AN AUTUMNAL VISIT.
“Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my heart?
Thy hopes have gone before: from all things here
They have departed; thou shouldst now depart.”—_Shelley._
The defunct having left no will, administrators of his estate were
appointed. These deemed it proper to be guided by the wishes of the
widow and the daughter, notwithstanding the latter was still a minor.
Those wishes were, that the identification of Miss Berwick, conclusive
as it was, should be frankly admitted, and her property, with its
accumulated interest, restored to her without a contest.
There was a friendly hearing in chambers, before the probate and other
judges. The witnesses were all carefully examined; the contents of the
sealed package in the little trunk were identified; and at last, in
accordance with high legal and judicial approval, the vast estate,
constituting nearly two-thirds of the amount left by Charlton, was
transferred to trustees to be held till Clara should be of age. And thus
finally did Vance carry his point, and establish the rights of the
orphan of the Pontiac.
It was on a warm, pleasant day in the last week of September, 1862, that
he called to take leave of her.
Little more than an hour’s drive beyond the Central Park brought him to
a private avenue, at the stately gate of which he found children
playing. One of these was a cripple, who, as he darted round on his
little crutch, chasing or being chased, seemed the embodiment of Joy
exercising under difficulties. His name was Andrew Rusk. An old colored
woman who was carrying a basket of fruit to some invalid in the
neighborhood, stopped and begged Andrew not to break his neck. Vance,
recognizing Esha, asked if Clara was at home.
“Yes, Massa Vance; she’ll be powerful glad to see yer.”
While Vance is waiting in a large and lofty drawing-room for her
appearance, let us review some of the incidents that have transpired
since we encountered her last.
One of Clara’s first acts, on being put in partial possession of her
ancestral estate, had been to present her aunt Pompilard with a
furnished house, retaining for herself the freedom of a few rooms. The
house stood on a broad, picturesque semi-circle of rocky table-land,
that protruded like a huge bracket from a pleasant declivity, partly
wooded, in view of the Palisades of the Hudson. The grounds included
acres enough to satisfy the most aspiring member of the Horticultural
Society. The house, also, was sufficiently spacious, not only for
present, but for prospective grandchildren of the Pompilard stock. To
the young Iretons and Purlings it was a blessed change from Lavinia
Street to this new place.
Amid these sylvan scenes,—these green declivities and dimpling
hollows,—these gardens beautiful, and groves and orchards,—the wounded
Major and aspiring author, Cecil Purling, grew rapidly convalescent. The
moment it was understood in fashionable circles that, through Clara’s
access to fortune, he stood no longer in need of help, subscribers to
his history poured in not merely by dozens, but by hundreds. He soon had
confirmation made doubly sure that he should have the glorious privilege
of being independent through his own unaided efforts. This time there is
no danger that he will ruin a publisher. The work proceeds. On your
library shelf, O friendly reader, please leave a vacant space for six
full-sized duodecimos!
Pompilard’s first great dinner, on being settled in his new home, was
given in honor of the Maloneys. In reply to the written invitation,
Maloney wrote, “The beggarly Irish tailor accepts for himself and
family.” On entering the house, he asked a private interview with
Pompilard, and thereupon bullied him so far, that the old man signed a
solemn pledge abjuring Wall Street, and all financial operations of a
speculative character thenceforth forever.
The dinner was graced by the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Ripper, both of
them now furious Abolitionists, and proud of the name. The lady was at
last emphatically of the opinion that “Slavery will be come up with.”
Clara had Esha and Hattie to wait on her, though rather in the capacity
of friends than of servants. Having got from Mrs. Ripper a careful
estimate of the amount paid by Ratcliff for the support and education of
his putative slave, Clara had it repaid with interest. The money came to
him most acceptably. His large investments in slaves had ruined him. His
“maid-servants and man-servants”[46] had flocked to the old flag and
found freedom. A piteous communication from him appeared on the occasion
in the Richmond Whig. We quote from it a single passage.
“What contributed most to my mortification was, that in my whole gang
of slaves, among whom there were any amount of Aarons, Abrahams,
Isaacs, and Jacobs, there was not one Abdiel,—not one remained loyal
to the Rebel.”
The philosophical editor, in his comments, endeavored to shield his
beloved slavery from inferential prejudice, and said:
“The escaped slave is ungrateful; therefore, slavery is wrong!
Children are often ungrateful; does it follow that the relation of
parent and child is wrong?”[47]
Could even Mr. Carlyle have put it more cogently?
The money received by Clara from Mrs. Ratcliff’s private estate was all
appropriated to the establishment of an institution in New Orleans for
the education of the children of freed slaves. To this fund Madame
Volney not only added from her own legacy, but she went back to New
Orleans to superintend the initiation of the humane and important
enterprise.
“Into each life some rain must fall.” The day after the dinner to the
Maloneys intelligence came of the death of Captain Ireton. He had been
hung by the fierce slaveocracy at Richmond as a spy. It was asserted
that he had joined the Rebel Engineer Corps, at Island Number Ten, to
obtain information for the United States. However this may have been, it
is certain _he was not captured in the capacity of a spy_; and every one
acquainted with the usages of civilized warfare will recognize the
atrocity of hanging a man on the ground that he had _formerly_ acted as
a spy. The Richmond papers palliated the murder by saying Ireton had
“_confessed_ himself to be a spy.” As if any judicial tribunal would
hang a man on his own confession! “Would you make me bear testimony
against myself?” said Joan of Arc to her judges.
Much to the disgust of the pro-slavery leaders, who had counted on a
display of that cowardice which they had taught the Southern people to
regard as inseparable from Yankee blood, Ireton met his death cheerily,
as a bridegroom would go forth to take the hand of his beloved.[48] It
reminded them unpleasantly of old John Brown.
“Whether on the gallows high
Or in the battle’s van,
The fittest place for man to die
Is where he dies for man.”
The news of Ireton’s death was mentioned by Captain Onslow while making
a morning call on Miss Charlton. Her mother had dressed herself to drive
out on some visits of charity. As she was passing through the hall to
her carriage, Lucy called her into the drawing-room and communicated the
report. The widow turned deadly pale, and left the room without
speaking. She gave up her drive for that day, and commissioned Lucy to
fulfil the beneficent errands she had planned. Captain Onslow begged so
hard to be permitted to accompany Lucy, that, after a brief consultation
between mother and daughter, consent was given.
Thus are Nature and Human Life ever offering their tragic contrasts!
Here the withered leaf; and there, under the decaying mould, the green
germ! Here Grief, finding its home in the stricken heart; and there
thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair!
Colonel Delancy Hyde speedily had an opportunity of showing the
sincerity of his conversion, political and moral. He went into the fight
at South Mountain, and was by the side of General Reno when that loyal
and noble officer (Virginia-born) fell mortally wounded. For gallant
conduct on that occasion Hyde was put on General Mansfield’s staff, and
saw him, too, fall, three days after Reno, in the great fight at
Antietam. On this occasion Hyde lost a leg, but had the satisfaction of
seeing his nephew, Delancy junior, come out unscathed, and with the
promise of promotion for gallantry in carrying the colors of the
regiment after three successive bearers had been shot dead.
Hyde was presented with a wooden leg, of which he was quite proud. But
the great event of his life was the establishment of his sister, the
Widow Rusk, with her children, in a comfortable cottage on the outskirts
of Pompilard’s grounds, where the family were well provided for by
Clara. Here on the piazza, looking out on the river, the Colonel played
with the children, watched the boats, and read the newspapers. Perhaps
one of the profoundest of his emotions was experienced the day he saw in
one of the pictorial papers a picture of Delancy junior, bearing a flag
riddled by bullets. But the Colonel’s heart felt a redoubled thrill when
he read the following paragraph:—
“This young and gallant color-bearer is, we learn, a descendant of an
illustrious Virginia family, his ancestor, Delancy Hyde, having come
over with the first settlers. Nobly has the youth adhered to the
traditions of the Washingtons and the Madisons. His uncle, the brave
Colonel Hyde, was one of the severely wounded in the late battle.”
The Colonel did not faint, but he came nearer to it than ever before in
his life.
Can the Ethiopian change his skin? It has generally been thought not.
But there was certainly an element of grace in Hyde which now promised
to bleach the whole moral complexion of the man; and that element,
though but as a grain of mustard-seed, was love for his sister and her
offspring.
Mr. Semmes was glad to receive, as the recompense for his services, the
exemption of certain property from confiscation. At their parting
interview Vance ingenuously told him he considered him a scoundrel.
Semmes didn’t see it in that light, and entered into a long argument to
prove that he had done no wrong. Vance listened patiently, and said in
reply, “Do you perceive an ill odor of dead rats in the wall?” Semmes
snuffed, and then answered, “Indeed I don’t perceive any bad smell.” “I
_do_,” said Vance; “good by, sir!” And that was the end of their
acquaintance.
But it is in the track of Vance and Clara that we promised to conduct
the reader. Clara had proposed a ramble over the grounds. Never had she
appeared so radiant in Vance’s eyes. It was not her dress, for that was
rather plain, though perfect in its adaptedness to the season and the
scene. It was not that jaunty little hat, hiding not too much of her
soft, thick hair. But the climate of her ancestral North seemed to have
added a new sparkle and gloss to her beauty. And then the pleasure of
seeing Vance showed itself so unreservedly in her face!
They strolled through the well-appointed garden, and Vance was glad to
see that Clara had a genuine love of flowers and fruits, and could name
all the varieties, distinguishing with quick perception the slightest
differences of form and hue. In the summer-house, overlooking the
majestic river, and surrounded, though not too much shaded, by birches,
oaks, and pines, indigenous to the soil, they found Miss Netty Pompilard
engaged in sketching. She ran away as they approached, presuming, like a
sensible young person, that she could be spared. Even the mocking-bird,
Clara’s old friend Dainty, who pecked at a peach in his cage, seemed to
understand that his noisy voluntaries must now be hushed.
The promenaders sat down on a rustic bench.
“Well, Clara,” said Vance, “I have heard to-day great and inspiring
news. It almost made me feel as if I could afford to stop short in my
work, and to be content, should I, like Moses, be suffered only to _see_
the promised land with my eyes, but not to ‘go over thither.’”
“To what do you allude?”
“To-morrow President Lincoln issues a proclamation of prospective
emancipation to the slaves of the Rebel States.”
“Good!” cried Clara, giving him her hand for a grasp of congratulation.
“But I foresee,” said Vance, “that there is much yet to be done before
it can be effective, and I’ve come to bid you a long, perhaps a last
farewell.”
Clara said not a word, but ran out of the summer-house below the bank
into a little thicket that hid her entirely from view. Here she caught
at the white trunk of a birch, and leaning her forehead against it, wept
passionately for some time. Vance sat wondering at her disappearance.
Ten minutes passed, and she did not return. He rose to seek her, when
suddenly he saw her climbing leisurely up the bank, a few wild-flowers
in her hand. There was no vestige of emotion in her face.
“You wondered at my quitting you so abruptly,” she said. “I thought of
some fringed gentians in bloom below there, and I ran to gather them for
you. Are they not of a lovely blue?”
“Thank you,” said Vance, not wholly deceived by her calm, assured
manner.
“So you really mean to leave us?” she said, smiling and looking him full
in the face. “I’m very sorry for it.”
“So am I, Clara, for it would be very delightful to settle down amid
scenes like these and lead a life of meditative leisure. But not yet can
I hope for my discharge. My country needs every able-bodied son. I must
do what I best can to serve her. But first let me give you a few words
of advice. Your Trustees tell me you have been spending money at such a
fearful rate, that they have been compelled to refuse your calls. To
this you object. Let me beg you to asquiesce with cheerfulness. They are
gentlemen, liberal and patriotic. They have consented to your giving
your aunt this splendid estate and the means of supporting it. They have
allowed you to bestow portentous sums in charity, and for the relief of
sick and wounded soldiers. I hear, too, that Miss Tremaine has sent to
you for aid.”
“Yes; her mother is dead, and her father has failed. They are quite
poor.”
“So you’ve sent her a couple of thousand dollars. The first pauper you
shall meet will have as much claim on you as she. Would I check that
divine propensity of your nature,—the desire to bestow? O never, never!
Far from it! Cherish it, my dear child. Believe in it. Find your
constant delight in it. But be reasonable. Consider your own future. A
little computation will show you that, at the present rate, it will not
take you ten years to get rid of all your money. You will soon have
suitors in plenty. Indeed, I hear that some very formidable ones are
already making reconnoissances, although they find to their despair that
the porter forbids them entrance unless they come on crutches; and I
hear you send word to your serenaders, to take their music to the banks
of the Potomac. But your time will soon come, Clara. You will be
married. (Please not pull that fringed gentian to pieces in that
barbarous way!) You will have your own tasteful, munificent, and
hospitable home. Reserve to yourself the power to make it all that, and
do not be wise too late.”
“And is there nothing I can do, Mr. Vance, to let you see I have some
little gratitude for all that you have done for me?”
“Ah! I shall quote Rochefoucault against you, if you say that. ‘Too
great eagerness to requite an obligation is a species of ingratitude.’
All that I’ve done is but a partial repayment of the debt I owed your
mother’s father; for I owed him my life. Besides, you pay me every time
you help the brave fellow whose wound or whose malady was got in risking
all for country and for justice.”
“We must think of each other often,” sighed Clara.
“That we cannot fail to do,” said Vance. “There are incidents in our
past that will compel a frequent interchange of remembrances; and to me
they will be very dear. Besides, from every soul of a good man or woman,
with whom I have ever been brought in communication (either by visible
presence or through letters or books), I unwind a subtile filament which
keeps us united, and never fails. I meet one whose society I would
court, but cannot,—we part,—one thinks of the other, ‘How indifferent he
or she seemed!’ or ‘Why did we not grow more intimate?’ And yet a
friendship that shall outlast the sun may have been unconsciously
formed.”
“You must write me” said Clara.
“I’m a poor correspondent,” replied Vance; “but I shall obey. And now my
watch tells me I must go. I start in a few hours for Washington.”
They strolled back to the house. Vance took leave of all the inmates,
not forgetting Esha. He went to Hyde’s cottage, and had an affectionate
parting with that worthy; and then drove to a curve in the road where
Clara stood waiting solitary to exchange the final farewell.
It was on an avenue through the primeval forest, having on either side a
strip of greensward edged by pine-trees, odorous and thick, which had
carpeted the ground here and there with their leafy needles of the last
years growth, now brown and dry.
The mild, post-equinoctial sunshine was flooding the middle of the road,
but Clara stood on the sward in the shade. Vance dismounted from his
carriage and drew near. All Clara’s beauty seemed to culminate for that
trial. A smile adorably tender lighted up her features. Vance felt that
he was treading on enchanted ground, and that the atmosphere swam with
the rose-hues of young romance. The gates of Paradise seemed opening,
while a Peri, with hand extended, offered to be his guide. Youth and
glad Desire rushed back into that inner chamber of his heart sacred to a
love ineffably precious.
Clara put out her hand; but why was it that this time it was her right
hand, when heretofore, ever since her rescue in New Orleans, she had
always given the left?
Rather high up on the wrist of the right was a bracelet; a bracelet of
that soft, fine hair familiar to Vance. He recognized it now, and the
tears threatened to overflow. Lifting the wrist to his lips he kissed
it, and then, with a “God keep you!” entered the carriage, and was
whirled away.
“It was the bracelet, not the wrist, he kissed,” sighed Clara.