached the house. Will entered, speaking gayly.

"Well, Lady Hawkins, I have reconnoitred the defenses, and found them in
an excellent condition! The wall is strong, the hedge on the inside is
high, and that upon the outerside sharp. The enemy could not attempt to
scale without such damage to cuticle from the one, and bone from the
others, as no enemy endowed with 'the better part of valor' would risk.
All is quiet within the garrison; and if you will send the warden to
lock the gate after me, I think the castle will be impregnable for the
night."

Hector once more received orders to attend the young master, who now
bade us good-night and left the house.

Meanwhile, Cassy had washed up the supper service and restored the
kitchen to order. So that when old Hector returned from his errand,
bearing the key of the gate, nothing remained for us to do but examine
and close the house, offer up our evening worship, and go to bed, which,
as it was very late and we were very tired, we prepared to do at once.
After every room was visited, and every door and window firmly secured,
we went to the dining-room for family prayer, and then let Cassy and
Hector out, and gave them the key to lock the door on the outside, so
that they might be able to let themselves in in the morning to light
the fires without disturbing us. After having thus dismissed them,
closed the door, and heard it locked, we turned to seek our rest.

"I do not consider these lower bedrooms quite dry and safe just at
present, girls; so I have had two beds made up in the room overhead,
which is large and well ventilated. Alice can sleep with me in the large
bed, and you, Madeleine, can occupy the other," said our grandmother, as
she led the way upstairs.

I did not quite like the arrangement, but could not resist Mrs. Hawkins.

The upper room, notwithstanding the fact of its being in the roof, was
amply high and large enough for a healthful, double-bedded chamber. Our
beds stood parallel, but sufficiently far apart, with their heads
against the north, or back wall, and their feet toward the front gable,
lighted by the fan-shaped window aforesaid. As it was very damp and
chill, and we were very much exhausted, we did not linger long over our
final preparations, but went speedily to bed.

Our grandmother and Alice seemed scarcely to have settled themselves
under their blankets and given me a drowsy good-night when they slid off
into the land of dreams.

I could not sleep! I seldom can the first night in a strange house, and
this was--such a house! I felt quite alone--as much alone as if the
heavy sleepers in the next bed were a thousand miles away, for farther
still in spirit were they. I thought of the isolated situation of the
house we were in; of the crimes, real or reputed, that had stained its
hearthstone; of the superstitious terror attaching to the haunted place;
of the hard facts that three several families, not reputed less wise or
brave than their neighbors, had been driven from the spot by
supernatural disturbance as yet unexplained; of the coincidence that
this dreary night was the ghostly Hallow E'en; then of the superstition
that spirits, when they wish to appear to only one in a room, have the
power of casting all others into a profound sleep, from which the
haunted one cannot awake them; and of isolating their victim from all
the natural world--even from the very bedfellow by their side. The room
was very dark and still--solid blackness and dead silence. It oppressed
me like a nightmare. At last, when my senses grew accustomed to the
scenes by straining my eyes, I could dimly perceive beyond the foot of
the bed the segment of a circle formed by the fan-light window, that now
only seemed a thinner darkness; and, by straining my ears, I could
faintly hear the stealthy fall of the drizzling rain. It was almost
worse than the first total silence and darkness; for it kept my nerves
on a strange _qui vive_ of attention. Presently this was over, too. The
muffled sound of the drizzling ceased. Yet darker clouds must have
lowered over the earth, for the faint outline of the fan-light window
was no longer visible. All was once more black darkness and intense
silence, and again I felt oppressed almost to suffocation. Welcome now
would have been the faint fall of the fine rain or the dim outline of
the window. I strained my senses in vain; no sight or sound responded. I
felt the silence and the darkness settling like the clods of the ground
upon my breast.

Hoo-oo-o!--went something.

Hark! what was that? I thought, starting.

Hoo-oo-o----!

Oh! the wailing voice of some low, wandering wind, I concluded.

Whirirr-rr-r-r----!

Yes! the wind is rising, but how like a lost spirit it wails.

Urr-rr-rr-r-r-r----!

My Lord! it's not the wind! What is it? Great Heavens!

Urr-rr-rr-rr-r-r-r-r!

I started up in a sitting posture, and, bathed in a cold perspiration,
remained listening, my hair bristling with terror.

Urr-rr-rr-rr-r-r-r-r--"Ha--ha--ha!"

I could bear no more! Springing out, I called:

"Grandmother! Grandmother!"

"What's the matter? Why, what ails the child?" exclaimed Mrs. Hawkins.

"Oh! listen! listen!"

"Listen at what? You are dreaming!"

"Dreaming, am I? Oh! wait! Listen----"

Urr-rr-rr-r-r-r-r--"Ha!--ha!--ha!"

It was, as plainly as I ever heard, the sound of the rolling of a ball,
followed by a peal of demoniac laughter.

I turned on Mrs. Hawkins an appalled look.

She was surprised, but self-possessed, and evidently bent on calmly
listening and investigating. She sat straight up in bed with a strong,
concentrated attention to the sounds. They came again:

Urr-rr-rr-r-r-r-r-e--rattle-te-bang!--"A ten-strike at last!--O's a dead
shot!"

"A dead shot."

"A dead shot," was echoed all around.

Grandmother calmly threw the quilts off her, stepped out of bed, and
began to dress herself.

"Strike a light, Madeleine," she said.

"What are you going to do, grandmother?"

"Dress myself and examine the premises."

Urr-rr-rr-r-r-r-r--"Ha! ha! ha!" sounded once more the demoniac noise
and laughter.

The matchbox nearly dropped from my shaking hands, but I struck the
light.

The sudden flash awoke Alice just as another sonorous roll of the ball,
and fall of the pins, and peal of demon laughter, sounded hollowly
around us.

"Heaven and earth! what is that?" she exclaimed, starting up.

"What do you think it is, Alice?" said I.

"My Lord! my Lord!--it is the phantoms of the murderer and the murdered
playing over again their last game!" cried the girl, in an agony of
terror.

Just at this moment a distinct knocking was heard at the little door at
the foot of the staircase.

Alice screamed.

I held my breath.

The knocking was repeated.

"Who is there?" said Mrs. Hawkins, going to the head of the stairs.

No answer; but the knocking was repeated; and then a frightened,
plaintive voice, crying:

"Ole mist'ess--ole mist'ess--oh! do, for the Lord sake, let me in,
chile! the hair's almos' turn gray on my head."

"Is that you, Cassy?"

"Yes, honey--yes, what the ghoses has left o' me," replied the poor
creature, in a dying voice.

Grandmother went down the stairs and opened the door at the foot, and
Cassy came tumbling up into the room after her. She was absolutely ashen
gray with terror, and her limbs shook so that she could scarcely stand.

"Oh! did you hear--did you hear all the ghoses and devils playing
ninepins together in our very house?" she gasped, dropping into a chair.

As if in answer to her question, once more the phantom ball rolled in
detonating thunder, the pins fell with a loud, rattling sound, followed
by a hollow shout of triumph!

Cassy fell on her knees and crossed herself devoutly.

Alice clung in terror to her grandmother.

I felt that the time to play the heroine was come, and strove to exhibit
self-possession and courage.

"Take up the candle, Cassy, and lead the way downstairs. We must go and
search the house," said Mrs. Hawkins.

"Oh! for the Lord's sake, don't! don't! old mist'ess, honey! Don't be a
temptin' o' Providence! Leave the ghoses alone and stay here, and fasten
the door."

"I shall search the house and grounds," said Mrs. Hawkins, in a
peremptory voice. "Therefore, take up the light and go before me."

"Oh! for de Lord's love, ole mis'tess! ef we mus' go, you go first, you
go first; I dar'n't; I's such a sinner, I is!" cried Cassy, wringing her
hands in an agony of terror.

Urr-rrr-rr-r-r-r-rattle-te-bang-ang!

"A ten-strike! Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!" again sounded the revels.

"Hooley St. Bridget, pray for us! Hail Mary, full of grace! Don't go,
ole mist'ess, honey! Oh, stay where you is in safety!" pleaded the old
woman, clasping her hands.

"Nonsense! Hold your tongue, Cassy. If ever there was a woman plagued
with a set of cowardly simpletons, it is myself. Let go my skirts this
moment, Alice! Be silent, every one of you, and follow me as softly as
possible," said my grandmother, in a low, stern voice, as she took up
the candle and led the way downstairs. We followed at this order--Cassy
holding on to her mistress' skirts, Alice holding to Cassy's, and I
bringing up the rear, with carnal weapons in one hand and spiritual ones
in the other--that is to say, with a big ruler and a prayerbook.

A chill, damp air met us at the foot of the stairs--nothing else.

The front hall was empty and bleak. We tried the doors, and found them
as secure as we had left them, with the exception of the parlor door, by
which Cassy had entered, and which was on the latch. Mrs. Hawkins pulled
it to and locked it, saying, in a low voice, that she wished, while
examining each room, to keep all the rest locked, that there might be no
escape for any one concealed in the house.

First we went into the right-hand bedroom, opening from the hall. It was
secure, vacant and bleak. We locked the door and drew out the key.

Next we looked into the left-hand bedroom; it was in precisely the same
condition. We made it fast in the same manner.

Then we opened and entered the parlor. This was the bleakest room of
any--large, square, lofty, totally bare, cold and damp.

"Nothing here," said Mrs. Hawkins, looking around.

Urr-rr-rr-r-r-r-r-rattle-te-bang-ang-ang! the phantom ball rolled, and
scattered the ninepins.

"Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!" shouted the hollow, ghostly voices.

They seemed to be in the very room with us, reverberating in the very
air we breathed, echoing from the four walls around, and from the
ceiling above us!

"Jesu, Mary!" cried Cassy, dropping on her knees.

"Oh! oh! oh!" gasped Alice, clinging to me.

"This is very unaccountable," said our grandmother, looking all around
the room, where nothing but bare walls and bare boards met the view.

We looked at each other in silence for a few moments, and then Mrs.
Hawkins said:

"Come! let us look into the dining-room, and then call up Hector to
assist us in searching the grounds."

We passed on into the next room and locked the door behind us, as we had
locked every one in our tour through the house. That room was closely
packed with furniture, over which we had to clamber our passage.

While we were doing so, once again sounded the detonating roll of the
ball, the rattling, scattering of the pins, and the hollow peals of
laughter, all echoing around and around us, as it were, in the same
rooms.

Alice again seized her grandmother.

Cassy fell over a stack of washtubs, and called on all the saints to
help her.

Mrs. Hawkins ordered Alice to let her go, and Cassy to get up, and me to
move on.

She was obeyed. A great general was our grandmother, and we all knew it!

We left the dining-room, locking the last door behind us. We dodged the
dark, blind alley, sheltered the candle from the drizzling mist, and
went around into the kitchen and called Hector from above.

The old man answered, and soon came toddling down the narrow stairs.

"Hector, have you heard those noises?" inquired Mrs. Hawkins.

"The Lord between us and evil! I've heern, mist'ess! I've heern!"

"What do you suppose it is?"

A dubious, solemn shake of the head was the old man's only reply.

"Can't you speak, Hector? How do you account for these noises? Come! no
mysteries; answer if you can; what are they?"

"Dead people!" groaned the old man, with a shudder.

"Pooh!" exclaimed Mrs. Hawkins.

But I could see that even she was paler than usual.

"Come, Hector! There is no one in the house--that is certain. And no one
can get into it while we are gone, because it is locked up. Now fasten
up the kitchen, and let us go and search the grounds, and unkennel any
interlopers that may be lurking there."

We came out and secured the kitchen door, and began our tour of the
garden.

As we left the door, our watchdog ran out to join us.

This circumstance, while it greatly assisted us in our search, very much
increased the perplexity of our minds. Had the dog heard the noises that
had disturbed us, and if so, why had he not given the alarm?--or, on the
other hand, were dogs insensible to supernatural sights and sounds? We
could not tell; but we were glad to have Fidelle snuffing and trotting
along before us, confident that if there were a human being lurking
anywhere in the garden, he would smell him out. So we went up one
grass-grown walk and down another, between rows of gooseberry bushes,
currant bushes, and raspberry bushes, all damp and dripping with mist,
and through alleys of dwarf plum trees, and all along the hedges of
evergreen inside the brick wall, and past the iron gate, which was still
chained, as it had been left, and then around in the stable, coachhouse,
henhouse and smokehouse, each of which we found securely locked, and,
when opened, damp, musty and vacant; and so we looked over every foot of
ground, and into every outbuilding, finding all safe and leaving all
safe; and at last, without having discovered anything, we arrived again
at the dining-room door.

We all entered, locked the door after us, clambered over the piles of
furniture, and passed on into the parlor.

The parlor, as I have said, was as yet unfurnished, damp and cold. Yet
there we paused for a little while to take breath.

"There is nothing concealed in the garden, and nothing in the house;
that is demonstrated. These strange manifestations must admit of a
natural explanation; but I confess myself at a loss to explain them,"
said Mrs. Hawkins.

"Oh! ole mist'ess; 'fess it's de ghoses, honey! 'fess it's de ghoses!
Memorize how nobody was ever able to lib in dis cussed house!" pleaded
Cassy.

"Oh, yes, grandmother, do let's sit up here all night to-night, and move
out early to-morrow morning," entreated Ally.

"What do you say, Madeleine?" inquired my grandmother.

"I say, brave it out!"

"So do I, my girl!" replied Mrs. Hawkins.

"Oh, for de love o' de Lord, don't ole mist'ess! don't, Miss Maddy!
don't! It's a temptin' o' Providence! Leave de 'fernel ole place to de
ghoses, as has de bes' right to it!" prayed Cassy.

"We'll see about that!" said our grandmother. "But come! all seems quiet
now; we will go to bed, and investigate further to-morrow."

"Yes, ole mist'ess, honey, I knows all is quiet jest now, but----"

"Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!--Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!" burst a peal
of demoniac laughter, resounding through and through the room, and close
into our ears.

"The Lord between us and Satan!" cried Cassy, dropping the candle, which
immediately went out and left us in darkness.

While, peal on peal, sounded the demoniac laughter around us.

Cassy fell on her knees and began praying:

"St. Mary, pray for us! St. Martha pray for us! all ye hooly vargins and
widders, pray for us lone women! St. Peter, pray for us! St. Powl pray
for us! All hooly 'postles and 'vangellers, pray for us poor
sinners!--Saint--Saint--Saint--oh! for de Lor's sake, Miss Ally, honey,
tell me de name o' that hooly saint as met a ghose riding on Balaam's
ass and knows hows--how it feels!"

"It was Saul or Samuel, or the Witch of Endor, I forget which," said
Alice, whose knowledge of the Old Testament, never very precise, was
frightened out of her.

"St. Saul, St. Samuel, St. Witchywinder, pray for us, as met a ghost
yourself and knows how it feels."

And still, while Cassy prayed her frantic prayers, and poor old Hector
told his beads, and Alice trembled and clung to me, the demon laughter
resounded around and around us. We were in such total darkness that I
had not seen Mrs. Hawkins withdraw herself from the group, nor suspected
her absence until we heard her firm, cheery voice outside near the
dining-room door, saying:

"What can any one think of this? Come here, Hector! Come here,
children!"

We all went--expecting some _denouement_.

Mrs. Hawkins telegraphed to us to be perfectly silent, and to step
lightly. She turned the angle of the house and walked up the blind alley
between the back of the house and the back of the kitchen; when she had
got about midway of the walk, she stopped, and silently pointed to the
rank weeds and bushes that grew closely under the wall of the house.

"There! what do you think of that?" she said, in a low voice.

We looked, and at first could see nothing; but, on a closer inspection,
we perceived a very faint glimmer, a mere thread of red light, low down
among the bushes.

We looked up at Mrs. Hawkins for explanation.

"After the candle fell and went out," she said, "I slipped out, with the
intention of exploring again, and this time alone, and in darkness. I
came up this blind alley, and, looking sharply, descried that glimmer of
light. And now I am convinced that the revelers, human or ghostly, are
below there, in that old, disused cellar that we were made to believe
was nearly full of water, and required to be drained. Don't be agitated,
children! take it coolly," concluded Mrs. Hawkins, stooping down to put
aside the weeds and bushes.

Just at this moment another detonating roll of the ball, and scattering
fall of the pins, and peal of hollow laughter, resounded from below.

Urr-rr-rr-r-r-r-rattle bang-ang-ang! "Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! Ho! ho! ho!
ho! A dead shot!"

"Too late, young gentlemen! Your fun is all over! Your game is up! You
are discovered! Come forth!" said Mrs. Hawkins, who, down upon her
knees, pulled away the bushes, turned up the old, broken and mouldy
cellar door, and discovered the scene below.

A rudely fitted-up bowling alley, occupying the further end of the room,
and some eight or ten youths, no longer engaged in rolling balls, but,
on the contrary, standing in various attitudes of detected culpability.

"Come! come forth!" commanded Mrs. Hawkins.

And they came, climbing up the rotten and moldering steps, and the very
first who put his impudent head up through the door into the open air
was Will Rackaway!

"Oh! Will," exclaimed Alice, reproachfully.

"You! Will?" questioned Mrs. Hawkins, in scandalized astonishment.

"No! the ghost of O'Donnegan," replied the youth, in a sepulchral voice.

"Reprobate!" exclaimed our grandmother.

"Now, indeed, indeed, I was only taking the liberty of entertaining my
friends in my kind Aunt Hawkins' cellar. Quite right, you know! Only
don't tell father, and I'll never do so no more!" pleaded Will, with
mock humility.

"Dismiss your comrades, sir! and come into the house! I shall send for
your father to-morrow morning," said Mrs. Hawkins, in a stern voice.

There was no need to dismiss the intruders; they were climbing up the
dilapidated steps as fast as they could come, and slinking away with
averted heads, trying to conceal their faces, which Mrs. Hawkins did not
insist upon discovering. When they were all gone, Will followed us into
the house.

"Now, then, sir, explain your conduct," ordered Mrs. Hawkins.

And Will, with an air of mock humility and deprecation, obeyed.

The account he gave was briefly this: Himself and several other youths,
sons of very strict parents, who proscribed ninepins with other games,
had, out of some old timber and furniture left of O'Donnegan's old
ninepin alley, that had been taken down and carried away, fitted up the
old, disused cellar for their games. They had played there recently
every night, with no other intention than that of amusing themselves,
and of keeping their game concealed--with no thought of enacting a
ghostly drama, until, to their astonishment, they gradually learned that
these revels were mistaken for ghostly orgies, and had given the house
its unenviable reputation of being haunted--a joke much too good for
human nature, and especially for boys' human nature, not to carry out.
Everything favored their concealment. The cellar was reputed to be half
full of water, and was long disused, and every cellar window, except the
narrow, hidden one that they had turned into a door, was nailed up.
Besides, the front division of the cellar was really two feet deep in
water, and when there was any great risk of discovery they had a means
of letting it in to overflow the back division, so that their fixtures
were all covered. Thus for months they had played the double game of
ninepins and of a ghostly drama!

Need I say more? Will was let off with a lengthy lecture, which I have
reason to believe did him a vast deal of good, as he is now the staid
father of a family, and pastor of a church. Mrs. Hawkins was for the
next nine days the wonder of the neighborhood for having so valiantly
exorcised the ghosts. And we settled down in perfect content in the fine
old house, to which we possessed the double right of rental and of
conquest.


THE END.



THE GILBERTS;

OR,

RICE CORNER NUMBER TWO.



CHAPTER I.

THE GILBERTS.


The spring following Carrie Howard's death Rice Corner was thrown into a
commotion by the astounding fact that Captain Howard was going out West,
and had sold his farm to a gentleman from the city, whose wife "kept six
servants, wore silk all the time, never went inside of the kitchen,
never saw a churn, breakfasted at ten, dined at three, and had supper
the next day!"

Such was the story which Mercy Jenkins detailed to us early one Monday
morning, and then, eager to communicate so desirable a piece of news to
others of her acquaintance, she started off, stopping for a moment as
she passed the wash-room to see if Sally's clothes "wan't kinder dingy
and yaller." As soon as she was gone the astonishment of our household
broke forth, grandma wondering why Captain Howard wanted to go to the
ends of the earth, as she designated Chicago, their place of
destination, and what she should do without Aunt Eunice, who, having
been born on grandma's wedding-day, was very dear to her, and then her
age was so easy to keep. But the best of friends must part, and when at
Mrs. Howard's last tea-drinking with us I saw how badly they all felt,
and how many tears were shed, I firmly resolved never to like anybody
but my own folks, unless, indeed, I made an exception in favor of Tom
Jenkins, who so often drew me to school on his sled, and who made such
comical looking jack-o'-lanterns out of the big yellow pumpkins.

In reply to the numerous questions concerning Mr. Gilbert, the purchaser
of their farm, Mrs. Howard could only reply that he was very wealthy and
had got tired of living in the city; adding, further, that he wore a
"monstrous pair of musquitoes," had an evil-looking eye, four children,
smoked cigars, and was a lawyer by profession. This last was all grandma
wanted to know about him--"that told the whole story," for there never
was but _one_ decent lawyer, and that was Mr. Evelyn, Cousin Emma's
husband. Dear old lady! when a few years ago, she heard that I, her
favorite grandchild, was to marry one of the craft, she made another
exception in his favor, saying that "if he wasn't all straight, Mary
would soon make him so!"

Within a short time after Aunt Eunice's visit she left Rice Corner, and
on the same day wagon-load after wagon-load of Mr. Gilbert's furniture
passed our house, until Sally declared "there was enough to keep a
tavern, and she didn't see nothin' where theys' goin' to put it," at the
same time announcing her intention of "running down there after dinner,
to see what was going on."

It will be remembered that Sally was now a married woman--"Mrs. Michael
Welsh;" consequently, mother, who lived with her, instead of her living
with mother, did not presume to interfere with her much, though she
hinted pretty strongly that she "always liked to see people mind their
own affairs." But Sally was incorrigible. The dinner dishes were washed
with a whew, I was coaxed into sweeping the back room--which I did,
leaving the dirt under the broom behind the door--while Mrs. Welsh,
donning a pink calico, blue shawl, and bonnet trimmed with dark green,
started off on her prying excursion, stopping by the roadside where Mike
was making fence, and keeping him, as grandma said, "full half an hour
by the clock from his work."

Not long after Sally's departure a handsome carriage, drawn by two fine
bay horses, passed our house; and as the windows were down we could
plainly discern a pale, delicate-looking lady, wrapped in shawls, a
tall, stylish-looking girl, another one about my own age, and two
beautiful little boys.

"That's the Gilberts, I know," said Anna. "Oh, I'm so glad Sally's gone,
for now we shall have the full particulars;" and again we waited as
impatiently for Sally's return as we had once done before for grandma.

At last, to our great relief, the green ribbons and blue shawl were
descried in the distance, and ere long Sally was with us, ejaculating,
"Oh, my--mercy me!" etc., thus giving us an inkling of what was to
follow. "Of all the sights that ever I have seen," said she, folding up
the blue shawl, and smoothing down the pink calico. "There's carpeting
enough to cover every crack and crevice--all pure bristles, too!"

Here I tittered, whereupon Sally angrily retorted, that "she guessed she
knew how to talk proper, if she hadn't studied grammar."

"Never mind," said Anna, "go on; brussels carpeting and what else?"

"Mercy knows what else," answered Sally. "I can't begin to guess the
names of half the things. There's mahogany, and rosewood, and marble
fixin's--and in Miss Gilbert's room there's lace curtains and silk
damson ones"--

A look from Anna restrained me this time, and Sally continued.

"Mercy Jenkins is there, helpin', and she says Mr. Gilbert told 'em, his
wife never et a piece of salt pork in her life, and knew no more how
bread was made than a child two years old."

"What a simple critter she must be," said grandma, while Anna asked if
she saw Mrs. Gilbert, and if that tall girl was her daughter.

"Yes, I seen her," answered Sally, "and I guess she's weakly, for the
minit she got into the house she lay down on the sofa, which Mr. Gilbert
says cost seventy-five dollars. That tall, proud-lookin' thing they call
Miss Adaline, but I'll warrant you don't catch me puttin' on the miss. I
called her Adaline, and you had orto seen how her big eyes looked at me.
Says she, at last, 'Are you one of pa's new servants?'

"'Servants!' says I, 'no, indeed; I'm Mrs. Michael Welsh, one of your
nighest neighbors.'

"Then I told her that there were two nice girls lived in the house with
me, and she'd better get acquainted with 'em right away; and then with
the hatefulest of all hateful laughs, she asked if 'they wore glass
beads and went barefoot.'"

I fancied that neither Juliet nor Anna were greatly pleased at being
introduced by Sally, the housemaid, to the elegant Adaline Gilbert, who
had come to the country with anything but a favorable impression of its
inhabitants. The second daughter, the one about my own age, Sally said
they called Nellie; "and a nice, clever creature she is, too--not a bit
stuck up like t'other one. Why, I do believe she'd walked every big
beast in the barn before she'd been there half an hour, and the last I
saw of her she was coaxing a cow to lie still while she got upon her
back!"

How my heart warmed toward the romping Nellie, and how I wondered if
after that beam-walking exploit her hooks and eyes were all in their
places! The two little boys, Sally said, were twins, Edward and Egbert,
or, as they were familiarly called, Bert and Eddie. This was nearly all
she had learned, if we except the fact that the family ate with silver
forks, and drank wine after dinner. This last, mother pronounced
heterodox, while I, who dearly loved the juice of the grape, and
sometimes left finger marks on the top shelf, whither I had climbed for
a sip from grandma's decanter, secretly hoped I should some day dine
with Nellie Gilbert, and drink all the wine I wanted, thinking how many
times I'd rinse my mouth so mother shouldn't smell my breath!

In the course of a few weeks the affairs of the Gilbert family were
pretty generally canvassed in Rice Corner, Mercy Jenkins giving it as
her opinion that "Miss Gilbert was much the likeliest of the two, and
that Mr. Gilbert was cross, overbearing, and big feeling."



CHAPTER II.

NELLIE.


As yet I had only seen Nellie in the distance, and was about despairing
of making her acquaintance when accident threw her in my way. Directly
opposite our house, and just across a long green meadow, was a piece of
woods which belonged to Mr. Gilbert, and there, one afternoon early in
May, I saw Nellie. I had seen her there before, but never dared approach
her; and now I divided my time between watching her and a dense black
cloud which had appeared in the west, and was fast approaching the
zenith. I was just thinking how nice it would be if the rain should
drive her to our house for shelter, when patter, patter came the large
drops in my face; thicker and faster they fell, until it seemed like a
perfect deluge; and through the almost blinding sheet of rain I descried
Nellie coming toward me at a furious rate. With the agility of a fawn
she bounded over the gate, and with the exclamation of, "Ain't I wetter
than a drownded rat?" we were perfectly well acquainted.

It took but a short time to divest her of her dripping garments, and
array her in some of mine, which Sally said "fitted her to a T," though
I fancied she looked sadly out of place in my linen pantalets and
long-sleeved dress. She was a great lover of fun and frolic, and in less
than half an hour had "ridden to Boston" on Joe's rocking-horse, turned
the little wheel faster than even I dared to turn it, tried on grandma's
stays, and then, as a crowning feat, tried the rather dangerous
experiment of riding down the garret stairs on a board! The clatter
brought up grandma, and I felt some doubts about her relishing a kind of
play which savored so much of what she called "a racket," but the soft
brown eyes which looked at her so pleadingly were too full of love,
gentleness, and mischief to be resisted, and permission for "one more
ride" was given, "provided she'd promise not to break her neck."

Oh, what fun we had that afternoon! What a big rent she tore in my
gingham frock, and what a "dear, delightful old haunted castle of a
thing" she pronounced our house to be. Darling, darling Nellie! I shut
my eyes and she comes before me again, the same bright, beautiful
creature she was when I saw her first, as she was when I saw her for the
last, last time.

It rained until dark, and Nellie, who confidently expected to stay all
night, had whispered to me her intention of "tying our toes together,"
when there came a tremendous rap upon the door, and without waiting to
be bidden in walked Mr. Gilbert, puffing and swelling, and making
himself perfectly at home, in a kind of off-hand manner, which had in it
so much of condescension that I was disgusted, and when sure Nellie
would not see me I made at him a wry face, thereby feeling greatly
relieved!

After managing to let mother know how expensive his family was, how much
he paid yearly for wines and cigars, and how much Adaline's education
and piano had cost, he arose to go, saying to his daughter. "Come, puss,
take off those--ahem--those habiliments, and let's be off!"

Nellie obeyed, and just before she was ready to start, she asked when I
would come and spend the day with her.

I looked at mother, mother looked at Mr. Gilbert, Mr. Gilbert looked at
me, and after surveying me from head to foot said, spitting between
every other word, "Ye-es, ye-es, we've come to live in the country, and
I suppose" (here he spit three successive times), "and I suppose we may
as well be on friendly terms as any other; so, madam" (turning to
mother), "I am willing to have your little daughter visit us
occasionally." Then adding that "he would extend the same invitation to
her, were it not that his wife was an invalid and saw no company," he
departed.

One morning, several days afterward, a servant brought to our house a
neat little note from Mrs. Gilbert, asking mother to let me spend the
day with Nellie. After some consultation between mother and grandma, it
was decided that I might go, and in less than an hour I was dressed and
on the road, my hair braided so tightly in my neck that the little red
bumps of flesh set up here and there, like currants on a brown earthen
platter.

Nellie did not wait to receive me formally, but came running down the
road, telling me that Robin had made a swing in the barn, and that we
would play there most all day, as her mother was sick, and Adaline, who
occupied two-thirds of the house, wouldn't let us come near her. This
Adaline was to me a very formidable personage. Hitherto I had only
caught glimpses of her, as with long skirts and waving plumes she
sometimes dashed past our house on horseback, and it was with great
trepidation that I now followed Nellie into the parlor, where she told
me her sister was.

"Adaline, this is my little friend," said she; and Adaline replied:

"How do you do, little friend?"

My cheeks tingled, and for the first time raising my eyes I found myself
face to face with the haughty belle. She was very tall and queenlike in
her figure, and though she could hardly be called handsome, there was
about her an air of elegance and refinement which partially compensated
for the absence of beauty. That she was proud one could see from the
glance of her large black eyes and the curl of her lip. Coolly surveying
me for a moment, as she would any other curious specimen, she resumed
her book, never speaking to me again, except to ask, when she saw me
gazing wonderingly around the splendidly-furnished room, "if I supposed
I could remember every article of furniture, and give a faithful
report."

I thought I was insulted when she called me "little friend," and now,
feeling sure of it, I tartly replied that "if I couldn't she perhaps
might lend me paper and pencil, with which to write them down."

"Original, truly," said she, again poring over her book.

Nellie, who had left me for a moment, now returned, bidding me come and
see her mother, and passing through the long hall, I was soon in Mrs.
Gilbert's room, which was as tastefully, though perhaps not quite so
richly, furnished as the parlor. Mrs. Gilbert was lying upon a sofa, and
the moment I looked upon her, the love which I had so freely given the
daughter was shared with the mother, in whose pale sweet face, and soft
brown eyes, I saw a strong resemblance to Nellie. She was attired in a
rose-colored morning-gown, which flowed open in front, disclosing to
view a larger quantity of rich French embroidery than I had ever before
seen.

Many times during the day, and many times since, have I wondered what
made her marry, and if she really loved the bearish-looking man who
occasionally stalked into the room, smoking cigars and talking very
loudly, when he knew how her head was throbbing with pain.

I had eaten but little breakfast that morning, and verily I thought I
should famish before their dinner hour arrived; and when at last it
came, and I saw the table glittering with silver, I felt many misgivings
as to my ability to acquit myself creditably. But by dint of watching
Nellie, doing just what she did, and refusing just what she refused, I
managed to get through with it tolerably well. For once, too, in my life
I drank all the wine I wanted; the result of which was that long before
sunset I went home, crying and vomiting with the sick headache, which
Sally said "served me right;" at the same time hinting her belief that I
was slightly intoxicated!



CHAPTER III.

THE HAUNTED HOUSE.


Down our long, green lane, and at the further extremity of the narrow
footpath which led to the "old mine," was another path or wagon road
which wound along among the fern bushes, under the chestnut trees,
across the hemlock swamp, and up to a grassy ridge which overlooked a
small pond, said, of course, to have no bottom. Fully crediting this
story, and knowing, moreover, that China was opposite to us, I had often
taken down my atlas and hunted through that ancient empire, in hopes of
finding a corresponding sheet of water. Failing to do so I had made one
with my pencil, writing against it, "Cranberry Pond," that being the
name of its American brother.

Just above the pond on the grassy ridge stood an old dilapidated
building which had long borne the name of the "haunted house," I never
knew whether this title was given it on account of its proximity to the
"old mine," or because it stood near the very spot where, years and
years ago, the "bloody Indians" pushed those cart-loads of burning hemp
against the doors "of the only remaining house in Quaboag"--for which
see Goodrich's Child's History, page --, somewhere toward the
commencement. I only know that 'twas called the "haunted house," and
that for a long time no one would live there, on account of the rapping,
dancing, and cutting-up generally which was said to prevail there,
particularly in the west room, the one overhung with ivy and grapevines.

Three or four years before our story opens a widow lady, Mrs. Hudson,
with her only daughter, Mabel, appeared in our neighborhood, hiring the
"haunted house," and, in spite of the neighbors' predictions to the
contrary, living there quietly and peaceably, unharmed by ghost or
goblin. At first Mrs. Hudson was looked upon with distrust, and even a
league with a certain old fellow was hinted at; but as she seemed to be
well disposed, kind, and affable toward all, this feeling gradually wore
away, and now she was universally liked, while Mabel, her daughter, was
a general favorite. For two years past, Mabel had worked in the Fiskdale
factory a portion of the time, going to school the remainder of the
year. She was fitting herself for a teacher, and as the school in our
district was small, the trustees had this summer kindly offered it to
her. This arrangement delighted me; for, next to Nellie Gilbert, I loved
Mabel Hudson best of anybody; and I fancied, too, that they looked
alike, but of course it was all fancy.

Mrs. Hudson was a tailoress, and the day following my visit to Mr.
Gilbert's I was sent by mother to take her some work. I found her in the
little porch, her white cap-border falling over her placid face, and her
wide checked apron coming nearly to the bottom of her dress. Mabel was
there, too, and as she rose to receive me something about her reminded
me of Adaline Gilbert. I could not tell what it was, for Mabel was very
beautiful, and beside her Adaline would be plain; still there was a
resemblance, either in voice or manner, and this it was, perhaps, which
made me so soon mention the Gilberts and my visit to them the day
previous.

Instantly Mrs. Hudson and Mabel exchanged glances, and I thought the
face of the former grew a shade paler; still I may have been mistaken,
for in her usual tone of voice she began to ask me numberless questions
concerning the family, which seemed singular, as she was not remarkable
for curiosity. But it suited me. I loved to talk then not less than I do
now, and in a few minutes I had told all I knew--and more, too, most
likely.

At last Mrs. Hudson asked about Mr. Gilbert, and how I liked him.

"Not a bit," said I. "He's the hatefulest, crossest, big-feelingest man
I ever saw, and Adaline is just like him!"

Had I been a little older I might, perhaps, have wondered at the crimson
flush which my hasty words brought to Mrs. Hudson's cheek, but I did not
notice it then, and thinking she was, of course, highly entertained, I
continued to talk about Mr. Gilbert and Adaline, in the last of whom
Mabel seemed the most interested. Of Nellie I spoke with the utmost
affection, and when Mrs. Hudson expressed a wish to see her, I promised,
if possible, to bring her there; then, as I had already outstaid the
time for which permission had been given, I tied on my sunbonnet and
started for home, revolving the ways and means by which I should keep my
promise.

This proved to be a very easy matter; for within a few days Nellie came
to return my visit, and as mother had other company she the more readily
gave us permission to go where we pleased. Nellie had a perfect passion
for ghost and witch stories, saying though that "she never liked to have
them explained--she'd rather they'd be left in solemn mystery;" so when
I told her of the "old mine" and the "haunted house" she immediately
expressed a desire to see them. Hiding our bonnets under our aprons the
better to conceal our intentions from sister Lizzie, who, we fancied,
had serious thoughts of _tagging_, we sent her upstairs in quest of
something which we knew was not there, and then away we scampered down
the green lane and across the pasture, dropping once into some alders as
Lizzie's yellow hair became visible on the fence at the foot of the
lane. Our consciences smote us a little, but we kept still until she
returned to the house; then, continuing our way, we soon came in sight
of the mine, which Nellie determined to explore.

It was in vain that I tried to dissuade her from the attempt. She was
resolved, and stationing myself at a safe distance I waited while she
scrambled over stones, sticks, logs, and bushes, until she finally
disappeared in the cave. Ere long, however, she returned with soiled
pantelets, torn apron, and scratched face, saying that "the mine was
nothing in the world but a hole in the ground, and a mighty little one
at that." After this I didn't know but I would sometime venture in, but
for fear of what might happen I concluded to choose a time when I hadn't
run away from Liz!

When I presented Nellie to Mrs. Hudson she took both her hands in hers,
and, greatly to my surprise, kissed her on both cheeks. Then she walked
hastily into the next room, but not until I saw something fall from her
eyes, which I am sure were tears.

"Funny, isn't it?" said Nellie, looking wonderingly at me. "I don't know
whether to laugh or what."

Mabel now came in, and though she manifested no particular emotion, she
was exceedingly kind to Nellie, asking her many questions, and sometimes
smoothing her brown curls. When Mrs. Hudson again appeared she was very
calm, but I noticed that her eyes constantly rested upon Nellie, who,
with Mabel's grey kitten in her lap, was seated upon the doorstep, the
very image of childish innocence and beauty. Mrs. Hudson urged us to
stay to tea, but I declined, knowing that there was company at home,
with three kinds of cake, besides cookies, for supper. So bidding her
good-bye, and promising to come again, we started homeward, where we
found the ladies discussing their green tea and making large inroads
upon the three kinds of cake.

One of them, a Mrs. Thompson, was gifted with the art of
fortune-telling, by means of tea-grounds, and when Nellie and I took our
seats at the table she kindly offered to see what was in store for us.
She had frequently told my fortune, each time managing to fish up a
freckle-faced boy so nearly resembling her grandson, my particular
aversion, that I didn't care to hear it again. But with Nellie 'twas all
new, and after a great whirling of tea-grounds and staining of mother's
best table-cloth, she passed her cup to Mrs. Thompson, confidently
whispering to me that she guessed she'd tell her something about Willie
Raymond, who lived in the city, and who gave her the little cornelian
ring which she wore. With the utmost gravity Mrs. Thompson read off the
past and present, and then peering far into the future she suddenly
exclaimed, "Oh, my! there's a gulf, or something, before you, and you
are going to tumble into it headlong; don't ask me anything more."

I never did and never shall believe in fortune-telling, much less in
Granny Thompson's "turned-up cups," but years after I thought of her
prediction with regard to Nellie. Poor, poor Nellie!



CHAPTER IV.

JEALOUSY.


On the first Monday in June our school commenced, and long before
breakfast Lizzie and I were dressed and had turned inside out the little
cupboard over the fireplace where our books were kept during vacation.
Breakfast being over we deposited in our dinner-basket the whole of a
custard pie, and were about starting off when mother said, "we shouldn't
go a step until half-past eight," adding further, that "we must put that
pie back, for 'twas one she'd saved for their own dinner."

Lizzie pouted, while I cried, and taking my bonnet I repaired to the
"great rock," where the sassafras, blackberries, and blacksnakes grew.
Here I sat for a long time, thinking if I ever did grow up and get
married (I was sure of the latter), I'd have all the custard pie I could
eat for once! In the midst of my reverie a footstep sounded near, and
looking up I saw before me Nellie Gilbert, with her satchel of books on
her arm, and her sunbonnet hanging down her back, after the fashion in
which I usually wore mine. In reply to my look of inquiry she said her
father had concluded to let her go to the district school, though he
didn't expect her to learn anything but "slang terms and ill manners."

By this time it was half-past eight, and together with Lizzie we
repaired to the schoolhouse, where we found assembled a dozen girls and
as many boys, among whom was Tom Jenkins. Tom was a great admirer of
beauty, and hence I could never account for the preference he had
hitherto shown for me, who my brothers called "bung-eyed" and Sally
"raw-boned." He, however, didn't think so. My eyes, he said, were none
too large, and many a night had he carried home my books for me, and
many a morning had he brought me nuts and raisins, to say nothing of the
time when I found in my desk a little note, which said--But everybody
who's been to school, knows what it said!

Taking it all round we were as good as engaged; so you can judge what
my feelings were when, before the night of Nellie's first day at school,
I saw Tom Jenkins giving her an orange which I had every reason to think
was originally intended for me! I knew very well that Nellie's brown
curls and eyes had done the mischief; and though I did not love her the
less, I blamed him the more for his fickleness, for only a week before
he had praised my eyes, calling them a "beautiful indigo blue," and all
that. I was highly incensed, and when on our way from school he tried to
speak good-humoredly, I said, "I'd thank you to let me alone! I don't
like you, and never did!"

He looked sorry for a minute, but soon forgot it all in talking to
Nellie, who after he had left us said "he was a cleverish kind of boy,
though he couldn't begin with William Raymond." After that I was very
cool toward Tom, who attached himself more and more to Nellie, saying
"she had the handsomest eyes he ever saw"; and, indeed, I think it
chiefly owing to those soft, brown, dreamy eyes that I am not now "Mrs.
Tom Jenkins of Jenkinsville," a place way out West, whither Tom and his
mother have migrated.

One day Nellie was later at school than usual, giving as a reason that
their folks had company--a Mr. Sherwood and his mother, from Hartford;
and adding that if I'd never tell anybody as long as I lived and
breathed she'd tell me something.

Of course I promised, and Nellie told me how she guessed that Mr.
Sherwood, who was rich and handsome, liked Adaline. "Anyway, Adaline
likes him," said she, "and oh, she's so nice and good when he's around.
I ain't 'Nell, you hateful thing' then, but I'm 'Sister Nellie.' They
are going to ride this morning, and perhaps they'll go by here. There
they are, now!" and looking toward the road I saw Mr. Sherwood and
Adaline Gilbert on horseback, riding leisurely past the schoolhouse. She
was nodding to Nellie, but he was looking intently at Mabel, who was
sitting near the window. I know he asked Adaline something about her,
for I distinctly heard a part of her reply--"a poor factory girl," and
Adaline's head tossed scornfully, as if that were a sufficient reason
why Mabel should be despised.

Mr. Sherwood evidently did not think so, for the next day he walked by
alone--and the next day he did the same, this time bringing with him a
book, and seating himself in the shadow of a chestnut tree not far from
the schoolhouse. The moment school was out, he arose and came forward,
inquiring for Nellie, who, of course, introduced him to Mabel. The
three then walked on together, while Tom Jenkins stayed in the rear with
me, wondering what I wanted to act so for; "couldn't a feller like more
than one girl if he wanted to?"

"Yes, I s'posed a feller could, though I didn't know, nor care!"

Tom made no reply, but whittled away upon a bit of shingle, which
finally assumed the shape of a heart, and which I afterward found in his
desk with the letter "N" written upon it, and then scratched out. When
at last we reached our house Mr. Sherwood asked Nellie "where that old
mine and sawmill were, of which she had told him so much."

"Right on Miss Hudson's way home," said Nellie. "Let's walk along with
her;" and the next moment Mr. Sherwood, Mabel, and Nellie were in the
long, green lane which led down to the sawmill.

Oh, how Adaline stormed when she heard of it, and how sneeringly she
spoke to Mr. Sherwood of the "factory girl," insinuating that the bloom
on her cheek was paint, and the lily on her brow powder! But he probably
did not believe it, for almost every day he passed the schoolhouse,
generally managing to speak with Mabel; and once he went all the way
home with her, staying ever so long, too, for I watched until 'twas
pitch dark, and he hadn't got back yet!

In a day or two he went home, and I thought no more about him, until
Tom, who had been to the post office, brought Mabel a letter, which made
her turn red and white alternately, until at last she cried. She was
very absent-minded the remainder of that day, letting us do as we
pleased, and never in my life did I have a better time "carrying on"
than I did that afternoon when Mabel received her first letter from Mr.
Sherwood.



CHAPTER V.

NEW RELATIONS.


About six weeks after the close of Mabel's school we were one day
startled with the intelligence that she was going to be married, and to
Mr. Sherwood, too. He had become tired of the fashionable ladies of his
acquaintance, and when he saw how pure and artless Mabel was, he
immediately became interested in her; and at last, overcoming all
feelings of pride, he had offered her his hand, and had been accepted.
At first we could hardly credit the story; but when Mrs. Hudson herself
confirmed it we gave it up, and again I wondered if I should be invited.
All the nicest and best chestnuts which I could find, to say nothing of
the apples and butternuts, I carried to her, not without my reward
either, for when invitations came to us I was included with the rest.
Our family were the only invited guests, and I felt no fears this time
of being hidden by the crowd.

Just before the ceremony commenced there was the sound of a heavy
footstep upon the outer porch, a loud knock at the door, and then into
the room came Mr. Gilbert! He seemed slightly agitated, but not one-half
so much as Mrs. Hudson, who exclaimed, "William, my son, why are you
here?"

"I came to witness my sister's bridal," was the answer; and turning
toward the clergyman, he said, somewhat authoritatively, "Do not delay
for me, sir. Go on."

There was a movement in the next room, and then the bridal party
entered, both starting with surprise as they saw Mr. Gilbert. Very
beautiful did Mabel look as she stood up to take upon herself the
marriage vow, not a syllable of which did one of us hear. We were
thinking of Mr. Gilbert, and the strange words, "my son" and "my
sister."

When it was over, and Mabel was Mrs. Sherwood, Mr. Gilbert approached
Mrs. Hudson, saying, "Come, mother, let me lead you to the bride."

With an impatient gesture she waved him off, and going alone to her
daughter, threw her arms around her neck, sobbing convulsively. There
was an awkward silence, and then Mr. Gilbert, thinking he was called
upon for an explanation, arose, and addressing himself mostly to Mr.
Sherwood, said, "I suppose what has transpired here to-night seems
rather strange, and will undoubtedly furnish the neighborhood with
gossip for more than a week, but they are welcome to canvass whatever I
do. I can't help it if I was born with an unusual degree of pride,
neither can I help feeling mortified, as I many times did, at my family,
particularly after she," glancing at his mother, "married the man whose
name she bears."

Here Mrs. Hudson lifted up her head, and coming to Mr. Gilbert's side,
stood proudly erect, while he continued: "She would tell you he was a
good man, but I hated him, and swore never to enter the house while he
lived. I went away, took care of myself, grew rich, married into one of
the first families in Hartford, and--and"--

Here he paused, and his mother, continuing the sentence, added, "and
grew ashamed of your own mother, who many a time went without the
comforts of life that you might be educated. You were always a proud,
wayward boy, William, but never did I think you would do as you have
done. You have treated me with utter neglect, never allowing your wife
to see me, and when I once proposed visiting you in Hartford you asked
your brother, now dead, to dissuade me from it, if possible, for you
could not introduce me to your acquaintances as your mother. Never do
you speak of me to your children, who, if they know they have a
grandmother, little dream that she lives within a mile of their father's
dwelling. One of them I have seen, and my heart yearned toward her as it
did toward you when first I took you in my arms, my firstborn baby; and
yet, William, I thank Heaven there is in her sweet face no trace of her
father's features. This may sound harsh, unmotherly, but greatly have I
been sinned against, and now, just as a brighter day is dawning upon me,
why have you come here? Say, William, why?"

By the time Mrs. Hudson had finished, nearly all in the room were
weeping. Mr. Gilbert, however, seemed perfectly indifferent, and with
the most provoking coolness, replied, "I came to see my fair sister
married--to congratulate her upon an alliance which will bring us upon a
more equal footing."

"You greatly mistake me, sir," said Mr. Sherwood, turning haughtily
toward Mr. Gilbert, at the same time drawing Mabel nearer to him; "you
greatly mistake me, if, after what I have heard, you think I would wish
for your acquaintance. If my wife, when poor and obscure, was not worthy
of your attention, _you_ certainly are not now worthy of hers, and it is
my request that our intercourse should end here."

Mr. Gilbert muttered something about "extenuating circumstances," and
"the whole not being told," but no one paid him any attention; and at
last, snatching up his hat, he precipitately left the house, I sending
after him a hearty good riddance, and mentally hoping he would measure
his length in the ditch which he must pass on his way across Hemlock
Swamp.

The next morning Mr. and Mrs. Sherwood departed on their bridal tour,
intending on their return to take their mother with them to the city.
Several times during their absence I saw Mr. Gilbert, either going to
or returning from the "haunted house," and I readily guessed he was
trying to talk his mother over, for nothing could be more mortifying
than to be cut by the Sherwoods, who were among the first in Hartford.
Afterward, greatly to my satisfaction, I heard that though, motherlike,
Mrs. Hudson had forgiven her son, Mr. Sherwood ever treated him with a
cool haughtiness which effectually kept him at a distance.

Once, indeed, at Mabel's earnest request, Mrs. Gilbert and Nellie were
invited to visit her, and as the former was too feeble to accomplish the
journey, Nellie went alone, staying a long time, and torturing her
sister on her return with a glowing account of the elegantly-furnished
house, of which Adaline had once hoped to be the proud mistress.

For several years after Mabel's departure from Rice Corner nothing
especial occurred in the Gilbert family, except the marriage of Adaline
with a rich bachelor, who must have been many years older than her
father, for he colored his whiskers, wore false teeth and a wig, besides
having, as Nellie declared, a wooden leg! For the truth of this last I
will not vouch, as Nellie's assertion was only founded upon the fact of
her having once looked through the keyhole of his door and espied,
standing by his bed, something which looked like a cork leg, but which
might have been a boot! What Adaline saw in him to like I could never
guess. I suppose, however, that she only looked at his rich gilding,
which covered a multitude of defects.

Immediately after the wedding the happy pair started for a two-years
tour in Europe, where the youthful bride so enraged her baldheaded lord
by flirting with a mustached Frenchman that in a fit of anger the old
man picked up his goods, chattels, and wife, and returned to New York
within three months of his leaving it!



CHAPTER VI.

POOR, POOR NELLIE.


And now, in the closing chapter of this brief sketch of the Gilberts, I
come to the saddest part--the fate of poor Nellie, the dearest playmate
my childhood knew, she whom the lapse of years ripened into a graceful,
beautiful girl, loved by everybody, even by Tom Jenkins, whose boyish
affection had grown with his growth and strengthened with his strength.

And now Nellie was the affianced bride of William Raymond, who had
replaced the little cornelian with the engagement ring. At last the
rumor reached Tom Jenkins, awaking him from the sweetest dream he had
ever known. He could not ask Nellie if it were true, so he came to me;
and when I saw how he grew pale and trembled, I felt that Nellie was not
altogether blameless. But he breathed no word of censure against her;
and when, a year or two afterward, I saw her given to William Raymond, I
knew that the love of two hearts was hers; the one to cherish and watch
over her, the other to love and worship, silently, secretly, as a miser
worships his hidden treasure.

       *       *       *       *       *

The bridal was over. The farewells were over, and Nellie had gone--gone
from the home whose sunlight she had made, and which she had left
forever. Sadly the pale, sick mother wept, and mourned her absence,
listening in vain for the light footfall and soft, ringing voice she
would never hear again.

Three weeks had passed away, and then, far and near the papers teemed
with accounts of the horrible Norwalk catastrophe, which desolated many
a home, and wrung from many a heart its choicest treasure. Side by side
they found them--Nellie and her husband--the light of her brown eyes
quenched forever, and the pulses of his heart still in death!

I was present when they told the poor invalid of her loss, and even now
I seem to hear the bitter, wailing cry which broke from her white lips,
as she begged them to unsay what they had said, and tell her Nellie was
not dead--that she would come back again.

It could not be. Nellie would never return; and in six weeks' time the
broken-hearted mother was at rest with her child.


THE END.



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