THE PLANTER’S DAUGHTER.
She has halls and she has vassals, and the resonant steam eagles
Follow fast on the directing of her floating dove-like hand,
With a thunderous vapour trailing underneath the starry vigils,
So to mark upon the blasted heavens the measure of her lands.
_Mrs. Browning._
The summer sun had just sunk below the horizon, leaving all the heavens
suffused with a pale golden and roseate light, that falls softly on the
semi-transparent waters of the Pearl, flowing serenely on between its
banks of undulating hills and dales, and green and purple lights and
glooms. No jarring sight or sound breaks the voluptuous stillness of the
scene and hour. The golden light has faded from the windows and
balconies of the villa, and sunk with the sunken sun. An evening breeze
is rising from the distant pine woods, that will soon tempt the inmates
forth to enjoy its exhilarating and salubrious freshness and fragrance.
But as yet all is quiet about the mansion.
In the innermost sanctuary of that house reposes Miss Sutherland. It is
the most elegant of a sumptuous suit of apartments, upon which Mr.
Sutherland had spared no amount of care or expense—having summoned from
New Orleans a French _artiste_, of distinguished genius in his
profession, to superintend their interior architecture, furnishing and
adornment.
The suit consists of a boudoir, two drawing-rooms, a hall or picture
gallery, a music room, a double parlour, a library, and dining and
breakfast rooms; and, by the machinery of grooved doors, all these
splendid apartments may be thrown into one magnificent saloon.
But the most finished and perfect of the suite is the luxurious boudoir
of India. It is a very bower of beauty and love, a _chef d’œuvre_ of
artistic genius, a casket worthy to enshrine the Pearl of Pearl River.
There she reposes in the recess of the bay window, “silk-curtained from
the sun.” This bay window is the only one in the apartment; it is both
deep and lofty, and is a small room in itself. It is curtained off from
the main apartment by drapery of purple damask satin, lined with
gold-coloured silk, and festooned by gold cords and tassels. The
interior of the recess is draped with thin gold-coloured silk alone; and
the evening light, glowing through it, throws a warm, rich, lustrous
atmosphere around the form of Oriental beauty, reposing on the silken
couch in the recess.
It is a rare type of beauty, not easy to realise by your imagination,
blending the highest charms of the spiritual, the intellectual, and the
sensual, in seeming perfect harmony; it is a costly type of beauty,
possessed often only at a fearful discount of happiness; it is a
dangerous organisation, full of fatality to its possessor and all
connected with her; for that lovely and voluptuous repose resembles the
undisturbed serenity of the young leopardess, or the verdant and flowery
surface of the sleeping volcano. It is a richly and highly gifted
nature, but one that, more than all others, requires in early youth the
firm and steady guidance of the wise and good, and that in after life
needs the constant controlling influence of Christian principle.
India Sutherland has never known another guide than her own good
pleasure. “Queen o’er herself” she is _not_, indeed, unhappily; but
queen instead over father and lover, friends, relatives, and servants.
In truth hers is a gentle and graceful reign. It could not be otherwise,
over subjects so devoted as hers. All of them, from Mr. Sutherland her
father, down to Oriole her bower-maid, deem it their best happiness to
watch, anticipate, and prevent her wants; and she is pleased to repay
such devotion with lovely smiles and loving words. She is, indeed, the
tamest as well as the most beautiful young leopardess that ever sheathed
claws and teeth in the softest down. She is no hypocrite; she is
perfectly sincere; but her deepest nature is unawakened, undeveloped.
She knows no more, no, nor as much, as you now do, of the latent
strength, fire, and cruelty of those passions which opposition might
provoke. There she lay, as unconscious of the seeds of selfishness and
tyranny as Nero was, when, at seventeen years of age, he burst into
tears at signing the first death-warrant. Awful spirits sleep in the
vasty depths of our souls—awful in goodness or in evil—and vicissitudes
are the Glendowers that can call them forth. There she lies, all
unconscious of the coming struggle, “a perfect form in perfect rest.” A
rich dress of light material, yet dark and brilliant colours, flows
gracefully around her beautiful figure. She reclines upon a crimson
silken couch, her face slightly turned downwards, her head supported by
her hand, and her eyes fixed upon a book that lies open upon the downy
pillow; a profusion of smooth, shining, amber-hued ringlets droop around
her graceful Grecian head; her eyebrows are much darker, and are
delicately pencilled; her eyelashes are also dark and long, and shade
large eyes of the deepest blue; her complexion is very rich, of a clear
warm brown, deepening into a crimson blush upon cheeks and lips the
brighter and warmer now that the book beneath her eyes absorbs her
quite. The light through the golden-hued drapery of the window pours a
warm, subdued effulgence over the whole picture. On a cushion below her
couch sits a little quadroon girl, of perfect beauty, fanning her
mistress with a fan of ostrich plumes; and while she sways the graceful
feathers to and fro, her dark eyes, full of affection and innocent
admiration, are fixed upon the beautiful epicurienne.
When the rising of the evening breeze began to swell the gold-hued
curtains, Oriole dropped her fan, but continued to sit and watch
lovingly the features of her lady. When the purple shades of evening
began to fall around, Oriole arose softly, and drew back the curtains on
their golden wires, to let in more light and air, revealing the terrace
of roses, the lawn and its groves and reservoirs, and the lovely rose
and amber-clouded Pearl, rolling on between its banks of undulating
light and shade; and giving to view, besides, the figure of a lady
standing upon the terrace of roses, and who immediately advanced
smiling, and threw in a shower of rose-leaves over the recumbent reader,
exclaiming—
“Will that wake you? _Mon Dieu!_ What is it you are idling over? The
breeze is up, and playing a prelude through the pine tops and
cane-brakes, and the birds are about to break forth in their evening
song. Will you come out?”
The speaker was a lady of about twenty-five years of age, of petite
form, delicate features, dark and brilliant complexion, and sprightly
countenance, which owed its fascination to dazzling little teeth, and
ripe lips bowed with archness, great sparkling black eyes full of
mischief, and jetty ringlets in whose very intricacies seemed to lurk a
thousand innocent conspiracies. She was dressed in mourning, if that
dress could be called mourning which consisted of a fine light black
tissue over black silk, and a number of jet bracelets set in gold, that
adorned the whitest, prettiest arms in the world, and a jet necklace
that set off the whiteness of the prettiest throat and bosom. Mrs.
Vivian, of New Orleans—Annette Valeria Vivian—spirituelle
Valerie—piquant Nan!—the widow of a wealthy merchant, a distant relative
of Mrs. Sutherland by her mother’s side, and now with her step-daughter
on a visit of some weeks here at “Cashmere.”
“_Ciel!_ then do you hear me? What volume of birds or flowers do you
prefer to the living birds and flowers out here? What _book_ (pardieu!)
of poetry do you like better than the gorgeous pastoral poem spread
around us? _Mon Dieu!_ she does not hear me yet! India, I say!”
exclaimed the impatient little beauty, throwing in another shower of
rose petals.
Miss Sutherland, languid and smiling, rose from her recumbent posture,
and handed her the volume.
“Pope! by all that is solemnly in earnest! Pope’s Essay on Man, by all
that is grave, serious and awful! Why, I thought at the very worst it
was some Flora’s Annual, or Gems of the Aviary, or some other of the
embossed and gilded trifles that litter your rooms. But Pope’s Essay on
Man! Why, I should as soon have expected to find you studying a work on
tanning and currying!”
“Oh, hush, you tease! And tell me what these lines mean. I have been
studying them for the last half hour, and can’t make them out.”
“_You_ studying! Ha! ha! ha! You doing anything! By the way, I have been
trying to discover what office I hold near the person of our Queen. I
have just this instant found out that I am thinker in ordinary to her
gracious majesty.”
“Well, dear Nan, do credit to your post—think me out these lines,” said
the beauty, languidly sinking back upon her couch.
“But what lines do you mean?”
“Oriole, show them to her. Oh, never mind, you don’t know them. Hand me
the book, Nan! Here, here are the lines—now make out a meaning for them,
if you can:
‘And binding nature fast in fate,
Left free the human will.’”
“Well,” said Mrs. Vivian, laughing, “it sounds very like—
‘And tying Adam hand and foot,
Bid him get up and walk!’
And it _looks_ as if it might have been written by Uncle Billy
Bothsides! Ah, by the way, here he comes. Talk of the evil one, and—you
know the rest. Ah, I shall be amused to hear his opinion of the
sentiment in question. It is just in his way.”
I am sure that I shall never be able to do justice to the gentleman that
was now seen advancing from the lawn—Mr. William I. Bolling, as he
called himself; Billy Bolling, as he was called by his brothers-in-law;
Bolling Billy, as called by his boon companions of the bowling alley;
Uncle Billy, by the young people; Marse Billy, by the negroes; and Billy
Bothsides, by everybody else. He was a short, fat, little gentleman, of
about fifty years of age, and clothed in an immaculate suit of white
linen, with a fresh broad-brimmed straw hat, which as he walked he
carried in one hand, while in the other he flourished out a perfumed
linen handkerchief, with which he wiped his face and rubbed his head.
His little head was covered with fine light hair, that did not shade,
but curled itself tightly off from his round, rosy, good-natured face,
full of cheerfulness, candour, and conceit. The damper or the warmer the
weather, or the more excited state of Uncle Billy’s feelings, then the
redder grew his face and the tighter curled off his flaxen hair.
Mr. Bolling was one of those social and domestic ne’er-do-wells of which
every large family connection may rue its specimen—one of those idle
hangers-on to others, of which almost every southern house does penance
with at least one. He was a brother of Mrs. Mark Sutherland, but no
credit to his sister or their mutual family; though, to use his own
qualifying style, neither was he any dishonour to them. He was a
bachelor. He said it was by his own free election that he led a _single_
life, though he vowed he very much preferred a _married_ life; that
nothing could be justly compared to the blessings of celibacy, except
the beatitude of matrimony. He compromised with the deficiency of every
other sort of importance by a large surplus of _self_-importance. He
valued himself mostly upon what he called his cool blood, clear head,
and perfect impartiality of judgment. He was not to be seduced by love
or bribed by money to any sort of partisanship. And as there are two
sides to most questions under the sun, and as Mr. Bolling would look
impartially upon positive and negative at once, so Billy
“Won himself an everlasting name.”
He now came up to the bay window, wiping his face, and fanning himself,
and saying—
“Good evening, ladies! It is a perfectly delightful evening—though, to
be sure, it is insufferably warm.”
Mrs. Vivian immediately challenged him with, “Mr. Bolling, we are
anxious to know your opinion upon these lines of Pope;” and she read
them to him, and put the book in his hands. He took it, and wiped his
face, and fanned himself—but these cooling operations seemed to heat him
all the more, for his face grew very red and his flaxen hair crisped
tightly as he gazed upon the page, and said: “Eh, yes, that’s all
right—certainly!”
“We believe it right, but what does it mean?”
“Mean! Why, _this_ is what it means—
‘Binding nature fast in fate,
Left free the human will;’
certainly—yes.”
“Please to explain yourself, Mr. Bolling,” said the widow, while India
gazed on in languid amusement.
Uncle Billy wiped his forehead, and said, “Why I don’t think ladies
understand these grave theological matters.”
“No, but you can enlighten us, Mr. Bolling.”
“You see these lines comprise the profoundest problems of philosophy—so
profound as to perplex the understandings of the greatest scholars and
philosophers that have ever lived; so profound, in fact, as to be quite
unintelligible even to me—yet so simple as to be easily comprehended by
the narrowest intellect—so simple as to be clear even to you, or to Fly
here.”
This was said of a small boy who at that instant appeared with a basket
of oranges.
“Fly, do you know what your master William is talking about?”
“Yes, ma’am; politics.”
“Exactly,” smiled Valeria; “go on, Mr. Bolling.”
“_Hem!_ Observe, Mrs. Vivian, that there is an analogy all through
nature—physical, mental, moral, spiritual.”
“Yes. Fly, listen—what is he talking about now?”
“Physic and sparrits, ma’am.”
“That is right. Pray go on, Mr. Bolling.”
“Yes; permit me to seat myself.”
Uncle Billy let himself cautiously down upon the green turf. Valeria
gave her hand to India, who stepped out upon the terrace and seated
herself. Mrs. Vivian sank down near her. Oriole placed herself by her
mistress, with the plume fan. Fly stood a short distance off, with his
basket of oranges.
The tall rose-trees, blown by the breeze, shed coolness and fragrance
over the party. The beautiful variegated lawn, with its groves, ponds,
and parterres, stretched out before them; and below it flowed on,
between its banks of purple shadow, the limpid Pearl, with the evening
light fast fading from its white bosom.
“Now, then, Mr. Bolling!”
“Now, then, Mrs. Vivian! I said that there was an analogy running
through the universe of nature; thus, the centripetal and centrifugal
forces, that modify each other’s power, and regulate the motions of the
planetary systems, correspond exactly to predestination and free will”—
“Do you understand him _now_, Fly?”
“No, ma’am; Marse Billy’s too deep for me now.”
“And for me too, Fly; put down your basket now, and go, Fly. I dislike
to see a poor child tiring himself, first upon one foot, and then upon
the other; it puts me ill at ease.”
“Yes, go! you sickly little wretch, you! I wonder how you think the
ladies like to have such an ugly little attenuated black shrimp as you
are about them; and I’m astonished at the gardener for presuming to send
you here. Be off with you, and never show your face again,” said Master
Billy, growing very red in the face with zeal and gallantry.
Little Fly looked first surprised and grieved, and then penitent on the
score of his sickness and deformity, and set down his basket and turned
to go.
“Please don’t scold him, Mr. Bolling; it’s not his fault, poor little
fellow! It was I who asked Mr. Sutherland to take him from the field and
place him in the garden, because it is shadier there, and the work is
lighter. Everybody cannot be strong and handsome—can they, Fly?” And the
gentle speaker turned and laid her hand kindly upon the boy’s head and
smiled encouragingly in his face. The child looked up in grateful
affection; and the eyes of all the party were raised to welcome the
orphan step-daughter of Mrs. Vivian. She was a fair, pale girl, of a
gentle, thoughtful, pensive cast of countenance and style of beauty,
with which her plain dress of deep mourning perfectly harmonized.
“Come and sit by me, Rosalie, love,” said the widow, making room for the
maiden, half embracing her with one arm.
The kind girl put an orange in the boy’s hand, and, smiling, motioned
him away; and Fly, no longer mortified, but solaced and cheerful, ran
off.
“Now proceed, Mr. Bolling. Rosalie, dove, Mr. Bolling is explaining to
us the two great motive powers of the universe; the centripetal, which
he says means the law of the Lord, and the centrifugal, which he says
means the temptation of the demon. And we, my love, are the planetary
bodies, kept from extremes of good and evil by the opposite action of
these two forces. Is not this it, Mr. Bolling?”
“No, madam; no! no! no! Lord! Lord! Thus it is to expose one’s theories,
especially to Mrs. Vivian there, who would wrest the plainest text of
Scripture to her own perdition. No, ma’am; I was about to say that the
overruling will of Providence and the free agency of man were the two
great motive powers of the moral universe—the human free will, being the
great inward and impulsive force, is the centrifugal or flying-off
power, and the government of God the centripetal or constraining power;
that in the moral world these two great forces modify each other’s
action, just as their prototypes do in the material world—keeping all in
healthful action. Do you understand me?”
“Do you understand _yourself_, Mr. Bolling?”
“Ah, I see you don’t—women seldom do!” said Uncle Billy, wiping his
forehead. “Thus, then, were man without free will—without the power of
working out his own salvation, or the privilege of sending himself to
perdition, if he desired it—he would no longer be a moral agent, and,
were he never so sinless, he would be at the best only a sinless puppet,
an automaton, and God’s creation would be a dumb show. And, on the other
hand, were human free will left without restraint of the Lord’s
overruling government, why, man would rush into all sorts of
extravagances, become a maniac, and convert God’s order into chaos
again. But, both these evil extremes being avoided, the Scylla of inert,
passive obedience is left upon the right, and the Charybdis of unbridled
license on the left, and all goes on well and harmoniously. And now I
hope you understand how it is that in ‘binding nature fast in fate,’ God
still left free the human will.”
“No, I do not; it seems to me that we are free agents, or we are _not_
free agents—one or the other.”
“We’re both, I assure you—both. Truth generally lies between extremes. I
have known that all my life, and acted upon it. We _are_ free agents,
and we are _not_—that is to say, we are free agents within a certain
limit, and no further. And observe, my dear Mrs. Vivian, and my dear
girls! _within that limit we have still room enough to save or to lose
our souls!_”
This speech was concluded with so much solemnity of manner, that it
imposed a silence on the little circle, that might have lasted much
longer than it did, had Mr. Bolling been disposed to repose on his
laurels. He was not.
“Now, are you satisfied, madam?” he inquired of Mrs. Vivian.
The little lady shook her jetty ringlets, and slowly picked her marabout
fan to pieces.
“I think mamma wishes to know why these things need be so,” said
Rosalie.
“My sweet Miss Vivian, little maidens should be seen, and not heard.”
“Don’t tempt Mr. Bolling beyond his depth, Rosalie,” smiled the widow;
and _not_ suiting the action to the word, she handed Uncle Billy an
orange she had just peeled.
The little gentleman received the attention with a deprecating, humble
bow, and, to prevent inconvenient questioning, turned to Miss
Sutherland, and inquired when she had heard from her cousin Mark,
winking with what he supposed to be a killing leer.
The beauty slightly raised her lip and arched her brows, but deigned no
other answer.
“Oh, she has not heard from Mr. Sutherland for three whole days, and his
last letter was but twelve pages long. I am afraid he is fickle, like
the rest. I should not wonder if he were now the humble servant of some
northern blue ——. It is written, ‘put not your trust in’—pantaloons. Men
are so uncertain,” said Valeria.
“Men are so uncertain! What men? Uncertain in what respect?”
“All men are uncertain, in all things!”
“Humph, that is a totally unfounded calumny on our sex; though, to be
candid, I acknowledge it is but too true of all men, without a single
exception—save myself!”
“You? Oh, dear, oh! Ha! ha! ha! _You!_”
“Yes, me! In what did you ever find me uncertain?”
“In what? Oh, heavens! he asks in what! Why, in _all things_—mental,
moral, and physical! In religion, politics, and morality! In friendship,
love, and truth! In war, courtship, and money! In one word, you are a
thorough, essential, organic uncertainty. Other people are uncertain—you
are uncertainty. I think, in the day of general doom, you will find
yourself—nothing in nowhere!”
Uncle Billy turned away from this unmerciful philippic, and again asked
Miss Sutherland if she had lately heard from her cousin.
“I have not heard from him for two weeks,” replied the young lady, in a
low voice, and without raising her eyes.
“Nan, what would you give me for a letter?” inquired Mr. Bolling,
rolling his little blue eyes merrily, as he drew one from his pocket and
laid it before her.
“Oh, Mr. Bolling! have you had this letter all this time, and detained
it from me?” said the beauty, reproachfully, as she took it, and,
excusing herself, withdrew into the house to peruse it.
“Come, Rosalie, this night air is deadly to you, my child.”
“Oh, mamma, see, the full moon is just rising over those purple hills. I
only want to see it reflected in the river, and then I will come.”
“Are you moon-struck, then, Rosalie? Come in; you can safely view the
scene from the house. Besides, coffee is about to be served.”
And the lady gave her hand to her step-daughter and assisted her to
arise, and then tenderly drawing the girl’s arm within her own, turned
to lead her into the house. And Mr. Bolling lifted himself up, and
picking up his straw hat, said—
“And I must go down to the cotton-mills, and make Clement Sutherland
come home to his supper. Heigh-ho! it’s an incontrovertible fact, that
if I did not walk after that man and take care of him, he’d kill himself
in the pursuit of gain in one month. Everything is forgotten—mental
culture and bodily comfort. I have to bully him to his breakfast, and
dragoon him to his dinner, and scare him to his supper. If things go on
in this way, I shall have to cut up his food and place it to his lips.
He is growing to be a monomaniac on the subject of money-getting. He is
as thin as a whipping-post, and about as enlivening to look upon. He
looks like a weasel in the winter time, all skin and hair, and cunning
and care! He looks as if he felt poor in the midst of all his
possessions, and I suppose he really does; while here am I, without a
sous, cent, markee, happy as a king, and much more at leisure; eating
hearty, and sleeping sound, and growing fat; ‘having nothing, yet
possessing all things,’ according to Scripture, and without a care in
life, except to keep Clement from sharing the fate of Midas, and
starving in the midst of gold. And, by-the-by, _that_ is another heathen
myth, with an eternal, awful truth wrapped up in it. Heigh-ho!. Well,
here’s to bring him home to his supper. And a hot time I shall have of
it, between him and the infernal machinery! I shall not get the thunder
of the mills out of my ears, or the shower of cotton-lint out of my
eyes, nose, and throat, the whole night! Oriole, is that you? Do you go
and tell the housekeeper, child, to have something comforting prepared
for your poor master. He’s had nothing since breakfast; I couldn’t find
him at dinner-time. He was gone, devil knows where, to inspect, devil
knows what! He is the only southerner I ever _did_ know to give himself
up so entirely to the worship of Mammon, and the only one, I hope, I
ever shall know!”
And, having eased his mind by this fit of grumbling, Uncle Billy waddled
off on his benevolent errand to the mills.
In the meantime Mrs. Vivian conducted her step-daughter into the
drawing-room communicating with Miss Sutherland’s boudoir. The room was
now brilliantly lighted up, but vacant of the family. The broad doors
were slidden back into the walls, revealing the boudoir in its
rich-toned gloom and gleam of purple and gold; and India herself,
standing in the midst, quite lost in thought, with one jewelled hand
pressing back the amber ringlets from her forehead, and the other
hanging down by her side, clasping the letter of Mr. Sutherland. So
deeply troubled and perplexed was her look, that Valeria impulsively
sprang to her side, exclaiming, “What grieves you, my dearest India? No
evil news, I trust?”
Miss Sutherland burst into tears, and silently handed her the letter.
But before Valeria had turned it about and found the commencement, India
recovered her voice, and said in broken accents, “You know how closely I
have kept his correspondence for the last few weeks. Alas! I have had
reason for it, Valeria. Little do his uncles imagine what detains him at
the North. But he conceals nothing from me, and he lays the heavy
responsibility of his confidence upon me. For a month past it has been
an onerous burden to my conscience.”
“My love! what has he been doing there? Has he killed his man in a duel,
and got himself in trouble, in that frozen stiff North, where a
gentleman cannot even shoot his rival in a generous quarrel, without
being put to the inconvenience of a judicial investigation? I really do
suppose that is it, now!”
“Oh, no! Would it were only that! That were no dishonour, at least. Oh,
no! It is as much worse as it could possibly be!”
“I cannot believe that Mr. Sutherland would do aught unworthy of a man
and a gentleman.”
“Woe to my lips that they should utter the charge. But read his letter,
Valeria, and advise me, for I am deeply distressed,” said Miss
Sutherland; and she threw herself back into a cushioned chair, and bowed
her face upon her hands, until all the amber ringlets drooped and veiled
them.
Valeria ran her eyes quickly over the letter, and then she threw herself
into a chair—but it was to laugh. Miss Sutherland raised her head in
silent surprise and displeasure. But still Valeria laughed, till the
tears ran down her cheeks, holding up one hand in speechless
deprecation, to implore forgiveness for a mirth impossible to restrain.
When she found her voice—“Why, my dear, unsophisticated girl, there is
nothing except a great deal of food for laughter in all this! He has
been in New York at the height of the annual fever, and has caught it!
He has been bit by a raging reformer, and gone rabid! Not the first
hot-headed young southerner sent to a northern college who has fallen
into the same series of fevers. But they all come safely through it!
When they find out that to free their slaves means just to empty their
pockets, and go to work with their own hands or brains, you have no idea
how refrigerating the effect. Don’t fear for Mr. Sutherland. He will be
brought beautifully out of it! Only note it! he will never send a son of
his to be educated at a northern college. Come, cheer up, my love, and
never mind my laughing. Really it is legitimate food for laughter! Ha!
ha! ha! ha! ha!”
“Oh, don’t! Only think of it, even at its best! Here, for weeks past, he
has been mingling freely with these sort of persons—mixing in their
assemblies, where people of all colours and castes meet on equal terms,
in a stifling crowd—oh, Queen of Heaven! it is a ruinous dishonour—an
unspeakable insult he has cast upon me, his betrothed!” she exclaimed,
rising with all the proud and passionate energy of deep and strong
conviction.
And again Mrs. Vivian gave way to a peal of silvery laughter,
exclaiming, “Why, you simple maiden! gentlemen _will_ do such odd
things, because you see they (poets excepted) have no instincts—not even
any original ideas of refinement. But be comforted! He comes to us by
sea, and will have passed through several hundred miles of salt sea wind
before he reaches your fragrant boudoir.”
“_Do not_ pursue this subject! _Do not_, Valeria! _Do not_ press it upon
me so! It wrongs, it injures me—I feel it does!” said India, with
energetic earnestness.
“I never saw you so deeply and strongly moved before—nonsense! But
indeed I must have my laugh out with somebody! It is, besides, too good
to keep—this ludicrous secret! Ah, here comes Mr. Bolling, with Uncle
Clement in his wake, no doubt, for he went to fetch him! I must tell
Uncle Clement of his son-in-law’s conversation or—die.
“Uncle, Uncle Clement! what do you think has happened to Mark? Listen,”
exclaimed the vivacious lady, running off with the letter. Miss
Sutherland sprang and caught her hand, and, pale as death, cried out,
“On your _life_, Valeria—on your soul! You do not know my father; he
abhors those sects with an exterminating fury of hatred! Give me the
letter! Nay, now by your _honour_, Valeria! It was a sacred confidence.
Give me the letter!” and she wrested the contended paper away from the
giddy, laughing, little lady.
“Hey_day_! What the mischief is all this? A regular romp or wrestle? Let
me put down my hat, and I’ll stand by and see fair play,” exclaimed Mr.
Bolling, who had just entered.
Blushing with anger at having suffered herself to be surprised out of
her usual repose of manner, Miss Sutherland sat down in silent dignity,
while Mrs. Vivian, still laughing, inquired, “Where is uncle?”
“Where? Yes! ‘Echo answers where?’ He has not been home to breakfast nor
dinner, and now I suppose he’ll not be here to supper. I went down to
the mill to bring him home to supper; he was not there! Guess where he
was? Gone over the other side of the river, to preside at the lynching
of an incendiary. Upon my sacred word and honour!” exclaimed Uncle
Billy, growing crimson in the face, “the most cruel, unjust,
unwarrantable proceeding I ever heard of in all my life; _though_, to be
perfectly fair, I must say it serves the fellow exactly right.”
“_Apropos—what did I tell you, Valeria?_” said Miss Sutherland, in a low
voice.
“And, now, what is this mighty mystery that must be concealed from
Clement?”
Mrs. Vivian and Miss Sutherland exchanged glances, and the latter
replied: “It is a letter from Mr. Sutherland, sir, that concerns myself
alone, and I do not choose to make its contents public, even at the
suggestion of my dear esteemed friend here.”
“Ah! Umph—hum! Yes! But now, my dear child, let me say one word. Young
people are foolish, and need to be counselled by the wisdom of age.
Observe, therefore, what I say, and be guided by my advice. There is no
circumstance or combination of circumstances whatever, that will justify
you in withholding any secret from your father; nevertheless, I am bound
to say that nothing under the sun could excuse you in betraying, even to
him, the confidence of your betrothed husband. Now, I hope you
understand your duty! At least, you have my advice!” said Uncle Billy,
wiping his head, after which he placed his handkerchief in his straw
hat, seated himself, and put the hat upon the carpet between his
feet—all with a look of great self-satisfaction.
“At least the advice is very practical!” said an ironical voice behind
him. All turned to see Mr. Sutherland the elder, who had silently
entered. He was of an unusually tall, attenuated form, with a yellow,
bilious, cadaverous face, whetted to the keenest edge by care and
rapacity, and surrounded by hair and whiskers so long and bristling as
to give quite a ferocious aspect to a set of features that without them
would have looked merely cunning. He strode into the midst of the
circle, and standing before his daughter, demanded in an authoritative
tone, “Give me that letter, Miss Sutherland!” She turned deadly pale,
but without an instant’s hesitation arose to her feet, placed the letter
in her bosom, and stood fronting him.
Seeing that the matter was about to take a very serious turn, Mrs.
Vivian playfully interfered, by nestling her soft little hand into the
great bony one of the planter, and saying, with her bewitching smile,
“Ah, then, Mr. Sutherland, let young people alone. Do not rifle a young
girl’s little mysteries. Remember when you were youthful—it was not so
long ago but what you can remember, I am sure,” she said with an arch
glance. “And when you used to write sweet nonsense to one beautiful
Cecile, her mother, how would you have liked it if the practical
commercial eyes of good Monsieur Dumoulins had read your letters? Come!
give me your arm to supper; we have waited for you half an hour;” and
the lively lady slipped her arm into his; and Mr. Sutherland with the
very ill grace of a bear led captive, suffered himself to be carried
off. Mr. Billy Bolling, with a flourishing bow, gave his hand to Miss
Sutherland, and Paul Sutherland led Rosalie.
The apartment was very pleasant. The inner shutters of wire gauze, that
were closed against the mosquitoes, did not exclude the fresh and
fragrant evening breeze that fanned the room. The elegant tea-table
stood in the midst, and the whole was illumined by light subdued through
shades of ground glass—not figured—but plain, and diffusing a soft,
clear, even radiance. They sat down to the table, and coffee and tea
were served by waiters from the sideboard. To dispel the last shades of
suspicion and discontent from the mind of Mr. Sutherland, Mrs. Vivian
remarked: “We are to have Mr. Mark Sutherland home in a very few days,
if I understand aright. _N’est ce pas, chere Indie?_” Miss Sutherland
only bowed, and the conversation turned upon their approaching voyage to
Europe.