CARLOTTA and I are standing in the balcony of our chamber, gazing in
rapt admiration on the gorgeous beauty of a Cuban sunset. The home
we have come to is indeed a lovely one; it is situated about fifteen
miles from Havana. The house, built of white stone, is like some Gothic
castle, with its towers, and arches, and extensive proportions, yet has
all the airy lightness of Italian architecture, in tasteful decorations
and elegant finish. It stands on a slight elevation overlooking the
sea, and is surrounded with all the appointments refined taste could
suggest or wealth procure. White shelled walks, bordered with smoothly
trimmed evergreens, wind through gardens of exquisite flowers, or
beneath wire-trellised graperies, whose luscious clusters rival those
of Eschol. Beautiful drives lead around lawns of green velvet, where
fountains play with sparkling jets, and marble statues gleam amid the
shrubbery, or down through long fragrant groves of oranges and limes,
that drop their yellow fruit beneath the passing wheels.
Every chamber in the house is fitted up with elegant comfort, the
long suite of parlors furnished in varied magnificence, the halls
filled with works of art, and the library with rarest literature.
All the domestic details, usually so troublesome when we move to a
strange place, are arranged with perfect system and regularity, and
a large retinue of well trained servants, subservient in demeanor,
anticipative,
yet not officious in their attention, await our commands and faithfully
discharge their appointed duties.
All these arrangements were perfected before our arrival by our very
efficient agents, Messrs. Rinaldo, who have had charge of the estate
since Mr. Rurlestone’s death, and nothing was left for me to do but to
assume control of the establishment.
Herrara Lola, grown portly and plethoric since I last saw him, yet
still exceedingly handsome, is living near, and he and his lovely
Spanish wife are our frequent guests. Indeed they, and a few Southern
families who have fled to Havana, are the only society we receive, as
we desire yet a while quiet and retirement.
I have heard once from Ben Bemby since we reached here. All were well,
and in good spirits. His father, himself and Horace, had all gone to
work vigorously on their respective farms, preparing them for the
next year’s crop, though he apprehended great difficulty in securing
effective labor. His letter, though characteristic, showed a spirit
of earnest energy and hopefulness, and was burdened throughout with
messages of love for us all from true and honest hearts.
But, as I was saying, Carlotta and I were in the balcony, looking at
the sunset. Cloudless and alone the god of day was sinking to his rest.
A few fleecy racks towards the South were blushing with his good-night
kiss, and a purple bank with silver fringe lay beneath him, like the
pillow of his couch. Drowsily he sunk his head upon it, and drawing the
ocean, like a burnished coverlid, over his golden face, was asleep!
The spell of our silent admiration was broken by Miguel, my valet, who
approached with the mail from Havana. Running hurriedly through the
letters I came to one directed to Carlotta and myself, and dated from
New York the very day we sailed. Calling her to my side, I tore off the
envelope and read:
”MY ONLY FRIENDS—
When this reaches you I shall be in the grave, where the scorn and
contempt of the world cannot harm me. The awful abyss of eternity
is before me, and into its depths I blindly plunge—whither I care
not—any where, any where to leave earth, with its curses on the
fallen, and to crush out Memory’s page of past purity. There is but
one ray of comfort in the dark Hereafter—the thought that in the
realms of gloom to which I am going I will not meet the sad reproof of
my mother’s face.
Dying, I leave no reproaches for the dead, no warning for the living.
I fell through my own weakness, and my eternal doom will be just; but
oh! my poor heart breaks as I think of what I was and what I might
have been.
To you, who tried to save me, my life’s last pulse will be a throb of
gratitude. I dare not pray for you, but He who suffered Magdalen to
weep upon His feet will reward you.
Farewell, forever farewell!
LULIE.”
As I opened the sheet to read the last lines a little flower fell out
on the floor. Carlotta picked it up, and, bursting into tears, placed
it in my hand.
It was a little _snow-drop, with its petals powdered with soot_.
Carlotta has gone in with the letter to mother, and I sit alone in the
balcony, thinking of Lulie. And the red light dies out in the West, and
the stars shine down from the sky, and the stars shine back from the
sea, and I am still gazing far over the gray waters towards the land
that I fought for—a land where orphans’ tears meet widows’ wails, and
maidens wear the mournful pledge of battle-broken troth—a land where
want and woe are rife, and the burdened people bow beneath the yoke of
conquest; and yet, from all the wealth and luxury that surround me,
my Southern heart turns with all the yearning of a child back to my
Southern Home.
FINIS.