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The Haunted Homestead: A Novel

by Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth · English · Gutenberg #36713 · 455,993 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Haunted Homestead: A Novel

Author: Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth


        
Release date: July 12, 2011 [eBook #36713]
                Most recently updated: January 7, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD: A NOVEL ***




Produced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)










The Haunted Homestead

_A NOVEL_

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

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

CHICAGO
M. A. DONOHUE & CO.




THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was not mistaken.

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

Miss Legare bowed a gracious acceptance to his suit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Howard--still Howard!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, madam."

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

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

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

"Yes, my dear--all right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you there, Agnes?" she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So it is!"

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

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

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

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

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

"And--well?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Accordingly, at ten o'clock we separated.

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

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

"Into the old house, to bed."

"Why!--do they sleep there?"

"Certainly--the whole family sleep there."

"And who sleeps here in the new house?"

"No one but you and I!"

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

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

"And where did you sleep?"

"Here."

"Alone?"

"Certainly."

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

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

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

"Is the door secure?"

"Yes, my dear."

"And the windows?"

"Yes."

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

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

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

"Who is that?"

But there was no answer.

"Who is that?" again asked the girl.

And still there was no answer.

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

No answer.

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

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

"Oh! dear me! Agnes, Agnes!"

I answered:

"What, my dear?"

"Have you opened the door?"

"No, love."

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

"No, Rachel."

"Who opened the door?"

"I do not know."

"Didn't you hear it open?"

"Yes."

"And it is open now!"

"I see it is."

"But how came it open?"

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

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

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

I slept no more that night.

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

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

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

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

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

"No, I had not," said I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was not the slightest possibility of an interruption.

Mathilde commenced speaking.

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

"Charmed," I answered.

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

"And you have always slept well, then?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Poor lady! What room did she occupy?"

"Yours."

"And--she died there?"

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

"Do not judge her harshly."

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

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

"Well, what else?" I inquired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Heavens! do you know that?"

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

"What more do you know?"

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

It was true. We were interrupted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

"Yes."

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

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

"Eh! why?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, indeed!"

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

"I don't understand you."

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

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

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

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

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

"And so blundered into helping the lovers."

"Not so. You were providentially led."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rachel was soon asleep.

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

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

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

There was no answer.

"Who's there?" he repeated.

No answer.

"Who's there?"

Continued silence.

"Phlit!"

No reply.

"Phlit!"

No reply.

"Phlit!"

Dead silence.

"Jet! Is that you?"

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

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

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

"You have been dreaming."

"Have I? Look there, then!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"At your door, John? Certainly not."

"Wasn't you, though?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sir?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, the Lord only knows!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Howard went on:

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

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

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

"Yes, sir."

"How?"

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

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

"No, sir."

"Why?"

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

"And have you done so?"

"As far as was possible."

"With what result, my dear Agnes?"

"With no satisfactory one, sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I answered:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course, everybody accepted the invitation.

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

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

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

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

"We all see!"

"No hand near the lock!"

"None!"

"There could have been no deception."

"Assuredly not," we all declared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, my father."

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

Frank Howard stepped eagerly forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Law! Do she know?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Den I ax her, sure."

And so my little maid proceeded to light the fire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




THE PRESENTIMENT.




CHAPTER I.

THE QUADROON.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But they came on apace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER II.

THE MANIAC'S CURSE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She is disappointed, most probably."

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

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

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

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

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

"I think so."

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

"No one, I suppose."

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

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

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

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

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

"Quite likely."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Will you always say so?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After awhile, Phaedra resumed, softly and quietly:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And what is that, Valentine?"

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

"But the hundredth day, Valentine!"

The boy's face suddenly changed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ah, yes; less provocation."

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

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

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




CHAPTER III.

THE BOTTLE DEMON.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Me?"

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER IV.

AN HUMBLE WEDDING.

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


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

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

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

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

Phaedra arose and approached the bed.

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

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

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

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

"Tell me all about it, mother."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mother----"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What does he say about the accident?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER V.

A CLOUDED HONEYMOON.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was very much beloved by the brethren, an

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