THE FATAL MARRIAGE.
“_Isabella._—’Tis a babbling world
“_Mr. Graves._—_Oh!_ ’tis an _atrocious_ world!
It will be burnt up one day—that’s a comfort.”—_London Assurance._
Eighteen months have passed since Mark Sutherland left his home.
Eighteen months of persevering study, of unsuccessful effort, and of
varied wanderings, find him, at the close, in Cincinnati, quite
penniless, and nearly hopeless. His efforts to find employment here are
unavailing. He has not even the means to pay his board—a situation in
which many a worthy and promising young man has found himself, who has
afterwards nevertheless risen to fame or fortune. Embarrassing and
discouraging enough is the position while occupied, however piquant to
look back upon.
In a listless and disappointed mood, Mark Sutherland entered the
reading-room of the hotel, and, taking up the daily papers, began to
look over their columns, to see if any new want of a clerk or an agent
had been advertised, which might hold out the hope of employment to him.
At last, in the Intelligencer, his eye lighted upon an advertisement for
a classical and mathematical teacher. The candidate was required to
produce the highest testimonials of character and competency, and
requested to apply through the office of that paper. Mr. Sutherland’s
classical and mathematical attainments were far above mediocrity, and
the references he could give were unexceptionable. He felt therefore
certain of being able to offer more than an equivalent for the salary.
He saw, too, that the office of a teacher, by leaving him many hours of
the day, and the whole of Saturdays and holidays free, would afford him
ample leisure for the pursuit of his legal studies.
He called for writing materials, and immediately wrote and mailed a
letter of application. He was scarcely anxious about the result—only a
little interested to know whether he should get the situation, and what
sort of a one it would be, when it was got; whether it would be the
place of assistant in a public academy, or that of tutor in a private
family; also, whether his temporary home should be in the cold North or
the sunny South, the populous East or the sparsely-settled West, or in
the indefinite country between them; lastly, with what sort of people he
should find himself.
But, upon the whole, he scarcely hoped to get a response to his
application, as the paper containing the advertisement was several days
old when he first saw it. Therefore, when days passed into weeks, and
weeks became a month, he gave up all hopes of obtaining an answer,
without much disappointment.
At length—as generally happens after expectation sickens and dies, and
is buried—the unlooked-for letter arrived. It contained a proposition
from Colonel Ashley, of Virginia, to engage Mr. Sutherland as private
tutor, to prepare his two younger sons for the university, offering, in
remuneration, a very liberal salary, and requesting, in the event of Mr.
Sutherland’s acceptance, that he would reply promptly, and follow his
own letter in person as soon as possible.
Mark sat down and wrote at once, closing the contract, and promising to
be at Ashley by the first of March.
It was now near the last of February. He sold his horse, paid his bill
at the hotel, and having money enough remaining to take him to Virginia,
left the same afternoon by the steamboat up the river, and met the stage
at Wheeling. After two or three days’ travelling upon the turnpike road,
through the most sublime and beautiful mountain and valley scenery in
the world, he arrived, late one evening, at the little hamlet of Ashley,
situated in a wild and picturesque gap of the Blue Ridge.
Here, at the little inn, he ordered supper, and purposed to spend the
night. But he had scarcely entered the little bed-room allotted to him,
with the intention of refreshing himself with ablutions and a change of
dress, before the head of the host was put through the door, and the
information given that Colonel Ashley’s carriage had come to meet Mr.
Sutherland, and was waiting below. He finished his toilet, however,
before leaving his room.
He found the parlour occupied by two boys, of about thirteen and fifteen
years of age, disputing the possession of a pistol, which, in the
wrestle that ensued, went off—harmlessly. And before Mark could reprove
them for their imprudence, they came to meet him. The elder lad, cap in
hand, inquired, respectfully—
“Are you Mr. Sutherland, sir?”
“Yes, my son; have you business with me?”
“Father has sent the carriage for you, sir—that is all. My name is
Henry—he’s Richard. St. Gerald, you know, is in Washington. He is in
Congress, you know, and has made a great speech—father says, one of the
greatest speeches that has been made since”—
“_Oh, sho!_ He’s a great deal older than we are, Mr. Sutherland; and
he’s only our half-brother besides. _You_ don’t know every thing,” said
the younger boy Richard, addressing the last phrase, accompanied by a
punch in the side, to his brother.
“I am happy to meet you, Henry—how do you do, Richard?” said Mr.
Sutherland, giving a hand to each of the boys.
“And so,” he added, smiling to himself, and at them, “this new star of
the Capitol—this eloquent and admired St. Gerald Ashley—is a relative of
yours?”
“Our brother,” said Henry.
“Our _half_-brother,” amended Richard, favouring his senior with another
malicious punch in the ribs.
Hereupon another scuffle ensued, which Mr. Sutherland ended, by saying—
“Come—shall we go on to Ashley Hall, or will you take supper first,
here, with me?”
“Take supper first here, with you,” assented the boys, who could have
been tempted by nothing but the novelty to forego their father’s
sumptuous supper-table for this poor tavern meal.
“It was kind to come and meet me. But how did you guess that I should
arrive _this_ evening?”
“Oh, we did not guess. Father thought it about time you should come, and
he sent the carriage, and intended to send it every stage-day until you
_did_ come, or write, or something. Father would have come himself, only
he staid home to read St. Gerald’s great speech.”
“St. Gerald” was evidently the hero of Henry’s worship.
While they supped, their horses were fed and watered. And, half an hour
afterwards, Mr. Sutherland and his pupils entered the carriage, and were
driven to Ashley Hall. It was quite dark when the carriage drew up
before the door of a large, rumbling old building of red sandstone,
scarcely to be distinguished from the irregular masses of rock rising
behind and around it. A bright light illumined the hall, where the
travellers were received by a negro man in waiting, who would have
conducted them into a drawing-room on the left, but that Henry and
Richard, breaking violently forward, threw open the door upon the right,
exclaiming—
“Father is here. He is come, father! We found him at the village.”
A genial wood fire blazed and crackled in the wide, old-fashioned
chimney of this room; and near it, in an easy chair, beside a
candlestand, sat an old gentleman, engaged in reading a newspaper. No
whit disturbed by the boisterous onslaught of the boys, he calmly laid
aside his paper and stood up—an undersized, attenuated old man, with a
thin, flushed face, and a head of hair as white and soft as cotton wool.
He stood, slightly trembling with partial paralysis, but received Mr.
Sutherland with the fine courtesy of an old-school gentleman.
The boys hurried about their own business.
The man-servant placed an arm chair for Mr. Sutherland. And when the
latter was fairly seated, the old gentleman resumed his own seat, and
inquired whether his guest had supped. Being answered in the
affirmative, he nevertheless ordered refreshments to be served there.
A stand, with wine, sandwiches, cake, and fruit was placed between them;
and while they discussed these, the old gentleman, in an indifferent
sort of manner, said—
“By the way, Mr. Sutherland, have you seen Monday’s paper, with the
debate on the tariff? Here it is; take it—look over it. Never mind me, I
would prefer that you should see it now. If any thing _strikes_ you,
just read it aloud, will you?”
Mark took the paper, but found the “debate” to be all on one side, and
in the mouth of one individual, to wit—the Hon. St. Gerald Ashley, of
Virginia. He ran his eye over it—the old man fingering cheese and
crackers, and pretending to eat, not to interrupt him. “Do you wish me
to read this _debate_ aloud, sir?” asked Mark, benevolently inclined to
indulge the aged father’s pride.
“Yes, yes,” said the old man, smiling, nodding, and crumbling soda
crackers; “yes, if it will not tire you.”
“Oh, by no means,” answered Mark; and forthwith began.
The celebrated speech was, indeed, a master-piece of legislative
oratory; and Mark Sutherland was an admirable elocutionist. He read,
became deeply interested and absorbed, and before long was betrayed, by
the old man’s enthusiasm and his sympathy, into declamation, interrupted
now and then by Colonel Ashley’s exclaiming, “_That’s_ it! hear, hear.
_That must_ have brought down the House! I wonder what the Democrats
will find to say to _that_!”
Finally, laughing at the fever into which he had worked himself and his
hearer, Mark finished the speech, and laid down the paper. It was
time—it was past eleven o’clock—late hours for country people, and far
too late for the aged and infirm.
“Thank you, sir. Thank you. You have given me a treat. It was as good as
if I had heard it spoken,” said the old man, flushing with pride and
pleasure. Soon after, he rang for night lamps, and a servant to show Mr.
Sutherland to his room.
Early next morning, Mark Sutherland arose and left his bed-room. The
family were not yet stirring; none but the house servants were about.
And with the restlessness of a heart ill at ease, he walked out upon the
piazza, to find diversion from the bitter retrospections of the past,
and gloomy forebodings of the future, in the novel aspect of the country
around him.
To one used to the undulating, luxurious beauty of southern scenery,
there was something startling and inspiring in the abrupt, stern,
rugged, yet vigorous and productive aspect of this mountainous region.
The Ashley plantation filled the whole of a small valley, shut in
between two curving spurs of the Alleghanies, and watered by a branch of
the Rappahannock. The Ashley house, an irregular but massive building of
red sandstone, was situated at the foot of the mountain; behind it arose
hoary rocks, intermingled or crowned by dark evergreens of pine and
cedar; before it, at some distance, flowed the branch: around on every
side within the vale were gardens, shrubberies, orchards, wheat and corn
fields; and here and there, picturesquely placed, or half concealed by
trees or jutting rocks, were the negro quarters; while more
conspicuously, in the midst of the open fields, stood the barns and
granaries. Altogether, the plantation, occupying the whole valley, and
completely shut in by mountains, was an independent, isolated, little
domain in itself.
Now, upon the second day of March, the grass along the margin of the
branch was already fresh and verdant, and the wheat fields sprouting
greenly. The morning was very bright and fresh, and Mark walked into the
garden that lay to the left of the house. There he found three or four
negroes, under the direction of the gardener, engaged in clearing up
beds, tying vines, trimming trees, and repairing arbours and garden
seats.
This place had not the luxurious beauty of the south, nor the fresh and
vigorous life of the west; yet there was a solid, jolly, old homeliness
about it, very comfortable even in contrast to those other scenes. Mark
felt this, while alternately talking with the old gardener or
contemplating the old home.
He was interrupted by an irruption of that Goth and Vandal, Henry and
Richard Ashley, who, rushing upon him, seized the one his right hand and
the other his left, and boisterously informed him that breakfast was
ready, and had “been waiting ever so long.”
He returned their vehement greeting good-humouredly, and accompanied
them into the house, and to the breakfast table, which was set in the
old oak parlour where he had passed the preceding evening.
Two ladies, in simple, graceful, morning dresses of white cambric, sat
near the fire, occupied with a little delicate needlework; Colonel
Ashley stood with his back to the chimney, with _the_ paper in his hand,
and talking to them about _the_ speech.
On seeing Mr. Sutherland, the old gentleman immediately stepped forward,
welcomed him, and conducted him to the ladies, saying, “My dears, this
is Mr. Sutherland; Mr. Sutherland, my”——
But before another syllable was spoken, the elder lady had lifted her
face, started up with a blush of pleasure, and extended her hand,
exclaiming—
“Mark Sutherland! Is it possible!”
“Mrs. Vivian! Miss Vivian!” exclaimed Mark, extending a hand to each,
impulsively.
“Why, how strange that we should meet here!” said Valeria.
“A most pleasant surprise, indeed!” responded Mark.
“The surprise as well as the pleasure is mutual, I assure you! But how
did it happen?”
“I am sure I do not know.”
“Nor I. Can _you_ guess, Rose?” and Mrs. Vivian turned to her
step-daughter, who remained silent, with her fingers in the unconscious
clasp of Mark Sutherland’s hand.
“I inquired only in jest, but now I really do believe you could tell us
something about this,” persisted the lady, looking intently at the
maiden.
Rosalie’s pale face slightly flushed; she withdrew her hand, resumed her
seat, and took up her work. Colonel Ashley, if he _felt_, certainly
_expressed_ no surprise at this re-union; but as, with stately courtesy,
he handed his niece to the head of the table, said, “As Mrs. Vivian
arrived only yesterday afternoon, and retired at once to rest from the
fatigue of her journey, and as Mr. Sutherland reached here last night,
there has been no time for conversation about our arrangements.”
“Ah, yes; that’s all very well; but you’ll never make me believe that
Rose is not at the bottom of this, somehow,” laughed the widow, shaking
her jetty curls as she sat down at the table. Her eyes met those of
Rosalie for an instant, and the spirit of mischief was quelled. She
became silent on that topic, and soon after changed the subject,
entering into gay conversation about St. Gerald Ashley and his sudden
fame.
When breakfast was over, Colonel Ashley invited Mr. Sutherland to
accompany him to his study, where he began to unfold his plan for the
education of his boys. After hearing him through, Mark inquired when he
should enter upon his new duties, and requested to defer the
commencement until Monday, and to use the intervening time to become
acquainted with his home and pupils.
The interview then closed. Both gentlemen descended the stairs. Colonel
Ashley told Mr. Sutherland that he would find the ladies in the parlour,
and then, excusing himself, bade him good morning, and entered the
carriage, which was waiting to take him to the village.
Mark opened the parlour door, advanced into the room, and before he
could retreat, saw and heard the fragment of an earnest interview
between the mother and daughter. Mrs. Vivian sat upon the sofa, her head
bent, her jetty curls drooping, her jetty eyelashes and rosy cheeks
sprinkling and sparkling with teardrops, like morning dew upon a fresh
flower. She was nimbly and nervously stitching away at a piece of muslin
embroidery.
Rosalie sat on a cushion before her, with her hands and her needlework
fallen idly on her lap, and her pale hair fallen back from her paler,
upturned brow, and earnest eyes, that were fixed upon her mother’s. She
was asking in open accents, “Oh, mamma! can this be possible?”
“Not only possible, but true, Rose,” replied the lady, dashing the
sparkling tears away.
“Oh, mamma! do not let him meet such a shock; prepare him for it,
mamma.”
“I cannot; how could I? Hush—here he is,” said she, perceiving Mark. And
in an instant, presto! all was changed.
Smiling out from her tears, like an April sun from a cloud, or a
blooming rose scattering its dew in the breeze, she looked up and said,
“Come in, Mark; draw that easy chair up here to the sofa, and sit down,
for I know by experience that men are lazy as the laziest women.”
Mr. Sutherland took the indicated seat. Miss Vivian started from her
lowly position, resuming her place upon the sofa, drawing the
foot-cushion under her feet, and arranging her needlework.
“It is really surprising that we should all meet here so unexpectedly in
Alleghany county,” said Mrs. Vivian.
“I certainly had not anticipated such a pleasure. I did not know that
you were related to Colonel Ashley, or to any one else in this part of
the country.”
“Nor am I. Colonel Ashley is Rosalie’s great uncle—her mother’s uncle.
Colonel Ashley’s last remaining single daughter was married last year,
and Rosalie was invited to take her abdicated place in his household.
Physicians recommended the bracing air of the mountains for my delicate
girl, and therefore Rosalie has been living here for the last eighteen
months—ever since we left Cashmere, in fact. Last winter, I think, was
rather too cold for her here on the mountains. I spent the season in
Washington, from whence I have just returned; but next winter I intend
to take Rose to Louisiana with me, and make an arrangement by which she
can spend all her winters in the south.”
“Indeed, mamma, you shall not immolate your happiness upon my ill
health. You shall just spend your winters in Washington, where you enjoy
life so much, and your summers at the watering-places, where you meet
again your gay and brilliant friends. I shall do well enough. You shall
visit me in the spring and autumn intervals.”
“Oh, a truce, Rosalie! We shall be set down as a model mother and
daughter. _I_ know, for _one_, selfishness is the mainspring of all my
acts. I rather think I like you, child, and prefer to see you well.
There! I declare there’s Robert with the horses already. Put on your
cloth habit, Rosalie; the morning is really cold; and don’t let him take
you far, child; these hearty men have very little instinctive mercy for
delicate girls, and he would not imagine he had tired you to death till
you had dropped from your horse.”
Rosalie arose, rolled up her work, and left the room, nodding and
smiling to a young man who entered as she left. “Mr. Bloomfield,” said
the lady, presenting him to Mr. Sutherland. Mr. Bloomfield was a
sufficiently pleasing specimen of a well-bred, country beau—moderately
tall, broad-shouldered, and deep-chested—with regular features—fresh,
ruddy complexion—clear, merry blue eyes—and lips, whose every curve
expressed the good humour and benevolence of a kind, contented heart.
“You mustn’t take Rose far, Robert.”
“I will take her only to mother’s.”
“And you sha’n’t teaze her with any more nonsense! I can’t put up with
that, you know.”
Robert Bloomfield blushed violently, smiled till all his regular white
teeth shone, and was stammering out a blundering deprecation, when, to
his great relief, Rosalie appeared, attired for the ride. The young man
arose, Mrs. Vivian surveyed Rose, to be sure she was well defended from
the cold, and finally yielded her in charge of her escort, who bowed and
took her out.
Mrs. Vivian and Mark looked at them through the window, saw him place
her in the saddle with more than polite attention—with a careful and
tender solicitude that made her smile. When they had ridden off she
turned to Mark, and said—
“I like that good-humoured, blundering boy. He has been paying court to
Rose ever since she has been here. He is a young man of independent
fortune, irreproachable character, fair education, and most excellent
disposition, and he has loved Rose for more than a year. Yet, with all,
he is not worthy of her! he wants polish—the polish that nothing but
intercourse with refined society can give him. He came to see me last
winter in Washington, got fitted out by a fashionable tailor, and I
good-naturedly took him with me to an evening party. If ever I do such a
thing again as long as I live may——; but never mind! Just think, when I
presented him to a superfine belle, of his holding out his hands to
shake hands with her, telling her he was glad to see her, and hoping
that if ever she passed through his part of the country, she would pay
his mother and sisters a visit, &c. And then, when the elegant Mrs. A.
inquired if Mr. Bloomfield waltzed, just fancy him blushing furiously,
and saying that he would rather not—that he disapproved of waltzing!”
“Well!” said Mrs. Vivian, looking up, after a pause.
“Yes—well?” inquired her companion, raising his eyebrows.
“You have not made a single comment upon my country beau. I see how it
is. You’re thinking of your relatives. Mark, you must question me if you
want me to tell you anything.”
“My mother”—began the young man.
“She is living very comfortably with her husband at Cashmere.”
“With her husband!”
“Is it possible you did not know she was married, Mark?”
“I never knew it—I never dreamed it—I never thought it possible.” He
looked shocked—he _was_ shocked.
“And why not?” asked the lady, with a little jealous petulance. “Why may
not a widow remarry?”
“Nay—I do not know, I’m sure,” said Mr. Sutherland, with his eyebrows
still raised, and his eyes fixed upon the floor. “My mother married!
Will you please tell me to whom?”
“To whom? Oh, of course you know, Mark. Now, who was it likely to be,
but Dr. Wells?”
“Our old family physician!”
“Why of course. You know he had been pleased with her a long time.”
“That my mother should have married!”
“She never would have done so, Mark, had you not left her.”
“And she is happy, you say?”
“Comfortable, Mark. Your mother and Dr. Wells make what Tim Linkenwater
calls ‘a comfortable couple.’”
“I am not so much grieved as surprised,” said Mr. Sutherland. And after
a short pause he said, “There was another—my cousin.”
The face of the lady grew troubled—she did not speak.
“Is _India_ well?” again spake Mark, in a faltering voice.
“India is well, and beautiful as ever. She was the belle of Washington
last winter—her beauty the theme of every tongue—the envy of every
woman, the madness of every man. No assembly was complete without ‘the
Pearl of Pearl River!’”
Mark Sutherland grew pale, and shivered—saying, “Of course she”——
“Among her own sex there was no rival star. She divided public interest
and attention only with St. Gerald Ashley, that great new planet on the
political horizon.”
Mark Sutherland’s whole strong frame was convulsed. He started up and
paced the floor in extreme agitation—then, seizing his hat, rushed out
of the room.
“And _I_ was to prepare him for it, said Rosalie!” exclaimed Mrs.
Vivian, looking after him, as the pity of her heart grew strong.