A THRILLING REVELATION.
Charles Belmont was twenty-six years of age at the time of our writing,
but owing to the indolence of his disposition and the selfishness which
had always governed him, he had not as yet stepped into the position as
"master" of the plantation to which he supposed himself heir; nor had he
troubled himself regarding his prosperity. It was enough for him to know
that a hundred pairs of hands were laboring for his comfort and fully
capable of supplying every desired luxury. "Mother has never failed me
yet," he would say, "and when she does it will be time enough for me to
dabble in business."
Thus did the years roll by while his manliness became more and more
engulfed in the lethargy of indolence until his whole being was
enervated and possessed not the power to sever the manacles that were
destroying the pure and noble within, even had he the disposition to do
so. How many efficient natures have thus been destroyed! The soul of man
is progressive; it is ambitious to go onward and upward; fetter these
propensities, press them down, and the whole being becomes groveling,
its aspirations dwarfed or twisted in the process. The mind is conscious
of an unrest, and with its unsatisfied longings, turns away from the
ennobling and fills itself with debasing habits that will certainly
prostitute all loftier aspirations. Charles Belmont had not, however,
sunk so low as all this. But with his most frivolous wants supplied, and
the prospect of a large estate before him, why should he be perplexed
about anything? He had gone through college, as thousands of others had
done before him, had spent two years in Europe seeing what in his
opinion was worth looking at, and now what was left for him to do but to
look out for an heiress or some one worthy to share his honors, or wait
while he smoked his meerschaum or sipped his wine after the physical
part of his nature had been satisfied by the bounties which menial hands
had provided?
The next day after the events of our last chapter, the young master of
Rosedale learned from his mother that for the first time since his
remembrance the slaves were to be disappointed in their Christmas gifts,
as the lady declared she "would not trouble herself about them."
This piece of information aroused the better feelings of the son, who
immediately set about providing himself with the means to carry out in
its fullness the long established custom that would make more than three
score hearts happy. It was a frail spirit, however, that aroused for the
first time the slumbering attributes of his better nature.
"If such is your determination, Mother," was the quick reply, "then I
shall for once perform your duties for you." And, true to his resolve,
Christmas morning found him standing amid well filled baskets at the end
of the long corridor leading to the kitchen, looking upon the happy
faces of the merry group as he called their names, and with a cheery
word or jest presented their gifts.
"Where is Old Auntie?" he inquired at last, as the sable faces one by
one turned away, and he was being left alone. "And here is a drum for
Shady, but he must promise not to make too much noise with it before I
shall hand it over to him. Here, Shady, you rascal, where are you?" he
continued, holding up the exhilarating toy. Poor Old Auntie came out
from the kitchen and walked slowly towards him.
"O Massa, Shady am dead--gone--and poor old Vina's heart is done broke.
I don' want nothin', Massa, on'y dat what ye got fer him. Let auntie
have it--'twon't make no noise." She reached out her hand for the
coveted prize, and again Charles Belmont felt the promptings of the
inward nobility that makes the man. Those plaintive words that came
sobbing up from the wounded, bleeding heart, all dripping with tears,
touched a chord of sympathy in his own, hitherto unknown to its
possessor.
"How did this happen?" he asked quickly, "and why was not my mother
informed of an event so important? Something is wrong. How did little
Shady die?"
"Don' know, Massa. He's done dead. It's night all de time now; dere
ain't no more sunshine for poor Old Auntie. Will ye gib me dat, Massa? I
_couldn't_ hear de chil'ens makin' a noise on it--'twould be like dey
was poundin' dis heart, all broke, Massa Charles. Couldn't bear it--no
how."
"You shall have it, Auntie," he said, with much feeling, as he placed
the toy drum in the outstretched hands. "I do not wonder it is dark,
and if Massa Charles can scatter a few rays of light across your
sorrow, be sure he will do it."
"O thank ye; thank ye, Massa Charles. The Lord will bless ye, Vina knows
he will," and the poor old slave returned again to her night of dreary
loneliness.
It was a little transient ray that had been sent athwart her darkness,
and no one understood its fleetingness better than did she.
The next day Charles Belmont went again to the scenes of pleasure he had
so unceremoniously left, but he could not forget the bitter potion the
cup of others contained. For a long time "Poor Old Auntie's" wail of
bereavement would dart into his pleasures and leave a touch of sadness
upon their brightness.
On reaching Savannah he found that his mother had gone with the St.
Clair's to spend a week on a plantation about thirty miles distant, and
accepting the invitation left for him, he prepared to follow. It was a
lovely morning when the party set out on their short journey. They had
determined upon a carriage-ride for the whole distance, while the others
went by rail as far as they could, and were waiting for the carriage to
overtake them. George St. Clair, his sister Ellen and Miss Pierson
composed the little party, as they wheeled over the hard road as fast as
the spirited horses could take them, while the cool, fresh breeze
invigorated their young spirits.
"This air may be a little too bracing; shall I not have the curtains
unrolled?" asked George St. Clair.
"O no, indeed!" replied Miss Pierson who was addressed; "this reminds me
of a spring day in the north when there is snow yet upon the mountains
while the valleys are green."
"Perfectly natural that it should, for this wind comes directly from
your snow-capped hills"; was the answer, while the young man experienced
a very perceptible shiver. "I wish it were not quite so cold!"
"You would soon learn to like it as I do! Do you perceive it has given
me new life already? But I have discovered my selfishness! Please put
down the curtains for you are looking quite miserable," she concluded,
as she noticed on the face opposite an expression not usual to it. It
was his thoughts, not the cool breeze however that had chilled him. The
raillery of his sister recalled him, and he for a time put away the
absorbing subject. "Look Ellen! Really that pile of brush and mud yonder
is inhabited! Just see what miserable creatures are coming out of it.
One--two--three! I wonder if that can be the mother now following. She
looks half-starved and utterly dejected! Do look at them, Ellen!"
"You must not expend all your sympathy on that one family," remarked
Ellen carelessly; "for you will see them all along the road. These
belong to the 'poor white trash,' as the coachman would tell you with a
curl of his ebony lip. They are a small portion of that miserable class
who are so thoroughly steeped in degradation that there is no hope of
improving them."
Anna made no reply, but sat a long time silently gazing out of the
carriage window. Ellen too was silent, while their companion watched the
speaking face of the humble governess as its color came and went like
the sunshine and shadows through which they were passing. At last she
awoke as from a dream, and laying her gloved hand upon that of George
St. Clair exclaimed: "You are good and noble! Tell me, is there no
remedy for all this? I have heard so much of these while in my northern
home that my heart truly aches for them! To be so utterly outcast as the
family appears to be that we have just passed, and without the ambition
or power to rise out of it, is truly pitiful! What sad blots on the
grand picture of American civilization! Is there _no_ remedy?"
"No remedy!" was the low reply. They seemed to be the echo only of her
own words and brought with them no consolation. "Pardon me," he said a
moment after; "we shall get dreadfully entangled in a web of our own
weaving if we continue on this train of thought. Let us weave a few
brighter garlands for memory's sake in the remaining days I am to be
with you. We will talk of peace lest war should send its mutterings
among us; let us anticipate love, not hate! Miss Pierson, I deputize you
to gather up the stray sunbeams for me that memory may have a regal
crown to wear when I am far away. They elude my grasp and always did!"
he continued, bitterly. "But you seem to be more fortunate."
"And I am to be left out, am I, my brother? You do not know how expert I
am in chasing butterflies and riding on sunbeams! You may better engage
me!"
"I would like to have you both interested in this benevolent work," he
replied. "Still you are aware, Ellen, that I have very little regard for
butterflies, and beg that you will not put yourself to any extra
trouble to procure one for me"; and they rode on in silence for some
minutes. "Ten miles as sure as you live and we have not thought of our
lunch," he cried, a little later, as they wheeled by the corners of a
cross road. "We must examine the hamper for good old Katie's sake, if
not for our own." Ample justice was done to Aunt Katie's skill amid
jests and laughter while the gloomy clouds that had flecked each heart
were forgotten.
The station was reached at last and the four ladies were soon snugly
seated in the family coach, while the gentlemen followed in a hired
vehicle. It was almost night when the travelers found themselves at
their journey's end.
The residence of the "Washburn's" was a large ancient house, for it had
been the home of the father who had bequeathed it to the son many years
before with an abundance of hospitality and good cheer, as our visitors
were soon made to understand. The ladies were hurried off to their warm,
comfortable rooms to prepare for dinner, which had been waiting for "two
whole hours" the hostess had said, and now she bustled about the
dining-room to see that everything was in perfect order and the
finishing touches had been completed. All were gathered in the parlors
at last, merry and refreshed, and as Mrs. St. Clair protested they were
dreadfully hungry after their long cold ride.
"What a brilliant party!" exclaimed Mrs. Washburn, entering at the
moment to announce dinner; "and yet, my dear Mrs. St. Clair, I have not
told you that my brother's wife, Mrs. Gaylord, is here from Virginia!
You remember you met her two years ago."
"That is good news, certainly. I did not know that she had returned from
the north, where she went after fresh air I believe."
"She has an adopted daughter, a beautiful girl who has brightened her up
wonderfully. I never saw an _own_ daughter more idolized."
Mrs. Gaylord my readers have met before; will they also recognize the
adopted daughter? She is almost a young lady now, having been with her
new friends nearly two years, and, during the time, received every
opportunity for improvement, not one of which had been lost. She is
taller than when we last met her, her manners winning and graceful,
while her eyes had not forgotten their mysterious wonderings or her
heart its ambitious longings. At this home in the far south where she
had been nearly a week there was much upon which to feed her
sensibilities and awaken her imaginings.
"_I_ go in for making money off from my plantation," remarked the host
in reply to a suggestion from one of the party as they seated themselves
at the table when all were at last gathered. "I long ago learned who is
king over this broad land, and like well to do my share in keeping the
crown on his head." A hearty laugh followed when he continued: "And if
this war, which is so much talked of just now, should really become a
fact, I reckon some others will feel his power."
"You must be chary of your words, sir, for we have a northerner in our
party," interposed Mrs. Belmont, her keen eyes fixed on the face of Anna
Pierson, which crimsoned beneath her gaze.
"Miss Pierson's principles, whatever they are, must be shielded from
irony or ridicule while in our party," said George St. Clair, with some
warmth, although in a low tone of voice, intended for Mrs. Belmont's
ears only.
The lady was awed and silenced. She would not for the world offend the
young man, for in him too many of her fondest hopes were still centered.
She had not for a moment given up the idea that Lillian would, after a
little sensible consideration, accede to her wishes and recall her
rejected lover, whom she was sure only waited permission to return.
The conversation soon became sprightly and animated, but the ladies
remained silent, while the face of one, at least, expressed more than
words could utter.
A movement to leave the table by George St. Clair put an end to it all,
and it was not resumed while the little party remained together.
Upon entering the parlor Mrs. Belmont found herself _tete a tete_ with
the young lady from Virginia. The company had gathered themselves into
little groups or pairs, and each seemed intent upon some individual
topic separate from the others, and nothing was left for the stately
lady to do but to commence conversation with her companion or remain
moodily silent, which she felt greatly inclined to do. However, her
position required action, and she inquired:
"How long have you been in Virginia? I understand that you are an
adopted daughter of Mrs. Gaylord."
"That is all. I have been with her not yet two years."
The answer was concise and gentle. Still the deep, thoughtful eyes that
had remained fixed with their wondering look on the face of the
questioner as she spoke, disturbed the lady, and she moved uneasily.
Somehow it penetrated more deeply under the covering of her soul than
was comfortable, but she continued:
"Where was your previous home, my child?"
"In Massachusetts."
"Ah, a Northerner, then?"
"I do not know," replied the interrogated with a smile.
"Not know? You are an orphan I suppose?"
"I do not know."
At almost any other time Lily would have been indignant at such close
questionings, but there was something about the tall stately lady in
black that interested her and during the few moments they had sat there
together she had read much in the dark face before her. Therefore, when
she was asked further: "Have you no remembrance of a mother or of early
years?" she determined to prolong the conversation, and watch closely
for a peep beneath the mask she felt sure was there.
"No, I do not remember my mother, and very little about my childhood.
There are, however, a few bright memories I have treasured on account of
their distinctness, and which will never leave me. The rest of my life,
before I was six years of age, is but a dream."
The eyes of Mrs. Belmont were fixed with their burning gaze upon the
face of the speaker, and although her heart beat more quickly and the
color deepened on her cheek, yet she did not quail or remove her own
calm look from them.
"A little deeper," she thought, "and curiosity will be satisfied." Ah!
how little you know those hidden depths! The bloom would die on that
full round cheek, and the light of the joyous eyes would be quenched
could their gaze penetrate that external covering of affability.
Therefore be content.
"What are those memories, child? Tell me all."
Lily hesitated for a moment. The command embodied in the request
disturbed her not a little, but she silenced her heart and continued:
"I remember being in a small cottage by the great ocean somewhere; I do
not know where, and of being unhappy, yet there were bright spots here
and there, standing out with such brilliancy that the darkness seems
hidden by them. I loved the ocean, and as I learned the fact that at
some time I had been called 'Lily Pearl,' this awoke in me most
inconceivable emotions; for this reason, no doubt, connected with a
little dream that I had lived down among the pearls, and that a
beautiful lady had picked me up from the waves--that dream made me love
the music of its waters and long to become a part of the mighty whole.
But you are ill!"
She was about to spring from her seat when an iron grasp was laid upon
her shoulder and a husky voice demanded her to "sit down!" Still they
could not remain longer unnoticed, and were soon surrounded.
"The ride was too much for you," suggested the hostess.
"It is sitting in such a warm room after being out in the cold,"
suggested another, all of which met with no contradiction, and excusing
herself, Mrs. Belmont retired to her private room. There we will leave
her alone with her wretchedness and remorse. Dreary companions are they
both through the long hours of one wearisome night; but when the morning
draws near, and we find that no kind hand for us to clasp is reached
down through the dreary shades, the gray dawn shrinks back and the dark
pall of despair drops its thick folds around us, shutting out the
glorious day beams from our vision, while the night of the soul still
goes on! Wearisome night! full of spectral forms which glide in and out
through the darkness, bringing from the past unwished for memories which
tell us ever of what we _are_ and what we might have been.
[Illustration]