CHAPTER II.

Oh! yet we hope that, somehow, goodWill be the final goal of ill,To pangs of nature, sins of will,Defects of doubt and taints of blood.—Tennyson.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But they came on apace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life is before ye! Oh, if ye would lookInto the secrets of that sealed book,Strong as ye are in youth and hope and faith,Ye would sink down and falter, "Give us Death!"—Fanny Kemble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She is disappointed, most probably."

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

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

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

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

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

"I think so."

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

"No one, I suppose."

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

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

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

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

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

"Quite likely."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Will you always say so?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After awhile, Phædra resumed, softly and quietly:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And what is that, Valentine?"

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

"But the hundredth day, Valentine!"

The boy's face suddenly changed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ah, yes; less provocation."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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