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Hatchie, the Guardian Slave; or, The Heiress of Bellevue

by Oliver Optic · English · Gutenberg #14731 · 542,095 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Hatchie, the Guardian Slave; or, The Heiress of Bellevue

Author: Oliver Optic


        
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                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

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HATCHIE THE GUARDIAN SLAVE;

OR

THE HEIRESS OF BELLEVUE.

A Tale of the Mississippi and the South-west

by

WARREN T. ASHTON.

Boston:
B. B. Mussey and Company,
and
R. B. Fitts and Company

1853.

Reprinted 1972 from a copy in the
Fisk University Library Negro Collection
New World Book Manufacturing Co., Inc.
Hallandale, Florida 33009







     "Here is a man, setting his fate aside, Of comely virtues."

     SHAKSPEARE

     "Is this the daughter of a slave?"

     KNOWLES.






INTRODUCTION.


In the summer of 1848 the author of the following tale was a passenger
on board a steamboat from New Orleans to Cincinnati. During the
passage--one of the most prolonged and uncomfortable in the annals of
western river navigation--the plot of this story was arranged. Many of
its incidents, and all its descriptions of steamboat life, will be
recognized by the voyager of the Mississippi.

The tale was written before the appearance of "Uncle Tom's
Cabin,"--before negro literature had become a mania in the community. It
was not designed to illustrate the evils or the blessings of slavery. It
is, as its title-page imports, a _tale_; and the author has not stepped
out of his path to moralize upon Southern institutions, or any other
extraneous topic. But, as its _locale_ is the South, and its principal
character a slave, the story incidentally portrays some features of
slavery.

With these explanations, the author submits the tale to the public,
hoping the reader will derive some portion of the pleasure from its
perusal which he experienced in its preparation.

BOSTON, November 18, 1852.




HATCHIE:

THE GUARDIAN SLAVE.

CHAPTER I.


     "_Antony_. You grow presumptuous.
     _Ventidius_. I take the privilege of plain love to speak.
     _Antony_. Plain love!--Plain arrogance! plain insolence!"

     DRYDEN.


On the second floor of a lofty building in ---- street, New Orleans, was
situated the office of Anthony Maxwell, Esq., Attorney and Counsellor at
Law, Commissioner for Georgia, Alabama, and a dozen other states. His
office had not the usual dusty, business-like aspect of such places, but
presented more the appearance of a gentleman's drawing-room; and, but
for the ponderous cases of books bound in law-sheep, and a table covered
with tin boxes and bundles of papers secured with red tape, the visitor
would easily have mistaken it for such. The space on the walls not
occupied by book-cases was hung with rich paintings, whose artistic
beauty and elevated themes betokened a refined taste. The floor of the
room was covered by a magnificent tapestry carpet. The chairs, lounges
and tables, were of the most costly and elegant description. The windows
were hung with graceful and brilliant draperies. Every arrangement of
the office betokened luxury and indolence, rather than the severe toil
and privation to which the aspirant for legal honors must so often
submit. The costly appurtenances of the apartment seemed to indicate
that the young lawyer's path to fame was over a velvet lawn, bedecked
with beautiful flowers, rather than the rough road, steep and crooked,
over which the greatest statesmen and most eminent jurists have trodden.

The occupant of this chamber was stretched at full length upon one of
the luxurious lounges, puffing, with an abstracted air, a fragrant
regalia. He was a young man, not more than five-and-twenty years of age,
and what ladies of taste would have styled decidedly handsome. His face
was pale, with a certain haggard appearance, which indicates the earlier
stages of dissipation. His complexion was of a delicate white, unbrowned
by the southern sun, and the skin was so transparent that the roots of
his black beard were visible beneath its surface. His jet-black hair
hung in rich, wavy curls, which seemed to be the especial care of some
renowned tonsorial artist, so gracefully and accurately were they
arranged. His black eye was sharp and expressive when his mind was
excited in manly thought; but now it was a little unsteady,--disposed to
droop, and wander, as though ashamed to express the emotions which
agitated his soul. Altogether, his features were classic; but there was
something about them which the moralist would not like--a sort of
lascivious softness mingling with the nobler intellectual expression,
that warned him to beware of the Siren, while he admired the Apollo.

The marks of vice were visible in his countenance. They had not yet
become canker-spots on the surface, but they rankled and festered
beneath that fair field of physical and intellectual grandeur.

The young attorney was dressed in the extreme of fashion, yet in good
taste. Though he wore all the fashion demanded, he did not court
ridicule by overstepping its flickering lines. He was not the
over-dressed dandy, but the full-dressed gentleman of refined taste, in
his external appearance.

Anthony Maxwell had been educated at a northern institution. A year
before his introduction to the reader, he had entered his father's
office in the capacity of a partner, where, by an assumed devotion to
business, he had effectually deceived his father and his clients into
the belief that he was a steady, industrious young man. His talents were
of a very respectable order, which, superadded to a native eloquence and
an engaging demeanor, had enabled him to acquit himself with much credit
in the cases intrusted to his management. A few months after his
professional _début_, his father's decease had placed him in possession
of a very lucrative practice and a moderate fortune, thus enabling him
in some degree to follow the bent of his own inclinations. To those
whose habits and desires were similar to his own, he was not long in
unfolding his true character, though not to a sufficient extent to
destroy at once his professional prospects. The irresponsible life of
the man of leisure had more charms to him than an honorable distinction
in his profession. To labor in any form he had an intolerable
repugnance. His fortune was not sufficient to allow an entire neglect of
business; therefore he determined to practise law in an easy manner,
until a rich wife, or the "tricks" of his craft, would permit an entire
devotion to the pleasures of affluence.

In accordance with this idea, his first step, after the death of his
father, had been to locate himself in the magnificent apartments we have
described. He gave up the house in which his father had dwelt, and,
fitting up a sleeping-room in the rear of the office with oriental
splendor, his life and habits were free from the scrutinizing gaze of
friend and foe, and he found himself situated as nearly to his mind as
his income would permit. These indications of a dissolute life were
viewed with distrust by the more respectable of his clients. His
subsequent actions were not calculated to increase their confidence;
yet, for the respect they bore to the father's memory, they were slow in
casting off the son.

Mr. Maxwell smoked his cigar, and occasionally uttered an impatient
exclamation, as though some scheme he was turning in his mind refused to
accommodate itself to his means. He was evidently engaged in the
consideration of some complicated affair; and the more he thought, the
more impatient he grew. He finished his cigar, and lit another; still
the knotty point was not conquered. His haggard countenance at one
moment was lighted up, as though success had dawned upon his mental
contest; but at the next moment it darkened into disappointment, which
he vented in an audible oath.

While thus laboring in his perplexity, the door communicating with the
ante-chamber was opened, and the boy in attendance very formally
announced "Miss Dumont."

This announcement seemed to dissipate the vexatious clouds which had
environed the attorney, and a light and cheerful smile came, as if by
magic, upon his care-worn features, as he apologized to the lady for the
smoky atmosphere of the room.

"I trust your honored father is well," said he, after disposing of the
usual commonplace introductions of conversation.

"I regret to say that his failing health is the occasion of this visit,"
replied the lady, in a cold and even serious tone. "I have called to
request your immediate attendance at Bellevue. My father has some
business matters upon which he requires your professional advice."

"Col. Dumout, I trust, is not seriously ill," returned Maxwell, with an
appearance of sympathy.

"He is confined to his room, but not entirely to his bed. When shall I
say you will come?" said the lady.

"I will be there within an hour after your own arrival, if you go
direct."

"Very well, sir;" and she turned to depart.

This intention on the part of the lady did not seem to meet the
approbation of the attorney.

"Stay a moment, Miss Dumont," said he, in an embarrassed manner; "pray,
honor me with a moment's conversation."

"Nay, sir. I know too well your object in this request, and cannot
accede to it," replied the lady, in a firm and dignified manner, while
a rich crimson shade suffused her beautiful countenance.

"Be not so unkind,--a moment is all I ask," said Maxwell, with pleading
earnestness.

"No, sir; not a moment. Your unopened letter, which I yesterday
returned, should be enough to convince you that my mind is not changed,"
replied she, moving to the door.

The lawyer was vexed. The letter alluded to by the lady he had received,
and it had troubled him exceedingly. He had a great purpose in view,--a
purpose which, accomplished, would enable him to realize the cherished
object of his life,--would enable him to revel in the ease and affluence
he so much coveted. Something must be done. Here was an opportunity
afforded by the providential visit of Miss Dumont which might never
occur again, and he resolved to improve it. Determined to detain her, he
adopted the first expedient which presented itself.

"Pardon me," said he, "I have not received the letter, and was not aware
that you intended to return it."

"Indeed!" replied the lady, with evident astonishment, as she
relinquished her hold of the door-handle, and returned to the table by
the side of which the attorney stood.

"I regret that I did not, as it would have saved you from further
annoyance, and me from a few of the hours of anguish with which I have
awaited your reply," returned the lawyer, in accents of humility, which
were too well feigned to permit the lady to suspect them. "The
bitterness of a blighted hope were better than the agony of suspense."

A smile of pity and contempt rested upon the fair face of the lady, as
she turned her glance from him to the papers on the table. There lay
Maxwell's letter, with the envelope in which she had returned it! She
only pointed to it, and looked into his face to read the shame and
confusion her discovery must create.

Maxwell's pallid cheek reddened, as he perceived that his deceit was
exposed; but he instantly recovered his self-possession, and said,

"Pardon this little subterfuge. I permitted myself to descend to it,
that I might gain a moment's time to plead with you for the heart which
is wasting away beneath your coldness. You do not, you cannot, know the
misery I have endured in possessing the love upon which you so cruelly
frown."

The passionate eloquence of Maxwell might have melted a heart less firm
than that of Emily Dumont. As it was, the cold expression of contempt
left her features, and, if not disposed to listen with favor to his
suit, she was softened into pity for his assumed misery. Under any other
circumstances, the lie he had a moment before uttered would have forever
condemned him in her sight. But her charitable disposition compelled her
to believe that it was the last resort of a mind on the verge of
despair.

"Mr. Maxwell," said she, "I am deeply grieved that you should have
suffered any unhappiness on my account."

"I will bless you for even those words," returned Maxwell, hastily,
feeling that he had gained the first point.

"But I do not intend to encourage your suit," promptly returned the
lady.

"Be not again unkind! Veil not that heavenly sympathy in the coldness of
indifference again!"

"I wish not to be harsh, or unkind. You have before given me an index of
your sentiments, and I have endeavored, by all courteous means, to
discountenance them."

"Yet I have always found something upon which to base a flickering
hope."

"If you have, I regret it all the more."

"Do not say so! Changed as has been your demeanor towards me, I have
dared to fan the flame in my heart, till now it is a raging fire, and
beyond my control."

"I cannot give my hand where my heart is uninterested," replied the
lady, feelingly. "I love you not. I am candid, and plain, and I trust
this unequivocal declaration will forever terminate any hope you have
cherished in relation to this matter. Painful as I now feel it must be
for you to hear, and painful as it is to me, on that account, to declare
it, I repeat--I can never reciprocate the affection you profess. And now
let this interview terminate. It is too painful to be prolonged;"--and
she again moved towards the door.

"Do not leave me to despair!" pleaded Maxwell, earnestly, as he followed
her toward the door. "At least, bid me wait, bid me prove myself
worthy,--anything, but do not forever extinguish the little star I have
permitted to blaze in the firmament of my heart--the star I have dared
to worship. Do not veil me in utter darkness!"

"I can offer no hope--not the slightest, even to rid myself of an
annoyance," replied Miss Dumont, with the return of some portion of her
former dignity; for the perseverance of the attorney perplexed and
troubled her exceedingly.

"You know not to what a fate you doom me," said Maxwell, heedless of the
lady's rebuke.

"There is no remedy;" and Miss Dumont grasped the door-knob.

"There is a remedy. Bid me wait a month, a year, any time, till you
examine more closely your own heart. Give me any respite from hopeless
misery."

"You have my answer; and now I trust to your honor as a gentleman to
save me from further annoyance," said Miss Dumont, with spirit, for her
patience was fast ebbing out.

"I will not _annoy_ you," replied Maxwell, with emphasis, as he assumed
an air of more self-possession. "I have been pleading for exemption from
the direst of human miseries. But I will not _annoy_ you, even to save
myself from endless woe."

"Forget this misplaced affection; for he assured my sentiments will
continue unchanged."

"I can never forget it; but I will strive to endure it with
resignation. I feel that I must still cherish the presumptuous hope
that you will yet relent."

"Destroy not your own peace; for the hope must be a vain one.
Good-afternoon;" and the lady departed before the attorney had time to
add another hyperbolical profession of a passion which, however well
acted, was not half so deeply grounded as he had led the unsuspecting
object of it to believe. That he really loved her was to some extent
true. That his love was earnest and pure, such as the blight of coldness
and inconstancy would render painful, was not true,--far from it. He had
sought her hand, not to lay at her feet the offering of a hallowed
affection, but to realize the object we have before mentioned,--to
enable him, by the possession of her vast wealth, to live a life of ease
and pleasure.

He had commenced his attack upon her affections with some prospect of
success. To the occasional professional visit he paid her father he had
added frequent social calls, in which he had used all his eloquence to
enlist the sympathies of the fair daughter. She had regarded him as an
agreeable visitor; and, indeed, his natural abilities, the unceasing wit
and liveliness of his conversation, had well earned him this
distinction. Flattering himself that he should be able to win her
affections, he had gradually emerged from the indifference of the mere
formalist to the incipient attentions of the devoted lover. These
overtures were not well received, and, if she had before treated him
with the favor which the agreeable visitor always receives, she now
extended to him only the stately courtesy of entire indifference. The
visible change in the cordiality of her receptions had opened his eyes,
and revealed the nature of his unpromising position. But his disposition
was too buoyant, his character too energetic, to allow him to despair.

Latterly, however, a new obstacle to his suit had presented itself, in
the person of a rival, upon whom the object of his ambitious wishes
appeared to bestow unusual favor. This individual was a young officer
in the army, a sort of _protegé_ of the lady's father, who had been
spending a furlough at Bellevue. In the matter of fortune Maxwell's
rival was not to be dreaded, for he knew the lady was not mercenary in
her views. The young captain was penniless; but his family was good, and
he had the advantage of being a favorite with the father. He had won for
himself a name on the fields of Mexico, which went far to enlist a
lady's favor. He was a universal favorite both with the public and in
the private circle.

Maxwell considered this young officer a formidable rival, and he
resolved to retrieve himself at once. Upon his personal attractions he
relied to overcome the lady's disfavor; and, notwithstanding the
unequivocal intention of discountenancing his suit she had manifested,
he resolved to open his campaign by addressing her, eloquently and
tenderly, through the medium of a letter. He felt that he could in this
manner gain her attention to his suit,--a point which his vanity assured
him was equivalent to a victory. But his philosophy and his vanity were
both sorely tried by the return of the letter unopened. His point was
lost, and he was harassing his fertile brain with vain attempts to
suggest any scheme short of honest, straight-forward wooing,--which the
circumstances seemed to interdict,--when the visit of the lady herself
rendered further efforts useless.

His position, resting, as it did, on the purpose of marrying the
heiress,--a purpose too deeply incorporated with his future prospects to
be resigned,--was now a desperate one. Through the long vista of
struggles and difficulties he saw his end, and the fact that he had to
some extent compromised his heart stimulated him still more to meet and
overcome the barriers that environed him.

For an hour after the lady's departure the young lawyer pondered the
obstacles which beset him. With the aspect of an angry rather than a
disappointed man, he paced the office with rapid and irregular strides.
He could devise no expedient. A lady's will is absolute, and he must
bend in submission. He blamed his own tardiness one moment, and his
precipitancy the next; then he cursed his ill luck, and vented his anger
and disappointment in a volley of oaths.

His meditations were again interrupted, by his attendant's announcement
of "Mr. Dumont."

"Ah, good-morning, sir! I was just on the point of going to Bellevue.
Nothing serious has happened, I trust," said Maxwell, laying aside, with
no apparent effort, his troubled visage, and assuming his usual bland
demeanor.

"Nothing," replied the visitor, gruffly.

"Your niece left the office an hour since," continued Maxwell. "She
requested me immediately to visit your brother."

"Which you have not done," returned the visitor, whom we will style
Jaspar, to distinguish him from his brother, Colonel Dumont.

"But which I intend to do at once, a little matter having detained me
longer than I supposed it would."

"I will save you the trouble. The business upon which my brother wished
to see you was concerning his will."

"Indeed, sir! I hope he is not dangerously ill," said Maxwell, in
apparent alarm.

"Not at all. The doctor says he will be out in a week; but he thinks
otherwise, and is now engaged in putting his house in order," replied
Jaspar, with a sickly smile.

"I am glad he is no worse, though it is better at all times to be
prepared for the final event."

"Perhaps it is," said Jaspar, coldly. "Here is a rough draught of the
will, which he wishes reduced to the usual form with all possible haste.
Will it take you long?"

"An hour or two."

"I will wait, then, as he requested me to bring you with me on my
return."

"It shall be done with all possible haste. There are cigars, and the
morning papers. Pray make yourself comfortable."

Jaspar seated himself, and lit a cigar, without acknowledging his host's
courtesy, while Maxwell applied himself to the task before him. The
first part of the will was speedily written; but those parts which
alluded to the testator's daughter, foreshadowing the opulence that
awaited her, he could not so easily pass over. They were so strongly
suggestive of the fortunate lot of him who should wed her, that he could
scarcely proceed with the work. An hour before, she had veiled _his_
prospects in darkness; now he was preparing a will which would, at no
distant day, place her in possession of a princely fortune. His mind was
so firmly fixed upon the attainment of this treasure that it refused to
bend itself to the task before him.

Jaspar had finished his cigar, and began to be a little impatient.
Thrice he rose from his chair, and looked over the lawyer's shoulder.

"This is an important paper," said Maxwell, noticing Jaspar's
impatience, "and must be executed with great care."

"So it is; but the colonel may die before you get it done," observed
Jaspar, coarsely, and with a crafty smile, which was not unnoticed by
the attorney.

"O, no! I hope not," replied Maxwell, exhibiting the prototype of
Jaspar's smile.

A smile! What is it? What volumes are conveyed in a single smile! It is
the magnetic telegraph by which sympathetic hearts convey their untold
and unmentionable purposes. To the anxious lover it is the bearer of the
first tidings of joy. Long before the heart dare resort to coarse,
material words, the smile carries the messages of affection. To the
villain it reveals the sympathetic purposes of his according fiend. What
the lead and line are to the pilot, the smile, the cunning, dissembling
smile, is to the base mind. By means of it he feels his way into the
heart and soul of his supposed prototype.

Maxwell knew enough of human character to read correctly the meaning of
Jaspar's crafty smile. The attorney had long known that he was cold and
unfeeling, a bear in his deportment, and sadly lacking in common
integrity; but that he was capable of bold and daring villany he had had
no occasion to suspect. As he turned to the document again, the base
character of the uncle came up for consideration in connection with his
suit to the niece. Might not this circumstance open the way to the
attainment of his grand purpose?

But, while he considers, let us turn our attention to the development of
the history and circumstances of the Dumont family.




CHAPTER II.

     "_Lorenzo_. You loved, and he did love!
       _Mariana_. To say he did
     Were to affirm what oft his eyes avouched,
     What many an action testified--and yet,
     What wanted confirmation of his tongue."

     KNOWLES.


On the right bank of the Mississippi river, a few miles above New
Orleans, was situated the plantation of Colonel Dumont, which he had
chosen to designate by the expressive appellation of "Bellevue;" though,
it would seem, from the level nature of the country, it could not have
been chosen on account of any fitness in the term.

In territorial extent, in the number of slaves employed, and in the
quantity of sugar annually produced, the plantation of Colonel Dumont
was one of the most important on the river. This fact, added to the
possession of immense estates in the city, rendered its owner a man of
no small consequence in the vicinity. But, more than this, Colonel
Dumont was beloved and respected for his many good qualities of mind and
heart. In the late war with England he had served in the army, and as an
officer had won an enviable distinction by his courage and his talents.
Coming unexpectedly into the possession of this estate by the death of
an uncle, he retired, at the close of the war, from a profession to
which a genuine patriotism alone had invited him, and devoted himself
entirely to the improvement of his lands.

Colonel Dumont had been married; but, after a single year of happiness
in the conjugal state, his wife died, leaving him an only daughter in
remembrance of her. This child, at the opening of the tale, was within
a few years of maturity,--the image of her father's only love,--not less
fair, not less pure and good.

Emily Dumont was a beautiful girl, fair as the lily, gentle as the dove.
She was of a medium height, and of slender and graceful form. Her step
was light and elastic, and, if there was any poetry in her light,
elegant form, there was more in her easy, fairy-like motion. Her
features were as daintily moulded as her form. Her eye was light blue,
soft, and beautifully expressive of a pure heart. She was a little paler
than the connoisseur in female loveliness would demand in his ideal, and
her expression was a little inclined to sadness; but it was a
sadness--or rather a sweet dignity--more winning than repulsive to the
gazer.

Emily Dumont, highly as fortune had favored her in the bestowal of
worldly goods and personal beauty, was still more blessed in the gifts
of an expansive mind and a gentle heart; and mind and heart had both
been faithfully cultivated by the assiduous care of her devoted father.
She was a true woman,--not a mere plaything to while away a dandy's idle
hours, not a piece of tinsel to adorn the parlor of a nabob, but a true
woman,--one fitted by nature and education to adorn all the varied
scenes of life. Although brought up in unclouded prosperity, amid luxury
and affluence, she was still prepared for the day of adversity, if it
should ever come.

As the heiress of immense wealth, her hand was eagerly sought in the
aristocratic circle around her; but thus far she had resisted all these
attacks upon her heart, and upon her prospective riches. In the crowd of
suitors who gathered around her was Anthony Maxwell. In the item of
wealth his fortune was comparatively small; and in that of a noble
character, smaller still. Emily could have forgiven him the want of the
former, but the latter was imperatively demanded. At the young lawyer's
return from the North, and on his first appearance at the bar, Emily had
regarded him with more than ordinary attention. But, after the death of
his father, the reports which reached her ears of his dissolute habits
and inclinations caused her to regard him with distrust. His wit,
accomplishments and native suavity, had procured him admission into the
circle of her more favored friends. But the report of his vices had as
promptly produced his expulsion.

The return of the army from Mexico brought with it the young officer
whom we have before mentioned. The father of this young man had been a
companion-in-arms of Colonel Dumont, and a strong friendship had grown
up between the veterans. The tie was severed only by the death of the
former, after a life of mercantile misfortunes, and finally of utter
ruin. At the period of the father's insolvency and death, Henry Carroll,
the son, was a cadet at West Point, and was about abandoning his chosen
profession, for the want of means, when Colonel Dumont wrote him an
affectionate letter, offering all that he required to complete his
studies. This offer, coming from one who had been a heavy loser by his
father's bankruptcy, was highly appreciated, and the young student had
allowed no false delicacy to prevent his acceptance of the generous
proposal, though with a stipulation to repay all sums, with interest.
Colonel Dumont, in his regular summer tour to the North, never failed to
visit his young friend, whose noble bearing and lofty principle entirely
won his heart, and he charged himself with a father's duty towards him.
A regular correspondence was kept up between the self-constituted
guardian and his _protegé_; and the more the former read the heart of
the young man, the more did he rejoice that he had befriended him. He
read with mingled pride and affection the repeated instances of his
daring courage and matchless skill which found their way into the
newspapers; while the record of his humanity to a fallen foe contributed
to swell the tide of the old gentleman's affection.

On his return from Mexico, Henry's first care was to see his devoted
friend and guardian, and he accepted his pressing invitation to spend a
month at Bellevue.

As an inmate of her father's family, he was, of course, a constant
companion of Emily. Her radiant beauty had captivated his heart long ere
the month had expired; and he saw, or thought he saw, in the heart of
the fair girl, indications of a sympathetic sentiment. In the rashness
of his warm blood he had allowed himself to cherish a lively hope that
his dawning love was not entirely unrequited. He had seen that _his_
bouquet was more fondly cherished than the offerings of others; that
_his_ hand, as she alighted from the carriage, was more gladly received
than any other; that _his_ conversation never wearied her; in short,
there was in all their intercourse an unmistakable exponent of feelings
deeper than those of common friendship.

In the midst of this delighted existence,--while yet he revelled in the
pleasure of loving and being loved,--there came to him, like a dark
cloud over a clear sky, the unwelcome thought that it was wrong for him
to entangle the affections of his benefactor's daughter. He was a
beggar,--the object of her father's charity. Her prospects were
brilliant and certain, and he felt that he had no right to mar or
destroy them. He knew that she would love him none the less for his
poverty; but, probably, her father had already anticipated something
better than a beggar for his future son-in-law.

Poor Captain Carroll! The modesty of true greatness of soul had left
unconsidered the genuine nobility of the man. He thought not of the name
he had won on the field of battle,--of the honorable wounds he bore as
testimonials of his devotion to his country. He was poor, and, in the
despondency which his position induced, he attributed to wealth a value
which to the truly good it never possesses.

He loved Emily, and his poverty seemed to shut him out from the hallowed
field to which his heart fondly sought admission.

Henry Carroll was a high-minded man; he felt that to love the daughter
while the father's views were unknown to him would be rank ingratitude;
and ingratitude towards so good a man, so kind a benefactor, was
repugnant to every principle of his nature. There was but one path open
to him. If he could not help loving her, he could strive to prevent the
loved one from squandering her affections where pain and sorrow might
ensue. They had often met; but he strove to believe, in his unwilling
zeal, that their intimacy had not yet resulted in an incurable passion.
She had as yet shown nothing that could not have resulted from simple
friendship. And yet she had,--the warm glow that adorned her cheek when
she received his flower, the expressive glance of her soft eye as he
assisted her to the carriage, the sweet smile with which she had always
greeted him,--ah, no, these were not friendship! I He could not believe
that his affection was unreturned; it was too precious to remain
unacknowledged. The will and the heart would not conform to each other.
But his duty seemed plain, and he did not hesitate to obey its call,
though it demanded a great sacrifice.

The month to which he had limited his visit at Bellevue expired about
the period at which our tale begins. Inclination prompted him to accept
the pressing invitation of Colonel Dumont to prolong his stay; but,
bitter as was the thought of parting from her he loved, his nice sense
of honor compelled him to be firm in his purpose.

The announcement of his intended departure to Emily, as they were seated
in the drawing-room on the designated day, afforded him another evidence
that her heart was not untouched. Her pale cheek grew paler, and the
playful smile was instantly dismissed.

"So soon?" said she, scarcely able to conceal the tremulous emotion
which agitated her.

"So soon! I have finished the month allotted to me," replied Henry
Carroll, with a weak effort to appear gayer than he felt.

"Allotted to you! And pray are you stinted in the length of your visit?"

"My orders will not permit a longer stay, happy as I should be to
remain; and I have already trespassed long on your hospitality."

"Indeed, Henry, you have grown sensitive! You were not wont to consider
your visits a trespass. Pray, have you not been regarded as one of the
family?"

"True, I have. I can never repay the debt of gratitude for the many
kindnesses I have received at your good father's hands."

"He has been a thousand times repaid by the honorable life you have
led,--by feeling that the talents he has encouraged you to foster are
now blessing the world," replied Emily, warmly; "so no more of your
gratitude, if you please."

"However lightly you, or your father, may regard my obligations to him,
I cannot view them coldly."

"Well, then, your presence here will give him more pleasure than any
other token of respect you can bestow; and, I am sure, I should be
rejoiced--that is to say--that is--I should be glad to have you stay
longer, if you can be contented," stammered Emily, as her mantling
blushes betrayed her confusion. Deception was not in her nature, and,
strive as hard as she might, she must reveal her feelings.

"I should be happier than it is possible for me to express in remaining
at Bellevue. My month has passed away like a dream of pleasure,--so
short it seemed that time had staid his wheels,--so joyous that earth
seemed shorn of sorrow. You know not how much I have enjoyed the society
of your father, and, pardon me, of yourself," returned Henry, scarcely
less confused than Emily.

"I am glad to hear you say so," she replied, with some hesitation, and
fearful of exposing the sentiment she was conscious of cherishing. "I
have thought that, accustomed as you are to the stirring life of the
camp, you had grown tired of our quiet home."

"You wrong me, Emily, I should never weary here; but I was fearful that
I had already staid too long," said Henry, in a sad tone, for he felt it
most deeply, though not in the sense that Emily understood him.

"Too long! Then you are weary of us, and I will not chide you forbidding
us adieu," said Emily, with a glance of anxiety at Henry.

"Nay, Miss Dumont, do not misinterpret my words. I am not weary, I
cannot be weary, of Bellevue and its fair and good inmates."

"Then what mean you by saying you have staid too long?"

"Pardon me, I cannot tell why I said it; but I feel that I should do
wrong to prolong my stay, however congenial to my feelings to do so,"
replied Henry, with the most evident embarrassment.

"How strange you talk, Henry! What mystery is this?" said Emily, to whom
prudential motives were unknown.

"If it be a mystery, pray do not press me to unravel it, for I cannot."

His resolution was fast giving way before the strength of his love. He
was sorely tempted to throw himself at her feet and pour forth the
acknowledgment of his affection, which, he felt, would be kindly
received. It was a difficult position for a man of sensitive feelings to
be placed in, and he felt it keenly. But the duty he owed to his
benefactor seemed imperative.

Emily, on her part, was sadly bewildered by the strangeness of Henry's
words; but she had no suspicion of the truth. If she had, perhaps, with
a woman's ingenuity, she had devised some plan to extricate him from the
dilemma. She was conscious of the strong interest she felt in the man
before her; but the fact that she loved him was yet unrecognized. How
should it be? She was unskilled in the subtleties even of her own
heart. She know not the meaning of love yet. She was conscious of a
grateful sensation in her heart; but she had yet to learn that this
sensation was that called love in the great world. She began to fear, in
her inability to account for Henry's strangeness in any other way, that
some secret sorrow weighed heavily upon him.

"I will not press you," said she, in a tone of affectionate sympathy;
"but, if you have any sorrow which oppresses you, reveal it to my
father, and take counsel against it. My father's house is your home,--at
least, we have always endeavored to make it so. Father has always
regarded you with the affection of a parent, and taught me to consider
you as a brother--"

"A brother!" interrupted Henry, feeling that the relation of brother and
sister was too cold for the warmth of his affection; but, instantly
banishing the unworthy thought, he continued,

"And so, my pretty sister, you are for the first time entering upon your
sisterly relations?"

"The first time! Have I not always given you evidence of a sister's
esteem?"

"Pardon me. I only jested," said Henry, as the playful smile left his
countenance.

"Do not jest upon serious things, Henry," replied Emily. "But, brother,
something troubles you. You cannot deny it. You look so gloomy and sad,
and must leave us so suddenly."

"Nay, my sweet sister,--since sister I am permitted to call you,--you
must forgive me if I am obstinate just this once."

"I will forgive your obstinacy because you desire it, and not because I
am satisfied. Do you know, brother," said she, with a playful smile,
"that I suspect you are in love?"

This raillery was intended to have been uttered with a pert archness;
but the crimson cheek and tremulous lips entirely defeated the
intention.

"Fie, sister! You are jesting now, yourself," replied Henry, with what
was intended for a smile, but which, like his assailant's archness, was
a signal failure.

Both parties were now in the most unfortunate position imaginable.
Neither dared to speak, for fear of disclosing their emotions. Both felt
the awkwardness of the silence, and both felt the danger of breaking it.
Henry twirled the tassel of the window drapery, and Emily twisted her
pocket-handkerchief into every conceivable shape. Henry was the first to
gather fortitude enough to venture a remark.

"I must leave you, sister, now that, for the first time, the relation is
acknowledged. I assure you, however, that I appreciate the sisterly
kindness you have always lavished upon me. And I shall always remember
this visit as the happiest period of my life."

"Then I may hope you will often repeat it," replied Emily, sadly.

"However pleasant it would be for me to do so, I fear my duty will be a
barrier to my inclination. My future post, you are aware, is Newport."

"And you depart so suddenly, and then seem inclined to make your absence
perpetual! But we shall see you where-ever you are. We go to Newport
this season, if father's health will permit," returned Emily, with a
playful pout.

"I would stay by you,--that is, I would stay at Bellevue forever,--if my
duty to your father--I mean to my country--would permit," stammered
Henry, much agitated, as he rose to depart.

"I must go and bid farewell to your father," continued he, taking her
hand, which he perceived trembled violently, in his own; "and I trust
you will remember your absent brother--" kindly, he was about to say,
but Emily, attempting to rise, was overpowered by the emotions which she
had vainly striven to suppress, and sunk back in a swoon.

Henry summoned assistance, and applied the usual restoratives, but he
did not again venture to address her; and, as her pale features
exhibited signs of returning consciousness, he hurried from the room.

As the hour of his departure drew near, he bade an affectionate farewell
to Colonel Dumont, who was confined to his room by illness. His kind
friend used many entreaties for him to prolong his stay, but Henry
pleaded his duty, and that the dying request of a brother officer
required him to take a journey into Georgia, which would consume some
three or four weeks' time. He intended to go to his future station by
the way of the Mississippi, and promised that, if any time were left him
on his return, he would again visit Bellevue. This, however, he thought
was improbable.

Colonel Dumont gave his _protegé_ much good advice, and, as his failing
health had infected his usually cheerful spirits, he said that they
would probably meet no more in this world. He frankly told him that he
should remember him in his will, and wished him ever to regard Emily in
the relation of a _sister_.

This last wish seemed like a positive prohibition of the fond hope he
had cherished, of regarding her in a nearer and more tender relation. He
congratulated himself on the decision with which he had resisted the
temptation to avow his love.

This injunction of Emily's father could be interpreted in two ways,--as
a requirement to preserve the present friendly relations, or as a
prohibition against his ever making her his wife. The latter method of
rendering his meaning seemed to him the most in accordance with their
relative positions, and he was compelled to adopt it.

After renewing his thanks to his benefactor, he took his leave with a
sad heart, and departed from the mansion which contained his newly-found
yet now rejected love.




CHAPTER III.

     "_Macbeth_.--What is 't ye do?
     _Witches_.--A deed without a name."

     Shakespeare.


In the management of his estates, Colonel Dumont had, for many years,
been assisted by an only brother. This brother was directly the opposite
of himself in character, in aims, in everything. Even in his childhood
this brother had displayed a waywardness of disposition which gave the
promise of much evil in his future years. As the seed sown so was the
harvest. Parental instruction, counsel and rebuke, were alike
unavailing, and he attained the years of manhood morose and
unsympathizing in his disposition, avaricious and hard with his equals,
and cruel and unjust towards his inferiors. His selfish mind, his low
aims, and his tyrannical character, had long been preparing him for
deeds of villany and injustice.

In the earlier years of his life he had been a merchant in New Orleans;
but, being universally detested for his meanness and duplicity, in a
season of general panic in the financial world he was completely ruined,
by the want of those kind offices which are so freely interchanged in
the mercantile community. In this dilemma, he asked his brother's
assistance. Colonel Dumont examined his affairs, and, considering his
position in the community, with the almost hopeless embarrassment of his
concerns, concluded that success under these circumstances was
impossible. He frankly and kindly informed his brother of his
conclusion, and offered him a share in his planting operations. His
brother--Jaspar--was sorely wounded in his pride by this reply. It
generated in him a sentiment, if not of malignity, at least of hatred,
and from that day he was his brother's enemy. Jaspar's business was
gone, and he never allowed his spirit of revenge even to interfere with
his interest; so he availed himself of his brother's offer.

Colonel Dumont trusted much to the gentle influence of his family circle
to soften Jaspar's moroseness, and infuse some principle of charity and
love. But these anticipations proved vain. He was cold and taciturn.
Business alone could call forth the display of his energy, of which he
was possessed of a liberal share. The society of Emily and other ladies
he seemed to shun. The gentle influence of domestic life seemed entirely
wasted upon him. Colonel Dumont was forced to believe his brother a
misanthrope, and no longer strove to soften his character. Emily
regarded his coldness as his natural manner, and left him to the full
enjoyment of his eccentricity. Between persons of such opposite
dispositions there could be, of course, but little sympathy, and that
little was entirely upon one side.

The demon of Jaspar's nature displayed itself in the cane-field and in
the sugar-house, which Colonel Dumont rarely visited, having intrusted
the entire management of the estate to him, his own attention being
occupied by the exterior business of the plantation, and by his city
possessions. The poor negro, who was compelled to submit to cruel usage
and short fare, knew Jaspar's nature better than uncle or niece. His
advent among them had been the era from which they dated the life of
misery they led--a life so different from that they had been accustomed
to under the superintendence of the more Christian brother.

Jaspar Dumont managed the "negro stock" in the true spirit of a demon,
and as such the "hands" learned to regard him. Runaways, which, under
the mild management of his brother, were rarely known, were common now;
and almost the only amusement Jaspar knew was to hunt them down with
rifle and bloodhound.

This state of things Colonel Dumont saw, but he did not appreciate the
reason of it. Himself a rigid disciplinarian, he wished not to
interfere, though the cruelty of Jaspar pained his heart. His failing
health had latterly withdrawn his attention still more from the
plantation, and Jaspar drew the reins the tighter when he saw that the
humane eye was removed from him.

Such was Jaspar Dumont, whom we left in Maxwell's office at the close of
our first chapter.

On the day succeeding the departure of Henry Carroll, Colonel Dumont
felt himself much weaker in body, and was fully impressed with the
conviction that his final sickness had laid its hand upon him. To Emily
he had not communicated these gloomy forebodings, and she had discovered
no alarming symptoms in his illness. She had no suspicion of the nature
of her father's business with Maxwell, and had borne his message to the
attorney, as she had often done before, in her frequent visits to New
Orleans, though on this occasion, as may be supposed, she felt much
delicacy in doing so.

In her absence Colonel Dumont had become more and more impressed with
the omens of a speedy dissolution, and in his uneasiness had despatched
Jaspar with a draft of his intentions, wishing the attorney to write the
will in his office (where he could have his authorities at hand), and
return with his brother.

Maxwell considered the will and his own position, while Jaspar lit
another cigar. Each was striving to penetrate the thoughts of the other,
but neither had the boldness to enter upon the subject which occupied
his mind. The lawyer wanted the lady and the fortune, and he had an
undefined purpose of obtaining them through the agency of Jaspar, who
wanted only the fortune, and had a decided anticipation of being able to
retain the attorney in his service. Neither knew the purposes of the
other; but each wanted the assistance of the other.

Maxwell, with an absent mind, perused and reperused the first page of
Colonel Dumont's instructions. Without a purpose he turned the leaf, and
his attention was attracted by the name of his formidable rival, Henry
Carroll. He read, with astonishment, a bequest to him of fifty thousand
dollars. If it needed anything to complete his discomfiture, this was
sufficient. He began to think Colonel Dumont was in his dotage. He had
scarcely heard of Captain Carroll until his return from Mexico, and now
he was a legatee in the will of a millionaire. With much anxiety he
completed the reading of the instructions, fearful that he should find
the young officer's name in connection with Emily's. To his great relief
he found no such allusion, and again he applied himself to the task of
writing out the will.

Jaspar smoked his cigar, glanced occasionally at the newspaper, and
stared out of the window. He was evidently lost to all around him, in
the workings of his own mind. Now his thoughts seemed to excite him, for
his eye glared with an unusual lustre, and his thin lips moved, as if
they would disclose the operations of his mind. "Will he do it?"
muttered he. "He shall do it, or by ---- he shall suffer! I have the
means of compelling him. I will use them."

Apparently satisfied with his conclusion, he rose hastily and approached
the attorney. A smooth smile--an unwonted expression on his
features--seemed to come on demand. Again he looked over the lawyer's
shoulder. He saw the name of Henry Carroll, and his former severe
expression returned, and his frame was stirred by angry emotions. A
half-suppressed oath did not escape the quick ear of the attorney, and
he turned to observe the face of his companion. He read at a glance the
dissatisfaction which the will occasioned. The reason was plain; and,
with the intention of drawing out Jaspar's views, he addressed him.

"This Carroll is a lucky fellow," said he.

"The devil is always the luckiest fellow in the crowd," growled Jaspar,
with an oath.

"You are right, sir," returned Maxwell, pleased to see no better feeling
between his rival and the uncle.

"But who is this Carroll?" said he.

"A hungry cub, whom the colonel has helped along in the world."

"Well, he has proved himself a brave and skilful officer, and reflects
credit on your brother's judgment in the selection of a _protegé_,"
returned Maxwell, adroitly.

"The fellow is all well enough, for aught I know, but he has wheedled
the colonel out of fifty thousand dollars, and I can never forgive him
for that," said Jaspar, in what was intended for a playful tone, but
which was designed as a "feeler" of the attorney's conscience.

"But there is still an immense property left, even after deducting the
liberal charitable donations," said Maxwell.

"There is, but where does it go to? That whining young cub has divided a
hundred thousand with me, and the silly girl has the rest."

"Which will eventually go into the hands of Captain Carroll,--lucky dog,
he!" returned Maxwell, striving to provoke Jaspar still more.

"What! what mean you, man?" said Jaspar, with a scowl, as he caught a
glimpse of the attorney's meaning.

"Is it possible, my dear sir," said Maxwell, laying down his pen, and
turning half round, "is it possible you have not observed the intimacy
which has grown up between this Carroll and your niece?"

"Intimacy! what do you mean? Speak out! no equivocation!" said Jaspar,
almost fiercely.

"Do you not see that she will yet be the wife of Captain Carroll?"

Jaspar scowled, but said nothing. He had seen nothing from which he
could draw such an inference, but he doubted not the information was
correct.

"Well, well, it matters not. He may as well have it as she," muttered
he. "This will suits me not, and must be broken or altered."

"It _is_ hard upon you," said Maxwell, who had overheard Jaspar's
mutterings.

"It is rather hard to be placed upon the same level with a comparative
stranger," replied Jaspar, thoughtfully, after a long pause. He had not
intended the lawyer should hear his previous remarks, and had reflected
whether he should disown them, or pursue the subject as thus opened.

"Of course you will not mention the idle remark I made," continued
Jaspar, in a vein of prudence. "My brother has an undoubted right to
dispose of his property as he pleases."

"O, certainly. What transpires in my office is always regarded with the
strictest confidence, whatever its nature, and however it affects any
individual," replied Maxwell, laying peculiar emphasis on the latter
clause.

"That's right, always be secret," said Jaspar, without any of the
appearance of obligation for the favor which the attorney expected to
see.

"I have secrets in my possession which would ruin some of the best
families in the State of Louisiana."

"Without doubt," replied Jaspar, coldly.

The attorney resumed his writing, and pronounced in an audible tone each
sentence as he committed it to the paper.

"To my beloved brother--Jaspar Dumont--I give and bequeath the sum of
fifty thousand dollars."

These words, as intended, again fired Jaspar's passions.

"Is there no remedy for this?" asked he, hastily.

"No legal remedy," replied Maxwell, indifferently, as he continued his
task.

"Is there any, legal or illegal?"

"None that an honest man would be willing to resort to."

"That any man would resort to?" and Jaspar was not a little provoked at
the attorney's moral inferences.

"I know of none."

"I do."

"Then why do you not put it into operation before it is too late? The
will is now nearly written."

"Pshaw! man; you do not understand me. A bolder step than you are
thinking of."

"Well, what do you wait for?"

"I need assistance."

"If I can afford you any aid, _honorably_, I shall be most happy."

"_Honorably_! What the devil do you mean by _honorably_?" said Jaspar,
exasperated by this unexpected display of morality.

"What do I mean by honorably? Why, anything which does not affect the
legal or moral rights of others," replied Maxwell, a little touched by
the seeming reflection of Jaspar.

"Fudge! how long have you been so conscientious?" sneered Jaspar.

"When a man has a reputation to make or break, it becomes him to handle
it with care."

"Out upon you, man! _Your_ reputation is not so fair, that you need be
so tender of it," replied Jaspar, with some severity.

"Sir!"

"O, you needn't '_sir_' me! You have led me to commit myself, and now
assume a virtue you possess not."

"Sir, I value my reputation, and--"

"Of course you do, but you would not sacrifice a fortune for it,"
interrupted Jaspar, easily changing the tenor of the conversation.

"I certainly would not stain it unnecessarily," replied Maxwell, with a
meaning smile, for he saw the folly of attempting the "high flight" with
Jaspar.

"Now you talk sensibly," said Jaspar.

"Mr. Dumont, it is useless to beat about the bush any longer; if you
have any proposition to make, out with it at once; and if I cannot aid
you, I will, at least, keep your secret."

"Will you swear never to reveal what I shall propose?"

"Yes, if paid for it," said Maxwell, frankly.

"It is well. Now, I will put you in the way of making ten thousand
dollars, if you so will," said Jaspar, slapping the attorney on the back
with a familiarity which was likely to breed contempt.

This was a tempting offer, and Maxwell prepared to listen to the
proposition. He was aware that it was some design upon the estate of
Colonel Dumont, and he inwardly resolved to be a gainer by the
operation, whether he joined in it or not.

Jaspar Dumont laid aside his sternness, and disclosed his plot to
Maxwell. It was, as may be supposed, a nefarious scheme, and not only
intended to deprive Henry Carroll of his legacy, but also to disinherit
the heiress, and cast a stigma upon the character of his brother.

The plot we will not here disclose.

Maxwell listened attentively, occasionally interrupting the speaker, by
asking for details, or pointing out dangers But the foul wrong intended
towards her for whom he entertained warmer sentiments than those of
friendship shocked even his hardened sensibilities, and he strongly
objected to its consummation. It would also, by stripping her of her
broad lands, and stigmatizing her birth, render her undesirable as a
wife. But Jaspar was firm in his purpose, and refused to listen to any
other scheme. This one, he contended, was the safest and surest.

"But it is a diabolical transaction," suggested Maxwell.

"Call it what you will, it is the only one that will work well."

Maxwell remained silent. He was studying to make this scheme subservient
to his own purpose. He was obliged to confess to himself that his hopes
with the heiress were worse than folly, and he judged that the execution
of Jaspar's scheme would remove his rival. He looked forward years, and
saw his own purpose gained by means of Jaspar's plan. It was true that
he and Jaspar both could not have her estates; but then Jaspar was a
villain, and it would be a good service, at a convenient season, to be a
traitor to him. His plans were arranged, and he determined to encourage
his companion to proceed, though, at the same time, to seem unwilling,
and to keep his own hands clean from all participation in it.

After this long interval of silence, which Jaspar had endured with
patience, for he recognized the truth of the saying, that "He who
deliberates is damned," Maxwell said,

"I cannot consent to stain my hands with such gross injustice."

"You cannot!" sneered Jaspar.

"It would ruin me."

"It was part of my intention to keep the transaction a secret," said
Jaspar, sarcastically.

"Of course, and your confidence in me shall not be misplaced."

Jaspar's fists were clenched, and a demoniacal expression rested on his
countenance, as he said, savagely,

"You know your own interest too well to do otherwise."

"I am not to be intimidated," replied Maxwell, who despised his
companion most heartily, and did not relish his tyrannical manner. "Your
confidence, I repeat, is safe. _Honor_ will keep your secret,--threats
will not compel me to do so."

"_Honor_! ha, ha, ha!" chuckled Jaspar. "Do you know, Maxwell, that you
are a ---- fool, to talk to me of your honor?"

"Would you insult me, sir?" said, Maxwell, with vehemence.

"O, no, my fine fellow! _Your_ honor!--ha, ha!" returned Jaspar, taking
from his pocket a little slip of paper. "Look here, my _honorable_
worthy, do you know this check?"

Maxwell's face assumed a livid hue, and a convulsive tremor passed
through his frame, as he read the check.

In a moment of temporary embarrassment he had been tempted to forge the
name of Colonel Dumont to this check, for five hundred dollars, to
liquidate a debt of honor, not doubting that he should be able to obtain
it again before the day of settlement at the bank, by means of a
dissolute teller, a boon companion at the gaming-table. But Colonel
Dumont, in arranging his affairs for their final settlement, had sent
Jaspar for a statement of his bank account at an unusual time. Jaspar,
who, in the illness of his brother, had managed all his business,
immediately discovered the forgery. Without disputing its genuineness,
he ascertained who had presented it, and traced the deed to the
attorney, and thus obtained a hold upon him which was peculiarly
favorable to the execution of his great purpose.

"You see I have not laid myself open to your fire without fortifying my
position," said Jaspar, enjoying, with hearty relish, the discomfiture
of the lawyer. "Now, no more of _honor_ to me. I have kept your secret
for my own interest, and now you will keep mine from the same motive."

"But I _dare_ not do this thing," replied Maxwell, keenly sensitive to
the weakness of his position; "I lack the ability."

"You have signed the colonel's name once very well; perhaps you can do
it again," sneered Jaspar, who had no mercy for an unwilling servant.

"It will not be for your interest or mine that I should do it," returned
Maxwell, determined, if possible, to avoid committing himself.

"Why not?" said Jaspar.

"My frequent visits to Bellevue would subject me to suspicion. I am
known. Another would not be suspected. If I clear myself, I shall clear
you at the same time. I can procure a person who will accomplish all in
safety."

"Think you I will trust another man with the possession of the secret?"

"I shall compromise my own safety by writing the will, as you propose."

"True,--who is this person?"

"His name is--" and Maxwell hesitated; then a severe fit of coughing
apparently prevented his uttering the name--"his name is Antoine De
Guy."

"Do I know him?"

"You do, I think,--a kind of _street_ lawyer,--you must have met him at
the Exchange."

"What looking man is he?"

"About fifty years of age," replied Maxwell, more thoughtful than the
simple description of a person would seem to require,--"rather
corpulent, black hair and whiskers, intermixed with gray,--dresses
old-fashioned, and always looks rusty."

"I do not remember him,--De Guy--De Guy," said Jaspar, musing; "no, I do
not know him. Are you confident he can be trusted?"

"Perfectly confident. I pledge my own safety on his fidelity," replied
Maxwell, not a little satisfied at gaining his point,--for he had a
point, and a strong one, as the reader may yet have occasion to know.

"Very good,--I will inquire about him."

"And expose us both!" replied Maxwell, in much alarm.

"True,--on reflection, it would not be wise, and it would be best for
you and I not to be seen together. But finish the will; the colonel will
not relish my long absence. A word more: do not say anything about
_this_ will. The colonel has a fancy to keep it secret, and this fancy
will be the salvation of our scheme."

But we will not follow the conversation any further. The reader has
obtained a sufficient knowledge of these worthies from their own mouths,
to believe them capable of any villany they may be called upon to
perpetrate.

The plot was further arranged in all its details. A meeting with De Guy
was fixed for the next day, when all parties were to be prepared to act
their parts.




CHAPTER IV.

     "He is a man, setting his fate aside,
     Of comely virtues;
     Nor did he soil the fact with cowardice,
     But with a noble fury and a fair spirit
     He did oppose his foe."

     Shakespeare.


Colonel Dumont's melancholy forebodings proved to be too well grounded,
for in ten days after the departure of Henry Carroll he breathed his
last, not fully ripe in years, but mature in the stature of a good man.
His worldly affairs had all been arranged, and with his mind at peace
with God and man he bade a final adieu to his weeping daughter and
dissembling brother, and calmly resigned his spirit to its Author.

The mansion of Colonel Dumont had been the abode of happiness.
Cheerfulness and contentment--rare visitors at the home of
opulence--dwelt gracefully amid the luxurious splendor of this house.
But now a heavy stroke of affliction had come upon the devoted Emily.
The ruthless hand of death had struck down her father in the midst of
prosperity and happiness. She felt that she was alone in the world. Her
unsympathizing uncle seemed not to feel the loss, but appeared even more
cold and churlish than ever. She could not expect from him the offices
of kindness and sympathy. She was an orphan, but not till she was
prepared to combat with the trials of life. Recognizing the hand of
Providence in this visitation of the Angel of Death, she bowed meekly
and submissively to the Master Will, and was even cheerful and happy in
her tears.

It was about ten o'clock on the night succeeding the funeral of Colonel
Dumont that a small canoe, containing a single individual, touched at
the bank of the river near the now gloomy mansion. Leaping from the
canoe, which was nearly swamped by the act, the person it had contained
drew the frail bark beyond the reach of the rapid current, and ascended
the steep bank. Following the smooth shell road through the long vista
of negro huts, he reached the little grove of tropical trees which
surrounded the proprietary mansion. Casting an anxious glance around
him, to satisfy himself that he was not watched, he cautiously
approached the only illuminated window on that side of the house, upon
which, after a close scrutiny of the interior of the room, he gave
several light taps. This signal was answered by Jaspar Dumont, who, with
a word of caution, opened the window. The stranger, with a light spring
which belied his apparent years, gained the interior of the room, which
was the library of the late owner.

The person who had thus obtained admission was the lawyer, Antoine De
Guy, whom Maxwell had suggested as a fit agent for the execution of
Jaspar's scheme. He was certainly an odd-looking man. His face was of a
very dark red color, much like that which is produced by the united
effects of exposure and intemperance, and was encircled by a pair of
black whiskers, intermixed with gray. His cranium was ornamented with a
huge mass of the same parti-colored hair. His fiery red nose was placed
in strange contrast with a pair of green spectacles, which entirely
concealed the color and expression of his eyes. His clothes were of a
most primitive cut, and had probably been black once, but were now rusty
and white from long service. His form was portly, a little inclined to
corpulency. His hands were most unprofessionally dirty; but this might
have been occasioned by contact with the canoe in his passage. On one of
his fingers glittered a diamond ring, which, considering the lack of
ornaments in other respects, but ill accorded with the apparent
parsimony of the man. It might, however, have been obtained in the way
of trade, for Maxwell had hinted that he did business under the sign of
the "three golden balls." He was apparently in the neighborhood of
five-and-forty, and looked like the debauchee in the face, while his
dress indicated the penurious man of business.

"Did any one see you?" asked Jaspar, whose teeth were chattering with
apprehension, notwithstanding his natural boldness.

"Not that I am aware of," replied De Guy, in a silky tone, which,
proceeding from such a form, would have astonished the listener.

"You met no one?" interrogated the anxious Jaspar.

"Not a soul! Everything was still."

"Let us be sure of it. Step into this room for a moment. I will see that
all the servants have retired," said Jaspar, pushing his confederate
into an adjoining apartment.

A light pull at the bell-rope brought to the library the body-servant of
the late planter.

This "boy," who was known by the name of _Hatchie_, was a mulatto. He
was about forty years of age, and, having never been reduced to labor in
the cane-fields, bore his age remarkably well. He was about six feet in
height, very stout built, and was endowed with immense physical
strength. His brow was a little wrinkled, and his head was a little bald
upon the top,--and these were the only evidences of his years. His
expression was that of great intelligence. In his countenance there was
a kind of humility, to which his demeanor corresponded, that might have
resulted from his condition, or have been inherent in his nature. He was
a man who, even in a land of slavery, would be instinctively respected.

He had been a great favorite with his late master, in whose family he
had spent the greater part of his life. By being constantly in
attendance upon him and his guests, he had acquired a much greater
amount of information than is often found in those of his condition. He
could read and write, and by his intelligence and singular fidelity had
proved a valuable addition to his master's household. Possessing his
confidence, and regarded more as a friend than a slave by Emily, he was
a privileged person in the house,--a confidence which in no instance did
he abuse, and which in no degree abated his affection or his fidelity.

Hatchie was not a phrenologist, but he had long ago acquired a perfect
knowledge of Jaspar's character,--a knowledge which his master or Emily
had never obtained.

Hatchie considered Emily, now that her father was dead, as his own
especial charge, and he watched over her, in the disparity of their
stations, very much as a faithful dog watches over a child intrusted to
its keeping. Towards her he entertained a sentiment of the profoundest
respect as his mistress, and of parental affection as one who had grown
up under his eye.

"Hatchie," said Jaspar, as the mulatto entered the library, "are the
hands all in?"

"Yes, sir," replied Hatchie, whose penetrating mind detected the
tremulous quiver of Jaspar's lip; "all in two hours ago, according to
regulations."

"All right, then. You can go to bed now."

"Yes, sir," replied Hatchie, with his customary obeisance, as he turned
to depart.

"Stay a moment. Go to Miss Emily, and get the keys of the secretary,"
said Jaspar, with assumed carelessness.

Hatchie obeyed; and, suspecting something before, he was confirmed in
the opinion now, and determined to watch. His suspicions of
something--he knew not what--had been excited by seeing Maxwell in
earnest consultation with Jaspar on the day of the funeral. He had, of
course, no idea of the plots of the latter; but, in common with all the
"boys," he hated Jaspar, and was willing to know more of his
transactions.

Giving the keys to Jaspar, he left the room, and heard the creaking of
the bolt which fastened the door.

As soon as the servant had departed, Jaspar called his confederate from
his concealment.

"Are you ready for business?" said he.

"I am," replied De Guy, "as soon as you pay me the first instalment. I
can't take a single step in the dark."

"Here it is," and Jaspar took from his pocket the money. "Have you the
document?"

"I have," replied De Guy, producing the fictitious will, which Maxwell
had drawn up in conformity with the instructions of Jaspar.

"And you are ready to affix the signature?" said Jaspar, who appeared
not to be in the possession of his usual confidence. Few villains ever
become so hardened as never to tremble.

"I am. I came for that purpose. Give me the genuine will, and I will
soon make this one so near like it that the witnesses themselves shall
not discover the cheat," replied De Guy, with an air of confidence.

"You shall have it; but first read this to me. I do nothing blindly."

The attorney, in his silky tones, read the paper through, and Jaspar
pronounced it correct in every particular.

"I see nothing in the way of entire success," said Jaspar, rubbing his
hands with delight at his prospective fortune.

"Nor I," replied De Guy, "except that these witnesses will deny the
substance of it."

"How can they, when they know it not? The colonel, for some reason or
other, would not let them read it or know its purport. Maxwell and
myself are pledged to secrecy. It is upon this fact that I based the
scheme."

"But the will would not be worth a tittle in the law with such
witnesses."

"Bah! the colonel knew no one would contest it. He did it at his own
risk."

"But will they not contest _your_ will?"

"If they do, I shall find the means of proving what the document
affirms, and my case will then stand just as well. As a kind of
assurance for the witnesses my brother affixed a character,--a kind of
cabalistic design,--upon the will, assuring them it was placed on the
will alone. You have a copy of this design?"

"I have. Maxwell gave it to me, and I have practised till I can do it to
perfection. Your brother had an odd way of doing business."

"He had; but his oddity in this instance is a God-send."

"But the _other_ document, Mr. Dumont! My stay is already too long!"

Jaspar, taking the keys from the table, opened the secretary, and took
from a small iron safe in the lower part of it a large packet, on which
were several large masses of wax bearing the impress of Colonel Dumont's
seal.

"Now, De Guy," said he, "do your best."

"Do not fear! I never yet saw a name I could not imitate."

"So much the better; but be careful, I entreat you! Think how much
depends upon care!"

"O, I can do it so nicely that your brother himself would not deny it,
if he should step out of his grave!"

"Silence, man!" said Jaspar, angrily, as a superstitious thrill of
terror crept through his veins.

Jaspar took up the packet, and was about to snap the seals, when,
quicker than thought, the window through which De Guy had entered flew
open, and Hatchie leaped into the room. Without giving Jaspar or his
accomplice time to recover from the surprise of his sudden entrance, he
levelled a blow at the lawyer, and another at the perfidious brother,
which placed both in a rather awkward position on the floor. Hatchie
then seized the envelope containing the will, and made his escape in the
manner he had entered, well knowing that Jaspar would not hesitate to
take his life rather than be foiled in his purpose.

[Illustration: Hatchie knocking down De Guy and Jasper, and stealing the
will. Page 46.]

The mulatto's blows produced no serious effect upon the heads of the
two villains, and, recovering from the surprise and shock the act had
occasioned, they lost not a moment in pursuing their assailant. Hatchie
directed his course to the river, and scarcely a moment had elapsed
before he heard the steps of his pursuers. Leaping down the bank, he ran
along by the edge of the water, with the intention of reaching a boat
which he knew was moored a few rods further down. In his flight,
however, he discovered the canoe in which De Guy had arrived, and,
casting it off, he paddled with astonishing rapidity towards the
opposite shore.

His pursuers reached the bank, and perceiving the canoe through the
darkness, Jaspar discharged his rifle at it. A heavy splash followed the
discharge. The canoe appeared to float at the mercy of the current.
Jaspar and De Guy, satisfied that the rifle-ball had done its work,
hastened down stream to a small point of land which projected into the
river, with the hope of securing the canoe and the body of the slave,
upon which they expected to find the will. The canoe was driven ashore,
as they had anticipated; but it contained not the objects for which they
sought. The corpse of Hatchie was nowhere to be found, though they
paddled about the river an hour in search of it,--not that the body of
the mulatto was of any consequence, but in the hope of obtaining the
precious will.

Here was a contingency for which Jaspar was wholly unprepared. The
original signature of the will was not now available, and they must
trust to luck for accuracy in signing the false one. There was little
difficulty in this, as the will was known to have been signed in the
usual manner, and the private character they had in their possession.
Still Jaspar felt that the original paper afforded the surer means of
deceiving the witnesses. They had before intended to produce a
fac-simile, mechanically, of the original,--a purpose which could not
now be accomplished. The witnesses were all friends of Colonel Dumont,
and they had various papers signed by them from which to copy their
signatures. The worst, and to Jaspar's daring mind the only difficulty
which now presented itself, was the fear that the body of Hatchie might
be found, and the genuine will thus brought to light. After much
reflection and consultation with De Guy, he determined to risk all, to
watch for the body, and be prepared to overcome any obstacle which might
be presented. With this conclusion they returned to the library. By the
aid of old notes, checks, and other papers, the fictitious will was duly
signed, the significant character affixed, and the document enveloped so
as to exactly resemble the original packet.

The whole transaction was so well performed that Jaspar retired to his
pillow confident of success, to await the result on the morrow, when the
will was to be read.




CHAPTER V.

     "Is this the daughter of a slave? I know
     'Tis not with men as shrubs and trees, that by
     The shoot you know the rank and order of
     The stem. Yet who from such a stem would look
     For such a shoot?"

     Knowles.


The morrow came. Emily was summoned to the library, to hear the reading
of her father's will. With her no worldly consideration could mitigate
the deep grief that pervaded her heart. She derived her only consolation
from a purer, higher source. She was a true mourner, and the acquisition
of the immense fortune of which she was the heiress was not an event
which could heal the wound in her heart. She looked not forward to the
bright scenes of triumph and of conquest that awaited her. She was not
dazzled by the brilliancy of the position to which wealth and an
honorable name entitled her. Such thoughts never occurred to her. She
did think of Henry Carroll; but not in the proud situation to which her
wealth might elevate him, but as a pure heart that would beat in unison
with her own, that would sympathize with her in her hour of sorrow; as
one who would mingle his tears with hers, over the bier of a common
parent. She was not sentimental in her love, nor in her grief. Sighs and
tears with her were not a sentimental commodity,--an offering which the
boarding-school miss makes alike at the altar of her love, or at the
shrine of a dead parent's memory. The desolation of heart and home was
not a trial which wealth and honors could adorn with tinsel, and thus
render it desirable, or even tolerable!

Emily Dumont entered the library. The occasion was repugnant to her
feelings. The unceremonious blending of dollars and cents with the
revered name of her father was extremely painful to her sensibility. It
seemed like a profanation of his memory.

Her uncle, Maxwell, the witnesses of the will, and several
others,--intimate friends of the family,--were already there. On
Jaspar's countenance were no tell-tale traces of the last night's
villany. He looked gloomy and sorrowful. So thoroughly had he schooled
himself in hypocrisy for this occasion, that the scene he knew would, in
a few minutes, transpire, had no prophetic indications in his features.
Like the tragedian who is tranquil and unaffected in the scene in which
he knows his own death or triumph occurs, Jaspar was calm, and his
aspect even sanctimonious.

As Emily entered Maxwell tendered his sympathies in his usual elegant
manner, and so touchingly did he allude to the death of her father that
with much difficulty she restrained a flood of tears. The scene in the
office, and the disfavor with which she had lately regarded him, were
forgotten in his eloquence.

After this courtesy to the daughter of his former patron, Maxwell again
seated himself, and after briefly and formally stating the reasons of
their meeting, to which he added a short but apparently very feeling
eulogy of the deceased, he took the packet from the safe, and proceeded
to break the seals.

In his full and musical tones the attorney read the preliminary parts of
the instrument, and then commenced upon the principal items of the will.
First came several legacies to charitable institutions and to personal
friends; after which was a legacy of ten thousand dollars to Emily
Dumont, to be paid in Cincinnati by his brother. The testator further
declared _that the said Emily was manumitted_, and should proceed under
the guidance of his brother to the place designated for the payment of
the legacy.

Emily, who had scarcely heeded the provisions of the will until the
mention of her name attracted her attention, was, as may be supposed,
somewhat astonished to hear her own name in connection with a legacy.
She raised her sad eyes from the floor, and heard the other stipulations
in regard to her. So utterly unexpected, so terribly revolting, was the
clause which pronounced her a slave, that for a time she did not realize
its awful import. But the blank dismay of her friends, the
well-counterfeited surprise of Jaspar and Maxwell, brought her to a
painful sense of her position. She attempted to rise, but in the act the
color forsook her face, and she sunk back insensible. In this condition
she was conveyed to her room.

The attorney completed the reading of the will, though, after the
extraordinary incident which had just occurred, but little attention was
given him. The witnesses at once recognized the strange character, and
acknowledged the signatures to be genuine. Here, then, thought they, was
the reason why the provisions of the will had been concealed from them.
So impressed were they with the apparent purpose of Colonel Dumont in
throwing the veil of secrecy over the contents of his will, that the
very strangeness of it seemed to confirm its genuineness; and they did
not scrutinize it so closely as under other circumstances they probably
would have done.

How often may a good motive be tortured, by the appearance of evil, into
the most despicable criminality! Colonel Dumont in this will had devised
large sums of money to various charitable institutions, and in the event
of his life being prolonged, did not wish to be pointed at and lauded
for this act. True charity is modest, and Colonel Dumont did not desire
to see his name blazoned forth to the world for doing that which he
honestly and religiously deemed his duty.

This modesty had favored Jaspar's plans. No one could now gainsay the
will he had invented; and he felt strong in his position, especially
after the witnesses had assented to their signatures.

Among the persona who had been present in the library was Mr. Faxon, an
aged and worthy clergyman. He had for many years been an intimate friend
of Colonel Dumont, and was a legatee in his will to a liberal amount. A
constant visitor in the family, its spiritual adviser and comforter, he
had possessed the unlimited confidence of the late planter and his
daughter. To him the whole clause relating to Emily seemed like a
falsehood. Pure and holy in his own character, it was beyond his
conception that a man of Colonel Dumont's lofty and Christian views
could have lived so many years in the practice of this deception. He had
no means of disproving the illegitimacy of Emily. The family had been
unknown to him at the period of her birth. The house-servants, with the
exception of Hatchie, were all younger than Emily. Then, the statement
was made in the will, and was, therefore, the statement of Colonel
Dumont himself,--for the genuineness of the will he did not call in
question. In accordance with his general character, her father had
manumitted her, and left her a competence. From this clause he inferred
that her father intended to place her beyond the reach of harm, and
beyond the possibility of ever being reduced to the degraded condition
so often the lot of the quadroon at the South. He had not only given her
freedom, but had provided for her conveyance beyond the pale of slavery.
With these intentions, if she were in reality a slave, Mr. Faxon could
find no fault. They were liberal in the extreme. But why had he, at this
late period, mentioned the stain upon her birth? Why not let her live as
he had educated her? These queries were so easily answered that the good
clergyman could not condemn the dead on account of them. If the
daughter, then she was the heiress; if not, legitimately, it would be
injustice to the brother.

Mr. Faxon reasoned in this manner. He could not believe, even with all
the evidence before him. There was a reasonable answer, apparently, to
every objection he could think of, and he resolved to apply to Jaspar
and Hatchie for more information. All that Jaspar could say, or would
say, in answer to his interrogatories, was that his brother's wife had
died in giving birth to a dead child; and that Emily, who was the child
of a house-servant by him, had so engaged his attention by her singular
beauty that he had substituted her for his own child. This story, Jaspar
said, his brother had told him in the strictest confidence, many years
before. Mr. Faxon, appreciating the disappointment of a father with such
a sensitive nature as Colonel Dumont, was willing to believe that Emily
had been substituted to supply in his affections the place of the lost
child; but that he should educate her as his own child, and then cast
her out from the pale of society, was incredible!

The evidence was so strong, he could see no escape from the terrible
conclusion that the gentle being, to whom he had ministered in joy and
in sorrow, was a slave! It required a hard struggle in his mind before
he could reconcile himself to the revolting truth. Her beautiful
character, built up mostly under his own supervision, he regarded with
peculiar pride. He was not so bigoted, however, as to believe his labors
lost, or even less worthy, because bestowed, as it now appeared, upon a
slave. In heaven his labors would be just as apparent in the quadroon as
in the noble-born lady.

After the departure of the friends who had been summoned to the reading
of the will, and whose stay had been prolonged by the melancholy
interest they felt in the unfortunate Emily, Mr. Faxon requested to see
her, and was shown to her room. She had just been restored to
consciousness, by the assiduous efforts of her maids, as the good man
entered.

"O, Mr. Faxon!" sobbed Emily, but she could articulate no more. The
terrible reality of her situation had entirely overcome her.

"Be comforted, my dear child," said Mr. Faxon, affectionately, taking
her hand. "The ways of Providence are mysterious, and we must bend
humbly to our lot."

"I will try to be resigned to my fate, terrible as it is," replied
Emily, looking at the minister with a subdued expression, while hot
tears poured down her cheeks. "You will not forsake me, if all others
do!"

"No, no, my dear child; it is my duty to wrestle with sorrow. I have
come to direct your thoughts to that better world, where the
distinctions of caste do not exist."

"O, that I could die!" murmured Emily, as a feeling of despair crept to
her mind.

"Nay, child, you must not repine at the will of Heaven. In God's own
good time He will call you hence."

"I will not repine; but what a terrible life is before me!"

"The future is wisely concealed from us. It is in the keeping of the
Almighty. He may have many years of happiness and usefulness in store
for you."

"But I am an outcast now,--one whom all my former friends will
despise,--a slave!" replied Emily, covering her face with her hands, and
sobbing convulsively.

"Nay, be calm; do not give way to such bitter thoughts. This may be a
deception, though, to be candid, I can scarcely see any reason to think
so."

Emily caught at the slight hope thus extended to her; her eyes
brightened, and a little color returned to her pallid cheek.

"Heaven send that it may prove so!" said she; "for I cannot believe that
he who taught me to call him by the endearing name of father; who
watched so tenderly over my infancy, and guided my youthful heart so
faithfully; who, an hour before he died, called me daughter, and blessed
me with his dying breath,--I cannot believe he has been so cruel to me!"

"It seems scarcely possible; but, my child, the ways of Providence are
inscrutable. Whatever afflictions visit us, they are ordered for our
good. Trust in God, my dear one, and all will yet be well."

"I will, I will! My father's and your good instructions shall not be
lost upon me, slave though I am. _Dear_ father," said she, and the tears
blinded her,--"I love his memory still, though every word of this hated
will were true. I ought not to repine, whatever be my future lot. That
he loved me as a daughter, I can never doubt; that he never told me I am
a slave, I will forgive, for he meant it well."

"I am glad to witness your Christian faith and patience in this painful
event. But, Emily, had you no intimation or suspicion of this trial
before?"

"No, never, not the slightest," said Emily, wiping away the tears which
had gathered on her cheeks.

"See if you cannot call to mind some slight circumstance, which you can
now recognize as such."

Emily reflected a few moments, and then replied that she could not.

"And your house-servants are all too young to remember as long ago as
your birth?"

"All but Hatchie."

"Perhaps you had better send for him, and I will question him.

"I will, and I pray that his knowledge may favor me."

Emily sent one of the maids for Hatchie; but she returned in a few
moments, accompanied by Jaspar, who, hearing her inquiries for the man
his rifle-ball had sent to the other world, had come to prevent any
injurious surmises.

This man, Hatchie, had not escaped Jaspar's attention, in the maturing
of his plot; but, as in some other of the particulars, he had trusted to
the facilities of the moment for the means of silencing him. Being a
man, it was not probable he could know much of the events attending the
birth of Emily to his prejudice. If it should prove that he did, why, it
was an easy thing to get rid of him. His rifle-ball or the slave-market
were always available. But Jaspar's good fortune had smiled upon him,
and he felt peculiarly happy, at this moment, in the reflection that he
was out of the way, for he doubted not the object of Emily in sending
for him.

"Miss Emily," said Jaspar, in a tone of unwonted softness, "I am sorry
to say that your father's favorite servant met with a sad mishap last
night, of which I intended to have informed you before, but have not had
an opportunity."

Emily's cheek again blanched, as she saw all hope in this quarter cut
off.

"Poor Hatchie!" said she, as calmly as her excited feelings would
permit. "What was it, Uncle Jaspar?"

Jaspar's lip curled a little at the weakness which could feel for a
slave, and he commenced the narrative he had concocted to account for
the disappearance of Hatchie.

"About eleven o'clock last night," said he, "as I was about to retire, I
heard a slight noise, which appeared to proceed from the library.
Knowing that you would not be there at that hour, I at once suspected
that the river-thieves, who have grown so bold of late, had broken into
the house. I seized my rifle, and when I opened the door the thief
sprung out at the open window. I pursued him down the shell-road to the
river; upon reaching which I perceived him paddling a canoe towards the
opposite shore. I fired. A splash in the water followed the discharge.
The canoe came ashore a short distance below, but the man was either
killed by the ball or drowned. In the canoe I found a bundle of
valuables, which had been stolen from the library,--among them your
father's watch."

"But was this Hatchie? Are you quite sure it was Hatchie?" asked Emily,
with much anxiety; for she felt keenly the loss of her slave-friend.

"My investigations this morning proved it to be so. He is missing, and
the appearance of the thief corresponded to his size and form. I am now
satisfied, though I did not suspect it at the time, that he was the man
upon whom I fired."

"But Hatchie was always honest and faithful," said Emily.

"So he was, and I must share your surprise," returned Jaspar.

"There is a possibility that it was not he," suggested Mr. Faxon.

"There can be no doubt," said Jaspar, sharply. "The evidence is
conclusive."

"No doubt!" repeated Mr. Faxon, with a penetrating glance into the eye
of Jaspar, whose apparent anxiety to settle the question had roused his
first suspicion. "He was, if I mistake not, the only servant of your
household who was on the estate at the time of Miss Dumont's birth?"

"He was, I believe," replied Jaspar, with a coolness that belied the
anxiety within him.

"Were you _alone_ when you shot him, Mr. Dumont?" asked the clergyman,
sternly.

"I was alone. But allow me to ask, sir, by what right you question me. I
am not your pupil or your servant," replied Jaspar, rather warmly, his
natural testiness getting the better of his discretion.

"Pardon me, sir," replied the minister, in a tone of mock humility. "Do
not let my curiosity affront you."

"But it does affront me," said Jaspar, losing his temper at the
sarcastic manner of the other. "Now, allow me to inquire your business
with this girl."

"I came in the discharge of my duty as a Christian minister, to impart
the consolations of religion to this afflicted child of the church. Of
course, my business could not be with _you_ in that capacity."

"You seem to have departed very widely from your object," replied
Jaspar, with a sneer which he always bestowed upon religious topics.

"True, I have. This last blow upon poor Emily was so sudden and so
severe as to call forth a remark, and even a question of the validity of
the will."

"Indeed!" replied Jaspar, with a nervous start; "you have the will as
her father left it."

"Uncle, you said my father's watch was stolen? Was it not in the iron
safe, with the other articles?" asked Emily, timidly.

"It was," replied Jaspar, coldly.

"How did he open it?" interrogated Mr. Faxon, taking up the suggestion
of Emily.

"Did Hatchie return the keys to you last night?" asked Jaspar of Emily,
promptly.

"He did not," replied she.

"I sent for them to put a note in its place, and sent them back by him
immediately. The fellow stood by when I opened the safe, and must have
witnessed its contents. You can judge how he opened it now," returned
Jaspar, with a sneer, well pleased that he had foiled their inquiries.

"You say that the canoe in which he was making his escape came ashore.
Where is it now? No canoe belongs to the estate."

"There is not," said Jaspar, uneasily.

"Perhaps an examination of it will disclose something of the robber, if
not of the will."

"So I thought this morning, and for this purpose went to the river, but
the canoe was not to be found. I did not secure it last night, and
probably it broke adrift and went down," replied Jaspar, whose ingenuity
never deserted him.

"Very likely," said the minister, with a kind of solemn sarcasm. "This
whole affair seems more like romance than reality."

"I cannot believe my father was so cruel," cried Emily, the tears again
coming to the relief of her full heart.

"Do you doubt the word of the witnesses, and the mark and signature of
your father?" said Jaspar, fiercely, with the intention of intimidating
her.

"No, no! but, Uncle--"

"Call me not uncle again! I am no longer the uncle of the progeny of my
brother's slaves. This cheat has already been continued too long."

"I will not call you uncle, but hear me," replied Emily, frightened at
Jaspar's violence.

"I will hear nothing more. You will prepare to leave for Cincinnati next
week. I will no longer endure the presence of one upon whom my
brother's bounty has been wasted. Have you no gratitude, girl? Remember
what you are!"

With these cruel words Jaspar hurried out of the room, satisfied that he
had established his position, and, at least, silenced Emily. The
minister he regarded, as he did all of his profession, with contempt.

Mr. Faxon and Emily had a long consultation upon the embarrassing
position of her who had so lately been the envied heiress. The murder of
the mulatto, the conduct of Jaspar, and some other circumstances,
afforded ground to believe that the will was a forgery. If such was the
fact, the minister was compelled to acknowledge that it was a deep-laid
plot. Everything seemed to aid the conspirators; for he was satisfied,
both from the wording and the chirography of the will, that Jaspar,
whatever part he played, was assisted by others. There was not the
slightest clue by which the mystery could be unravelled. If there was
hope that the will was a forgery, there was no immediate prospect of
proving it such.

Under these circumstances, Mr. Faxon felt compelled to advise obedience
to the instructions of the will. The journey to the North could do no
harm, and was, perhaps, advisable, under the state of feeling which
would follow the publicity of the will. Emily, painful as it was to
leave the home of her childhood at such a time, acquiesced in the
decision of her clerical friend. But there was a feeling in her heart
that she was wronged,--that she should go forth an exile from her _own_
Bellevue.

On the following week, Jaspar and Emily proceeded to New Orleans, in the
family carriage, to take a steamer for Cincinnati.




CHAPTER VI.

     "Day after day, day after day,
     We stuck,--nor breath, nor motion,--
     As idle as a painted ship
     Upon a painted ocean."

     ANCIENT MARINER.


It was about the time of the events related in the preceding chapters,
at the close of a variable day, in which the storm and sunshine seemed
to struggle for the ascendency, that a plain-looking, home-made sort of
man might have been seen attempting to effect a safe transit of the
steamboat levee at New Orleans. This personage was no other than Mr.
Nathan Benson, commonly called at home "Uncle Nathan." He was one of the
better class of New England farmers, an old bachelor, well to do in the
world, and was now engaged in the laudable enterprise of seeing the
country.

Uncle Nathan, though he laid no claims to gentility in the popular
signification of the term, was, nevertheless, a gentleman,--one of
Nature's noblemen. He was dressed scrupulously neat in every particular,
though a little too rustic to suit the meridian of fashionable society.
He presented a very respectable figure, in spite of the fact that the
prevailing "mode" had not been consulted in the fashioning of his
garments. His coat was, without doubt, made by some village tailoress,
for many of the graces with which the masculine artist adorns his
garments were entirely wanting in those of our worthy farmer. His hat
was two inches too low in the crown, and two inches too broad in the
brim, for the style; still it was a good-looking and a well-meaning hat,
for it preserved the owner's phiz from the burning rays of the sun much
better than the "mode" would have done. His boots, though round-toed and
very wide, were nicely polished when he commenced the passage of the
levee, but were now encased in a thick coating of yellow clay.

Uncle Nathan was a medium-sized man, and preserved as much of nature's
grace as a man can who has labored for five-and-thirty years at the
stubborn soil of New England. His hair was sandy, and his full,
good-natured physiognomy was surrounded by a huge pair of reddish
whiskers.

The superficial, worldly-minded man would have deemed Uncle Nathan's
_principles_ rather too ultra for common, everyday use; but he, good
soul, found no difficulty in applying them to every action he performed.
He was, to use a common phrase, a "professor of religion;" but, less
technically, he was more than a professor, and strove to live out the
spirit of truth and righteousness.

After much difficulty, Uncle Nathan succeeded in effecting a safe
passage to the planking which formed the landing for the boats. After a
glance of vexation at the soiled condition of his boots (Uncle Nathan
was a bachelor!), he commenced his search for an upward-bound steamer,
for he was about to begin his homeward tour. Two columns of dense black
smoke, the hissing noise of escaping steam, and the splashing paddles of
a boat a short distance down the stream, attracted his attention, and
towards her he directed his steps. Approaching near enough to read her
name, he was not a little surprised to find the boat he had seen
advertised to start a week before. Concluding, in his innocence, that
some accident had detained her, he hastened on board. Entering the
cabin, the scene which was there presented did not exactly coincide with
his ideas of neatness or morality. Uncle Nathan had read descriptions of
the magnificence of Mississippi steamers; but the Chalmetta (for this
was the name of the boat) fell far below them. Even the best boats on
the river he considered vastly inferior to the North River and Sound
steamers.

After a hasty survey of the Chalmetta's capability of making him
comfortable for a week or more, he concluded to take passage in her for
Cincinnati, and accordingly he sought for the captain. To his inquiries
for that personage a thin, cadaverous-looking man presented himself, and
drawled out a civil salutation.

"How long afore you start, cap'n?" inquired Uncle Nathan.

"We shall get off in about ten minutes," replied Captain Brawler.
"John," continued he, turning to a waiter near him, with a wink, "tell
the pilot to be all ready, and ring the bell."

"Why, gracious!" said Uncle Nathan, hastily, as the waiter dodged into
the pantry, "I shan't have time to get my trunk down."

"How far up do you go?" inquired Captain Drawler.

"To Cincinnati, if you can carry me about right," replied Uncle Nathan,
with an eye to business.

"Well, as you are going clear through, I will wait a few minutes for
you," suggested the captain.

Uncle Nathan thought him very obliging, and after some little
"dickering" (for he had heard that Western steamboats were not
particularly uniform in their charges), he engaged a passage, applying
to the bargain the trite principle that "no berth is secured till paid
for," which had been reduced to writing, and occupied a conspicuous
place in the cabin. Without waiting to see the berth he had paid for, he
hastened to the hotel for the large hair trunk, which contained his
travelling wardrobe.

Our worthy farmer made it a point never to cause any one an unnecessary
inconvenience; never to read the morning paper more than half an hour
when an impatient crowd was waiting to see it; and never in his life
stopped his five-cattle team in the middle of a narrow, much-frequented
road, to the annoyance of others. So the captain did not have to wait
more than five minutes beyond the stated time. Depositing his trunk upon
a heap of baggage in the cabin, and turning with pious horror from the
gaming-tables there, Uncle Nathan seated himself in an arm-chair on the
boiler deck, to await the departure of the boat, and, in anticipation,
to feast his vision with the wonders of the Father of Waters. He waited
very long and very patiently, for Uncle Nathan considered patience a
cardinal virtue, and strove manfully against every feeling of
uneasiness. The tongue of the hugs bell over him at intervals banged
forth its stunning cadence, the hissing steam let loose from its pent-up
cells, the water which the wheels sent surging far up upon the levee,
all were indications, to his unsophisticated mind, of a speedy
departure.

Two hours he waited, with the same exemplary patience; but still the
Chalmetta was a fixture.

Night came, and the music of the bell, and the steam, and the surging
water, ceased. Uncle Nathan, thinking patience no longer a virtue,
cardinal or secondary, hastened to the captain, with some appearance of
indignation on his honest features. The worthy officer very coolly
informed him that, owing to the non-arrival of the mail, he should be
unable to get off till the next morning.

Uncle Nathan uttered a very peculiar "O!" and, seemingly perfectly
satisfied with this explanation, asked to be shown his berth. The
captain consulted the clerk, and the clerk consulted the berth-book,
which conveyed the astounding intelligence that the berths were all
taken!

"All taken!" exclaimed Uncle Nathan, aghast. "Haven't I paid for one?"

The gentlemanly clerk acknowledged that he _had_ paid for one, and
kindly offered him a mattress on the floor, assuring him that there
would be plenty of berths after the boat got off.

Uncle Nathan did not see how this could be, and was informed that many
berths taken were not claimed.[1]

[Footnote 1: Western steamers seldom start at the time they advertise,
but wait until they are full of freight and passengers. The latter are
boarded on them from the time they take passage, if they wish,--often a
week or ten days. Berths are often engaged by "loafers," who eat and
sleep on board, and grumble at the detention, but who suddenly decamp
when the boat starts.]

Contenting himself with this explanation, Uncle Nathan sought the boiler
deck again, to obtain the only possible oblivion for his uneasiness in
the society of mongrel gentlemen and monstrous mosquitos. Those who have
been subjected to these steamboat impositions will readily perceive that
Uncle Nathan was in no very agreeable state of mind. He was, to a
certain extent, home-sick. There was something in his expectant state,
and something in the gloomy aspect of the low city with its cheerless
lights, in the damp atmosphere and the clouds of mosquitos, to produce a
sigh for home and its joys. If any one had hummed "Sweet Home" in his
ears, it would have brought the tears to his eyes. He thought of
everything connected with his hallowed home: of the good-natured
spinster who was his housekeeper, and of the ten-acre lots upon his
farm; of the red steers and the gray mare; of the shaggy watch-dog and
the tabby-cat; of home in all its minutiæ. Its familiar scenes visited
him with a vividness which added ten-fold to their influence. He was as
far abstracted as the mosquitos, which gathered in swarms upon every
tenable spot of his flesh, would permit, when his meditations were
disturbed by the gentleman who occupied the next chair. He wore the
uniform of the army, and was battling the mosquitos with the smoke of a
plantation cigar, which bore a very striking resemblance to those rolls
of the weed vulgarly denominated "long nines."

This gentleman was Henry Carroll, who had been in waiting three days for
the sailing of the Chalmetta. On his return from Georgia he had not
deemed it prudent to visit Bellevue. Of the startling events which had
transpired there since his departure he was in entire ignorance.

"No prospect of getting off to-night, is there?" said he to Uncle
Nathan.

"Not the least," replied the latter. "The cap'n just told me the mail
hadn't come, so he should have to wait till mornin'."

Henry turned to Uncle Nathan rather sharply, to discover any mischief
which might lurk in his expression. Perceiving that he looked perfectly
sincere, and was innocent of any intention to quiz him, he merely
uttered, in the most contemptuous tone, the single word "Humbug!"

"You seem a leetle out o' sorts," returned Uncle Nathan, piqued at the
coldness with which his intelligence was received.

"Well, sir, I think I have very good reason to be so," returned Henry;
"for I have lain about this boat, like a dead dragoon, for three days,
in suspense."

"You don't say so!" responded Uncle Nathan, with interest. "When did
they tell you they should start?"

"The captain said in about ten minutes," answered Henry, with a smile.

"Good gracious! he told me the same thing!" said Uncle Nathan,
astonished at the coincidence.

"But I knew he lied, when he said so; yet the boat seemed full of
passengers, and I did not expect to wait so long."

"Don't you think they will get started to-morrow?"

"I cannot venture an opinion, having been so often deceived. The captain
is trying to get a freight of soldiers on deck. The city is full of them
now, returning to their respective states."

"Then he has taken me in most outrageously," said the New Englander,
with emphasis.

"A very common occurrence, sir," replied Henry, who now explained to his
companion some of the tricks of Western steamboat captains.

"Is there no remedy?" asked Uncle Nathan, anxiously.

"Certainly; you can go in the next boat, if you choose. I shall take the
'Belle of the West,' which I am pretty well assured will sail
to-morrow, if this one does not. But I prefer this, as many of my
friends go in her."

"But will they give you back your passage-money again?" asked the
economical Yankee.

"I have not paid it yet," replied Henry, now understanding the position
of his fellow-traveller.

"Then how did you secure a berth? The sign in the cabin says 'No berth
secured till paid for.'"

"I see how it is. You have been dealing with these fellows as though
they were honest men." He then explained that there is no security
against imposition for travellers who pay their passage in advance, in
case the boat gets aground, or the captain pleases to detain them an
unreasonable time; that the "old stagers" never show their money till
the trip is up; and much more useful information for the voyager on the
Western rivers.

"And I have no berth yet! The fellow promised me one when we got off,"
said Uncle Nathan, chopfallen; for, if any one is keenly sensitive to an
imposition, the Yankee is the man.

"There you are lame again," replied Henry. "You may get one, and you may
not. As you have paid your fare, you had better keep quiet, and
to-morrow I will assist you in securing your rights."

"Thank ye," replied Uncle Nathan, truly grateful for the kind sympathy
of the officer. "I had no sort of idee that they played _such_ tricks
upon travellers."

"Fact, sir; this New Orleans is said to be a very naughty place,"
returned Henry, amused at the simplicity of his companion.

"True as gospel!" ejaculated Uncle Nathan, fervently.

"Have you been here long?"

"Only about ten days; but I have seen more iniquity in that time than I
supposed the whole airth contained."

Henry smiled at the fervid utterance of his companion.

"You are from the North, I perceive," said he.

"Yes, sir, I am from Brookville, State of Massachusetts, which, thank
the Lord, is a long way from New Orleans!"

"Still, there are some excellent people here," suggested Henry, who had
known and appreciated Southern kindness and hospitality.

"Well--yes--I suppose there is; but their morals and religion are
shockin'. It made my blood run cold, and my hair stand on eend, to see a
company of soldiers marchin' through the streets last Sabba' day, to the
tune of 'Hail Columby;' and then to think of balls and theatres on the
Lord's day night, really it's terrible. I wouldn't live in sich a place
for all the world!"

"Very different from New England, certainly," replied Henry,
good-naturedly, for it must be confessed he was not so much shocked at
these desecrations.

Uncle Nathan discoursed long and eloquently on Sabbath-breaking,
gambling and intemperance, which prevail to such an extent in the
luxurious metropolis of the South,--as long, at least, as the patience
of his new-found military friend would permit. At his suggestion they
retired to a hotel for the night, for the mosquitos were in undisturbed
possession of the Chalmetta.




CHAPTER VII.

     "--And deep the waves beneath them bending glide.
     The youth, who seemed to watch a time to sin,
     Approached the careless guide, and thrust him in."

     PARNELL.

     "Accoutred as I was, I plungéd in."

     SHAKSPEARE.


Early on the following morning, Henry Carroll and Uncle Nathan were on
board the Chalmetta, ready and eager for a start. But they were doomed
to more disappointment. Nearly all day the bell banged and the steam
hissed; the captain told a hundred lies, but the boat did not budge an
inch from her berth. Still there were certain signs that the hour of
departure could not be far distant. Fresh provisions and ice in
unusually large quantities were received on board about noon, and these
are unfailing prognostics of "a good time coming."

At about five o'clock in the afternoon, the captain's ten minutes, with
which he had secured an occasional fresh passenger, seemed actually to
have expired. Our two friends on board, however, had been so often
disappointed that they did not allow a single bright anticipation to
enliven their hearts, till they actually heard the order given "to cast
off the fasts and haul in the planks." And even then their hopes were
instantly dampened by the sudden reversion of the order.

This unexpected change had been produced in the mind of the captain by
seeing a splendid equipage dashing at a furious pace across the levee,
the driver of which had, by his gestures, made it appear that his
vehicle contained passengers.

The carriage drew up opposite the boat, and Emily Dumont and Jaspar
alighted from it. Picking their way through the crowd of dealers in
cigars, shells, and obscene books, who had just been ejected from the
boat, they were soon on board. A few moments' delay in getting up the
baggage of the new comers, and the welcome "cast off the fasts and haul
in the plank" was again heard. The rapid jingling of the engineer's bell
succeeded, and, to the joy of some three hundred souls on board, she
backed out into the stream and commenced her voyage. Uncle Nathan
breathed freely; the load of anxiety which had oppressed him was
removed. But his joy was short-lived, for Henry Carroll informed him
that the boat was headed _down_ river!

"What in all natur' can be the meanin' of this?" exclaimed our
Northerner, wofully perplexed.

"I cannot tell," replied Henry; "but I am much afraid we shall yet have
to stay over Sunday in New Orleans."

"The Lord deliver me!" ejaculated Uncle Nathan. "I will go into the
swamp back of the city, afore I will look upon the iniquities of that
Sodom again."

"Rather a hard penance; but let us first see what this movement will
amount to."

At this moment Captain Drawler descended from the wheel-house, and was
immediately besieged by a dozen angry passengers, who had resolved to
lynch him, or leave the boat,--which he dreaded more,--if satisfaction
was not given.

The stoical captain, with perfect coolness, heard their complaints and
their threats. He waited with commendable patience till they had vented
their indignation, and then informed them that he only intended to
receive a little freight at the lower city, which would not detain him
"ten minutes."

The captain's assertion, with the exception of the ten minutes, was soon
verified by the boat touching at a sort of dépôt for naval and military
stores. The "_freight_" which the Chalmetta was to take consisted of
several long boxes, which lay near the landing. These boxes contained
coffins, in which were the remains of some sixteen officers, who had
paid the debt of nature in the discharge of their duties in Mexico.

Henry Carroll, with a melancholy heart, witnessed the process of
conveying these boxes to the deck of the steamer. In them was all that
remained of many stout hearts, with whom, side by side, he had marched
to glory and victory. There were the forms with whom he had triumphantly
mounted the battlements at Vera Cruz, and raised the stars and stripes
over the city of Mexico. There, before him, forever silent, were the
dead heroes of Chepultepec and Perote. Those with whom he had endured
toils and hardships of no common nature,--with whom he had contended
against a treacherous foe, and a more treacherous climate,--were there
encoffined before him. They died in defence of their country's honor;
and he almost envied them the death which wrote their names, subject to
no future stain, upon the roll of fame.

The sight of these boxes, and a knowledge of their contents, also
awakened sad reflections in the mind of Uncle Nathan. But his
reflections were of a different character from those of the soldier. War
he regarded as an unnecessary evil,--one which men had no more right to
countenance than they had the deeds of the midnight assassin. The honor
of a nation were better sacrificed than that the blood of innocent men
should flow in its support. He was a thorough disciple of the peace
movement. With such views as these, his sympathies naturally reverted to
the dwelling of the departed hero; to the home rendered desolate by the
untimely death of a father; to the circle which gathered in tears around
the fire-side, to deplore the loss of an affectionate brother and son;
to the widow and the orphan, whom war's desolating hand cast into the
world to tread alone its dreary path. To Uncle Nathan victory and defeat
were alike the messengers of woe. Both were the death-knell of human
beings; both carried weeping and wailing to women and children.

After the last box of the pile had been conveyed on board, and
preparations were making to cast off, the reflections of hero and
moralist were disturbed by several long, loud vociferations, in a strong
Hibernian accent. They proceeded from a man, dressed in the tattered
remnants of the blue army uniform, who was industriously propelling a
wheel-barrow towards the landing, on which was a box of similar
description to those just embarked.

"Hould on!" shouted he; "hould on, will yous, and take on this bit of a
box?"

"Does it belong with the others?" asked the captain.

"To be sure it does," replied Pat. "What the divil else does it belong
to? Arn't it the body of Captain Farrell, long life to his honor! going
home to see his frinds?"

"Take it aboard," said Captain Brawler to the deck hands, after
examining the direction.

The men lifted the box rather rudely, in a manner which seemed to hurt
poor Pat's feelings.

"Bad luck to yous! where were you born, to handle the body of a dead man
the like o' that?" said he. "Have yous no rispict for the mim'ry of a
haro, that yous trate his ramains so ongintlemanly? Hould up your ind,
darlint, and walk aisy wid it!"

"Lively there," cried Captain Drawler, "lively, men!"

"Bad luck to your soul for a blackguard, as ye are!" shouted Pat. "Where
did you lave your pathriotism?"

The box was by this time on deck, and the captain, to do him justice,
made all haste to proceed on his voyage.

The cases containing the remains of the officers were deposited in the
after part of the hold, to which access was had by means of a hatch near
the stern. Pat's peculiar charge was placed on top of the others, and he
maintained a most vigilant watch over it.

There was now a fair prospect of commencing the voyage, and our two
passengers were in high spirits. Henry was not a little fearful that the
boat would resume her long-occupied position at the levee; the very
thought of such a calamity was painful in the extreme. But this fear was
not realized; the Chalmetta gave the levee a wide berth. The Rubicon was
passed; the shades of doubt and anxiety were supplanted by the clear
sunshine of a bright prospect.

"We are at last fairly started," said Henry, seating himself by the side
of Uncle Nathan, on the boiler deck.

"Thank fortin, we are!" responded the farmer, heartily. "We are fast
getting away from that den of sin."

"And you may preserve your morals yet," said Henry, with a pleasant
laugh.

"My morals are safe enough, thank the Lord!" answered Uncle Nathan, a
little touched at this reflection upon his firmness; "but I don't like
the place, to say nothing of its morals."

"Very likely. But see that Irishman--the fellow who had charge of the
box. He looks poorly enough, as far as this world's goods are concerned,
but happy and full of mirth, for all that."

"He looks as though he had seen hard times," added Uncle Nathan,
indifferently.

"He does, indeed, like many other of the poor soldiers; but, I warrant
me, he has a stout will, and an honest heart. I say, my fine fellow,"
said Henry, addressing Pat, "come up here."

"Troth I will, then, for I see yous wear the colors of Uncle Sam,"
replied the Irishman, making his way to the boiler deck.

"Long life to your honor!" continued Pat, as he reached the deck, and
making a low bow, as he doffed his slouched hat,--"but I wish I had the
money to trate your honor."

"Which means," replied Henry, "as you have not, I should treat you?"

"That's jist it, your honor. I persave your honor is college-larnt by
the way yous see into my heart."

Henry laughed heartily, and so did Uncle Nathan; though, to tell the
truth, our moralist of the North was sorry to see his companion hand the
man a "bit" to drink with, for he was a member of the temperance
society.

Pat got the "smile," and with a grateful heart returned to his patron.

"Thank your honor, kindly," said Pat.

"Now tell me, Pat, what regiment you served in," said Henry.

"In the first Pennsylvanians,--Captain Farrell's company."

"Captain Farrell's! I knew him well,--a fine fellow and a gallant
officer! Many were the tears shed when the vomito carried him off," said
Henry, with much feeling. "And you were one of his company?"

"Troth, I was, thin. He was every inch a sodger and a gintleman."

"And the box you brought on board contains his remains?"

"Upon me sowl it contains the body of as good a man as iver breathed the
breath o' life," replied Pat, very emphatically.

"Very true. You speak well of your captain, and he deserved all he will
ever get of praise. Here, Pat, is a dollar for you; and if you want
anything, come to me."

"Thank your honor," replied Pat, uncovering, with a bow and a scrape of
the foot. "You are as near like poor Captain Farrell as one pay is like
another. Long life to your honor,--may you live forever, and then die
like a haro!"

"A genuine Irishman!" said Henry, as Pat descended to the main deck;
"one in whom gratitude and faithfulness are as strong as life itself!"

"He seems a good sort of man," returned Uncle Nathan, who had but little
appreciation of the Irish heart.

The conversation was interrupted by the ringing of the supper-bell. An
eager multitude rushed to the cabin; but every seat was already
occupied. On a crowded boat on the Mississippi there is often much
selfishness displayed. On the Chalmetta half an hour before tea-time the
most knowing of the passengers had stationed themselves in a line around
the table, ready to charge upon the plates, like a file of soldiers, the
moment the bell rang. Those who did not understand the necessity of this
precaution, on entering the cabin were much surprised to find every
place occupied, and were comforted with the assurance of a second table.

Uncle Nathan and Henry secured seats which had been reserved for ladies
who did not appear to claim them. Opposite them were seated Emily and
her uncle. She was dressed in deep mourning, and her countenance was
saddened by the gloom of affliction. Her eyes were reddened by weeping,
in which she had indulged freely in the quiet of her state-room. By
intense effort she had subdued her violent agitation, and a sad calmness
rested upon her face, that belied her feelings.

Henry Carroll, who had not before been aware of her presence, was, as
may be supposed, astonished at this meeting. In her sable dress and
melancholy aspect he read the sad affliction which had befallen her in
the death of her father. Their eyes met, and exchanged warmer greetings
than their words could have done. A sad smile--the smile of
pleasure--rested upon her beautiful features, as they interchanged
salutations. Her pale cheek was slightly crimsoned with a tell-tale
blush. Her fluttering heart refused to retain its secret.

Henry expressed his grief at the melancholy event which had shrouded her
in the weeds of mourning,--not in words alone, but his sorrow for the
death of a kind friend was more eloquently told in his countenance.

Jaspar was chagrined at this meeting, and his awkward attempts to be
civil to Henry were entire failures. This was an event for which he was
not prepared,--the consequences of which filled him with anxiety. He
knew that in Henry his wronged niece would have a zealous
advocate;--not a superannuated priest, but a young man whose blood was
warm, and whose soul was full of energy. True, he reasoned, the young
officer was powerless as a diplomatist. Ho as yet knew nothing of the
will, or of Emily's degraded position. Henry knew the feelings and
character of his brother, and would be the last one to believe the
infamous statement of the will. What the father might have said to him
in regard to her he knew not. As guilt always does, he imagined a
thousand dangers, and saw with a clear vision the real ones besides.

At the tea-table there was little conversation beside the ordinary
courtesies of the occasion. Jaspar said but little.

The guilty never feel any security in the enjoyment of ill-gotten
wealth. The murderer is haunted by the ghost of his victim. The cries of
the widow and the orphan continually ring in the ear of the avaricious.
The fear of discovery haunted Jaspar. Although he saw no probability of
his villany being exposed, the fear of discovery troubled him day and
night. Revengeful and cruel, dauntless and bold, as he had ever been,
the present seemed a crisis in his life. He had accomplished the climax
of villany, and as he had racked his powers of invention for the means
of attaining his purpose, he now taxed them for the means of concealing
it. The insecurity of his position was so tedious, that he sought, as
the tempest-tost mariner seeks the quiet haven, to fortify it, so that
he might be at rest from the tormenting doubts which assailed him. Vain
hope! there is no rest for the wicked. Plots and schemes ran through his
mind; but they afforded no satisfaction. There was only one event which
promised the least mitigation of his mental sufferings, and this was the
death of his niece. Black as he was at heart, he shrank from her
murder,--not at the deed, but at the terrible consequences to him which
might follow it.

Emily was conducted to the ladies' cabin by Jaspar, who, by a dogged
adherence to her side, seemed determined to prevent any further
conversation between her and Henry. But the black chambermaid, with an
official dignity which is oftentimes necessary in her position, politely
requested him to retire. Jaspar left, satisfied she would be safe from
intrusion for the present.

Jaspar's disposition to prevent further conversation between Emily and
Henry was not unperceived by the latter. He was satisfied that her
uncle's close attendance at her side--so foreign to his former
manner--was not without its purpose. Love, which he had in vain
attempted to stifle, pressed more vigorously at his heart. In her
recognition of him he had read that the sentiment in her heart was not
abated by his absence. Her melancholy aspect had awakened a new interest
in him. Disappointed in obtaining the interview he desired, he sought
the hurricane deck to think of her, and to cherish the warm feeling in
his heart. But what was his surprise, on reaching it, to find Emily
there, and alone!

After the departure of Jaspar she had retired to the gallery which
surrounds the cabin, to enjoy the freshness of the evening air. The
gallery was somewhat crowded, and, with a lady and gentleman, she had
ascended to the hurricane deck. Her companions, more gay and happy than
she, soon left her to the gloom and comparative silence which usually
reigns on the upper deck. There were no other passengers there, and,
fearing not the darkness or the loneliness, she was there venting the
sadness which pervaded her heart. She was about to descend, when she
recognized Henry.

Emily related to him the circumstances of her father's death, and of the
reading of the will.

"Impossible!" exclaimed Henry, in astonishment.

"It is strange; but I cannot see any reason to disbelieve it, except
that my father's character assures me it is not so."

"Which would be a very good reason for disbelieving it. And you are now
on your way to Cincinnati?"

"I am; and it is the most melancholy journey I ever attempted. But I
ought to be thankful for all that comes,--if I am a slave, for the
freedom that awaits me."

"Good Heavens! Emily, do not talk so! You freeze the blood in my veins!"

"Nay, I feel somewhat reconciled to the terrible reality now, for it
little matters what I really am, since the will--true or false--condemns
me to the odium of having been a slave. You will not wish now to own
your sister!" said Emily, with a sad smile.

"Yes, were you ten times a slave, it would not obliterate the mark of
the omniscient God! It could not alter the beauty of the features or the
character. I should be proud of such a sister, even did she wear the
shackles. But you! No, no, there is no stain upon your birth!"

"And can you regard me as you once did? A--"

"An angel. Yes, truly, as an angel of the higher order."

"Nay, nay, this sounds not like the Henry Carroll of a month since. You
are a flatterer," said Emily, with a smile.

"I did but say what I would have gladly said then," replied Henry.

The fear of ingratitude to a father no longer chained his heart to the
narrow limit of friendship. He saw her before him trodden down by
misfortune, in the power of subtlety and villany, and as a child of
misfortune his heart even more strongly inclined to her. He loved her
more tenderly than before.

"Then, when sorrow was a stranger, you were subdued and distant to your
sister," said Emily, her heart fluttering with the storm of emotion
within it.

"I am as I was then; but you were a child of affluence, and I feared
to--to--"

"Why did you fear?" asked Emily, not waiting to hear the word Henry was
stammering to enunciate. "Had you no confidence in your sister?"

"I did have confidence in the _sister_. But I fear it was not a sister's
confidence I sought."

"Indeed!" said Emily, her emotions destroying the appearance of surprise
the word was intended to convey.

"Emily, I will not now attempt to conceal the feelings which have torn
my heart," said Henry, in a low tone, as he took her willing hand. "When
I bade you farewell,--alas! what misfortunes have come since!--when I
left you for I dared not think how long, you know not what violence I
did to the warmest feeling of my heart. You know not what misery the
struggle between that feeling and duty has caused me. I have striven to
conquer it; but Heaven has now put you in my path, thus bidding me
resist no more the impulse of my heart. I love you, Emily, and I have
tried, for your sake and your father's, to conquer my love. Say, Emily,
may I venture to hope my love is not unvalued?"

A slight pressure of the hand he held was all the answer he
received--was, indeed, all he asked.

"You forget what I am," murmured Emily.

"I will always forget what this will has said you are. But Heaven will
not let the innocent be wronged, nor the guilty remain unpunished. A
month since, how I wished you were not the heiress of a millionaire!"

"Why did you wish it? Did you think that gold would blacken my heart?"

"No, dear Emily, but it would have been ingratitude in me to win your
love, and thus destroy any other plan your father might have cherished."

"My father never had an avaricious disposition," replied Emily, warmly.

"Far from it; but he might have had some views, in regard to his
daughter, with which I might have interfered."

"But you were a rebel against his views, notwithstanding," said Emily,
with a smile, and a deep blush, which the darkness concealed from Henry.

"I should have been sorry to have heard you say so, then; but now,
Heaven bless you for the words!" replied Henry, with a warm pressure of
the hand.

[Illustration: Hatchie and Henry rescuing Emily from the Mississippi.
Page 79]

"Madam," said Jaspar, who had stealthily approached, without the
knowledge of the lovers, "to your state-room! Captain Carroll, as the
guardian of this lady, I request your entire withdrawal, in future, from
her society."

"A request," replied Henry, proudly, "which I shall entirely disregard."

"Then, by--you will receive the penalty of your obstinacy!" said Jaspar,
in a passion.

"I am not to be intimidated by threats."

"Do not provoke him, Henry" said Emily, fearful for the safety of him
whom the last hour had doubly endeared to her.

"Mr. Dumont, _her_ request I will obey," and Carroll walked forward.

He paused by the side of the wheel-house, to hear the report of the
leadsman, who was sounding the depth of water, in obedience to the
command of the pilot, expressed in a single clang of the heavy bell.
Mechanically he had stopped, and with no interest in the matter he
listened to the monotonous reply, "Quarter less three," &c. He was about
to descend to the boiler deck, when a shrill shriek startled him from
his revery. There was no mistaking the sound of that voice! Without an
instant's hesitation, he called to the pilot to stop the boat, and, with
a few bounds, was by the side of Jaspar, who was calling lustily for
help. Henry, careless of his own safety, slid down to the gallery abaft
the ladies' cabin, and then sprang to the single pole upon which was
suspended the small boat. Before he could unloose the tackle, and lower
himself down, he heard a splash, and saw a man swimming towards the spot
where Emily had disappeared. Henry plied a single oar in the stern of
the boat, and reached the place in season to take in the noble fellow
who had preceded him, together with his lifeless burden, as he rose. The
steamer backed down, and in a few moments more the party was safely on
board again.

"Where is the man who saved her?" said the disappointed Jaspar, after
assisting Emily to her state-room.

Emily's fall had not been accidental, as the reader will at once infer.
Jaspar's passion, and the danger which he thought the young officer's
presence menaced, had prompted him to an act which was not attended with
his usual prudence, and the failure was likely to place him in a more
uncomfortable position than his former one. With the instinct of
deception, he immediately offered a liberal reward to the man who had
rescued her.

"Where is he? Who is he?" shouted Jaspar, eagerly.

"_Here_!" cried a voice from the crowd.

Jaspar started and turned pale, for the voice was a familiar one.

"Where is he?" called Jaspar again, concluding that he must have
mistaken the voice.

"Here!" again came forth from the crowd, and Hatchie stepped forward.

"Hell!" exclaimed Jaspar, staggering back as he recognized the man whom
he supposed his rifle-ball had sent to furnish food for the fishes. But
he recovered his courage instantly, feeling the danger of betraying
himself.

"Here is the reward," stammered he, holding out the money.

"Never!" said Hatchie; and, before the crowd could clearly understand
the nature of the case, he had vanished behind a heap of freight.

At Jaspar's suggestion, a diligent search was made in every part of the
boat, but the mulatto was nowhere to be found. Jaspar, as usual,
invented a story to account for the strangeness of the incident which
had occurred. A liberal reward offered by him failed to produce the
preserver of Emily.




CHAPTER VIII.


               "'Tis much he dares;
     And to that dauntless temper of his mind
     He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valor
     To act in safety."   SHAKSPEARE.


Although the general condition of the negro slaves at the South is the
most degraded in which humanity can exist, there are some exceptions to
the rule; and among them may well be placed the body-servant of Colonel
Dumont, Hatchie, whose sudden and mysterious reäppearance upon the deck
of the Chalmetta must be accounted for.

With an intelligence far superior to his condition, Hatchie discovered
the villany that lurked in the eye of Jaspar, on the night of the
forgery of the will. As we have before said, no one better than he knew
the character of Jaspar; no one better than he knew of what villany he
was capable. When he had been sent for the keys, an undefined sense of
duty prompted him to watch, and, if possible, to prevent the mischief
which he foresaw was gathering. When ordered to retire, he had pretended
to obey; but he placed himself beneath the window through which De Guy
had entered, a small crack of which had been accidentally left open. In
this position he saw Jaspar take out the packet which he knew contained
the will. He heard De Guy read the fictitious will, and at once
discerned enough of the plot to comprehend the danger that hovered over
his mistress. He understood that the real will was to be destroyed; and
his first impulse was to save it, which he had adroitly accomplished as
before related.

When Hatchie reached the open air, he was sensible of the dangerous
position in which his bold act had placed him. So sudden and
unpremeditated had been his action that no thought of future
consequences had accompanied it. But, undismayed, he ran at his fleetest
speed towards the river. He heard the footsteps of his pursuers, and
every step he advanced he expected to receive the bullet of Jaspar.
Trusting for safety to the darkness of the night, he quickened his
speed, till he gained the steep bank of the river. Leaping into the
canoe which he discovered in his flight, he pushed out into the stream,
and was several rods advanced towards the opposite shore when his
pursuers reached the bank.

Plying the canoe with all the strength and skill of which he was master,
his progress was suddenly interrupted by a log, upon which his frail
bark struck with much violence. The collision checked his progress, and
swung the canoe round by the side of the log. Satisfied that Jaspar
would fire as soon as he saw the canoe, his ready ingenuity supplied him
with the means of avoiding the ball, and of escaping further pursuit.
Taking the will in his mouth, he grasped the canoe with one hand, and
paddled silently with the other and with his feet. He had turned the
canoe adrift, and Jaspar, without waiting to examine it, had fired.
Hatchie then jumped up in the water, and produced the splash which had
deceived his pursuers.

With much difficulty the mulatto had propelled the log beyond the reach
of the current into comparatively still water. Here he remained quietly
on the log, using only sufficient exertion to avoid the current, until
he was satisfied that Jaspar and his companion had departed from the
bank. He then returned to the shore, using the greatest precaution to
avoid his enemies; but all was still.

Immediate danger being at an end, he bethought him of securing his
future safety,--a matter of extreme difficulty for one in his position.
He was satisfied that Jaspar would invent some story to account for his
disappearance; and just as well satisfied that he would shoot him, if he
again showed himself on the plantation. He congratulated himself on the
happy scheme he had adopted to deceive Jaspar; for he had now a
reasonable security from being advertised and pursued as a runaway
slave.

After much reflection, he concluded his wisest plan would be to seek
safety in New Orleans, where, in the crowd, he might escape recognition.
The cane-brake and the cotton-grove would not protect him. He might be
seen, and the blood-hound and the rifle bring him in a prisoner, and
even Miss Emily would now be unable to save him from the penalty. How
could he live in New Orleans, or how escape from there? He was without
money, and he had sense enough to know that money is a desideratum,
especially to the traveller.

Of this useful commodity, however, he had a supply in the mansion house,
which he had saved from the presents made him by Colonel Dumont and his
guests. Recognizing the necessity of obtaining it, as well as some more
clothing, he resolved to enter the house and procure them, after the
light he saw in the library-window was removed.

While waiting, he pondered more fully his position. What should be his
future conduct in regard to the will? He carried with him, he felt, the
future destiny of his gentle, much-loved mistress. He felt that on his
action during the next hour depended the happiness for a lifetime of one
whom he had been taught to revere, and whose gentleness and beauty had
almost lured him to worship. If the morrow's sun found him in the
vicinity of the estate, he would probably fall a victim to Jaspar's
policy. What should he do with the will? Should he show himself at the
hour appointed for the reading of it? He might fall into Jaspar's hands
in the attempt, the precious document be wrested from him, and thus all
his exertions be in vain. Without the will itself he could do
nothing,--his word or his evidence in court would be of no avail. No
one would believe the former against Jaspar, and the latter was
inadmissible.

Should he carry it to Mr. Faxon, or even to Miss Emily herself, Jaspar
might obtain possession of it by some means.

His deliberations could suggest no method by which immediate justice
could be done his mistress; and the conclusion of his reflections was,
that he must place himself in a safe position before he attempted to
expose the villany of others. His mistress, he knew by the will which he
had heard De Guy read, was to be conveyed to Cincinnati. He must go to
Cincinnati--but how? This was a hard question for the faithful Hatchie
to answer; but answer it he must. He would go to New Orleans, and there
form his plan.

After waiting till the lights were extinguished in the library, he
entered the house, and obtained his money and clothing.

By the exercise of much caution, he reached New Orleans in safety,
where, by the disbursement of a small sum of money, he obtained a secure
retreat in the house of a free man, with whom he had formerly been
acquainted. His object was now to obtain a passage to Cincinnati,--a
matter not easy to accomplish, as the law against conveying blacks,
unprovided with the necessary permit, was very stringent. He could not
hope, with his limited means, to offer an acceptable bribe for this
service. To attain his object, therefore, he must resort to stratagem,
for the chances of obtaining a passage by direct means were too remote
and too perilous to be hoped for. But accident soon afforded him the
means of attaining his end.

The negro with whom he had obtained a shelter kept a small shop, and by
the grace of the authorities and his neighbors was permitted to sell
liquor, tobacco and cigars, to the steamboat cooks, stewards, sailors,
and the soldiers who thronged the city on their return from Mexico. In
the rear of this shop, and connected with it, was a small room in which
the negro lived. This room afforded a safe retreat, and in it Hatchie
had his hiding-place.

One day a little knot of men, in the faded, dilapidated garments of the
army, entered the tap-room of Hatchie's protector. They drank deeply,
and, as was their constant practice, they seated themselves at the
broken table, and commenced gambling with the negro's dirty cards for
the few dollars which remained in their possession. This amusement
terminated, as such amusements frequently do, in a fight, in which one
of the number seemed to be singled out as an object of vengeance for the
others. This individual was an Irishman; and, for a time, he held way
manfully against his assailants. But, at last, in spite of the exertions
of the "proprietor" to protect him, he was likely to get the worst of
it, when Hatchie, no longer able to control his indignation at the
unfairness displayed in the encounter, suddenly interfered in favor of
the now fallen man. His enormous strength and skill soon cleared the
room of the rioters. Hatchie drew the defeated Irishman into his
hiding-place, and locked the door. This man was Pat Fegan, who has been
introduced to the reader.

Pat was filled with gratitude to his protector, and swore he would stick
by him till his dying day, if he was a "naiger." A mutual friendship was
thus established, which resulted in the disclosure of their future
prospects. The fact that both were seeking the same destination seemed
to strengthen the bond thus formed. Hatchie, shrewd by nature, read the
true heart of the Irishman. He felt that he could trust him with his
life; but his ability was quite another thing.

Pat Fegan was without means, and readily accepted the hospitality which
Hatchie offered to pay for. In the course of the long conversations with
which the two friends beguiled the weary day, Pat related his adventures
in Mexico, at the close of which he casually mentioned that the remains
of several officers, who died there, were to be conveyed up the river.
Hatchie's curiosity prompted many inquiries, which drew from the
talkative Hibernian a full description of the boxes that contained the
coffins, and many particulars relative to the transportation of them.

Pat's description of the boxes suggested to Hatchie the means of getting
to Cincinnati.

"Could you get me a box like those which contain these coffins?" asked
he.

"Faix, I can, thin, if I only had the matther of two or three dollars.
But what the divil makes yous ax sich a question?"

"I will give you ten dollars, and pay your passage to Cincinnati
besides, if you will get me the box," said Hatchie, disregarding Pat's
query.

"By me sowl, I'll get yous the box, and ax yous only the price meself
pays for 't," replied Pat, touched at the idea of a reward, which
between friends seemed base even to his rude mind.

"And I shall want your help, too."

"Yous may well count on that, for whin did a Fegan desart his frind? But
tell me, honey, what yous mane to do wid it."

"I intend to get to Cincinnati in it."

"Is it in the box?" exclaimed Pat, astonished beyond measure. "Sure you
will smodther!"

"But, my friend, I want you to look out for that, and give me something
to eat and drink. You can pretend that the box contains the body of your
captain, who, you said, died in Mexico."

"Arrah, me darlint, I see it all!" and Pat shook his sides with laughter
at the idea of the mulatto's "travelling-carriage," as he styled it.

Pat had procured the box, and conveyed it to Hatchie's asylum. It was
sufficiently large to furnish quite a roomy apartment. The covering
consisted of short boards, matched, and screwed on crossways. To
facilitate the introduction of food and air, and to afford the means of
a speedy exit in case of need, he had taken off half these boards, and
fastened them together with cleats on the inner side. The ends of the
screws were then filed off, so that this portion of the lid exactly
corresponded with the other portion. A number of hooks were then
procured, so as to fasten it upon the inner side. By this arrangement,
the occupant of the box would not be dependent upon exterior aid for
egress. When once on board the steamer, he expected he should be able to
leave his hiding-place in the night, and perhaps at other times.

Upon the outside the box was similar to the others, and was duly marked
and consigned.

Hatchie's quarters were near the dépôt from which the coffins were to be
shipped, and Pat, watching his time, had wheeled his own charge down in
season to be shipped with the others. In the haste of embarking, the
clerk had not noticed that one box more had been brought on board than
his manifest indicated.

Hatchie was not aware that Emily and her uncle were passengers on the
same boat till the moment of the accident. He had before released
himself from his prison-box, and was enjoying the fresh air, which the
closeness of his box rendered particularly desirable, when he heard the
scream of his mistress. Her voice was familiar, and even in the scream
of terror he recognized it. It needed not a second thought to convince
him of his duty. He had saved her life, and, forgetful of the danger of
thus exposing his person, he stood by and saw her conveyed to her
state-room. He heard Jaspar call for her deliverer, and offer a reward.
This he knew, if no one else did, was gross hypocrisy, and in the
indignation of his honest heart he had stepped forward to confront him.
The sight of Jaspar, and the thought of his own responsibility, recalled
his prudence; and he hastened to retrieve his error by escaping to his
hiding-place in the box, in which no one thought of searching for a
living man.

In the excitement and exertion attendant upon the incident, Henry
Carroll had not recognized Hatchie; and, while Jaspar inquired for her
deliverer, he had been seeking the surgeon. Henry thought of nothing but
her safety.

Hatchie at once knew the voice of Henry, but, knowing nothing of the
relation between him and his mistress, he feared to trust him with his
secret.




CHAPTER IX.


                  "But as thou art a man
     Whom I have picked and chosen from the world,
     Swept that thou wilt be true to what I utter;
     And when I've told thee that which only gods,
     And men like gods, are privy to, then swear
     No chance, or change, shall wrest it from thy bosom."

                                              OTWAY.


Emily Dumont, while yet insensible, was conveyed to her state-room,
where, by the assiduous attention of the stewardess and the lady
passengers, she was soon restored to consciousness. An army surgeon, who
was fortunately on board, prescribed a course of treatment which
prevented all evil consequences, so that on the following morning she
appeared at breakfast as well as usual bodily, though the terrible fact
that her uncle had attempted her life so agitated her that sleep had
been a stranger to her eyelids. By whom she had been rescued was yet
unknown to her.

Henry Carroll again took his place opposite her at the morning meal,--a
place he had secured by the exercise of a full hour's patience in
occupying it. At the first convenient opportunity, he congratulated her
upon her safe recovery, and for the first time she heard the particulars
of her rescue. Jaspar, with an ill grace, expressed his obligations to
him, though at the same time he wished him at the bottom of the river.

Henry failed not to notice the blush which came to her cheek, as she
modestly but fervently expressed her gratitude for the noble service he
had rendered her. Although her accepted lover, there had been but little
intercourse of a tender nature between them,--not enough to prevent her
heart from fluttering when he spoke, and sending its warm blood to her
cheek.

With what indescribable pleasure does the lover recognize the blush
which a word or an act of his own calls to the face of his new-found
love! Like the breaking clouds which disclose to the worn mariner the
faint outline of the distant land, he hails it as the omen of future
bliss! It is part of the mystical language of the heart. It is part of
the mechanism of the affections, which the will cannot conceal. The
gentle look, the warm pressure of the hand, the eloquent language of
love, which modesty at first forbids, are supplied by the timid,
uncalled, beautiful blush! Prudence and delicacy cannot chain it in the
veins.

Henry read in her blush the warm current of pure love which flowed from
her heart. It told him how willingly her gratitude coalesced with her
love. Their position at table did not afford the opportunity of
interchanging those feelings of the heart which each felt swelling
within. The present, so full of joy and hope, it seemed cruel to
surround with circumstances which forbade them to enjoy it. A crowded
steamer is the most uncomfortable place in the world for a pair of
lovers, and Henry and Emily felt the inconvenience of it.

But, if the position of the lovers was uncomfortable, Jaspar's was
painful. They had the consolation of loving and being loved; but he was
now writhing under the weight of an additional torture. The appearance
of Hatchie was the knell of all his hopes, the precursor of ruin. To him
it was a mystery, and all his endeavors to solve it were unavailing.

About noon the Chalmetta arrived at Baton Rouge, where, according to
previous arrangement, and much to the joy of the perplexed uncle, De Guy
came on board. Jaspar greeted him with more than usual courtesy, and
felt, to as great a degree as guilt can feel it, a relief from the
embarrassments which surrounded him. The first step of the red-faced
attorney, on finding no state-room unoccupied, was to dispossess two
flat-boatmen of theirs, by the payment of a round bonus. Jaspar thought
this a rather extravagant move for one apparently so parsimonious; but
his mind was too deeply engrossed with the difficulties which environed
him to comment on extraneous subjects.

To this state-room Jaspar and his confidant retired, to consider the
condition of their operations; and while they deliberate we will return
to another character.

Uncle Nathan was in the full enjoyment of all the satisfaction which
seeing the world affords to the observing man. He gazed with unceasing
wonder upon the Father of Waters, on whose mighty bosom he was borne
towards the loved scenes of home. He was edified and amused with the
ever-varying succession of objects which presented themselves, as the
Chalmetta progressed. Flat-boats and steamers, plantations and
cotton-wood groves, islands and cut-offs, were all objects of interest.
And, when he was tired of these, "Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress," which
was his constant travelling companion, afforded him all the excitement
his contented disposition required. The time promised to be easily
disposed of, even if the passage should be unusually prolonged. Besides,
the number and variety of dispositions on board afforded him some study,
and some instruction. There were men of all grades of society, and all
degrees of moral worth,--beginning, of course, at a very moderate
standard, and descending to the vilest of the vile, which last were in a
large majority. There were tipplers, and gamblers, and profane swearers,
in abundance; and Uncle Nathan felt, at the bottom of his philanthropic
heart, a desire to lead them from their sins. Not that he was officious
and meddlesome, for he believed in "a time for everything." In his
modest, inoffensive way, no doubt, he sowed the seeds of future
reformation in some wayward heart.

Pat Fegan proved an apt disciple, and already had Uncle Nathan given him
the first lesson in the form of a temperance lecture, which probably had
its effect, as he left the boiler deck without the dram for which he
was supposed to have come up.

"Now, Partrick," said Uncle Nathan, on the evening after Emily's rescue,
"rum never did any one any good."

"'Pon my soul it did, thin,--it makes me happy whin sorra thing else in
the wide world will comfort me," replied Pat.

"But that an't nateral happiness; it an't the sort that comes of doin'
good to your feller-creturs."

"It sinds throuble away--what else is happiness?"

"But how do you feel arterwards? That's the pint."

"Arrah! bad enough, sure. Yous have the betther of me there."

"Then leave it off, Partrick," responded Uncle Nathan, drawing the
pledge from his pocket. "Sign the pledge, and you are safe."

But we need not follow Uncle Nathan in his reformatory lucubrations. Pat
signed the pledge; but whether he had an appreciating sense of the
restraint he imposed upon his appetite we cannot say. Uncle Nathan
thought him saved from his cups, and rejoiced accordingly. Perhaps, if
he had looked a little closer, he might have suspected an interested
motive on the part of Pat. He saw none, and, feeling secure in the
present victory, he admonished his disciple "to stick to it as long as
he lived."

"'Pon me word, I will, thin," replied Pat. "I see yous are a gintleman,
if yous don't look jist like one. Now, do you see, Mr. Binson, you are
jist the man I am looking for, this last six hours."

"Why so, Partrick--what do you mean?" said Uncle Nathan, mystified by
the sudden change of manner in the new convert.

"Hould aisy a bit, for I'd like to hould a private correspondence wid
yous. Will ye jist come to the hurricane deck, till I tells yous all
about it?"

"Sartain," replied Uncle Nathan, his curiosity fully excited.

As soon as they reached a deserted portion of the promenade deck, Pat,
after satisfying himself there were no listeners near, commenced, with
an air of grave importance, his story.

"Whisht now, and draw near," said he. "Can yous keep a sacret?"

"Well, I think I could, if it was an honest one."

"Faix, thin, it _is_ an honest one. Sure yous come from the North, and
don't belave in keeping the naigers in bondage?"

"To be sure not."

"Well, then, would yous help a naiger out of throuble, if yous could as
well as not?"

"I sartainly wish 'em well; but the Scripture says 'Honor the king,'
which means nothin' more nor less than 'obey the laws.' Arter all,
though, perhaps we ought not to mind wicked laws."

"Musha bad luck to your raysoning! Sure I'm no docthor, to blarney over
the matther. Will yous kape the sacret?" asked Pat, a little excited,
and somewhat disappointed to find his auditor lukewarm in "the cause."

"Sartain; tell your story, and, if I can't do you any good, I won't do
you any harm."

"That's the mon for me!" replied Pat, slapping Uncle Nathan familiarly
on the back. "Now, do you see, there's a naiger on this boat, that wants
a frind."

"A friend!" said Uncle Nathan, with some doubt, as he reflected on the
conflict between the claims of humanity and the stringent laws of the
slave states.

"To be sure, a _frind_!" replied Pat, with emphasis.

"I _will_ befriend him," replied Uncle Nathan, his natural inclination
triumphing over his fear of the law.

"Spoken like a Christian! Sure, that's jist what St. Patrick would say,
if the saint--long life to him!--were here," replied Pat, rejoicing
that the difficulty was overcome.

"Now, dhraw near till I tells yous all about it; and, if iver you
mintion a word of it, may your sowl never lave purgatory till it is
burnt to a cindther! Now, do you mind, there's a naiger concayled in the
hould of the boat, that wants to correspond with a faymale in the
cabin."

"But he will expose himself, and she may deliver him up."

"Divil a bit! Didn't he save her from dhrowning, last night?" exclaimed
Pat, warmly, for this act of Hatchie excited all his admiration.

"Good gracious! you don't say so!" and Uncle Nathan understood the
mystery of the previous night.

"Sorra a word o' lie in it."

"But where in natur is the feller?" asked the wonder-struck Yankee, his
curiosity getting the better of every other consideration.

"Whisht, now," whispered Pat; "he is in one of those boxes, with the
dead men! Do yous mind?"

"Good gracious! how you talk! In a coffin?"

"Divil a coffin at all. Sure as nate a bit of a box as iver held a
Christian."

"But why does he wish to speak with the lady?"

"Sorra know I know," replied Pat, to whom Hatchie had communicated no
more than was necessary.

"Does he wish to see her in person?"

"Not a bit of it. Now, do you mind, I saw you speaking to the lady, and
I tould him of it. Then the naiger axed me could he trust yous. I tould
him yes; and he tould me to bring yous down to him, and that's the whole
of it. Now, will yous go down the night and spake to him?"

Uncle Nathan reflected a little; for, though no craven, he was very
prudent, and had no romance in his composition. After deliberating some
time, much to the detriment of Pat's patience, he replied in the
affirmative.

Pat then instructed him in relation to certain precautions to be
observed in order to avoid notice, and left him to ponder the
strangeness of the adventure. He had well considered his course, and,
having decided upon it, he was earnest in pursuing it. He had chosen, he
felt, a dangerous, but his conscience assured him a right path, and
nothing could now deter him from proceeding in it. He was not fickle,
and invoked many a blessing on the effort he might make for the
salvation of the poor negro. True, his prudence had magnified the
undertaking, which was a trivial affair, into a great adventure.
Imagination often makes bold men.




CHAPTER X.


             "_Duke_.--How's this?
             The treason's
             Already at the doors."

                                    VENICE PRESERVED.

     "_Amelia_.--I thought I heard a step.
      _Charles_.--'T is your tyrant coming."

                                               PROCTOR.


Jaspar and De Guy were for a long time closeted in the state-room. On
their reäppearance Jaspar felt much easier. The silky-toned attorney had
used a variety of arguments to convince him that their schemes were
working excellently well, and that everything, notwithstanding the
resurrection of the negro, would terminate to his entire satisfaction.

The process of "wooding-up" on a Mississippi steamer, inasmuch as it
affords the passengers an opportunity to exercise their locomotive
powers on shore, is regarded as an interesting incident. This was
particularly true on board the Chalmetta, for she was crowded to nearly
double her complement of cabin-passengers, and the space usually devoted
to exercise was too much crowded to render it very pleasant.

When, therefore, the Chalmetta touched at a wood-yard, after leaving
Baton Rouge, the passengers hurried on shore, to enjoy the novelty of an
unconfined promenade. De Guy, on pretence of further private
conversation, induced Jaspar to forsake his post as sentinel over Emily,
and join him in a walk. For half an hour the attorney in his silky tones
regaled the ears of Jaspar with various strange schemes, until the bell
of the steamer announced her near departure. Even then De Guy seemed in
no haste, and assured his companion the boat would not start without
them. But the second bell admonished them that the steamer was already
getting under way. The passengers were all on board, and, as they heard
in the distance the tinkling of the engineer's bell, they started at a
run to reach her. By some accident, De Guy's foot got between Jaspar's
legs, and he fell. The attorney stooped, as if to assist him up, but, in
reality, struck the fallen man a blow, which rendered him insensible. De
Guy hurried towards the boat, leaving the watchful uncle to shift for
himself. He reached the landing in season to jump upon the stern of the
boat as it swung in shore. Pushing through the crowd which had gathered
to witness his exploit of getting on board, he retreated to his
state-room, and locked the door.

Jaspar was not immediately missed by Emily, and his absence was too
desirable to be the cause of any solicitude. As the tea-hour approached,
and the ladies were requested to take their places at table, she was
very much surprised to see _Mr. Maxwell_ present himself as her escort
to the table. Since the unhappy disclosure of his love in the office,
she had regarded him with pity, rather than with the contempt he
merited. She could not but feel that he loved her. His eloquent language
and forlorn aspect had not been in vain, for they had saved him from her
_utter_ contempt. A true woman cannot be conscious of possessing a
portion of the love, even of a dissolute man, without feeling some
respect for him. To love truly and devotedly is an element of the
angelic character; and such love will purify and ennoble even the
grossest of human beings. Emily unconsciously arrived at this
conclusion; and, discerning some indications of pure love towards her in
his gross and earthly mind, she felt that he was entitled to her
sympathy. She cherished no affection for him; all that her gentle heart
could contain was bestowed upon another. A suspicion had more than once
entered her mind that Maxwell was, in some manner, connected with the
foul plot which had drawn her into its toils. But, she reasoned, if he
loved her, he would not injure her,--no, not even in revenge for her
refusal. _She_ could not, and her beautiful nature would not allow her
to believe it, even of a man as gross as her better judgment told her
Maxwell was.

To her inquiry for her uncle, Maxwell informed her that he had some
conversation with him since he came on board at Baton Rouge, and that he
had requested him to attend her at tea. He had not seen him since, but
supposed he was forward, or in his state-room.

Emily readily accepted his arm, for anything was a relief from the
hateful presence of Jaspar. Maxwell used all the art which politeness
could lend to render himself agreeable. His ready wit, and the
adaptation of his conversation to the unhappy circumstances of her
position, in some measure dispelled the misery of the hour. Besides, it
was plain the attorney did not believe the statement of the will; for a
high-born Southern gentleman would never associate in public with a
slave girl. She had, too, a presentiment that he came on some errand to
her. Perhaps the good minister, Mr. Faxon, had sent him with good news
to her. Perhaps through him the will had been proved false. Such
reflections as these imparted more interest to his society than she
would otherwise have felt.

During the tea-hour his assiduous courtesy left scarcely a particular in
which Henry Carroll, who, as before, occupied a seat opposite to him,
could render himself of use. He could hardly address a word to her
without interrupting her companion. An introduction, which had before
placed the young captain and the attorney on speaking terms, did not
prevent the latter from mixing excessively good with excessively bad
breeding. He was apparently unwilling that Henry should be heard by
Emily. Maxwell had some idea of the relation which subsisted between his
two companions; but, of course, knew nothing of the previous night's
interview, which had indissolubly bound their hearts together. He
seemed determined to keep their sympathies as far apart as possible.

Henry Carroll wondered at the absence of Jaspar and at the sudden
appearance of Maxwell, for he had not before seen him. His attentions to
her he loved created no jealousy. Emily had satisfactorily acknowledged
her affection for him, and to believe her pure nature, especially under
the present circumstances, susceptible of coquetry, were infidelity. A
single look beaming with love had assured him that his star was still in
the ascendant.

At the conclusion, Maxwell, with the same elegant courtesy, conducted
her back to the ladies' cabin. Emily repeated her acknowledgments for
the attentions, and was about to enter her state-room, when he addressed
her.

"May I beg the favor of a few moments' private conversation, Miss
Dumont?" said he, in a more business-like manner than that he had
assumed at the tea-table.

Emily hesitated. Her supposition concerning his mission was partly
verified in this request; but the remembrance of her last interview with
him at his office in New Orleans came like a cloud over the bright sky
of her hopes. Curiosity and a painful interest prompted her to risk the
interview. If this interview was likely to be of an unpleasant nature,
she could retire; and, if the worst she apprehended was likely to be
realized, she knew that Henry Carroll hovered near her, at all times,
like a guardian angel.

"In your legal capacity, I presume?" said she, with a smile and a
crimson face.

"Certainly, certainly," replied Maxwell, not a little disconcerted to
discover this troublesome caution.

"Will you take a seat, then? I think no one will feel an interest in our
conversation beside ourselves."

"Excuse me," replied Maxwell, in his blandest tones, "a few words of our
conversation overheard might expose persons we wish not to injure."

"Perhaps it had better be deferred to a more convenient opportunity."

"Delays are dangerous, Miss Dumont. Justice to yourself requires that my
communication be made at once. Allow me to attend you to the promenade
deck, where we shall be secure from interruption."

Emily, with many doubts, accepted his arm, and they proceeded to the
promenade deck.

"Now, Mr. Maxwell," said Emily, in a very serious tone, for she wished
to awe the profligate into the most business-like reserve, "be as speedy
as possible, for I am fearful of the effects of the night-air upon my
health."

Maxwell was disconcerted at this change in the manner of his companion,
and vexed to account for it. The remembrance of past events came to his
aid, but afforded no satisfactory solution. He could not see why Emily
should studiously reject his overtures. His experience of female society
had been of the most flattering character. He was perfectly aware of his
popularity. His personal attractions always had been a strong
recommendation, and he could not see why they should not be in this
instance. His family was good, his fortune supposed to be
respectable,--everybody did not know the inroads he had made upon it;
his business was a pastime--the gate of honor and fame. It was true his
character was dissolute, but she did not know this.

Unfortunately for him and his prospects, she did know it, and the fact
had all the weight which a virtuous mind attaches to such a
circumstance.

"I have been fortunate enough to obtain some information which may be of
great value to you, or I should not thus have intruded upon you," said
Maxwell, with the air of a man upon whom suspicion rested unjustly.

"Indeed, Mr. Maxwell!" replied Emily, forgetting both the night-air and
the character of the man who stood beside her; "pray, tell me all at
once!"

"Pardon me," replied he, coldly, "as the story is somewhat lengthy,
perhaps it might be deferred till to-morrow, if your health is likely to
suffer from exposure at this hour."

Emily was confused; but she could not stoop to the weakness of deception
to smooth over her former coldness. She was burning with impatience to
be restored, even in imagination, to the position from which she had
been degraded by the cruel will. Her companion's language was not
calculated to remove her doubts of his intentions. If the communication
was of a business character, why should he be offended at her haste to
terminate the interview? This reflection strengthened her resolution not
to conciliate him. She would trust to Providence and the justice of her
cause, rather than make an intimate of a man whom she despised.

"Miss Dumont," said Maxwell, growing desperate at the lady's silence,
"perhaps I have offended in some manner. If I have, it was
unintentional, and I trust you will forgive me."

"O, no, sir, not at all!" exclaimed Emily, mollified, in spite of
herself, by the humility of the attorney. "There is no offence, and no
apology is necessary."

"I am greatly relieved by this assurance, and, with your leave, will
proceed with my narrative."

Maxwell now entered into a relation of the history of the will, but
studiously avoided imparting a single fact with which she was not
already acquainted. All this he had related with a lawyer's skill, to
awaken her curiosity and interest, and to remove by distance any
unpleasant suspicions which might have been awakened in her mind in
regard to his motives.

To all he said Emily listened with profound attention, momentarily
expecting the development of the foul plot. But thus far Jaspar Dumont
is as pure as an angel,--nothing is disclosed. In this manner half an
hour passed away, and Emily was no wiser than at first.

Maxwell has now, with an adroitness peculiar to the successful lawyer,
made _himself_ the subject of his remarks. He is careful that she shall
know how sagacious he has been in discovering the facts he has not yet
revealed. He tells her how many weary days and nights he has spent in
searching out the truth; what wonderful intelligence of his had
converted the shadow of a suspicion into the reality of an
incontrovertible conviction; how a single word he casually overheard has
been followed through weary days and dismal nights, till he has arrived,
with all the evidence in his hands, at the truth!

Emily was certainly grateful for the deep interest he had manifested in
her behalf, and she expressed her gratitude with modest earnestness.

"But, Miss Dumont," continued Maxwell, "I could not thus have sacrificed
myself for every client. My health and strength, under ordinary
circumstances, would have given way, and the case have been lost."

"Indeed, sir, you may rely on the fullest and most substantial
acknowledgment for the service you have rendered. My purse shall be
entirely at your disposal," responded Emily, warmly and innocently.

"Money, Miss Dumont, would not have tempted me to make the sacrifice of
health and comfort which this exertion has required of me. I have done
all my humble talents would permit from a higher motive. I look for my
reward in the consciousness of having done my duty."

"I trust, Mr. Maxwell, you will receive the great reward which is sure
to follow every noble and true action."

Emily was sadly perplexed to understand this new and singular
phenomenon.

"The act itself is its own reward," said Maxwell, with an attempt to
counterfeit humility, which was very awkward, but which deceived Emily,
agitated as she was by hopes and fears.

"But, as I said," continued he, "I would not have done this for every
client, and I trust you will pardon me when I say the only reward I
look forward to is your smile of approval."

"I certainly cannot but approve of the motives which have actuated you,
and your actions perhaps I could better appreciate if my knowledge of
them was more extensive," responded Emily, disappointed and displeased,
as her suspicions were reawakened.

But a faint smile rested upon her beautiful features, as if to soften,
the reproof she had administered, and to conceal her rising emotions.
She felt that Maxwell could assist her, but she feared every moment that
some allusion to the prohibited subject would compel her to banish him
from her presence.

"A smile from you were an ample reward for all my trouble and exertion,"
said Maxwell, deceived by the smile of Emily. "To be as sincere as your
generous nature demands, I cannot conquer the love I have before
expressed. I--"

"Excuse me, sir," indignantly interrupted Emily, "I must retire."

"Nay, nay, Miss Dumont! I meant no offence. Hear me but for a moment!"

"Not another instant, sir! You have deceived me."

"Upon my honor, I have not. I possess the evidence by which your
birthright and possessions may be restored."

"No more! I had rather die in poverty, with the stain clinging to me,
than owe the restoration of my rights to you. You have taken advantage
of my unprotected condition to impose upon me."

"You wrong me, Miss Dumont; as, if you will remain but a moment, I will
prove to you," said Maxwell, pleading like an injured man.

Maxwell's peculiar tone and penitent air made Emily pause, and perhaps
think she had spoken too hastily. All the wrong of which she could
accuse him was, that he loved her. She felt that this was not a crime.
The remembrance of wrongs she knew he had inflicted upon others,
perhaps weak and unprotected like herself, nerved her resolution, and to
a word of love from him she could not listen. She wished to conciliate
him, if possible, but not at the expense of her self-respect.

"Why have you detained me all this time to listen to a story with which
I was before as familiar as yourself? Why have you used the language of
love, which a refusal to hear now renders insolent?"

"I have offended you, Miss Dumont," said he, in the humblest tones; "can
I hope to be forgiven?"

"Your future conduct alone can secure my forgiveness."

"Then I solemnly promise never again to allude to the admiration with
which I have regarded your matchless beauty, or to mention the love
which now consumes my heart."

"I trust you are sincere," said Emily, not knowing whether to smile or
frown upon this making and breaking the promise in the same breath. The
deep anxiety she felt for her future fate made her disposed to forget
the past, and in a gentler tone she expressed her forgiveness.

Maxwell imagined that, at last, his star was in the ascendant. His
experience of woman-kind only indicated that he had been too
precipitate, and that the reserve, even the refusal he had received,
were only the accidents of the moment, not the natural expression of an
indifferent heart. His assurance increased as he reflected. He was led
to believe that he might, now that the ice-barrier was removed, be more
unreserved in his wooing. His perseverance had now overcome all
obstacles, and the prize was in his grasp.

"I have a plan to propose," said he, "which will immediately secure to
you all your rights."

"Pray what is it?" asked Emily, eagerly.

"As you have forbidden me to speak of love, I am placed in a very
unfortunate position. In short, you can obtain possession of your estate
by returning as my wife."

This last sentence was said in a whisper, and in a tone of assurance,
as though he felt she would gladly accept the alternative.

"Sir!" exclaimed Emily, aghast with astonishment and indignation, for
the abruptness of the degrading proposition nearly deprived her of the
power of speech.

"Even so, Emily. I have the power to restore your rights, and will do so
on this condition. The ceremony may be performed at Natchez, where we
shall arrive to-night; or, if you fear I promise more than I can
perform, I will draw up an agreement, which you shall sign, to the
effect that you will accept my hand on the restoration of your rights. I
will give you two hours to think of it; and if, at the end of that time,
you accept the proposal, I will at once take the necessary steps to
regain your fortune, and remove the stigma which rests on your name."

"Never, sir, never! I will die a beggar before I will owe my prosperity
to such a contract!" exclaimed Emily, whose indignation now found
utterance.

"I beg madam will reflect before she decides," said Maxwell, in a
satirical tone.

"Sir, I will die upon the rack, before the hand of a villain shall lead
me to the altar!" answered Emily, unable to control her feelings.

"Softly, lady, softly!"

"Leave me, sir! leave me, or I will call upon my uncle to protect me
from further insult!"

"Your _uncle_, I fear, was left at the last wood-yard; so I heard my
friend De Guy say."

Emily felt herself the victim of a plot, and, rousing all her energies,
she said,

"I see it all. The machinations of a villain--for such you are--shall be
foiled."

"Miss Dumont," said Maxwell, his passions roused by the severity of her
epithet, "do you forget your condition? You are a _slave_! Your supposed
uncle is not here. You have no free papers, and are liable to be
committed to the next jail."

"But I am not without a friend who is able to protect me," said Emily,
with spirit, as she saw Henry Carroll ascend to the deck upon which they
stood.

"Your friend is helpless. Another word, and I will proclaim your
condition," and he rudely seized her by the arm. "Your friend cannot
help you. He has not your free papers."

"But he has a strong arm!" shouted Henry Carroll, as with a single blow
he struck the attorney to the deck.

"This way, Emily," said he to the weeping girl, who clung tremblingly to
him; "you are safe now."

Emily was conducted by the gallant arm which had protected her from we
know not what indignity. She felt secure in his presence from further
molestation, and his soothing words and hopeful promises did much to
restore her.

Maxwell soon recovered from the effects of the blow he had received,
and, boiling with passion, swore vengeance upon the man who had
interrupted him. But his passion was of short duration, and was
succeeded by sober reflections upon the "position of his case." Emily
Dumont was not of that class of women with whom he was accustomed to
deal. He had found in her an element with which he had not before been
conversant,--of which, indeed, he had read in books of poetry, but did
not believe it existed in the material world.




CHAPTER XI.

                            "Caught, caught
     In thine own trap! Thou hast confessed it all,--
     The means, the end, the motive,--laid all Bare!
     O, thou poor knave!--and that convenient friend
     Who swears or unswears, speaks or holds his peace,
     At thy command,--you have conspired together!"

                                            LOVELL.


On board the Chalmetta, Harwell discovered an old acquaintance in the
person of a notorious gambler,--a class of persons who congregate on
Mississippi steamers, and practise their arts upon the unwary traveller.
This person, who went by the name of Vernon, was well known at the faro
and roulette boards in New Orleans. He was an accomplished swindler. In
the winter season, when the city is crowded with the élite of the state,
and with strangers from all parts of the Union, Vernon found abundant
exercise for his professional ability at the hells of the city, in the
employment of their proprietors, acting the part of banker, or anything
else that offered him the means of gratifying his luxurious habits. A
twinge of conscience never prevented him from adopting any means of
emptying the pockets of his victims, even without the formality of dice
or cards.

In the summer season he beguiled his time on the river, or migrated with
the fashionables to Pascagoula, or a more northern watering-place,--in
fine, to any sphere which afforded him a theatre for the exercise of his
talents as a blackleg. Wherever he was, he never passed by an
opportunity to obtain possession of his neighbor's valuables. If the
monied man would accept a hand at euchre or poker, why, he was so much
the easier cleaned out; if not, false keys, pick-locks, or
sleight-of-hand, soon relieved the unfortunate victim of his superfluous
possessions.

Early in his career of fashionable dissipation, Maxwell had made the
acquaintance of this notorious individual. Indeed, he had sufficient
cause to remember him, for he had made a deep inroad into his patrimony.
Maxwell was too great a rascal himself to be long duped by a greater
one. A kind of business intimacy had grown up between them, and
continued to exist at the time of our story. This connection was not,
however, publicly acknowledged by Maxwell; it would have been the ruin
of his fine prospects: but he used him whenever a scheme of profit or
revenge required an unscrupulous confederate. Yet this Vernon was by no
means a dependent creature of Maxwell's, for he was bold, reckless, and
independent to the last degree. Whether acting as the paid devil of
another, or on his own responsibility, he bowed to no power but his own
will. His physical courage was well known to be of the most obstinate
character. When the coward dandy had an enemy to punish, Vernon, for a
hundred dollars, would first insult and then fight the luckless
individual. This had formerly been a lucrative part of his trade; but
latterly his claims to the distinction of _gentleman_ and _man of honor_
had been of such a questionable character, that the man who refused to
meet him did not lose caste among the bloods of the city.

Vernon was now on his way to a wider sphere of action than New Orleans,
with its yellow fever season at hand, afforded him. As usual, he
practised his arts on board the Chalmetta, which, however, afforded him
but a narrow field, the passengers being mostly officers, who had left
their pay in the _cabarets_ of Mexico.

By some means he had ascertained that Henry Carroll was in possession of
a considerable sum of money. By all the arts in his power he had
endeavored to lure him to the gambling-table, which was constantly
spread in the cabin, and surrounded by unfortunate victims, vainly
striving against the coolness and trickery of professional blacklegs, to
recruit their exhausted finances, or retrieve the ruin to which an
unlucky hour had enticed them. Henry obstinately refused to take a hand;
but Vernon's heart was set upon the bag of gold he knew was in Henry's
trunk, and he resolved to possess it,--a feat not easy to accomplish on
board a crowded steamer.

After Maxwell had recovered from the blow which had felled him to the
deck, and while Henry was soothing the distress of Emily, he met Vernon,
who was in the act of reconnoitring the young officer's state-room.
Vernon was just the person to serve him in this extremity. The protector
of Emily must be removed from his charge, as her uncle had been by De
Guy. He resolved upon a consultation with the blackleg. Accordingly he
expressed his desire, to which the gambler replied by requesting him to
give notice of the approach of any one, while he did a little business
in the state-room.

Maxwell vainly remonstrated, but was obliged to comply with the wishes
of the robber, or lose his services.

Vernon, thus protected from intrusion, entered the room, and by the aid
of a pick-lock soon succeeded in obtaining possession of all poor
Henry's earthly wealth. Beckoning Maxwell to follow, he descended to the
main deck, where, procuring a lantern, they proceeded aft.

We must return to Uncle Nathan and Pat Fegan, whom we left on their way
to the fugitive in the hold of the steamer.

"Whisht, now," said Pat, in a whisper, as they prepared to jump down the
hatchway; "whisht, now, and don't spake a loud word, for the life of
yous."

Uncle Nathan promised obedience, and followed Pat into the hold. All was
total darkness, and it was not without a feeling of superstitious dread
that Uncle Nathan heard his companion tap on the box which contained
the mulatto. He heard the whispered recognition of its inmate, and stood
like a statue while Hatchie freed himself from his confinement.

"Whisht, now," said Pat, in a low voice; "give me your hand, Mr. Binson.
Now, there yous are," and he placed Uncle Nathan's hand in that of
Hatchie.

Uncle Nathan found the hand was warm, and felt completely relieved of
the sensation of fear which had come over him.

"Glad to see you," said he, though an instant afterwards his conscience
asked him if he had not told a lie, inasmuch as it was so dark he could
not see anything.

"You are a _friend_, I trust," replied Hatchie, who, although he
implicitly relied on the _faith_ of the Irish ally, had not the fullest
confidence in his judgment. Nothing but what he deemed a stern necessity
would have compelled him to trust the secret with any one. So many
dangers encompassed him, that the duty he owed to his injured mistress
obliged him to look around for the means of preserving the valuable
document he possessed. An accident to the steamer, the continuous danger
of being restored to Jaspar, and a hundred other painful reflections,
brought him to the resolution of depositing the will in the hands of the
most trustworthy person he could find. In this extremity, he canvassed
the characters of all he knew on board. Henry Carroll, he feared, was
too impetuous, if not actually devoted to Jaspar. He knew nothing of the
interesting relation which the hearts of the lovers had
recognized,--pity he did not! Uncle Nathan, whom Pat had described in
glowing colors,--none are more highly esteemed than those who confer the
most solid benefits,--seemed to him the proper person, especially as Pat
had seen _her_ speak to him after the accident. An honest man is so
easily known, that the poor Irishman's instinctive knowledge of human
nature imparted the most correct information.

"I _am_ your friend, and I trust the Lord will always put it into my
heart to befriend the unfortunate," said Uncle Nathan, in answer to
Hatchie's remark.

"It is not on my own account that I need a friend," said Hatchie, in a
melancholy tone, for the responsibility which rested upon him had
solemnized his mind, and banished all reflections of self. "It matters
little what becomes of _me_. But, sir, you are a stranger to me, and I
know not that I may trust you."

"Nor I nuther, till I know what you want of me. If it is an honest
sarvice, one that I can do without goin' agin my conscience, why, I am
ready to do anything to help a feller-cretur."

"The service I am about to request," replied Hatchie, his doubts in a
great measure removed by the apparent sincerity of his auditor, "can be
done honestly; and, if your conscience approves any act, it will approve
this one."

"Very well, I will act for you to the best of my judgment, and use all
the discretion that natur gave me, and a little I larned by the
way-side. Partrick tells me you want to talk with the lady whose life
you saved last night."

"Not exactly to talk _with_ her, but about her. I feel that I can trust
you, even with her destiny. That lady is my mistress. She is an angel of
goodness. I am perfectly willing to be _her_ slave, so that it was not
to gain my freedom I escaped in this box. It was to save her from a
cruel wrong which her uncle would inflict upon her."

"That old gentleman who is with her?" interrupted Uncle Nathan.

"The same. He is the most hardened villain in the world,--so different
from my poor master, who was a good man, and loved even his slaves! This
man would make it appear that my mistress is not the legitimate child of
her father, but the daughter of a quadroon girl, whom he formerly owned.
He has forged a will to obtain his own purposes, and deprived poor
mistress of her natural rights. But, on the night when the villany was
perpetrated, I managed to obtain the true will, and to make my
escape,--and a very narrow escape it was, for I was shot at and obliged
to jump into the river to save my life. They think the shot killed me;
but I shall yet expose their villany--"

"Good gracious, I hope so!" exclaimed Uncle Nathan, whose sympathies
wore awakened by the brief narrative of the mulatto.

"Now, it is scarcely prudent for me to retain possession of this will. I
may be discovered, or drowned, or shot; and then my poor mistress would
never be restored."

"True," replied Uncle Nathan, appreciating his companion's reasoning,
and admiring his warm devotion to his mistress.

"I wish to place the will in the keeping of some trusty person, who will
guard it as his own life,--who will deem no sacrifice too great to
relieve the distressed, and foil the wicked," said Hatchie, earnestly.

"I will do the best I can."

"Before I intrust it to you, I must feel that you will not only be
discreet, but that you will labor to foil this wicked plot."

"I will do everything I can," replied Uncle Nathan, warmly, for his
heart was touched at the wrongs of Emily.

"Then here is the will," said Hatchie, handing him the packet, which he
had taken the precaution to envelop in oil-cloth. "Remember how much
depends upon your caution and fidelity. God forgive me, if I have done
wrong in giving it to you."

"You may depend upon me. I will take good care of the document. But
shan't I say anything to the lady about it?"

"Assure her, if you can without exposing yourself, that the will is
safe. It will give joy to her heart to know that she has the means of
restoration to her home and name."

"I will see everything done about right; and I hope soon to meet you in
the land of liberty."

"I shall never leave my mistress. I have been near her from her birth,
and, though only a slave, I feel that I was sent into the world for no
other purpose than to protect and serve her. Liberty away from her has
no charms for me."

"Goodness!" ejaculated Uncle Nathan; "I never should have thought it!"

Hatchie's devotion to his mistress, so eloquently expressed, jostled
rather rudely the Northerner's prejudices concerning the treatment of
slaves.

The conversation was here interrupted by three taps on the deck above
them, produced by the brogan of Pat Fegan.

Hatchie recognized the preconcerted signal, and, abruptly terminating
his remarks, he leaped into the box, drew on the lid, and left Uncle
Nathan to find his way out as best he could.

"Whisht, now," said Pat, whispering down the hatch. "Jump up, Mr.
Binson!"

Uncle Nathan approached the hatchway, and endeavored to leap out, an
effort which was assisted by Pat, who, rudely seizing him by the collar,
jerked him out with a violence that threatened his bones with
dissolution.

"How the divil did yous tumble in there?" screamed Pat, as two persons
approached. "Are yous hurted?"

"A little," replied Uncle Nathan, perceiving the ruse of his coadjutor.

"I fear yous are. Thry are your legs broke?" continued Pat, whose energy
of utterance gave a fair appearance to the deceit.

"Are you much hurt?" asked one of the persons who had by their presence
disturbed the conference.

"Very little," replied Uncle Nathan, who really felt the uncomfortable
effects of a knock on the knee he had received in his involuntary ascent
from the hold.

"Bad luck to 't, but 'twas a wicked fall!" said Pat, fearful that his
conscientious companion would expose the deceit.

"Can I render you any assistance?" asked one of the intruders, who were
none other than Maxwell and Vernon, whom we left on their way to the
main deck.

"Thank ye, I don't need any," replied Uncle Nathan, hobbling off,
accompanied by Pat.

"Now, is the coast clear?" said Vernon, who carried a lantern he had
borrowed from the mate.

"All clear; but put out that light,--the engineers will notice us,"
replied Maxwell.

"But I can't find my way into the hold without it. There is no danger of
the engineers. They are all asleep on the forward deck."

"What do you want in the hold?" asked Maxwell, in an irritable tone.

"I want to hide this bag of money," replied Vernon, in a whisper. "As
soon as the covey finds he has been picked, they will search the boat;
and my character is not likely to save me from the indignity of being
obliged to open my trunk, and turn out my pockets."

"It is bad business, and I wish you had not done this thing. As I told
you before, _I_ have nothing to do with it. I feel myself rather above
common robbery."

"Self-esteem! But you came down on your own business, not on mine. You
can return, and not trouble yourself any further," growled Vernon.

"I need your help, and will pay you for it."

"Very well, then, wait till _this_ job is finished."

"Go on! I will follow," replied Maxwell, finding remonstrance vain.

After a careful scrutiny of the premises, Vernon concealed his lantern
under his coat, and leaped into the hold, followed by Maxwell.

"Now," said Vernon, "I must put this bag into one of these boxes, to be
guarded by the spirits of the brave men whose bones repose in them."

"Are you mad, man? Would you open the coffins of the dead to hide your
ill-gotten gold?" exclaimed Maxwell, alarmed at the purpose of his
confederate.

"Why not? We need not disturb the bodies,--only open the outside box."

"Very well," said Maxwell, who felt how useless it was to oppose his
companion. "But remember, I have nothing to do with the robbery."

"Of course not, and nothing to do with sharing the proceeds; but sit
down, if you have anything to say to me. We are perfectly safe from
interruption here;" and Vernon seated himself on the box which was
occupied by the mulatto.

"My words need not be many. In the first place, I have been insulted,
and must have satisfaction; and, in the second, there is a girl in the
cabin to whom I am much attached, and she will not give me the smallest
sign of encouragement. Have her I must, by fair means or foul. I would
marry her. You understand?"

"Certainly; but what's the plan?" asked Vernon, indifferently.

"Rather a difficult one, and may require some nerve to execute it,"
replied Maxwell, who proceeded to develop his schemes, both in respect
to Henry Carroll and to Emily.

Although the conspirators spoke in a low tone, Hatchie heard and
understood the whole plot. The voice of Maxwell he recognized, and,
although the name of the lady against whom his designs were meditated
was not mentioned, he comprehended who she was.

The confederated scoundrels having finished their conference, Vernon
drew from his pocket a small screw-driver, and proceeded to remove the
screws from one of the boxes, which, to Hatchie's great relief, was not
the one occupied by himself. After much labor, for the boxes were
carefully constructed, to bear the rough usage of transportation, he
succeeded in removing the lid, and deposited the bag of money between
the coffin and the case which enclosed it.

Having effected the object which brought them to the hold, the two
ascended again, and made their way to the cabin.

In addition to the knowledge of the plot, Hatchie was made acquainted
with a fact which afforded him much pleasure--that Henry Carroll, in
defence of his mistress, had knocked Maxwell down. This was evidence in
his favor. He also heard something of the preference she had bestowed
upon him, and that on this account, more than for the blow, he was to be
the victim of Maxwell's vengeance. But he resolved to foil both schemes.




CHAPTER XII.

     "He must be taught to know he has presumed
     To stand in competition with me.
     --You will not kill him?"  SHIRLEY.

           --"Wherefore com'st thou?
     --To comfort you, and bring you joyful news."
                                MARLOW.


On the second night of the Chalmetta's voyage, as Henry was about to
retire, the steward handed him a note. An hour before he had struck a
"fashionable" man a severe blow, and he conjectured at once that it had
called forth this note. On opening the billet, his supposition proved to
be correct. It was a challenge from Maxwell.

We are very much opposed to duels and duelling, and we regret that
faithfulness to the facts of history compels us to record that Captain
Carroll accepted the challenge. He had moral courage enough to resist
the promptings of that artificial spirit of honor which encourages
duels, but there was "a lady in the case,"--a lady whom he fondly loved.
He felt that the insult which she had received was not sufficiently
punished. Besides, there was an audacity about the man which deserved to
be punished, and he resolved to punish it. Poor human nature! Henry
never reflected that he might be shot himself, and the persecutor of
innocence escape unharmed. No, he felt that the blow he had struck in
defence of innocence was a just retribution, as far as it went; and that
he should fall, _he_ who had espoused the cause of innocence, why it was
simply impossible!

He accepted the challenge, and requested a brother officer to act as his
"friend." The two seconds--Major Brunn on the part of Henry, and Vernon
on the part of Maxwell--arranged the preliminaries.

The boat would arrive at Natchez about daylight, and would remain there
long enough to allow the meeting to take place.

Henry Carroll, though his chivalrous spirit was gratified at the
opportunity to revenge the insult offered to Emily, was ill at ease. To
meet a man of no character (for such he supposed Maxwell to be) was not
a very ornamental accompaniment to an affair of honor. He had a hundred
times braved death on the field of battle, but to die in a duel with
such a man seemed to his now tranquillized mind anything but honorable.
Emily had retired, and he could not bid her farewell. Perhaps he had
seen her for the last time on earth, for the possibility of being killed
himself tardily came to his mind. He wrote a long letter to Emily, and
another to Uncle Nathan.

The worthy Northerner had produced a very favorable impression upon his
mind. He knew his liberal soul, and the design of the letter was to
interest him in her favor,--to induce him to conduct her to his Northern
home.

Henry returned to his couch with many painful doubts as to the morality,
and even the expediency, of his course. But the feeling of honor--of
false honor--comforted him, and, animated by its spirit, he even looked
forward with pleasure upon his revenge,--upon the death of his opponent.
This would be in accordance with the justice of the case, and he
flattered himself that justice, if it did not always prevail, would
triumph in this instance. With such reflections he closed his eyes, and
sunk to his slumbers.

The Chalmetta moved lazily on her course. Her lights had all been
extinguished, and the idlers, who a few hours before had paced the
decks, were now slumbering in their berths, or on the cabin floor. The
clock over the clerk's office indicated the hour of twelve. On the main
deck forward the sleepy firemen were languidly supplying the furnaces;
the engineers, less actively employed, had fallen asleep by the
cylinders.

On the after quarter, laying flat upon the deck, were two men earnestly
engaged in conversation, in which the whispered brogue of Pat Fegan
might have been detected. After the conversation had continued some
time, one of them cautiously raised his head, as if to penetrate the
gloom that enshrouded them. Satisfied that they were alone, the two
rose, and, without noise, climbed up one of the posts to the gallery
which surrounded the cabin. Then, with a light step, they passed on, and
stopped before the state-room occupied by Vernon.

"Are you sure this is his room?" asked Hatchie, in a smothe

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