A FEW miles out of Richmond is a pleasant place, with here and there a
beautiful cottage surrounded by trees so as scarcely to be seen. Among
these was one far retired from the public roads, and almost hidden
among the trees. This was the spot that Henry Linwood had selected for
Isabella, the eldest daughter of Agnes. The young man hired the house,
furnished it, and placed his mistress there, and for many months no one
in his father's family knew where he spent his leisure hours.
When Henry was not with her, Isabella employed herself in looking after
her little garden and the flowers that grew in front of her cottage. The
passion-flower, peony, dahlia, laburnum, and other plants, so abundant
in warm climates, under the tasteful hand of Isabella, lavished their
beauty upon this retired spot, and miniature paradise.
Although Isabella had been assured by Henry that she should be free and
that he would always consider her as his wife, she nevertheless felt
that she ought to be married and acknowledged by him. But this was an
impossibility under the State laws, even had the young man been disposed
to do what was right in the matter. Related as he was, however, to one
of the first families in Virginia, he would not have dared to marry a
woman of so low an origin, even had the laws been favorable.
Here, in this secluded grove, unvisited by any other except her
lover, Isabella lived for years. She had become the mother of a lovely
daughter, which its father named Clotelle. The complexion of the child
was still fairer than that of its mother. Indeed, she was not darker
than other white children, and as she grew older she more and more
resembled her father.
As time passed away, Henry became negligent of Isabella and his child,
so much so, that days and even weeks passed without their seeing him,
or knowing where he was. Becoming more acquainted with the world, and
moving continually in the society of young women of his own station,
the young man felt that Isabella was a burden to him, and having as
some would say, “outgrown his love,” he longed to free himself of the
responsibility; yet every time he saw the child, he felt that he owed it
his fatherly care.
Henry had now entered into political life, and been elected to a seat
in the legislature of his native State; and in his intercourse with his
friends had become acquainted with Gertrude Miller, the daughter of a
wealthy gentleman living near Richmond. Both Henry and Gertrude were
very good-looking, and a mutual attachment sprang up between them.
Instead of finding fault with the unfrequent visits of Henry, Isabella
always met him with a smile, and tried to make both him and herself
believe that business was the cause of his negligence. When he was with
her, she devoted every moment of her time to him, and never failed to
speak of the growth and increasing intelligence of Clotelle.
The child had grown so large as to be able to follow its father on his
departure out to the road. But the impression made on Henry's feelings
by the devoted woman and her child was momentary. His heart had grown
hard, and his acts were guided by no fixed principle. Henry and Gertrude
had been married nearly two years before Isabella knew anything of the
event, and it was merely by accident that she became acquainted with the
facts.
One beautiful afternoon, when Isabella and Clotelle were picking wild
strawberries some two miles from their home, and near the road-side,
they observed a one-horse chaise driving past. The mother turned her
face from the carriage not wishing to be seen by strangers, little
dreaming that the chaise contained Henry and his wife. The child,
however, watched the chaise, and startled her mother by screaming out
at the top of her voice, “Papa! papa!” and clapped her little hands for
joy. The mother turned in haste to look at the strangers, and her eyes
encountered those of Henry's pale and dejected countenance. Gertrude's
eyes were on the child. The swiftness with which Henry drove by could
not hide from his wife the striking resemblance of the child to himself.
The young wife had heard the child exclaim “Papa! papa!” and she
immediately saw by the quivering of his lips and the agitation depicted
in his countenance, that all was not right.
“Who is that woman? and why did that child call you papa?” she inquired,
with a trembling voice.
Henry was silent; he knew not what to say, and without another word
passing between them, they drove home.
On reaching her room, Gertrude buried her face in her handkerchief
and wept. She loved Henry, and when she had heard from the lips of her
companions how their husbands had proved false, she felt that he was an
exception, and fervently thanked God that she had been so blessed.
When Gertrude retired to her bed that night, the sad scene of the day
followed her. The beauty of Isabella, with her flowing curls, and the
look of the child, so much resembling the man whom she so dearly loved,
could not be forgotten; and little Clotelle's exclamation of “Papa!
papa!” rang in her ears during the whole night.
The return of Henry at twelve o'clock did not increase her happiness.
Feeling his guilt, he had absented himself from the house since his
return from the ride.