"You rode too far this afternoon, Alice, you seem to be very tired," said
Mr. Weston.
"No, dear uncle, I am not fatigued; the wind was cold, and it makes me feel
stupid."
"Why did not Walter come in?" asked Mr. Weston. "I saw him returning with
you by the old road."
"He said he had an engagement this evening," replied Alice, as she raised
her head from her uncle's shoulder.
"Poor Walter!" said Cousin Janet; "with the education and habits of a
gentleman, he is to be pitied that it is only as a favor he is received,
among those with whom he may justly consider himself on an equality."
"But is not Walter our equal?" asked Alice. Cousin Janet held her knitting
close to her eyes to look for a dropped stitch, while Mr. Weston replied
for her:
"My love, you know, probably, that Walter is not an equal by right of birth
to those whose parents held a fair and honorable position in society. His
father, a man of rare talents, of fascinating appearance, and winning
address, was the ruin of all connected with him. (Even his mother,
broken-hearted by his career of extravagance and dissipation, found rest in
the termination of a life that had known no rest.) His first wife, (not
Walter's mother,) a most interesting woman, was divorced from him by an
unjust decision of the law, for after her death circumstances transpired
that clearly proved her innocence. Walter's mother was not married, as far
as is known; though some believe she was, and that she concealed it in
consequence of the wishes and threats of Mr. Lee, who was ashamed to own
the daughter of a tradesman for his wife."
"But all this is not Walter's fault, uncle," said Alice.
"Assuredly not; but there is something due to our long established
opinions. Walter should go to a new country, where these things are not
known, and where his education and talents would advance him. Here they are
too fresh in the memory of many. Yet do I feel most kindly towards him,
though he rather repels the interest we take in him by his haughty coldness
of manner. The attachment between him and my son from their infancy draws
me towards him. Arthur writes, though, that his letters are very reserved
and not frequent. What can be the meaning of it?"
"There was always a want of candor and generosity in Walter's disposition,"
remarked Alice's mother.
"You never liked him, Anna," said Mr. Weston; "why was it?"
"Arthur and Walter contrast so strongly," answered Mrs. Weston. "Arthur was
always perfectly honest and straight-forward, even as a little child;
though quiet in his way of showing it, he is so affectionate in his
disposition. Walter is passionate and fickle, condescending to those he
loves, but treating with a proud indifference every one else. I wonder he
does not go abroad, he has the command of his fortune now, and here he can
never be happily situated; no woman of delicacy would ever think of
marrying him with that stain on his birth."
"How beautiful his mother was, Cousin Janet!" said Mr. Weston. "I have
never seen more grace and refinement. I often look at Walter, and recall
her, with her beautiful brown hair and blue eyes. How short her course was,
too! I think she died at eighteen."
"Do tell me about her, uncle," said Alice.
"Cousin Janet can, better than I, my darling. Have you never told Alice her
history, cousin?"
"No, it is almost too sad a tale for Alice's ear, and there is something
holy, in my mind, in the recollection of the sorrows of that young person.
I believe she was a wife, though an unacknowledged one. If the grave would
give up its secrets--but it will, it will--the time will come for justice
to all, even to poor Ellen Haywood.
"That young creature was worse than an orphan, for her father, thriving in
business at one time, became dissipated and reckless. Ellen's time was her
own; and after her mother's death her will was uncontrolled. Her education
was not good enough to give her a taste for self-improvement. She had a
fine mind, though, and the strictest sense of propriety and dignity. Her
remarkable beauty drew towards her the attention of the young men of her
own class, as well as those of good family; but she was always prudent.
Poor girl! knowing she was motherless and friendless, I tried to win her
regard; I asked her to come to the house, with some other young girls of
the neighborhood, to study the Bible under my poor teachings; but she
declined, and I afterwards went to see her, hoping to persuade her to come.
I found her pale and delicate, and much dispirited. Thanking me most
earnestly, she begged me to excuse her, saying she rarely went out, on
account of her father's habits, fearing something might occur during her
absence from home. I was surprised to find her so depressed, yet I do not
remember ever to have seen any thing like guilt, in all the interviews with
her, from that hour until her death.
"Ellen's father died; but not before many had spoken lightly of his
daughter. Mr. Lee was constantly at the house; and what but Ellen's beauty
could take him there! No one was without a prejudice against Mr. Lee, and I
have often wondered that Ellen could have overlooked what every one knew,
the treatment his wife had received. You will think," continued Cousin
Janet, "that it is because I am an old maid, and am full of notions, that I
cannot imagine how a woman can love a man who has been divorced from his
wife. I, who have never loved as the novelists say, have the most exalted
ideas of marriage. It is in Scripture, the type of Christ's love to the
church. Life is so full of cares; there is something holy in the thought of
one heart being privileged to rest its burden on another. But how can that
man be loved who has put away his wife from him, because he is tired of
her? for this is the meaning of the usual excuses--incompatibility of
temper, and the like. Yet Ellen did love him, with a love passing
description; she forgot his faults and her own position; she loved as I
would never again wish to see a friend of mine love any creature of the
earth.
"Time passed, and Ellen was despised. Mr. Lee left abruptly for Europe, and
I heard that this poor young woman was about to become a mother. I knew she
was alone in the world, and I knew my duty too. I went to her, and I thank
Him who inclined me to seek this wandering lamb of his fold, and to be (it
may be) the means of leading her back to His loving care and protection. I
often saw her during the last few weeks of her life, and she was usually
alone; Aunt Lucy, her mother's servant, and her own nurse when an infant,
being the only other occupant of her small cottage.
"Speaking of her, brings back, vividly as if it happened yesterday, the
scene with which her young life closed. Lucy sent for me, as I had charged
her, but the messenger delayed, and in consequence, Ellen had been some
hours sick when I arrived. Oh! how lovely her face appears to my memory, as
I recall her. She was in no pain at the moment I entered; her head was
supported by pillows, and her brown hair fell over them and over her neck.
Her eyes were bright as an angel's, her cheeks flushed to a crimson color,
and her white, beautiful hand grasped a cane which Dr. Lawton had just
placed there, hoping to relieve some of her symptoms by bleeding. Lucy
stood by, full of anxiety and affection, for this faithful servant loved
her as she loved her own life. My heart reproached me for my unintentional
neglect, but I was in a moment by her side, supporting her head upon my
breast.
"It is like a dream, that long night of agony. The patience of Ellen, the
kindness of her physician, and the devotion of her old nurse--I thought
that only a wife could have endured as she did.
"Before this, Ellen had told me her wishes as regards her child, persuaded
that, if it should live, she should not survive its birth to take care of
it. She entreated me to befriend it in the helpless time of infancy, and
then to appeal to its father in its behalf. I promised her to do so, always
chiding her for not hoping and trusting. 'Ellen,' I would say, 'life is a
blessing as long as God gives it, and it is our duty to consider it so.'
"'Yes, Miss Janet, but if God give me a better life, shall I not esteem it
a greater blessing? I have not deserved shame and reproach, and I cannot
live under it. Right glad and happy am I, that a few sods of earth will
soon cover all.'
"Such remarks as these," continued Cousin Janet, "convinced me that there
was grief, but not guilt, on Ellen's breast, and for her own sake, I hoped
that she would so explain to me her past history, that I should have it in
my power to clear her reputation. But she never did. Truly, 'she died and
made no sign,' and it is reserved to a future day to do her justice.
"I said she died. That last night wore on, and no word of impatience or
complaint escaped her lips. The agony of death found her quiet and
composed. Night advanced, and the gray morning twilight fell on those
features, no longer flushed and excited. Severe faintings had come on, and
the purple line under the blue eyes heralded the approach of death. Her
luxuriant hair lay in damp masses about her; her white arms were cold, and
the moisture of death was gathering there too. 'Oh! Miss Ellen,' cried old
Lucy, 'you will be better soon--bear up a little longer.'
"'Ellen dear,' I said, 'try and keep up.' But who can give life and
strength save One?--and He was calling to her everlasting rest the poor
young sufferer.
"'Miss Ellen,' again cried Lucy, 'you have a son; speak to me, my darling;'
but, like Rachel of old, she could not be thus revived, 'her soul was in
departing.'
"Lucy bore away the child from the chamber of death, and I closed her white
eyelids, and laid her hands upon her breast. Beautiful was she in death:
she had done with pain and tears forever.
"I never can forget," continued Cousin Janet, after a pause of a few
moments, "Lucy's grief. She wept unceasingly by Ellen's side, and it was
impossible to arouse her to a care for her own health, or to an interest in
what was passing around. On the day that Ellen was to be buried, I went to
the room where she lay prepared for her last long sleep. Death had laid a
light touch on her fair face. The sweet white brow round which her hair
waved as it had in life--the slightly parted lips--the expression of
repose, not only in the countenance, but in the attitude in which her old
nurse had laid her, seemed to indicate an awakening to the duties of life.
But there was the coffin and the shroud, and there sat Lucy, her eyes heavy
with weeping, and her frame feeble from long fasting, and indulgence of
bitter, hopeless grief.
"It was in the winter, and a severe snow-storm, an unusual occurrence with
us, had swept the country for several days; but on this morning the wind
and clouds had gone together, and the sun was lighting up the hills and
river, and the crystals of snow were glistening on the evergreens that
stood in front of the cottage door. One ray intruded through the shutter
into the darkened room, and rested on a ring, which I had never observed
before, on Ellen's left hand. It was on the third finger, and its
appearance there was so unexpected to me, that for a moment my strength
forsook me, and I leaned against the table on which the coffin rested, for
support.
"'Lucy,' I said, 'when was that placed there?'
"'I put it there, ma'am.'
"'But what induced you?'
"'She told me to do so, ma'am. A few days before she was taken sick, she
called me and took from her bureau-drawer, that ring. The ring was in a
small box. She was very pale when she spoke--she looked more like death
than she does now, ma'am. I know'd she wasn't able to stand, and I said,
'Sit down, honey, and then tell me what you want me to do.'
"'Mammy,' said she, 'you've had a world of trouble with me, and you've had
trouble of your own all your life; but I am not going to give you much
more--I shall soon be where trouble cannot come.'
"'Don't talk that way, child,' said I, 'you will get through with this, and
then you will have something to love and to care for, that will make you
happy again.'
"'Never in this world,' said she; 'but mammy, I have one favor more to ask
of you--and you must promise me to do it.'
"'What is it, Miss Ellen?' said I, 'you know I would die for you if 'twould
do you any good.'
"'It is this,' she said, speaking very slowly, and in a low tone, 'when I
am dead, mammy, when you are all by yourself, for I am sure you will stay
by me to the last, I want you to put this ring on the third finger of my
left hand--will you remember?--on the third finger of my left hand.' She
said it over twice, ma'am, and she was whiter than that rose that lays on
her poor breast.'
"'Miss Ellen,' says I, 'as sure as there's a God in heaven you are Mr.
Lee's wife, and why don't you say so, and stand up for yourself? Don't you
see how people sneer at you when they see you?'
"'Yes, but don't say any more. It will soon be over. I made a promise, and
I will keep it; God will do me justice when he sees fit.'
"'But, Miss Ellen,' says I, 'for the sake of the child'--
"'Hush! mammy, that is the worst of all; but I will trust in Him. It's a
dreadful sin to love as I have, but God has punished me. Do you remember,
dear mammy, when I was a child, how tired I would get, chasing butterflies
while the day lasted, and when night came, how I used to spring, and try to
catch the lightning-bugs that were flying around me--and you used to beg me
to come in and rest or go to bed, but I would not until I could no longer
stand; then I laid myself on your breast and forgot all my weariness? So it
is with me now; I have had my own way, and I have suffered, and have no
more strength to spend; I will lie down in the grave, and sleep where no
one will reproach me. Promise me you will do what I ask you, and I will die
contented.'
"'I promised her, ma'am, and I have done it.'
"'It is very strange, Lucy,' said I, 'there seems to have been a mysterious
reason why she would not clear herself; but it is of no use to try and
unravel the mystery. She has no friends left to care about it; we can only
do as she said, leave all to God.'
"'Ah ma'am,' said Lucy, 'what shall I do now she is gone? I have got no
friend left; if I could only die too--Lord have mercy upon me.'
"'You have still a friend, Lucy,' I said. 'One that well deserves the name
of friend. You must seek Him out, and make a friend of Him. Jesus Christ is
the friend of the poor and desolate. Have you no children, Lucy?'
"'God only knows, ma'am.'
"'What do you mean?' I said. 'Are they all dead?'
"'They are gone, ma'am--all sold. I ain't seen one of them for twenty
years. Days have come and gone, and nights have come and gone, but day and
night is all the same to me. You did not hear, may be, for grand folks
don't often hear of the troubles of the poor slave--that one day I had
seven children with me, and the next they were all sold; taken off, and I
did not even see them, to bid them good-by. My master sent me, with my
mistress to the country, where her father lived, (for she was sickly, and
he said it would do her good,) and when we came back there was no child to
meet me. I have cried, ma'am, enough for Miss Ellen, but I never shed a
tear for my own.'
"'But what induced him, Lucy, to do such a wicked thing?'
"'Money, ma'am, and drinking, and the devil. He did not leave me one. My
five boys, and my two girls, all went at once. My oldest daughter, ma'am, I
was proud of her, for she was a handsome girl, and light-colored too--she
went, and the little one, ma'am. My heart died in me. I hated him. I used
to dream I had killed him, and I would laugh out in my sleep, but I
couldn't murder him on her account. My mistress, she cried day and night,
and called him cruel, and she would say, 'Lucy, I'd have died before I
would have done it.' I couldn't murder him, ma'am, 'twas my mistress held
me back.'
"'No, Lucy,' said I, ''twas not your mistress, it was the Lord; and thank
Him that you are not a murderer. Did you ever think of the consequences of
such an act?'
"'Lor, ma'am, do you think I cared for that? I wasn't afraid of hanging.'
"'I did not mean that, Lucy. I meant, did you not fear His power, who could
not only kill your body, but destroy your soul in hell?'
"'I didn't think of any thing, for a long time. My mistress got worse after
that, and I nursed her until she died; poor Miss Ellen was a baby, and I
had her too. When master died I thought it was no use for me to wish him
ill, for the hand of the Lord was heavy on him, for true. 'Lucy,' he said,
'you are a kind nurse to me, though I sold your children, but I've had no
rest since.' I couldn't make him feel worse, ma'am, for he was going to his
account with all his sins upon him.'
"'This is the first time Lucy,' I said, 'that I have ever known children to
be sold away from their mother, and I look upon the crime with as great a
horror as you do.'
"'Its the only time I ever knowed it, ma'am, and everybody pitied me, and
many a kind thing was said to me, and many a hard word was said of him;
true enough, but better be forgotten, as he is in his grave.'
"Some persons now entered, and Lucy became absorbed in her present grief;
her old frame shook as with a tempest, when the fair face was hid from her
sight. There were few mourners; Cousin Weston and I followed her to the
grave. I believe Ellen was as pure as the white lilies Lucy planted at her
head."
"Did Lucy ever hear of her children?" asked Alice.
"No, my darling, she died soon after Ellen. She was quite an old woman, and
had never been strong."
"Uncle," said Alice, "I did not think any one could be so inhuman as to
separate mother and children."
"It is the worst feature in slavery," replied Mr. Weston, "and the State
should provide laws to prevent it; but such a circumstance is very
uncommon. Haywood, Ellen's father, was a notoriously bad man, and after
this wicked act was held in utter abhorrence in the neighborhood. It is the
interest of a master to make his slaves happy, even were he not actuated by
better motives. Slavery is an institution of our country; and while we are
privileged to maintain our rights, we should make them comfortable here,
and fit them for happiness hereafter."
"Did you bring Lucy home with you, Cousin Janet?" asked Alice.
"Yes, my love, and little Walter too. He was a dear baby--now he is a man
of fortune, (for Mr. Lee left him his entire property,) and is under no
one's control. He will always be very dear to me. But here comes Mark with
the Prayer Book."
"Lay it here, Mark," said Mr. Weston, "and ring the bell for the servants.
I like all who can to come and unite with me in thanking God for His many
mercies. Strange, I have opened the Holy Book where David says, (and we
will join with him,) 'Praise the Lord, oh! my soul, and all that is within
me, praise his holy name.'"