"She wound around her fingersHer locks of jetty hair;And brought them into graceful curlAbout her forehead fair."
"She wound around her fingersHer locks of jetty hair;And brought them into graceful curlAbout her forehead fair."
"She wound around her fingers
Her locks of jetty hair;
And brought them into graceful curl
About her forehead fair."
Alice remained closeted in her little room, eating but a morsel of the dinner brought her by Thisbe, till night-fall, when the woman again appeared, and said,
"Mistress says, if Miss Alice has made herself presentable, she can attend her in the family sitting-room in half an hour."
Alice bowed to this message, and said she would be pleased to meet her aunt and cousins at the time specified. The woman paused a moment, and then asked timidly,
"Would not Miss Alice like a waitin'-maid sent to 'sist her in dressin'?"
"No, thank you," returned Alice, smiling. "I am accustomed to wait on myself."
The woman opened wide her shiny eyes, and exclaiming, "Massy! who ever heard the like?" retired with a courtesy.
Alice laughed quite heartily after she was gone. "The idea of a black girl to help me put on a plain muslin frock, and twist my ringlets into a little smoother curl!" said she. "I could array myself to meet a queen in ten minutes."
Thus speaking, she took from her trunk a snowy India muslin frock. It fastened low over her finely-formed shoulders, and a chain of red coral round her neck, with bracelets of the same material on her delicate wrists, completed her toilet. With her own rare grace of motion, she glided down the hall stairs, and into the presence of her aunt, who rose from the soft-cushioned chair in which she had been reclining, with an expression half terror, half anger, distorting her features.
"Mercy, mercy! Another trial to my weak nerves!" she exclaimed. "Thisbe, my nerve-reviver instantly!"
The servant flew from the room, and returned with a small, silver-headed vial, which the lady applied to her nostrils, and soon grew calm.
Alice stood all the while dismayed at the confusion her sudden entrance had occasioned, and the three cousins, perched on cushioned stools, gazed on her with curious eyes. The aunt at length got sufficiently revived to speak.
"Now, Miss Orville, my long-since-departed brother's only child, advance to embrace your affectionate aunt!"
Alice came forward with a gentle, inimitable grace, and, extending her hand, said,
"How do you do, aunt? I am sorry to have made you so ill."
"That is right, Miss Orville! you should be so. My nerves are delicate; the least disturbance sets them all a tremble, and no one understands my nerves; no one appreciates my nerves. Now I will present you to your cousins. I call my daughters my three jewels. The eldest, and belle and beauty, as we call her, is not at home, being in the city of Mobile at present. Her name is Isadora Gabriella Celestina Camford. You will behold her in due time, I trust. My second child is a son. I call him my brilliant among my jewels. Daniel Henry Thomas Lewis John Camford come forward to greet Miss Alice Orville."
The lad thus called on, rose, stretched himself, and coming up to Alice said, "How d'ye do, cous.?"
The young girl received his extended hand kindly, and, after gazing for the space of a full minute straight in her face, he resumed his seat.
"Very well done, my brilliant son!" said the mother. "Next in order comes my second jewel. Now Dulcinea Ophelia Ambrosia Josephine, my adored remembrance of Don Quixote, Shakspeare, the Naiads, and the mighty Napoleon, advance to greet your cousin!"
And this living remembrance of the immortal dead sprang from her stool, and, running to Alice, threw both arms round her neck, and, kissing her on either cheek, exclaimed, "O, Cousin Alice! I'm glad you are come, for now I shall have some one good-natured enough to talk to and go to school with every day; for, by your pretty, angel-face, I know you are a sweet-tempered thing."
During this volubly-uttered harangue, the mother was making helpless gestures to Thisbe for the nerve-reviver; but the graceless wench never heeded one of them, so intently was she gazing with distended eyes and gaping mouth on Miss Pheny's somewhat boisterous, but really warm-hearted greeting of her Cousin Alice. Pheny was a universal favorite among the servants, "for that she was a smilin', good-natured young lady, and not a bit nervousy," as they declared.
At length poor Mrs. Camford uttered a faint cry, which called Thisbe's attention back to the spot from whence it never should have strayed,—her mistress' cushioned chair,—and she rushed in a sort of frenzy for the nerve-reviver, and applied it to the trembling lady's nostrils; whereupon that delicately-constituted specimen of the genus feminine uttered a stentorian shriek and flounced about the room like an irate porcupine, greatly to the terror of Alice, who had never witnessed such a scene before. But neither the brilliant son nor jewel daughters seemed in the least alarmed, and in a few moments the mother regained possession of her chair and senses, when her first act of sanity was to hurl the bottle Thisbe had applied to her nostrils at the poor woman's head with such force, that, had she not dodged the missile, it must have inflicted a severe contusion.
"There, you blundering black brute!" she exclaimed, "see if you'll bring your master's hartshorn headache-dispenser again, when I send for my nerve-reviver. The idea of a delicate woman like me having a bottle of hartshorn bobbed under her nose! The wonder is I am not dead; yes, dead by your hand, you brutal black nigger! But where was I in my presentation? O, I recollect! That mad-cap girl, my second jewel, so horrified me. I dare not yet refer to it lest my nerves become spasmodic again. Pray excuse her, Miss Orville, and I will proceed to my youngest, my infant-jewel! Eldora Adelaide Maria Suzette, greet your cousin, love, as you ought."
The child arose, made a stiff bend of her shoulders, and said, "I hope to see you well, Miss Alice Orville."
Alice returned her salute with a graceful courtesy, and all resumed their seats.
"Now," said Mrs. Camford, "this dreaded ceremony of presentation is over, I hope we may get on well together. I'm desirous, Miss Orville, that you should commence tuition at the seminary immediately. I shall have no pains spared to afford you a fashionable education. As my deceased brother's only child, I would have this much done at my own expense. I always told Ernest, though he married a poor girl from the north, and went off there to live with her, much against the wishes of our parents, that I would never see a child of his suffer."
"I have never suffered, madam!" said Alice, quickly.
"For food and clothes I suppose not, Miss Orville," said Mrs. Camford, loftily; "but my nerves are all shattered by this long confab, and I will now retire, leaving you young people to cultivate each other's acquaintance. Thisbe, carry me to my private apartment!"
And Thisbe lifted her delicate mistress in her arms, and tugged her from the room; an operation that reminded one, not of a "mountain laboring to bring forth a mouse," but of a mouse laboring to bring forth a mountain.
Days and weeks past by, and Alice was not so unhappy as she feared she would be from her first experience. The "belle and beauty" returned from the city of Mobile, under escort of Mr. Gilbert, who proved to be the fair Celestina'sfiancée. And Wayland Morris was a frequent visitor. He often invited Alice to walk over different portions of the city. There was an old ruinous French chateau to which they were wont to direct their steps almost every Saturday evening when the weather was pleasant; and to walk with Morris, gaze into his deep blue eyes, and listen to his eloquent voice as he recited to her old tales and legends of long ago from his well-stored, imaginative brain, was becoming more than life to Alice. Perhaps she did not quite know it then. Whoever knows the value of a blessing till it is withdrawn? Ah! and when we wake some morning to find our hearts left desolate, how earnestly and tearfully do we beg its return, with fervent promises never to drive it from our bosoms, or scorn and slight it again! But does it ever come? Alas, no!
CHAPTER IV.
"O, know ye the land where the cypress and myrtleAre emblems of deeds that are done in her clime,Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,Now melts into sorrow, now maddens to crime;O, know ye the land of the cedar and vine,Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine?"
"O, know ye the land where the cypress and myrtleAre emblems of deeds that are done in her clime,Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,Now melts into sorrow, now maddens to crime;O, know ye the land of the cedar and vine,Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine?"
"O, know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in her clime,
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,
Now melts into sorrow, now maddens to crime;
O, know ye the land of the cedar and vine,
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine?"
Bright, balmy, beautiful southern land! Alas, that amid all your luxuriance of beauty, where the flowering earth smiles up to the far sparkling azure, and all nature seems chanting delicious harmonies, that man should here, as elsewhere, make the one discordant note! Frail, grovelling, passion-blinded man! The noblest imperfection of God! When will he be elevated to the standard for which the Maker designed him?
It was early spring, and the "floating palace," Eclipse, had made many pleasant trips between New Orleans and Louisville, since Alice Orville stood on her guards and feasted her beauty-loving eyes on the delightful river scenery.
The magnificent boat was now at the levee in New Orleans, advertised to sail on the morrow. All was a scene of confusion in her vicinity. Freight and baggage tumbled over the decks, passengers hurrying on board, carts, hacks and omnibuses rudely jostling one against another, runners loudly vociferating for their respective boats, etc. At length a young man made his way through the crowd to the clerk's office, booked his name, and engaged passage for a small town in Tennessee. The clerk glanced at the name, and, instantly extending a hand to the passenger, exclaimed; "Ah, Mr. Morris, happy to meet you! I look in so many different faces, yours did not strike me as familiar at first. How has been your health, and how have you prospered since I saw you last? Now I recollect you were on the boat when we brought the pretty young lady down; Miss Orville, I think was her name. Is she yet in the city?"
"I believe she is," answered Morris, in a tone meant to be careless.
"Surrounded by enamored admirers, no doubt," remarked the clerk. "So you are bound up the river, Morris?"
"Yes, to visit my widowed mother in Tennessee; she is failing in health, and sent for me to come to her."
"Indeed; 'tis like a dutiful son to obey the summons. Will you return to New Orleans?"
"Such is my intention at present."
"Well, make yourself comfortable here, and the Eclipse will set you off at your stopping-place in two or three days," said the gentlemanly clerk, dismissing his friend, as others thronged around for accommodations.
The sun sank behind the "Father of Waters," as before a small gray cottage on the eastern shore of the mighty river, a young, fair-haired girl stood watching its departing light. At length a boat came in view round a winding curve, and the little maiden leaped up, clapped her hands gleefully, and disappeared within the cottage. Onward came the graceful boat, lashing the waters into foam with its swift-revolving wheels. It neared the shore, made a brief halt, and then glided on its way again. A young man bounded up the embankment, and the fair girl met him on the lowly sill with open arms. "Dear sister Winnie, how you are grown!" exclaimed he; "but lead me to mother quickly."
"I will, I will, brother Wayland. She has talked of you all day long, and feared you would not arrive in time to see her."
"Ah! is she failing so rapidly, then?" said the young man, while a gloom stole over his features.
"O, not so very fast!" answered the child; "and now you are come, I dare say she will soon be well again."
He patted her cheek, and hurriedly entered his mother's apartment. She was lying on an humble pallet, wan and emaciated to so fearful a degree, that the son could hardly recognize the parent from whom he had parted eight months before.
"O, mother!" said he in sorrowful, reproachful accents; "why had you not sent for me sooner?"
"I have wanted for nothing, my boy," answered the invalid, in a husky voice. "Your letters spoke of success, and hopes for the future; how could I be so selfish as to call you away from prospects so fair, to tend on a sick-bed?"
The son was silent, and after a few moments' pause, she resumed: "Winnie did all that could be done for me. But for a few weeks I've failed faster than usual, and I could not bear to die without beholding my darling boy once more. Besides, what was to become of Winnie, left alone and unprotected?"
"Do not speak so hopelessly, dear mother," said Wayland, tears gathering in his eyes; "I trust with the advancing spring your health may improve."
The poor woman shook her head. Winnie came, and, putting her little arms round her mother's neck, commenced sobbing bitterly.
"Winnie! Winnie! you worry mother doing so," said Wayland, drawing her away; "come now with me; I want to see your pretty fawn and pet kids."
"O, brother! the white spots are all gone from Fanny's neck and sides, and the kiddies' horns are grown so long I'm half afraid of them; but come, I'll find them for you;" and the child, diverted from her tears, seized her brother's hand to lead him forth in search of her playmates. They were soon found, and after admiring and caressing them a few moments, Wayland left his sister to frolic with them on the lawn, and returned to his mother's side.
They had a long, confidential conversation, in which the son imparted to his affectionate parent a brief history of the past eight months. She listened with eager interest to the rehearsal. When he mentioned Alice Orville, she regarded his countenance with a fixed, searching expression, and a faint smile stole over her pale, sad face; but when he breathed the name of Camford, she started convulsively, and demanded his Christian name.
"Adolphus," answered Wayland, in amaze at her emotion. "He is Miss Orville's uncle, and the wealthiest merchant in New Orleans."
"'Tis the same," she murmured; "you were too young, my son, when your father died, to have any recollection of the events which preceded his death; but you have heard from me that he was hurried out of the world by temporal misfortunes too great for his delicate, sensitive temperament to endure. The sudden descent from affluence to poverty bore him to the grave. And I have told you, Wayland, that by the hand of one man, all this woe and suffering was brought upon us."
"And who was that man, dear mother?" asked the youth, in an agitated voice.
"Adolphus Camford," answered she, trembling as she spoke the fatal name.
"Is it possible?" exclaimed Wayland, starting to his feet. "Then may the son avenge the father!"
"Stop, my boy," said his mother; "I intended this revelation but as a caution for you against your father's destroyer. 'Vengeance is mine, I will repay,' saith the Lord. Promise that you will remember this, Wayland, or I cannot die in peace."
"I promise, mother," said the young man, bowing at the bed-side, and leaning his head tenderly on her bosom.
CHAPTER V.
"If there is anything I hate on earth,It is a ranting, tattling, prattling jade,Who gossips all day long, and fattens onHer neighbors' foibles, and at night lies downTo dream some ghostly tale, and rises soonTo bawl it through the town as good and true."
"If there is anything I hate on earth,It is a ranting, tattling, prattling jade,Who gossips all day long, and fattens onHer neighbors' foibles, and at night lies downTo dream some ghostly tale, and rises soonTo bawl it through the town as good and true."
"If there is anything I hate on earth,
It is a ranting, tattling, prattling jade,
Who gossips all day long, and fattens on
Her neighbors' foibles, and at night lies down
To dream some ghostly tale, and rises soon
To bawl it through the town as good and true."
Hast ever attended a Ladies' Sewing Circle, reader, and witnessed the benevolent proceedings of the matrons, spinsters, and young maidens, for the poor, benighted heathen on the far-distant shores of Hindostan, or the benighted millions who sit in the "region and shadow of death" on the desert plains of Ethiopia? And while thou hast heard the lady president plead so eloquently for those nations, who, groaning in their self-forged chains, bow to the great Moloch of superstition and idolatry, as to "draw tears of blood," as it were, from the eyes of her rapt and devoted listeners, hast ever marked a pale, trembling child of want totter to the door, and ask for the "crumbs that fall" from this humane society's tea-table, and heard the answer, "Begone! this is a benevolent association for the purpose of evangelizing the heathen, not to feed lazy beggars at our own doors?"
And has thy lips dared e'en to whisper,
"O for the charity that begins at home!"
"O for the charity that begins at home!"
Well, the "Ladies' Literary Benevolent Combination for Foreign Aid" was duly congregated at Mrs. Jane Rockport's, Pleasant-street, in the town of Bellevue, on the western shore of Lake Erie. It was a rainy day,—as days for the meeting of sewing circles most always are; though why Heaven should strive to thwart benevolence is a point upon which we will not venture an opinion.
About twenty of the most zealous in the course of philanthropy, who no doubt felt the wrongs of the suffering heathen impelling them to brave the wind and rain, had assembled in Mrs. Rockport's parlor, and, after hearing a hymn composed for the occasion by the Misses Gaddies, and performed by the same interesting young ladies, and an appropriate prayer by the president, Mrs. Stebbins, the work designed for the present meeting was laid upon the table, and the several members of the little company selected articles upon which to display their benevolence, and scattered off in groups of two and three to different parts of the room, while a low, incessant hum of voices struck the ear from all quarters. It appeared the devoted ladies were exerting their tongues as well as fingers in the good cause.
"Now, do you suppose it is true?" asked Miss Jerusha Sharpwell, at length, in a raised voice, with horror and amazement depicted on her sharp-featured face.
"Why, Susan Simpson told me that Dilly Hootaway told her that little Nanny Dutton told her, 'Pa had got a nice lamb shut up in a pen, and they were going to have it killed for Christmas,'" said Mrs. Dorothy Sykes, in reply to her companion's startled exclamation.
"Enough said," returned Miss Jerusha, with a toss of her tall head; "now such things ought not to pass unnoticed, I say."
This was uttered in so loud a tone that the attention of all in the room was roused, and several voices demanded what was the matter.
"Matter enough," said Miss Sharpwell; "that thievish Oliver Dutton has stolen a sheep from the widow Orville."
"La! have you just heard of it, sister Sharpwell?" exclaimed Mrs. Fleetwood; "I knew it a week ago."
"You did, did you?" said Mrs. Sykes; "why, it was only stolen last night."
"Perhaps Mr. Dutton has stolen two sheep," suggested Mrs. Aidy.
"No doubt, no doubt," put in Miss Jerusha, much excited.
"Well, ladies," observed Mrs. Milder, "as I am perfectly sure, I may safely affirm that Mr. Dutton has stolen no sheep from Mrs. Orville."
"How do you know he has not?" demanded Sykes and Sharpwell in a breath.
"Because Mrs. Orville has no sheep," returned Mrs. Milder, quietly.
"Well, now, was there ever such a place as this is coming to be? No one can believe a thing unless they see it with their own eyes," exclaimed Mrs. Sykes, in an indignant tone. "I'm sure I heard Dutton had got a lamb for Christmas; and how could the poor critter come by it unless he stole it somewhere; and as Mrs. Orville lives alone, I thought likely he would take advantage of that, and steal it from her, for I didn't know but what she kept sheep."
"Very natural, Mrs. Sykes, that you should thus suppose," chimed in Miss Jerusha. "No one questions your honor or veracity. But what were you saying, Miss Gaddie? I thought you were speaking of Mrs. Orville's daughter that went off south a year or two ago."
"I was merely remarking that Mrs. Orville received a letter from Alice last week, and sis, who used to be acquainted with her, called to inquire after her welfare."
"Well, what did she hear?" asked Miss Sharpwell.
"Not much, did you, sis?" asked the elder Miss Gaddie of her younger sister.
"No, I didn'thearmuch, but Iseeenough," answered that interesting miss.
"Lord bless us, child!" exclaimed Miss Jerusha. "What did you see?"
"Why, Mrs. Orville was blubbering like a baby when I entered, but she tried to hush up after a while."
"Mercy to me!" exclaimed Mrs. Sykes; "her daughter must be dead or come to some awful disgrace away off there."
"No, she is not dead," said Miss Gaddie, "for her mother said she was well, and spoke of returning home next spring or summer."
"O, dear! these young girls sent off alone in the world most always come to some harm," said Miss Sharpwell, with a rueful expression of countenance.
"True, true, sister Jerusha," returned Mrs. Sykes, "what should I think of sending my Henrietta off so?"
"Sure enough, sister Sykes," said Miss Sharpwell. "We ought not, however, to forsake our friends in adversity. Let us call on Mrs. Orville, and sympathize in her affliction."
"With all my heart, sister Jerusha. I am a mother, and can appreciate a mother's feelings over a beloved child's downfall and disgrace," said Mrs. Sykes, with a distressful expression of pity distorting her countenance.
And thus in the mint of the Ladies' Benevolent Society was cast, coined and made ready for current circulation, the tale of poor Alice Orville's imaginary shame and ruin. Yet faster flew those Christian ladies' Christian fingers for the poor heathen, while they thus discussed the slang and gossip of the village.
At length the president arose, and said the hour for adjournment had arrived. She complimented the ladies on their prompt attendance and enthusiastic devotion to the good cause. "Who can tell the results that may follow from this little gathering of Christian sisters on this dark, rainy evening?" she exclaimed. "What mind can conceive the mighty influence these seemingly insignificant articles your ready tact and skill have put together, may exert on the heathen world? Even this scarlet pin-cushion may save some soul from death 'mid the spicy groves of Ceylon's isle." [Tremendous sensation, as the lady president waved the pin-ball to and fro.] "But language would fail me to enumerate the benefits this holy organization of Christians is destined to bestow on benighted Pagandom. We will now listen to a hymn from the sisters Gaddies, and adjourn to Wednesday next, at 2 o'clock,P.M., at the house of Mrs. Huldah Fleetfoot."
The hymn was sung, and the "Ladies' Literary Benevolent Combination for Foreign Aid" duly adjourned to the time and place aforementioned.
We have seen that Miss Jerusha Sharpwell and Mrs. Dorothy Sykes had agreed to call on Mrs. Orville, and condole with her on her daughter's disgrace; but those benevolently-disposed ladies deemed it expedient to call first at sundry places in the village and repeat the lamentable tale, probably to increase the stock of sympathy; so Mrs. Orville heard the sad story of her daughter's shame from several different sources, ere these good ladies, their hearts overflowing with the "milk of human kindness," came to sympathize in her affliction.
She received them with her accustomed urbanity and politeness, while they cast wondering glances toward each other; probably that they had not found Mrs. Orville in hysterical tears. But Miss Sharpwell, nothing daunted, and determined to sympathize, readily expressed her admiration of Mrs. Orville's fortitude of mind, that she could support herself with so much calmness, under so great an affliction.
"I do not know as I quite understand you, Miss Sharpwell," remarked Mrs. Orville, in a calm tone, and fixing her clear eyes steadily on her visitor's face. "I have experienced no severe affliction of late. I have lost no sheep, as I had none to lose."
"La! then that was all a flyin' story about Dutton's stealing your lamb," broke in Mrs. Sykes. "Well, I'm glad to find it so; but I wonder where the poor critterdidget it?"
"I can enlighten you on that point," said Mrs. Orville; "Mrs. Milder presented him with it for a Christmas dinner."
"Shedid?" exclaimed Miss Sharpwell. "Why couldn't she have said so at the sewing society, the other day, then, when we were talking about it, and thus settled the matter in all our minds? I hate this sly, underhanded work. But we must not forget our errand, sister Sykes."
"By no means," observed the latter. "Dear Mrs. Orville, we are come to sympathize with you in a far greater affliction than the loss of a sheep would prove—the loss of a daughter's fair fame."
"You grow more and more enigmatical," said Mrs. Orville, smiling; "my daughter has lost neither her health nor fair fame, as you express it. I received a letter from her last week. She was well, and purposes to return home the coming summer."
"Why, goodness, is it so?" exclaimed Sykes; "we heard as how you had awful news of Alice, and were well-nigh distracted about her."
"I heard a report to that effect," said Mrs. Orville; "but whence it originated I cannot say. It has no foundation in truth."
"Well, what an awful wicked place this is getting to be! I declare it makes my blood run cold to think of it," said Miss Jerusha, with a pious horror depicted on her countenance.
"And religious prayer-meetings kept up, and a Christian sewing circle in the place too," added Mrs. Sykes. "I declare wickedness is increasing to a fearful extent. We must be going, sister Jerusha. I declare I can hardly sit still, I feel so for the sinners of this village."
"Mrs. Orville, I am glad the stories reported concerning your daughter are false, foryoursake," said Miss Sharpwell, as the sympathetic ladies rose to depart; but she added, in her most emphatic tone, "I tremble for the sakes of those who put those stories in circulation. Good-day, my friend."
CHAPTER VI.
"I tell you I love him dearly,And he loves me well I know;It seems as if I could nearlyEat him up, I love him so."
"I tell you I love him dearly,And he loves me well I know;It seems as if I could nearlyEat him up, I love him so."
"I tell you I love him dearly,
And he loves me well I know;
It seems as if I could nearly
Eat him up, I love him so."
"Well, sis, how do you like New Orleans?" asked Wayland Morris of his sister Winnie, as he entered her quiet little study-chamber one evening after the toil of the day was over.
"O, I like it well enough, Wayland," she answered; "that is, I like my boarding-place here with Mrs. Pulsifer, I like my dear, kind teacher, Aunt Debby, and I like my playmates."
"And is there anything you do not like, my sister?" asked Wayland, observing she hesitated.
"Yes, two things."
"What are they?"
"First, I don't like to have you work so hard to support me in idleness."
"In idleness, Winnie?"
"Yes, or what is just the same thing, I mean earning nothing to support myself. I could learn some trade, and thus obtain money sufficient for all my wants, and give you some, too, if you would but let me do it."
"My brave little sis," said Wayland, drawing her to his bosom, "have I not told you that when you have acquired an education, you can become a teacher, which will surely prove an occupation more congenial to your taste, and by it you can gain an ample competence for all immediate necessities?"
"But it will take a great deal of money to procure an education," said Winnie, looking doubtfully in her brother's face.
"Not a very great deal, my prudent little sis," laughed Wayland, "and I can easily furnish you with the sum needful."
"And, when I'm a teacher, will you let me repay all you have expended on me?"
"Yes, yes, if that will put your mind at rest."
"Ah, but I fear it will be beyond my power to repayallyou are expending on your foolish little sis! You are growing thin and pale, brother, and you have none of the joyous spring and laughter with which you used to chase my pretty fawns away up there on the green shores of Tennessee."
"I am older and graver now, Winnie; besides, I often think of our dear mother, sleeping there in death's embrace, and of our being orphans in the wide world."
"O, it is very sad, brother!" said the young girl, bursting into tears.
"Do not weep so bitterly," said Wayland, endeavoring to soothe her grief; "you said there were two things you did not like. I have dispensed with one; now tell me the other."
"O, never mind that now!" said Winnie, quickly; "assist me in my Algebra lesson, there's a good brother."
"Yes, after you have told me what I have asked."
"Well, it is a foolish thing, you will say. You know Jack Camford?"
"Yes; do you?" inquired Wayland in surprise.
"He comes to our school this term," said Winnie, demurely.
"And he is the other thing you do not like, is he?"
"Why, no, brother; he is not a thing, is he?"
"Well, perhaps not; but what is it you do not like?"
"Why, I don't like to have the girls tease me, and say he comes to our school just to see me," said Winnie, averting her face.
Wayland's brow darkened at these words, and he was some time silent.
"Are you angry, brother?" asked Winnie at length.
"No, Winnie, not angry, but pained. My sister, this young Camford is not a fit person for you to associate with."
"Why not?" exclaimed Winnie.
Wayland gazed in her face, and felt it was time to speak. "Winnie, would you have for a friend the son of a man who robbed your father of his fortune and hurried him into the grave?"
She was silent. "Adieu now, sister," continued Wayland, "I will call and see you to-morrow evening," and with a tender kiss on the soft cheek, he left her in her first young, girlish love-sorrow. Bitterly she charged him with cold, unfeeling cruelty; for she intuitively perceived the drift of those few words. "But was her poor Jack to suffer for his father's errors? No; thrice no! and she longed to lay her head on his bosom and tell him all her sorrows, for he was not stern and cruel, like brother Wayland. No, he loved her dearly, as she loved him."
"Thunder and Mars! what's to pay now, I wonder?" exclaimed Esq. Camford, rushing pell-mell into the dining room, where his family were assembled at breakfast, and throwing his delicate wife into hysterics.
"O, Thisbe! run for the nerve-reviver," shrieked Mrs. Camford. "O, Adolphus! why will you not regard my tremulous nerves, and not affright me thus? What desperate thing has happened? O, Adolphus! you'll be the death of me."
"I'll be the death of that cursed young vagabond, John Camford," blurted forth the squire, in a tone of terrible rage.
"O, my son, my brilliant among my jewels! how has he incurred your displeasure?" faintly articulated Mrs. Camford.
"Why, I saw the graceless scamp tugging a girl through the French market this morning, filling her hands with bouquets and all sorts of fol-de-rols. There is where the money goes he wheedles out of me every week; but I'll fix the young rapscallion. Next thing, we shall have some creole girl, or mulatto wench introduced to the family as Mrs. Camford, junior."
The squire fairly foamed at the mouth, with anger. His fair consort was in frantic hysterics, beating the floor with her heels, and exclaiming,
"O, mercy, mercy! my son, my Daniel, Henry, Thomas, Lewis, John! my brilliant, among my jewels! O, spare him for the love of Heaven, my husband, my adored Adolphus!"
Thisbe was following her mistress and bobbing the nerve-reviver to her nose, but it failed to produce the usual effect. All the servants in attendance stood with their mouths agape, while the three jewel daughters proceeded quietly with their breakfast, and Alice sat among them, a silent spectator of the scene. And now, as if to cap the climax, in walked the culprit, Mr. Jack Camford, inpropria persona, looking as unconcerned and innocent as if nothing had occurred to displace him in his father's good graces. At sight of her brilliant son, Mrs. Camford shrieked and fell prostrate on the floor, and Thisbe, in the moment of excitement, seized the senseless form and carried it from the room with as much ease as she would have borne a cotton-bale. No sooner had the door closed on his delicate spouse, than Esq. Camford bellowed forth, "Daniel Henry Thomas Lewis John Camford, you rascal, come and stand before your father!" The son instantly did as commanded. Doffing his "Kossuth," and passing one hand through the long locks of curling black hair, he swept it away from his clear, smooth brow, and stood confronting his wrathful parent with a calm, unembarrassed aspect. He was certainly a handsome young fellow, and Winnie Morris was quite excusable for loving him a little in her girlish heart. The father's anger softened as he gazed on his fair-looking boy, and when he spoke, his voice had lost all its former harshness.
"Jack, my lad," he said, "why do you stand gazing about you thus? Come, and sit down to your breakfast."
"You bade me stand before you, father, therefore I did so," said the son, now approaching the table and assuming a seat beside his cousin Alice.
There were a few moments of silence, during which all were occupied with their meal. At length Esq. Camford inquired, casually enough, "Jack, what young lady was that I saw you with in the French market this morning?"
Jack, at the moment helping Alice to a snipe, answered carelessly, "Young lady? O, Miss Winnie Morris, sister of Wayland Morris, editor of our Literary Gazette."
Alice suddenly dropped her bird on the cloth, and Esq. Camford sprang from the table, and, seizing his hat, bolted from the apartment, overturning two servants in his way, and exclaiming at the top of his voice, "Thunder and Mars! Thunder and Mars!"
Jack burst into a hearty laugh as his father cleared the door, and said, "Was there ever a theatre could equal our house for enacting scenes? Why, Alice, where are you going?" he continued, observing her rise from the table; "stay a moment; will you be disengaged when I come in to dinner? I want a few moments' private conversation with you."
"I shall be at your service, cousin," she answered, closing the door behind her.
"What have you to say to Alice?" inquired Miss Celestina, the "belle and beauty," in a querulous tone; picking at a bunch of flowers that laid beside Josephine's plate.
"O, please don't spoil my flowers, sister!" said Miss Pheny; "they were sent to me this morning by a particular friend."
"Faugh! what particular friend haveyougot, I wonder?" sneered the beauty; "some foolish love affair afoot here, to rival Jack's, I suppose. Ha, ha! what silly things children are! But come, bubby, tell me what you want with Alice?"
"That's my business," returned the youth proudly.
"To talk about your sweetheart, no doubt, and solicit her sympathy in your love troubles. You'll find father won't have you toting about with this beggar girl, I can tell you!" said the fair Celestina, spitefully.
"She is not a beggar," retorted Jack with flashing eyes, "but a far more beautiful and accomplished lady than many who have had the best advantages of fashionable society."
"O, of course, she is all perfection in your eyes at present," returned the beauty in an aggravating tone, as she rose to retire; "but this day six months I wonder how she will appear to your fickle, capricious gaze?"
"If you were worth a retort, I'd make one," said Jack, with a glance of angry contempt on his sister, as he took his cap and left the apartment.
CHAPTER VII.
"Thy haunting influence, how it mocksMy efforts to forget!The stamp love only seals but onceUpon my heart is set."
"Thy haunting influence, how it mocksMy efforts to forget!The stamp love only seals but onceUpon my heart is set."
"Thy haunting influence, how it mocks
My efforts to forget!
The stamp love only seals but once
Upon my heart is set."
Winnie Morris was laying her pretty head on her kind teacher's shoulder, and pleading, O, so eloquently, with her sweet lips and eyes!
"Indeed, I want to go very much, dear Aunt Debby, and Jack will be so disappointed if you say no. He sent me to plead, because he said nobody could resist me. Will you not let me go this once, if I'll promise never to ask again?"
"The theatre is not a fit place for young girls," said the teacher, with a serious mien; "by going there they obtain false ideas of life."
"But I won't, Aunt Debby, I'm sure I won't, by going just once."
The good-natured teacher patted the soft cheek of her winsome pleader, and the gentle act seemed to convince the child that she was gaining her point.
"O, Debby, Debby!" she exclaimed, throwing her white arms round the good woman's neck; "you will let me go with Jack to-night, I know."
"For which do you most wish to go: to see the play, or to be with him?" asked Debby, still delaying the wished-for permission.
"O, to be with him!" answered Winnie; "and I could not be with him unless I went out somewhere, for brother Wayland is cross at Jack; only think of it—cross at my Jack! And he asks Mrs. Pulsifer whenever Jack comes to see me, and then scolds; or not exactly that,—but says I ought not to associate with a person he does not approve, and that Jack is wild and unsteady, and won't love me long; but he doesn't know him as well as I do, or he wouldn't say so, I'm sure;" and Winnie grew eloquent, and her cheeks flushed vermilion red, while she spoke of her girlish love. But Miss Deborah's face had assumed a less yielding expression during her fair pupil's recital.
"So it appears your brother is not pleased with young Mr. Camford," she remarked, as Winnie ceased; "under the circumstances, you must apply to him for permission to accompany Master Jack to the theatre."
"O, dear! I wish I had not said a word," sobbed Winnie. "'Tis no use to go to Wayland, for I know he would refuse my request; so I may as well make up my mind to pass the evening alone in my room. I'm more sorry for Jack, after all, than myself, he will be so sadly disappointed. Good-night, Aunt Debby," and with dejected aspect the young girl put on her little straw hat and left the school-room.
The evening stole on, and Jack Camford was beside his cousin Alice, in her quiet apartment.
"I don't see why Wayland Morris should hate me so inveterately, as to forbid his sister to receive any calls from me," remarked the youth, bitterly.
"How do you know he does so?" inquired Alice, without raising her eyes from the German worsted pattern on which she was occupied.
"Because Winnie told me so, to-night. I had invited her to attend the theatre, but it appears she dared not ask her brother's permission, for fear of a refusal," said Jack, in a troubled tone. "You are acquainted with Mr. Morris, Alice?"
"No," returned she, quickly.
"Why, he calls on you."
"He did call at the house once or twice, soon after my arrival here, I believe."
"Once or twice!" exclaimed Jack, in surprise; "why, he was here almost every day for several months, and we all thought you were declared lovers."
"Hush, Jack! how you are running on!" said Alice, with a flushed countenance.
"Well, don't tell me you are not acquainted with young Morris, then," returned Jack.
"I have not seen him, as you are aware, for the last six months," remarked Alice.
"But youcouldsee him very easily."
"So could you."
"Ah, Alice! I thought you would do me so small a favor."
"As what?"
"See Mr. Morris, and ascertain why he opposes my addresses to his sister."
"Is he the only one who opposes you?"
"You allude to my family; but not one of them should control me, in this matter, if I could win her from her brother."
"You are very young, Jack; wait a few years, and your feelings will change."
The boy looked on his cousin as she uttered these words with so much apparent indifference, and exclaimed:
"O, Alice! you have never loved, or you could not talk thus to me," and hurriedly left the apartment.
Alice heard him rush down the hall stairs and into the street. "Poor Jack!" she sighed; "but what could I do for him? To place myself before Wayland Morris, and plead my cousin's suit with his sister, when probably the very cause of his objection to their acquaintance is that the lover is a relation of mine; and it appears that by some misapprehension I have as unwittingly as unfortunately incurred his displeasure. What other reason can there be for the cessation of his visits, but that he does not desire to see me?"
Ay, what other indeed, Alice? If you would have Wayland's love, there could not be a stronger proof that 'tis yours, than this apparent neglect and forgetfulness. Love joys in mystery,
"Shows most like hate e'en when 'tis most in love,And when you think 'tis countless miles away,Is lurking close at hand."
"Shows most like hate e'en when 'tis most in love,And when you think 'tis countless miles away,Is lurking close at hand."
"Shows most like hate e'en when 'tis most in love,
And when you think 'tis countless miles away,
Is lurking close at hand."
So, be not too sad, Ally, dear, when the brave steamboat bears you up the majestic Mississippi, and far onward over the beautiful Ohio, amid her wild, enchanting scenery, and the dashing railroad cars at length set you down on a quiet summer evening at your mother's rural threshold. Try hard to say, "I have forgotten Wayland Morris;" but your heart will rebel; and try harder to say, "I shall never behold his face again;" still "hope will tell a flattering tale;" and try hardest of all to exclaim, "I'll fly his presence forever." But yet, away down low in your beating bosom, a little voice will love to tantalize and whisper—"Will you, though?"
CHAPTER VIII.