"Come, clear the stage and give us something new,For we are tired to death with these old scenes."
"Come, clear the stage and give us something new,For we are tired to death with these old scenes."
"Come, clear the stage and give us something new,
For we are tired to death with these old scenes."
Night after night, high up in the sky, the stars shone wildly bright, but the heaven refused its grateful showers and the earth lay parched to a cinder beneath the blazing sunbeams. The mighty Mississippi shrunk within its banks to the size of a mere wayside rivulet, and the long lines of boats lay lazily along the levees. No exchange of produce or merchandise could be effected between the upper and lower regions of the great Mississippi valley, and the consequence was universal depression in trade and heavy failures. Esquire Camford went among the first in the general crash, and his fair consort's nerves went also. The nerve-reviver failed to produce the least soothing effect in this dreadful emergency, and she sank into a bed-ridden ghost of hysteria, with Thisbe for her constant attendant, to minister to her numerous wants, and feed her with lobsters' claws and Graham crackers, which constituted her sole food and nourishment.
As for the "belle and beauty," she, on a day, married Mr. Gilbert, in pearl-colored satin, and that gentleman chancing to overturn a sherry-cobbler on the fair bride's robe, the delicate creature went into a nervous paroxysm, which so alarmed and terrified the happy bridegroom, that, when he recovered his senses, he found himself on the far, blue ocean, with the adorable Celestina's marriage-portion, consisting of the snug sum of fifty thousand dollars, wrapped up in a blue netting-purse in his coat pocket. How the great bank-bills grinned at him, as if to charge him with the wanton robbery and desertion! He gazed around in a bewildered manner, and the first face that met his eye was that of his brother-in-law, Jack Camford, who advanced with a woeful smile distorting his fine features, and exclaimed,
"Upon my word, you're a lucky dog, Gilbert!"
"How so?" demanded the latter.
"To have married my sister the day before father failed, and thus secured a pretty fair sum of money; and now to have escaped a tedious wife and got safely off with it in your pocket," said Jack, with a theatrical flourish of manner.
"But what does all this mean? Why are you here, and where is this ship bound?"
"Well, I'm here—hum—I don't know why, save that life was intolerable at home after the smash-up, and Winnie Morris heard I was getting wild, and turned a cold shoulder on me, I fancied. As to this craft, that reels and tumbles about like a reef of drunkards, she is bound for Australia; so I suppose, in due time, you and I will be landed on the shores of the golden Ophir, if we don't get turned into Davy Jones' locker by some mishap."
"Australia!" exclaimed Gilbert, "what the deuce am I going there for; and how came I in this place?"
"All I know is, I found you here asleep when I came aboard, and here you have been asleep for the last three days, wearing off the effects of your wedding-feast, I suppose. I thought best not to disturb you, as at sea one may as well be sleeping as waking."
"But, Jack Camford! I cannot go to Australia," said Gilbert, still half confounded.
"How are you going to avoid it?" asked Jack, laughing.
"True! but what will my bride say? Here I hold her fortune in my hand."
"Exactly! Divide it with me, if you please, and we'll increase it four-fold e'er a year in the golden land."
"But I don't like the idea of going to Australia!" pursued Gilbert.
"Neither do I, very well," answered Jack; "but when folks can't do as they will, they must do as they can, I've heard say."
Thus we leave our Australian adventurers and return to the land from which they are so rapidly receding. We didn't know what else to do here in the eighth chapter, reader, unless we capped the climax, cleared the stage, and scattered the characters; for we were quite as tired of them as you were, and wanted to get them off our hands in some way.
A few people think "Effie Afton" can tell stories tolerably well. But she can't, reader! We speak candidly, for we know "a heap" more about her than you do. There may be those in the wide world who hug themselves in the belief that she can telllittlefibs andlargefibs pretty flippantly. Well, let them continue thus to believe, if they choose! We shall not pause to say ay, yes, or nay; and we also entertain a private opinion, now publicly expressed, that there are people within the limited circle of our acquaintance who can not only give utterance tolittleandlargefibs, but make their whole lives and actions play the lie to their thoughts and feelings. But as to "Effie's" telling long magazine tales,—pshaw! she is the most unsystematic creature in the world. She just humps down in a big rocking-chair, with one sort offoolscapin herhand, and another sort on herhead, with an old music-book to lay the sheets on, a lead-pencil for a pen, and thus equipped, writes chapter one, and dashesin medias resat once, without an idea as to how, where, or when the story thus commenced is to find its terminus or end. This is the way she does, reader; for we have seen her time and again. Well, she scratches on "like mad" till her old lead-pencil is "used up." Then she sharpens the point, and rushes on wilder than before. She don't eat much, and if any one calls her to dinner, never heeds them; but when she conceives herself arrived at a suitable stopping-place, drops her paper, runs to the pantry, snatches a piece of gingerbread, and back to her scribbling again, munching it as she writes.
This is precisely the way she brings her "stories" into existence; but, lest we write her out of favor too rapidly, we'll leave the subject, and back to our tale again, recommencing with a new chapter, which is—
CHAPTER IX.
"And there are haunts in that far land—O, who shall dream or tellOf all the shaded lovelinessShe hides in grot and dell!"
"And there are haunts in that far land—O, who shall dream or tellOf all the shaded lovelinessShe hides in grot and dell!"
"And there are haunts in that far land—
O, who shall dream or tell
Of all the shaded loveliness
She hides in grot and dell!"
O, often, often, far from this, have we watched the great red sun sinking behind the vast stretching prairie, while all the broad west seemed like a surging flood of gold beyond an ocean of green; and often have we beheld day's glorious orb looming above the soft blue waters of the placid bay, while the joyous birds soared up the sparkling dome of heaven, their little throats almost bursting with thrilling melody, and the balmy south wind came laden with the perfume of ten thousand ordorous flowers!
O, sweet land upon the tropic's glowing verge, what star-bright memories we have of thee! How deeply treasured in our heart of hearts are all thy joys and pleasures,—ay, and griefs and sorrows too! But as the spot where this long-crushed and drooping spirit heard those first, low, preluding strains, foretokenings that its long-enfeebled energies were wakening from their death-like slumber to breathe response to the thousand tones in sea and air that called so loudly on them to arouse once more to life and action, it will ever be most truly dear. And when again life's fetters clog with the ice and snow of those frigid lands, we'll long to fly again to those climes of song and sunny ray, and forget earth's cankering cares in the contemplation of Nature's luxuriant charms. But we grow abstract.
Come with us, reader, if you will, over the prairies of Texas, gorgeous with their many-colored flowers, dotted with the dark-green live-oaks, and watered by pellucid rivers. To that log-house, standing under the boughs of a wide-spreading pecan tree, let us wend our way.
There is a gray-headed man sitting in a deer-skin-bottomed chair, on the rude gallery, and gazing with weary eye on the lovely scenery around him. Two young ladies are standing near, their countenances wearing sullen expressions of discontent and sorrow.
"So this is Texas, father," remarked the elder of the two, at length. "I wonder how you ever expect to earn a living here, for my part."
"By tilling the soil, my child, and growing cotton and sugar; fine country for that. Land rich as mud and cheap as dirt. Why, I have purchased five hundred acres for a mere trifle. Zounds! I feel like amassing a new fortune here in a few years," said the old man, suddenly rousing from his stupor.
"Well, I'm perfectly disgusted," said the younger lady, "and wish I had run off to Australia with brother Jack and Celestina's faithless husband."
"I wish I was in that convent upon the Mississippi, where poor sister Celestina is now," sighed the elder.
"Pshaw, girls! you'll both marry wild Texan rangers before two years," said the old gentleman, who was no less a personage than Esq. Camford, formerly the wealthiest merchant in New Orleans, but now a poor Texan emigrant in his log-cabin on the Cibolo. Well, he was a better man now than when rolling in the luxury of ill-gotten wealth, for adversity never fails to teach useful lessons; and it had taught this world-hardened, conscience-seared man, that "honesty is the best policy."
A tremulous voice from within attracted the attention of the group on the gallery. "Mercy, mercy, Thisbe, take that viper away, and let me out of this bed! it is full of frightful serpents."
"Why, no 'taint neither, Missus," said poor Thisbe, struggling to lift her mistress from the pillows; "there beant a snake nowheres about, only a little striped 'izard, and I driv' him away."
The husband now entered.
"O, Adolphus!" exclaimed the nerve-stricken wife, "that you should have brought me to a death like this! to be shot by Indians, devoured by bears, and bitten by rattlesnakes!"
"Thunder and Mars! nobody's dead yet, and this is a fine, healthy, growing country," said the squire, in a loud, good-humored voice.
"Alas! what am I to eat?" continued the nervous lady, "I can have no claws and crackers in these wilds."
"Let Thisbe catch you a young alligator from the river; that will be something new for a relish."
"O, Adolphus! how can you mock at the horrors that surround us? My nerves, my nerves! you will never learn to regard them."
"No, probably not," returned the husband; "but let me tell you, Nabby, I don't believe nerves are of any available use out here in Texas. They'll do for effect in the fashionable saloons of a city; but what think a wild Camanche would say if he chanced some broiling-hot morning to catch you in dishabille, and you begged him to retreat and spare your nerves? Why, it would be all gibberish to him."
"O, Adolphus! how can you horrify me thus? And these lovely jewels to be devoured by hyenas and swallowed by crocodiles! O, my nerves! Thisbe, my nerve-reviver this moment!"
"There ain't a bit on't left, Missus; 'twas all in the trunk dat tumbled out o' the cart when we swum through dat ar river," said the poor servant, in a tone of anxious dismay.
"Heaven save me now!" exclaimed the panic-stricken lady. "Adolphus, you must go to New Orleans to-morrow and bring me some."
"Thunder and Mars! You forget we are eight hundred miles from there, and what do you suppose would become of you all before I got back? You would be mounted on pack-mules, carried off to the Indian frontier, and made squaws of."
"O, father, don't leave us, I entreat of you!" sobbed Susette, on hearing these words.
"Why did I not die ere I came to this?" groaned Mrs. Camford. "Why did I not die when my eldest jewel and brilliant son were torn from my embrace? Alas! for what awful fate am I reserved?"
"Come, Nabby, this would do on the boards of the St. Charles, but toads and lizards can't appreciate theatricals. Pheny, can't you manage to get up some sort of a dinner out of the corn-meal and sweet potatoes I bought of the old Mynheer this morning; and there's a few eggs and a ham in the larder too. I declare I relish this new life already;—it is a change, Pheny, isn't it?" asked the father, looking in his fair daughter's face.
"Yes," answered she, "and if it wasn't for the snakes and lizards, I wouldn't complain."
"Never mind them," returned the squire, bravely; "they shan't hurt you. We'll have a nice, cosey home here a year from to-day."
CHAPTER X.
"It was the calm, moonshiny hour,And earth was hushed and sleeping;The hour when faithful love is e'erIts fondest vigils keeping."
"It was the calm, moonshiny hour,And earth was hushed and sleeping;The hour when faithful love is e'erIts fondest vigils keeping."
"It was the calm, moonshiny hour,
And earth was hushed and sleeping;
The hour when faithful love is e'er
Its fondest vigils keeping."
Clear as amber fell the moonlight on the forms of Wayland and Winnie Morris, as arm in arm they roamed the calm, delightful shores of Lake Pontchartrain.
"Well, sister," said Wayland, "four weeks have passed since I last saw you, and how have you sped in your capacity of teacher?"
"O, bravely, Wayland! 'Tis so delightful to feel I am of some importance in the world, and that I'm laying up money to repay my brother, as far as I am able, for all he has done for me! You should see me in my little school-room, with my pupils round me. I fancy no queen e'er felt more pride and satisfaction in beholding her subjects kneeling before her, than I do with my infant class leaning their tiny arms on my lap and looking in my face as they repeat from my lips the evening prayer."
"I am pleased to find you so content and happy," said Wayland.
"O, I am indeed so, and indebted to you for all I enjoy!" returned Winnie.
"And what of Jack Camford, sis?" asked the brother, with a mischievous smile.
"O, I have not forgotten him yet, naughty Wayland!" answered she; "I dream of him most every night."
"Well, I would not seek to control your dreams, sis; but I fancy they'll occur less and less often, and by and by cease altogether."
"You think I never loved Jack," said Winnie.
"I think you had a girlish fancy for him. As to woman's holy, unchanging love, you have never yet experienced it, my little sister."
"When shall I, then? I'm sixteen, and a preceptress."
"Yes."
"But don't you think Jack loved me, Wayland?"
"I think he had a boy's fancy for you, which may deepen into love with time, or may be wholly dissipated from his bosom."
"But why did you object to him so strongly? You well-nigh broke my heart at one time. It was not like you to hate the son for the parent's crimes."
"No, it was not for the father's errors that I bade you shun the son; but because I discovered in him a frivolous, faulty character, that had no strength of purpose, or fixed principles of action; and I dreaded the influence such a person might exert over your youthful, pliant mind."
"Now, what if he should return some of these years, and lay his life, love and fortune at my feet?" suggested Winnie, archly.
"Should he return with the elements that make the man stamped on his face and conduct, I would never object to his addresses to my sister, if she favored them," said Wayland.
"How the poor Camfords have suffered!" remarked Winnie, after a pause.
"They have, indeed," returned Wayland; "all our wrongs have been expiated, and I raised not a finger to avenge them. My mother on her death-bed bade me remember 'Vengeance was the Lord's,' and, thanks to her name, I have done so."
"Where are the family?" inquired Winnie.
"Emigrated to Texas; and my brother editor, Mr. Lester, has purchased their former residence, and I am boarding there at present. He has extended to you a cordial invitation to pass your next vacation at his mansion."
"O, he is very kind! I shall be delighted to do so. Do you still like editing as well as formerly, brother?"
"Yes, it is an occupation suited to my tastes; and some of these years, when I have sufficient capital, I want to go home to old Tennessee, and erect a pretty rural cottage on the site of our former abode, and there pass away life in peace and quietude with you, dear sister, if such a prospect is pleasing to your mind. Or are you more ambitious?"
"No, brother; ambition is for men, not women," said Winnie.
"Yes, for men who love it," responded Wayland; "but my highest ambition is to be happy; and I look for happiness alone in rural quiet and seclusion. Do you accede to my project, sis?"
"With all my heart."
"Then see that you keep that heart free, and not, before I carry my plan into execution, have given it to the charge of some gallant knight, and left me desolate in my pretty cottage on the verdant shores of Tennessee."
"Ay, and see that you don't find some fairer flower to bloom in that cottage home, and rudely toss me from the window," exclaimed Winnie, with a merry laugh.
"No fear of that," said Wayland; "now I must leave you. Expect me in a week again."
And with an affectionate salute the brother and sister parted.
CHAPTER XI.
"Ay, there are memories that will not vanish,Thoughts of the past we have no power to banish;To show the heart how powerless mere will;For we may suffer, and yet struggle still;It is not at our choice that we forget—That is a power no science teaches yet,The heart may be a dark and closed-up tomb,But memory stands a ghost amid the gloom."
"Ay, there are memories that will not vanish,Thoughts of the past we have no power to banish;To show the heart how powerless mere will;For we may suffer, and yet struggle still;It is not at our choice that we forget—That is a power no science teaches yet,The heart may be a dark and closed-up tomb,But memory stands a ghost amid the gloom."
"Ay, there are memories that will not vanish,
Thoughts of the past we have no power to banish;
To show the heart how powerless mere will;
For we may suffer, and yet struggle still;
It is not at our choice that we forget—
That is a power no science teaches yet,
The heart may be a dark and closed-up tomb,
But memory stands a ghost amid the gloom."
Miss Jerusha Sharpwell and Mrs. Fleetfoot had dropped in to take tea with Mrs. Sykes on a pleasant September evening. The latter lady, as in duty bound, was highly pleased to see her dear friends, and forthwith ordered Hannah, her servant-girl, to make a batch of soda rolls, with a bit of shortening rubbed in, and just step over to Mrs. Frye's, and ask that good lady "if she would not be so very kind and obliging as to lend Mrs. Sykes a plateful of her nice, sweet doughnuts, as she had visitors come in unexpectedly, and was not quite prepared to entertain them as she could wish." Thus were the guests provided for.
"How happened it you were absent from the last sewing circle, sister Sykes?" inquired Miss Sharpwell. "We had an unusually interesting season. Several new names were added to our list, and sister Fleetfoot, here, entertained us with a most amusing account of Pamela Gaddie's marriage with Mr. Smith, the missionary to Bengal."
"Indeed! I regret I was denied the pleasure of listening to the recital; but company detained me from the circle."
"Ah! who was visiting you?" asked Mrs. Fleetfoot.
"The Churchills, from Cincinnati," answered Mrs. Sykes. "You know they are particular friends of my husband."
"Yes; is their son married yet?"
"No; and he called on Alice Orville every day while he was here."
"La, do tell me!" said Jerusha. "How long was he with you, Mrs. Sykes?"
"A day and a half," returned that lady. "He came up in the morning-train and returned next evening."
"Well," said Mrs. Fleetfoot, "they do say Alice Orville is engaged to Fred. Milder."
"Sakes alive!" exclaimed Miss Jerusha. "I never heard a word about it before! Well, Mrs. Milder was always standing up for Mrs. Orville. I thought it meant something. Now I remember, Fred. was at the last sewing circle and walked home with Alice. I thought strange of it then, for it was hardly a dozen yards to her house, and some of us young ladies had to walk five times as far all alone. Who told you of the engagement?"
"La, I can't remember now!" said Mrs. Fleetfoot; "but I've heard of it ever so many times."
"Well, they'll make a pretty couple enough," observed Mrs. Sykes; "though I rather fancied Alice was engaged to somebody off south, 'cause she seems sort of downcast sometimes, and keeps so close since she got home."
"O, la, that's cause she's got wind of the story that was going about here before she came back! I wonder if there was any truth in it?" said Mrs. Fleetfoot.
"I don't know; I never put much confidence in flying stories," remarked Jerusha.
"Neither do I!" said Mrs. Sykes; "or take the trouble to repeat, if I chance to hear them."
"Nor I!" chimed in Mrs. Fleetfoot. "If there is anything I mortally abhor, it is a tattler and busybody."
"Our sentiments, exactly!" exclaimed the other two ladies in concert.
Hannah now entered and announced tea, and the trio of scrupulous, conscientious ladies repaired to the dining-room to luxuriate on short rolls and Mrs. Frye's neighborly doughnuts.
Mrs. Orville had a pleasant residence on the lake shore, and everything wore a brighter aspect in the eyes of the mother, since her beloved daughter had returned to enliven the old home by her sunshiny presence. But Alice had passed from the gay-hearted child to the thoughtful woman in the two years she had been away, and there was a mild, pensive light in her dark eye that spoke of a chastened spirit within. Still, she was usually cheerful, and always, even in her most melancholy hours, an agreeable companion. Beautiful in person, highly educated and accomplished, her conversation, whether tinged with sadness or enlivened by wit and humor, exercised a strange, fascinating power over her listeners.
Alice had left New Orleans with the expectation of having her cousin Josephine spend the ensuing winter with her at the north; but shortly after her arrival home a letter from her cousin informed her of their fallen fortunes, and proposed emigration to Texas. As Alice knew not to what part of that State to direct a reply, all further correspondence was broken off between the parties. From Wayland Morris she never heard, and knew naught concerning him, save by occasional articles from his pen in southern journals, which were noticed with commendation and applause. She tried hard to forget him; "for it is not right," she said, "to waste my life and health on one who never thinks of me. But why did he awaken a hope in my breast that he loved me, if that hope was to be withdrawn as soon as it became necessary to my happiness?"
"Alice, Alice!" exclaimed Mrs. Orville, as the fair girl stood in the recess of a vine-covered window, absorbed in thoughts like these, "Mr. Milder is coming through the gate; will you go out to receive him?"
Alice roused from her reverie, and saying "Yes, mother," very quietly, hastened through the hall to meet her visitor.
"Good-evening, Mr. Milder!" said she, with a graceful courtesy. "Come into the parlor. I have been laying the sin of ungallantry upon you for the last three days."
"It is the last charge I would have expected preferred against me by you, Miss Orville!" said he, smiling.
"What other would you sooner have expected?" she inquired, looping up the snowy muslin curtains to admit the parting sunbeams.
"One I would have dreaded far more to hear,—that of being too assiduous in my attendance," returned he, in a low tone.
Alice answered by changing the conversation, and, after an hour passed in pleasant chit-chat, Fred. proposed a stroll on the lake shore. Alice was soon ready, and they sallied forth. The weather was delightful, and that walk along Erie's sounding shores was fraught with a life-interest to one, and regretful sorrow to both.
"I am going to Texas, Alice!" said Milder, as they reäpproached the mansion of Mrs. Orville.
"O, that you might find my cousin Josephine there, who is so good and beautiful!" remarked Alice.
"Would I might, if it would afford you a moment's pleasure," he answered, in a dejected tone.
"If you do, pray give her my love, and entreat her to write and inform me of her welfare," said Alice, earnestly.
"I shall be highly gratified to execute your commission," he answered; "and now, good-by, Alice! May you be as happy as you deserve!"
"And may you, also, Fred.!" said Alice, with tears in her eyes. One lingering pressure of the hand, and he was gone.
"Noble heart!" exclaimed Alice; "why could I not love him? Alas! a tyrant grasp is on my soul, which, while it delights to hold me in its toils, and tantalize and torment, will not love me, or let me love another!"
"Alice!" said a voice within.
"Yes, mother, I'm coming," replied the daughter, entering the hall with a languid step, and proceeding to divest herself of shawl and bonnet.
"You have had a long stroll and look fatigued," remarked the fond parent, noticing her daughter's flushed cheeks and hurried respiration, as she flung herself into a large rocking-chair by the open window. Where is Fred.?"
"Gone home," said Alice.
"Why did he not come in and rest a while?"
"I forgot to invite him, I believe," returned Alice, briefly.
"And did you not ask him to call at any future time?"
"No, mother; he is going to Texas."
"Indeed! How long has he entertained that idea?" asked Mrs. Orville in a tone of astonishment.
"Not long, I fancy. I told him to find cousin Josephine and entreat her to write to me," said Alice, fanning her face with a great, flapping feather fan.
"I hope he may do so; and much do I wish your cousin might be here to pass the winter, for I fear you will be lonely without some companion of your own age," said Mrs. Orville, attentively regarding her daughter.
"O, never fear for me, mother!" returned Alice. "I assure you I have ample resources for enjoyment in my own breast. They only need occasion to be called forth and put in exercise."
"I hope it may prove thus," responded the tender mother. "Let us now retire to our pleasant chamber, and I will do myself the pleasure of listening to your rich voice, while you read a portion of Scripture, and sing a sacred hymn."
Thus mother and daughter retired; and while the old heart that had passed beyond the youth-life of love and passion, rested calmly in its tranquil sleep, the young heart by its side throbbed wildly, trembled, wept and sighed; tossing restlessly on its pillow, haunted by ill-omened dreams and ghastly phantom-shapes too hideous for reality. For there is no rest, or calm, or quiet, for the passion-haunted breast.
CHAPTER XII.
"'Twas one of love's wild freaks, I do suppose,And who is there can reason upon those?I'd like to see the one so bold."
"'Twas one of love's wild freaks, I do suppose,And who is there can reason upon those?I'd like to see the one so bold."
"'Twas one of love's wild freaks, I do suppose,
And who is there can reason upon those?
I'd like to see the one so bold."
The lively winter season was at its height in New Orleans, and all the vast city astir with life and gayety. In the former wealthy home of the Camfords, her wrought slippers resting on the polished grate in the elegant parlor, sat a prim maiden lady, arrayed in steel-colored satin. An embroidered muslin morning-cap was placed with an air of much precision over her glossy brownimportedlocks, and the pointed collar around her neck was secured by a plain bow of fawn-colored ribbon.
Suddenly the door opened, and a gentleman, of fine personal appearance, and elegantly attired, entered the apartment, with hat and gloves in hand.
"Where is Winnie?" was the hasty inquiry.
"I left her in her room half an hour ago," was the reply.
"It is quite time we should go;—the theatre will be filled to overflowing at Miss Julia's benefit," remarked the gentleman. "I wish you would go with us, sister."
"Theatres will do for girls andfops," said the lady; "mymind requires something solid and weighty to satisfy it."
"Then I suppose Col. Edmunds suits you exactly," observed the gentleman, laughing; "he is a real Sir John Falstaff in proportions."
"I'm in no mood for your frivolous jests. If you were in a rational temper I would like to ask you a question."
"Well, out with it. I'm as rational at thirty as I ever will be, probably."
"You were becoming quite a decent man before this fly-a-way girl came among us. Now I wish to know when she is going away?"
"Heavens! I don't know; not at present, I hope," said the gentleman, quickly.
"Well, either she or I will leave pretty soon," returned the lady, pursing up her lips with a stiff, determined expression; "she is such a self-willed, obstinate little thing, and turns the house all topsy-turvy, and makes such a racket and confusion, that I cannot andwillnot endure it longer. My mind requires quiet for contemplation."
"Why, she seems to me like a sunbeam; like a canary-bird in the house, sister; warming, and filling it with music."
"She seems to me more like a hurricane, or wild-cat," remarked the lady, spitefully.
The gentleman laughed, and, at this juncture, in bounded the subject of the discourse, arrayed in azure silk, a wreath of white flowers on her head, and a wrought fan swinging by a ribbon at her delicate wrist.
"Well, I've been waiting for you these ten minutes," said the gentleman, gazing with admiration on the lovely being before him; "let us go now, or I fear some impertinent person may intrude upon our reserved seats. The carriage is at the door."
"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Lester," said Winnie.
"O, no apology, Miss Morris!" returned he, gayly; "gentlemen always expect to wait for ladies; it is their privilege."
"Miss Mary," said Winnie, advancing toward the prim lady by the grate, "I fear I have misplaced some of your toilet articles, for I could not find one half of mine. The chamber-maid had given them new places, and I took the liberty to apply to yours, but I'll put them all right in the morning."
"O, it is very well, of course," returned the lady, sharply; "plain enough who is mistress here."
Winnie stood irresolute, gazing with astonishment on Miss Mary's angry, flushed countenance, and at length turned her blue eyes toward the gentleman, who was attentively regarding her features.
"Come, Winnie," said he, opening the hall-door, "we shall be very late."
The young girl quickly followed his direction. "Is brother Wayland to be there?" she inquired, as the carriage rolled away.
"I urged his attendance, and he half promised to go," answered the gentleman; "but, if he fails, cannot you be contented with me alone for one brief evening?"
"O, yes, many!" returned Winnie. "I only wished he would go and not confine himself to business so closely."
"I wish he would relax his editorial labors, for his health demands it, I think," said Mr. Lester. "We must induce him to quit the chair of office, and take a trip up the river this spring."
"I wish he would leave that dull, tedious printing-office a few weeks," exclaimed Winnie. "He has long entertained a project of erecting a little cottage on the shore of Tennessee, where we used to live, for himself and me, and I think he has sufficient money now to carry his plan into effect; don't you, Mr. Lester?"
"Undoubtedly he has; but such a proceeding would not please me at all," answered the gentleman.
"Why not?" asked Winnie, turning her eyes quickly toward her companion.
He smiled to meet her startled glance, and said, "I will explain my reasons at some future time, Winnie. We are now at the theatre."
Mr. Lester handed the fair girl from the carriage, and they made their way through the crowd. Wayland met them on the steps, and accompanied them home after the play.
As Winnie passed the door of Miss Mary Lester's room to reach her own, she observed it standing wide open, and wondered to behold it thus, as Miss Mary was accustomed to bar and bolt it close, for fear of thieves and housebreakers. But, fatigued and sleepy, she passed on, and soon forgot her surprise after gaining the privacy of her own apartment. Early in the morning she was roused from slumber by a furious knocking on her door. She sprang up and demanded, "Who is there?"
"Me, Miss Winnie, only me—Aunt Eunice; and do you know what is become o' Missus Mary?" exclaimed an excited voice without; "her door is wide open this morning, and nobody slept in her bed last night."
Winnie was by this time fairly roused, and, opening her door, the poor servant-girl flounced into the room, the very picture of terror and affright.
"Has your master risen, and does he know of his sister's absence?" inquired Winnie.
"No, nobody is up but me, and Missus Mary always tells me to come right to her room first thing with a pitcher o' cool water; so I went this mornin', you see, and behold missus' door wide open and no missus thar! O, Miss Winnie, I 'spect satin has sperritted off soul and body, 'deed I does."
"O, no, Aunt Eunice, I think not!" said Winnie smiling; "but you had better go to your master and inform him what has occurred."
"'Deed I will, Miss," said the black woman, disappearing.
Winnie proceeded to dress, in a strange perplexity of fear and astonishment, while Aunt Eunice thumped long and loud on her master's door.
"Who's there?" at last exclaimed a voice within.
"Me, Aunt Eunice," said the woman frantically, "O, massa, massa, missus gone, and who's to pour the coffee for breakfast?"
"What are you raving about?" said the master, opening his door; "why are you disturbing me at this early hour?"
"Missus gone; sperritted off soul and body, I 'spect."
"What are you talking about?" demanded Lester, not in the least comprehending her words.
"O, just come up to her room and see for yourself."
"Why, what's to be seen there?" he asked.
"Nothin' at all, I tells ye. Missus clean gone. Her door wide open, and she never slept in her bed last night, massa," said the woman, gasping for breath, as she ceased speaking.
The unusual sounds aroused Wayland, who slept near, and flinging open his door he demanded what was the matter.
"O, Master Morris!" said aunt Eunice, turning her discourse upon him, "missus gone—clean gone."
"Come on, Morris," said Lester. "Eunice says her mistress is spirited away. Let's dive into the mystery and see what we can bring to light."
Wayland followed Lester up the hall stairs, wondering what this strange disturbance might import. They traversed the passage to Miss Mary's apartment, when, sure enough, as Eunice had affirmed, they found the door wide open, and, to appearance, no person had occupied the room the previous night. Lester's quick eye instantly marked, what the servant in her fright had failed to notice, the absence of two large trunks that used to stand beside the bed, and thepresenceof a small folded billet on the dressing-table. He advanced with a hasty step, broke the seal, and read.
"Ha, ha!" laughed he, as he run over the contents. "Eunice, go below and light the fires."
The woman hastened away.
"Romance at thirty-seven! elopement extraordinary, Wayland!" he continued. "Miss Mary Lester has become in due form Mrs. Col. Edmunds, and 'fled,' as she expresses it—(now where was the use inflying, for who would have objected to the marriage? But then 'twas romantic, of course)—to the wilds of Texas; there to enjoy the sweets of domestic felicity with her adored husband; to which fair land she hopes I'll some day come to visit her, when I have regained possession of my senses, and learnt the difference 'twixt canary-birds and wild-cats."
Wayland listened with amazement depicted on his features.
"Strange; all wonder, isn't it, Morris?" pursued Lester. "Let's go below and discuss the matter."
The gentlemen descended to the parlor, where Aunt Eunice soon presented herself, and, with rueful countenance, said:
"Please, massa, who is to pour the coffee this morning? Missus gone, you know."
"Well, Eunice, suppose you run up stairs, and ask Miss Winnie if she will not condescend to perform that office this morning, as we find ourselves so suddenly bereft of a housekeeper?" said Lester, in a mock-serious tone.
Winnie of course assented, and passed into the breakfast-room, where she found her brother and Lester already seated at the table.
"Good-morning, Miss Morris," said the latter. "A romance, such as we read of in old knights' tales, was enacted in our house last night, in consequence of which a forlorn bachelor has to ask of you the favor to preside at his desolate board this morning."
"I shall be pleased to serve you," returned Winnie, assuming the head of the table, and so prettily did she perform the duties of her new office, that Lester forgot his muffins and sandwiches, in admiration of his newly-installed housekeeperpro tem.
Miss Mary's elopement was a three days' wonder, and then the affair was as if it had never been; save that the servants could not sufficiently admire Miss Winnie, or sufficiently rejoice over Miss Mary's departure. "O," said Aunt Eunice, "don't I wish massa would marry you, Miss Winnie, and then the house would be like heaven—'deed it would!"
CHAPTER XIII.
"We've many things to say within the boundsOf this good chapter, which is 'mong the last;So be of better cheer; for we are wellNigh done."
"We've many things to say within the boundsOf this good chapter, which is 'mong the last;So be of better cheer; for we are wellNigh done."
"We've many things to say within the bounds
Of this good chapter, which is 'mong the last;
So be of better cheer; for we are well
Nigh done."
We will just step over to Texas this morning, dear reader, for well we know the mocking-birds are singing sweetly, and the wild geese rise from the placid bayous, and flap their broad, white wings over the bright green prairies, on their inland flight, and the gentle breezes stir the dark, luxuriant foliage of the wide, primeval forests, while all the air is redolent with the odors of the ocean of flowers that cover the whole sunny land with bloom and beauty.
It is something more than a year since we parted with Esq. Camford in his new emigrant home, and now we have another party of friends arriving in our young "Italy of America," even the romantic Miss Mary Lester, and her John Falstaff husband; and Fred. Milder, too, has had time to wear off the edge of his love disappointment on the ridgy hog-wallows of this fair south-western land. For we don't believe there's another so effectual antidote in the world for a fit of the blues or love dumps, as a long day's ride in a Texan stage-coach, with three pair of wild mustangs for horses, over these same hog-wallows; to say nothing of the way they despatch jaundice, dyspepsia, and all the host of bilious diseases. But don't you quite understand what hog-wallows are, reader? Well, Heaven help you then, when you go out south or west, and pitch into them for the first time! Invoke your patron saint to keep your soul and body together, and prevent your limbs from flying off at tangents.
We will tell you how we once heard a Kentuckian (and God bless the Kentucky boys in general, for they are a whole-souled race!) account for these anomalous things. We were pitching through a group of them, some dozen of us in a miserable wagon, when one "new comer" asked his neighbor, "What is the cause of these confoundedhumpsin the roads?"
"They are hog-wallows," responded the one interrogated, in a pompous tone, as if proud to display his superior knowledge of the land into which both the speakers had but recently made their advent.
"Hog-wallows!" exclaimed the man, more in doubt than ever by his newly-acquired knowledge, "what makes so many of them then?"
"Why, you see when the great rains come on," commenced the "wise 'un," "the country gets all afloat, and when it begins to dry off a little, the wild hogs come by thousands, and roll and flop about in the mud, and that makes all these pitch-holes, which they call hog-wallows."
"Why don't they kill the hogs and eat 'em, and not have 'em rooting up the roads in this awful way?" asked greeny number one.
"Lord! they do kill and kill, I'm told," said greeny number two; "but Texas is such an almighty rich country that all sorts o' critters and things grow up spontaneously everywheres."
"Creation! but why don't they build fences alongside their roads then!"
"O, they never make fences in Texas; first you'd know a hurricane would come tearing along, and land them all in the Gulf of Mexico, quicker than you could say 'Old Kentuck.'"
"Stars and gaiters! what a dreadful dangerous country is this we have got into!" said number two, with a frightened aspect, as they dropped the subject and relapsed into silence, while it was evident, from their anxious visages, that their minds were harassed and disturbed, by visions of hog-wallows, hurricanes and spontaneous animals.
We have heard other and more philosophical hypotheses as to the origin of these uneven roads. Some suppose the country was once an inland sea, and these ridges were occasioned by the continuous action of the waves; others suppose the intense heat of the sun on the soft, clayey soil, caused it to crack and spread asunder, leaving the surface broken and ridgy. This latter is the more generally received opinion, we believe.
Here's half a chapter on hog-wallows, the unpoetical things! but as utilitarians maintain nothing is made but what subserves some purpose, we premise these humpy roads were made for the benefit of gouty men, dyspeptic women, and love-sick lads and lasses. Thus disposed of, "we resume the thread of our narrative," as novel-writers say. Our pen waxes wild and intractable, whenever we get safely over the stormy gulf, and stand on the shores of bonny, bright Texas; for we feel at home there, hog-wallows, musquitoes, Camanches and all. Let none dare gainsay Texas in our ears, for it is the banner state of all the immaculate thirty-one. Come on, reader, now we have had our say, straight up to the thriving plantation of Esq. Camford, and behold the wonders this wonderful land can produce upon the characters of nervous, delicately-constituted ladies. That buxom, blooming-matron in the loose gingham wrapper, and muslin morning-cap, who stands on the gallery of that new and tastefully-built cottage, all overshaded by the boughs of the majestic pecan trees, giving off orders to a brace of shiny-eyed mulatto wenches, who listen with reverential awe and attention, is none other than the hysterical, shaky-nerved Mrs. Camford, whom we beheld some two years ago bewailing the fate which had brought her to this awful place, to be poisoned by snakes, mangled by bears, and murdered by Indians. Listen to her words:
"Thisbe, take the lunch I have placed in the market-basket down to the cotton-field boys, and ask your master to come to the house soon as convenient; some people from the States are come to visit us:—and you, Hagar, go to the garden and gather a quantity of vegetables for dinner. I will be in the kitchen to assist in their preparation."
The women bowed, and hastened away on their separate errands. Mrs. Camford now turned to enter the house, when Josephine, her cheeks blooming with health and happiness, came bounding to her mother's side. "O, mamma, the young gentleman, Mr. Milder, knows all about cousin Alice! he has come right from the place in which she resides. He says she sent a great deal of love to us all, and desired me to write to her. Perhaps, now we know she remembers us so kindly, you will let me go north some time, and pay my long-promised visit. Susette and her husband talk of travelling next season, you know."
All this was uttered in the most lively and animated tone conceivable, and Mrs. Camford smiled, and answered cheerfully, as mother and daughter reëntered the neat, airy parlor, where our heroine of romance, Miss Mary Lester, was sitting beside her portly, red-visaged husband, Col. Edmunds, who had, in early life, been a Texan ranger, and acquired so keen a relish for the wild, exciting scenes of a new country, that he would not give his hand (his heart we suppose he could not control) to the fair Mary, unless she would consent to forego the luxuries of fashionable life, and follow his fortunes through the perils and vicissitudes of an Indian frontier. She stood out to the last, hoping the stalwart colonel would yield to her eloquent pleadings, and consent to make his abode in New Orleans; for she conceived that brother Augustus, having arrived at the sober age of thirty, would never marry, and it would be the finest idea in the world for him to relinquish the splendid estate he had acquired by his own untiring exertions, to the hands of Col. Edmunds, while she, as the worthy colonel's most estimable consort, would condescend to assume the direction of the servants and household affairs, and Augustus could thus live wholly at his ease, without a worldly care to distract his breast. What an affectionate, self-sacrificing sister would she be, thus kindly to relieve her brother at her own expense! But, just as this plan began to ripen for execution, she was counter-plotted, or fancied herself to be, which led to the same denouement. Winnie Morris came to pass a vacation with her brother, Wayland, and the fore-doomed bachelor, Augustus Lester, most audaciously dared to fall in love with the cackling girl. So Miss Mary declared; and to remain in her brother's mansion, where she had hitherto exercised unlimited sway, under such a little minx of a mistress, was too much for human nature to endure; so, all on a sudden, she yielded in full to the majestic colonel's wishes, and "cut sticks" for Texas, flying, as many of us often do, from an imaginary evil, and leaving behind poor little Winnie, innocent and unsuspecting as a lamb, with the great coffee-urn in her trembling hand. How long the fair girl remained thus innocent and unsuspecting, we are yet to know.
"So you are from New Orleans, Col. Edmunds," remarked Mrs. Camford. "I do not recollect of ever having met you there; but to see any person from our former home, though personally strangers, affords us pleasure and gratification."
"I have only resided in New Orleans about six months, madam," returned Col. Edmunds; "the most of my life has been spent in camp and field."
"My husband is a soldier," said Mrs. Edmunds, "and we are now on our way to the Indian frontier."
"Indeed! and how do you think you will relish frontier life?" asked Mrs. Camford.
"O, I shall be contented anywhere with my husband!"
"Just married, madam, and desperately in love yet," said the colonel. "Always lived in the city, and thought it the greatest piece of audacity in the world when I informed her I was going to stop at the residence of a private gentleman with whom I was not in the least acquainted, to bait my mules and get dinner. Not a bit acquainted with the Texan elephant, you see, madam."
"Heaven save me, Samuel! do people in this country associate with elephants?" exclaimed the bride, with the prettiest display of horrified surprise.
"To be sure; I had one for a bed-fellow six or eight months when I first came out here," returned the husband, with perfect serenity.
"O, my soul, I hope I shall never see one!" said the young wife, nestling closer to her husband's side.
The colonel laughed heartily, and all joined in his merriment.
"You should not alarm new-comers by such bug-bear tales," remarked Mrs. Camford, at length. "This young gentleman, Mr. Milder, is just from the north."
"Indeed! well, he looks as if he might soon learn how to grapple with elephants and tigers both," said the colonel, glancing on the young man's countenance.
"Tigers!" exclaimed Mrs. Edmunds, taking fresh alarm; "do those ferocious creatures grow here too?"
"Yes, everything grows here, Mary, about five times as large as anywhere else," answered the bluff colonel. "But what say, young man, to going up on the frontier with me, and seeing a bit of soldier life? You'd get to see the whole elephant there, teeth, trunk and all."
"Why will you keep talking about that dreadful monster?" said the young wife, who had brought a few nerves along with her. "You'll terrify me to death, Samuel."
"You must get used to the critters, Mary, and the quicker the better, is all I have to say," returned the husband, patting her cheek.
Esquire Camford now entered, dinner was served, and the conversation took a higher tone. Esquire C. spoke of the country, its fertility, rapid improvement, and exhaustless resources. Fred. Milder began to feel an interest in a land with prospects so brilliant, and accepted with pleasure Col. Edmunds' invitation to travel on westward in company with him. The travellers were persuaded to pass the night; and during the visit Mrs. Camford came to know that Mrs. Edmunds was a sister of the Mr. Lester who had purchased her former sumptuous residence from the hands of the creditors, at the time of their failure in New Orleans. Still the knowledge did not waken regretful feelings, or excite a pang of envy in her breast; for she had learned to regard a cottage with content as better than wealth and pomp with pride and misery to distract the spirit.
The morrow dawned beautifully. Round and red the sun arose beyond the far, green prairie, when the mules and carriages were brought to the door, and the little party of travellers recommenced their journey. Fred. Milder cast a lingering glance after the pretty Josephine, as she wished him a delightful tour up the country, and bade him not forget to call and give her an account of all his adventures on his return. He promised faithfully not to forget, and, with kind adieus, the party moved on their way.
Josephine sat down after her usual morning tasks were completed, and indited a long epistle to her cousin Alice; giving a general description of her Texan home; not failing to mention her mother's happy recovery from nerves, and Susette's marriage with a promising young planter; also the pleasant visit they had enjoyed from Mr. Milder; and ended by saying she hoped another season, when papa was a little richer, to make her long-contemplated visit to the north.
CHAPTER XIV.