Not long after the events I have just related, the mail brought me the
following letter from Preston:
MY VERY DEAR FRIEND:--Circumstances, which I cannot explain by letter,
render it _imperatively_ necessary that I should provide another home
for my daughter. Her education has been sadly neglected, and she should
be where she can have experienced tutors, and good social surroundings.
With her delicate organization, and sensitive and susceptible nature,
she needs _motherly_ care and affection, and I shrink from committing
her to the hands of strangers. I should feel at rest about her only with
_you_. You have been my steadfast friend through many years; you have
stood by me in, sore trials--may I not then ask you to do me now a
greater service than you have ever done, by receiving my little daughter
into your family? I know this is an unusual, almost presumptuous
request; but if you knew her as she is--gentle, loving, obedient--the
light and joy of all about her, I am sure you, and your excellent lady,
would love her, and be willing to make her the companion of your
children. She is my only earthly comfort, and it will rend my heart to
part with her, but--I _must_.
Write me at once. You are yourself a father--_do not refuse me_.
* * * * *
To this, on the next day, I sent the following reply:
MY DEAR FRIEND:--I would most cheerfully take your daughter into my
family, did my wife's health, which has been failing all the summer,
allow of her assuming any additional care.
I think, however, I can provide Selma with a home equally as good as my
own; one where good influences will be about her, and she will have the
best educational advantages. I refer to the family of Mr. David Gray, of
Cambridge, Massachusetts. He was my father's friend. The years I was a
boy with Russell, Rollins & Co., I was an inmate of his house, and my
adopted son, Frank, is now in his care. His daughter Alice is a most
suitable person to have charge of a young girl. She is like a sister to
me, and to oblige me, would no doubt take Selma.
Please advise me of your wishes; and believe, my dear friend, I will do
all in my power to serve you.
I was sitting down at supper, one evening, about a fortnight after
sending this letter, when a gentleman was announced as wishing to see
me. I rose and went into the parlor. It was Preston, and with him was
Selma, then a beautiful little girl of about eleven years.
Asking Preston to lay aside his outside coat, I was struck by his
altered appearance. It was four years since we had met, but looking at
him, I imagined it might be ten. His eyes were sunken, deep furrows were
about his mouth, and his brown hair was thickly streaked with gray.
'My dear friend,' I exclaimed, as I grasped his hand a second time, 'you
are not well!'
'I am as well as usual, Kirke. Time has not done this!'
Fatigued with the long journey, Selma had retired, and our own little
ones were in bed, when Kate joined us in the parlor.
'You _do_ look ill, Mr. Preston,' she said, seating herself beside him.
'You must stay a while with us, and rest.'
'I would be glad to stay here, madam--anywhere away from home.'
'The care of two plantations, such as yours, must be a burden!'
'It is not that, madam; Joe relieves me entirely from oversight of one
of them. My difficulty is at home--mine is not what yours is.'
Kate's sympathizing words soon drew him out (she has a way of winning
the confidence of people, and is the depositary of more family secrets
than any other woman in the State); and he told us what his home had
become since his union with the governess.
Within two months after the marriage her real character began to display
itself, and she soon developed into a genuine Xantippe. Getting control
of Mulock, who had been made overseer, she had the negroes dreadfully
whipped and overworked; she treated young master Joe so badly that the
lad rebelled, and in his father's absence ran away to his uncle at
Mobile; and locking Selma up in a dark room without food, or beating her
till her back was actually discolored, she made the child's home
intolerable to her.
After master Joe went away, no one dared complain; and shut up in his
library, brooding over his still fresh grief for the death of his wife,
Preston knew nothing of the real state of affairs till more than a year
had elapsed. Then one day he found Selma in tears. He questioned her,
and learned the whole. A scene followed, in which Mrs. Preston asserted
her rights as mistress of the plantation, and defied him. She had run
into all sorts of extravagance, the yearly bills which had come in a
short time previous were appallingly large, but to secure peace, Preston
consented to buy and furnish a winter residence at Newbern. To that she
had removed, but with the coming spring she would return to the
plantation, and in the mean time Selma must be provided with another
home.
'Feel no anxiety about her, sir,' said Kate, as he concluded; 'if Alice
Gray will not take her, we will.'
'I thank you, madam; I cannot thank you enough for saying that,' replied
Preston, his eyes filling with tears.
I wrote at once to David, and soon received a letter from Alice
consenting to take charge of the little girl. Thanksgiving, at which
time Kate made annual visits to her early home, was approaching, and it
was decided that Selma should accompany her to Boston.
This being arranged, Preston, at the end of a fortnight, took leave of
us, and returned to the South. The parting between the father and the
child gave evidence of what they were to each other. Preston wept like a
woman; but as Kate brushed back the brown curls from the broad forehead
of little Selly, she raised her eyes to my wife's face, and while her
thin nostrils dilated, and her sensitive chin slightly quivered, said;
'I must not cry for poor papa's sake--it is so _very_ hard for him to go
home alone; and he will miss his little girl _so_ much.'
'You are right, dear child,' said Kate, and, as if looking into the far
future of the woman, and feeling that such a nature must suffer as well
as enjoy keenly, she inwardly thanked God that with her delicate
organization He had given her the unselfish and brave heart which those
words expressed.
* * * * *
Four years had wrought great changes in David's quiet home. Alice had
become Mrs. Augustus Cragin, and a little Alice tottled about the floor;
but after supper, David still found his evening cigar on the oak stand,
his needle-work slippers--wrought by Alice's own hand--in their place
before the fender, and his big armchair rolled up close to the gas
burner in the little back parlor at Cambridge.
Frank was twenty, and had fulfilled all the promises of his boyhood. His
father, after the honeymoon of his repentance was over, showed no great
interest in him, but Cragin, who knew nothing of my arrangement with
Hallet, had given him all the advantages in his power.
Selma was only fifteen, but, like the flowers of her own South, she had
blossomed early, and was already a woman. Preston had visited her every
summer, but she never returned with him, having preferred passing her
vacations at my house.
In David's loving household nothing had occurred to disturb her peaceful
life. Beloved by her teachers and schoolmates, she everywhere received
the homage due to her beauty and her goodness; and in the gay world into
which her joyous nature often led her, she was the acknowledged and
_unenvied_ queen! Her father had spared no pains in her education; the
best tutors had trained her fine ear and sweet voice, and taught her to
give form and coloring to the pictures her glowing imagination created;
and, whether her fingers ran over the keys of a musical instrument, or
wielded the brush, there was a delicacy and yet _spirit_ in her touch
which were the wonder and admiration of all.
I was not surprised, when visiting Boston about this time, to have Frank
tell me that he loved her, and ask my consent to his regarding her as
his future wife.
* * * * *
Kate and I were to leave for home the following day, and, calling at the
office in the afternoon, I said to Frank:
'I have tickets for the opera, including Selma; of course you'd like to
have her go.'
'Yes, father; she has never been, and I have promised to take her this
winter. She'll be able now to appreciate it.'
The box I had selected was at a happy distance from the stage, and we
gave Selma a front seat, that she might see to the best advantage. She
was in high spirits; indeed, she was radiant in her beauty. She wore a
dark blue dress of silk, fitting closely to her neck, and its short
sleeves allowed the plump, fair arms to half disclose themselves from
beneath the scarlet mantle Which fell around her shoulders. Her hair
fell over her neck in the same simple fashion as in her childhood,
except that the thick curls, which had lost their golden tint, and were
darker and longer, were looped back from her broad brow, with a few
simple flowers. There was the same contour of face and feature, but
ennobled by thought and culture; the same sensitive mouth, only that the
lips were fuller and of a deeper color; and as she talked or listened,
the same rose tint deepened and faded beneath her rich, soft, dark skin,
as sunlight shifts and fades across the evening sky. Her eyes, in whose
dark depths the soul was reflected, met a stranger's calmly, but took a
soft look of loving trust when meeting Frank's. They were shaded by long
lashes, as black as the night; and when the lids fell suddenly, as they
often did, and her face became quiet, and almost sad, you felt that she
was communing with the angels.
The overture burst forth, and with glowing face, and eyes fixed upon the
stage, Selma seemed lost to all but the enrapturing sounds; even Frank's
whispered words were unheeded. As the opera--'Lucia di
Lammermoor'--proceeded, I saw that every eye was attracted to our box,
and, bending forward to catch Selma's expression, I called Kate's
attention to her. With her head thrown slightly back, a bright spot
burning on either cheek, her breath suspended, the large tears coursing
from her eyes, and motionless as a statue, she sat with her small hands
clasped on the front of the box, as if entranced, and all unconscious of
the hundred eyes that were fixed upon her. I thought of the pictures I
had seen in the old galleries of Europe, but I said, 'Surely, art cannot
equal nature!'
When it was over, she took Frank's arm; I turned to question her, but
Kate said:
'Let her alone; she cannot talk now.'
* * * * *
The transactions of Russell, Rollins & Co. extended the world over; but,
since the death of Mr. Rollins, which occurred prior to Frank's going
with them, they had cultivated particularly the Southern trade, and
their operations in cotton had grown to be enormous. They bought largely
of that staple on their own account, and for some extensive
manufacturing establishments in England. Their purchases were mainly
made in New Orleans, and, to attend to this business, Hallet had passed
the winters in that city for several years.
His wealth had grown rapidly, and at the date of which I am writing, he
ranked among the 'solid men' of Boston. Cragin was not nearly so
wealthy. Being on intimate terms with the latter, I remarked, as we were
enjoying a cigar together one evening at David's, on the occasion of
the visit to which I have referred in the last chapter:
'How is it, Cragin, that you pass for only a hundred thousand, when
Hallet is rated at a million?'
'Because, Ned, I'm not worth any more.'
'But how is that, when you have two fifths of the concern?'
'Well, Hallet went into cotton like the devil some eight years ago; and
I told him I wouldn't stand it; I like to feel the ground under me.
Since then he has speculated on his own account--he and old Roye go it
strong, and I guess they've made some pretty heavy lifts.'
'That's uncertain business.'
'Yes, devilish uncertain; but somehow they manage always to hold winning
cards. Hallet has told me his New Orleans operations have netted him
five hundred thousand.'
'And that, with what he got by his wife, has rolled him into a
millionaire before he's forty-five! He's a lucky fellow.'
'Lucky! I wouldn't stand in his boots. What goes up _may_ come down. He
has no peace. His wife's a hyena. She makes home too hot for him; and
somehow he's never easy. He walks about as if treading on torpedoes.
'If you dislike speculation, why don't you increase your legitimate
business?'
'Hallet's away so much, I can't do it. I'm glued to the old office. I
should have been in Europe half of the time the last three years, but I
haven't been able to get away.'
'Why not send Frank? He's old enough now.'
'I mean to, in the spring, and I'm d--d if he shan't be a partner soon,
and take some of this load off my shoulders. But do you know that Hallet
has a decided dislike to him?'
'No! On what account?' I exclaimed. I had met Hallet only twice during
four years, but on both occasions he had spoken favorably of his son.
Frank himself had never alluded in other than respectful terms to his
father.
'Well, I don't know, and it makes no difference. I'm captain at this end
of the towline, and I swear he shall go in.
'As you feel so kindly toward Frank, I'll give him a chance to
conciliate Hallet. I'll take him South this winter, and introduce him to
our correspondents. With his address he ought to do something with them.
Will you let him go?'
'Yes, and be right down glad to have him. When do you start?'
'About the middle of December.'
A fortnight afterward, with Selma and Frank, I again visited Preston's
plantation.