DISCORDANCES.
“But here upon this earth below,
There’s not a spot where thou and I
Together for an hour could breathe.”—_Byron._
It was impossible that the discordant elements of social life assembled
at Ashley Hall could harmonize for an instant. Of the family party
gathered around the breakfast table, the pale, beautiful India assumed a
mask of smiles—Mr. Ashley wore a look of anxious perplexity he did not
care to hide—Mark Sutherland appeared self-possessed, but was too
conscious to feel really at ease. Colonel Ashley was secretly annoyed,
to find the re-union around the breakfast table not quite so cheerful as
might have been expected. Mrs. Vivian was vexed at the general tacit
antagonism, and resolved, if this should last, to bring her visit to a
close as soon as possible. Nevertheless, she kept up an irregular fire
of wit and repartee, to prevent the party falling into dead silence.
Rosalie alone was truly at ease. She was totally ignorant of any cause
of disunion in the circle, and too much absorbed in her own infinite
content, to notice signs of disturbance among those around her.
When breakfast was over, the little lady drew Rosalie off into the
piazza, and away up to the honeysuckle-shaded end, where no one was
likely to come but the honey bees.
“And now, Rose,” she asked, “what is it? Your eyes have poured streams
of light all breakfast time, like sun glances; they have projected rays
wherever they have fallen. Now what is it all about?”
“One should be merry in wedding times!”
“Merry in wedding times! Look here, Rosalie! Some marriages are made in
heaven, some on earth, and some—_in the other place_. But it was not
merriment, but profound, still joy, that lighted your eyes, Rose! Now,
what was it all about?”
“Mark loves me, mamma!” whispered the girl, hiding her face upon her
step-mother’s shoulder.
“Now, that’s the most absurd thing I ever heard in all my life!”
exclaimed the little lady, shoving her off, and walking rapidly away
with a highly-flushed cheek.
Rosalie knew her too well, and trusted her too thoroughly, to feel any
anxiety. She walked behind her, put her arms around her waist, and,
bending forward, looked up smilingly into her eyes.
“You needn’t think to get the better of me that way, Rose! It is
ridiculous, I say! What do you mean to do with this love?”
Rose folded both hands over her bosom with a look of unspeakable
content. Both look and gesture were involuntary.
“Aye, hoard it away, treasure it deep in your heart, I suppose you mean.
Silly girl! Well, what is to be the end of it all? What practical object
do you propose to yourself? When ever do you expect to be _married_?”
“Whenever Mark asks me, mamma!”
“It is just madness!” exclaimed the lady, impatiently; “he has not a
dollar!”
“Yes, he has! All that I have, mamma!”
“All that you have! Do you imagine for an instant that your guardian
will give up one cent of your property during your minority? No; he will
even stop your allowance if you become the wife of Mark Sutherland!”
“Why should he do that? It would be very unjust!” said Rosalie, raising
her eyebrows with surprise. “It would be unnatural! monstrous! My
guardian, Mark’s own uncle! Oh! surely, having discarded him, he will
not pursue him with persecutions.”
“_Will he not?_”
“No, I will never believe it!”
“He will fill up the measure of his animosity—believe that! Clement
Sutherland did not appear at the breakfast table this morning. Can you
not surmise the cause? He has many bad reasons for hating his nephew. He
hates him for his political opinions, for his principles, and, more than
all, for having had the power to give up the beautiful India. Clement
Sutherland worships his beautiful daughter; and he hates Mark for not
having laid upon her shrine the most precious jewel of his soul—his
integrity. And now, with the opposition of your guardian, who is
invested with such power over your fortune, what have you to expect in
giving yourself to Mark Sutherland?”
“I do not know; I shall leave it all to Mark. It is no conditional
promise I have given him—no halffaith I have pledged him. I have given
him the full and complete control of my destiny. I could not help it.
All that was within me—heart, and soul, and spirit—sprang to him when he
called me. Mamma, it is a word often abused, but at this moment my soul
throws it irresistibly upon my lips—I _adore_ Mark! And now, amidst
opposition, persecution, desertion, he must know that there is one who
will follow wherever he leads—one heart that will cleave to him, in joy
and in sorrow, in life and in death.”
At that very instant the boy brought the mail-bag, intruded upon them,
and handed Mrs. Vivian a letter. As soon as her glance fell upon the
superscription, her face flushed to the forehead, and, for the moment
forgetful of Rosalie, she hastened to read it.
While this confidential conversation was going on between the young
step-mother and her daughter, another scene, portentous with fate,
transpired in the study of Colonel Ashley. As that gentleman was leaving
the breakfast-room, a message was brought him from Mr. Clement
Sutherland, desiring the favour of a few moments’ private conversation
with him. Colonel Ashley returned word that he would be pleased to see
Mr. Sutherland in his study. Thither he immediately proceeded, and
thither soon followed his guest.
Clement Sutherland entered, with a forbidding and foreboding scowl upon
his brow.
Colonel Ashley instantly arose, set a chair, and invited him to be
seated.
Clement Sutherland, without unbending the sternness of his features,
bowed, and sat down.
“I trust you are in good health this morning, Mr. Sutherland,” said the
Colonel, urbanely.
“I am well, sir,” replied his guest, coldly.
“I was sorry to miss you at the breakfast table this morning. I trust my
little girl made you comfortable in your own apartment?”
“Thank you, sir.”
Colonel Ashley was silenced and repelled for a little while by this
churlishness on the part of his interlocutor; but, speedily recollecting
that it was his guest who had sought this interview, he inquired with
some reserve of manner—
“Can I be so happy as to serve you in any way this morning, Mr.
Sutherland?”
“Who recommended that young man whom you have engaged as a tutor?” asked
Clement Sutherland, curtly.
Now, Colonel Ashley might well have been provoked by the abruptness of
this question to make some unpleasant answer, but Colonel Ashley was a
gentleman and a host. He replied with the utmost courtesy, yet in a
manner that administered the keenest and most delicate rebuke. Looking
at his guest, he said, slowly and with meaning, “His _name_ recommended
him, Mr. Sutherland.”
“That is just what I feared. That is the one thing, unhappily, of which
we cannot deprive him, and makes us, in some degree, responsible for
him. Pray, sir, did you know anything of this young man’s past history?”
“Nothing.”
“You fancied him a relative of ours?”
“Certainly.”
“Now, then, will you be so kind as to give me your attention for a few
minutes?”
Colonel Ashley settled himself in an attitude of fixed interest, and
Clement Sutherland commenced a narration of some considerable length,
which, at its close, left Mark Sutherland with the character of a
graceless son, a faithless lover, an unprincipled man, and a mad
reformer.
“Sir,” said he, in conclusion, “you should not give him house-room for
an hour! He will pervert your children, steal the heart of your niece,
sow fatal dissension between your son and his wife, and incite your
servants to revolt!”
Colonel Ashley went through all the degrees of incredulity, doubt,
perplexity, and alarm, exclaiming, “I should never have believed it of
him! He does not look at all like an incendiary!”
“Sir, an incendiary does not parade his combustible matter before your
eyes, and _look_ like he was going to fire your house!”
“He does not seem to me to be at all dangerous.”
“Sir, dangerous people never _seem_ dangerous.”
“I rather liked the young gentleman, I confess,” said Colonel Ashley,
slowly and hesitatingly.
“Sir, would you like your children to imbibe revolutionary principles?
Would you like your servants incited to revolt? Would you like an
estrangement and separation brought about between your son and
daughter-in-law? Would you like your niece to elope with a fanatic?”
“Mr. Sutherland, I must say that you shock me beyond endurance. You
ruthlessly grasp subjects that a man of honour and delicacy scarcely
likes to touch. You have dealt severely with the young man, also, in
your speech. He may be an enthusiast—enthusiasm is a fault appertaining
to youth and genius—and, moreover, persecution is not at all to my
taste; it is always the growth of cowardice. I am as far from the spirit
of persecution as I am from the spirit of fear. I do not _fear_ that my
children will be perverted, my negroes maddened, my niece infatuated, or
my son and his wife divorced, by the presence of this high-souled but
mistaken young gentleman in my family. I told you that I liked Mr. Mark
Sutherland, and I cannot hate him to order. Nevertheless, as it is not
expedient that one formerly betrothed of Mrs. Ashley should be here to
annoy her by his presence, I will see the young gentleman, and arrange
the speedy termination of our engagement.”
Mr. Clement Sutherland expressed himself satisfied, arose and left the
room.
Colonel Ashley remained with his head upon his chest, in an attitude of
serious thought, for a few minutes; then, pulling the bell-rope, he
summoned a servant.
“Go,” he said to the man that entered, “and request Mr. Mark Sutherland
to favour me with his company here for a few moments.”
The messenger went out, and in search of the tutor.
Meanwhile, Mark Sutherland was in his own room, engaged in reading a
letter that had arrived by the morning’s mail. It was from his old
college friend, Lauderdale. It was a very long letter, being the first
that he had written to Mark Sutherland for more than two years. He began
by reproaching Mark for dropping the correspondence, and leaving him in
ignorance of his whereabouts. He next informed his friend that he owed
his knowledge of his present residence to a happy accident—namely, to
information given him by a fair lady with whom he had been so fortunate
as to maintain an epistolary correspondence; that he expected soon to
arrive at Ashley Hall, on a visit to this fair friend, from whom he had
received an invitation. (Here a jealous pang shot through the heart of
the reader.) “A fair friend”—might that be Rosalie? Had _she_ kept up a
constant correspondence with Lauderdale? And had she even invited him to
the house? He could not endure the suspicion for a moment. No, not even
if it were only a cool, friendly correspondence. He could not endure
that Rose should be on friendly terms with any man except himself. He
read on. The letter proceeded to tell him all that had befallen the
writer since he had last written; how he had settled in a Western
country town; how, after some difficulty, he had been admitted to the
bar, and how he had already got into a tolerably lucrative practice.
Finally came the most startling news of all—viz., that two months
previous, he—L. Lauderdale, Esq.—had come into the possession of an
estate of sixty thousand dollars, by the demise of his godfather, a
widower without children or near relatives, and who, dying, bequeathed
to him the whole of his considerable property. “I do not fully realize
this event, dear Mark,” he wrote; “I cannot realize my personal interest
in it. All I _do_ feel—but that is much, that is everything—is that now
I may go to Ashley Hall, and lay myself and my fortune at the feet of my
fair friend, the beautiful widow, Mrs. Vivian.”
Mark took a long, deep breath.
“What do you want, sir?” he said, looking up, and for the first time
seeing Colonel Ashley’s servant standing in the room.
The man delivered his message, and Mark promised to attend Colonel
Ashley soon, and dismissed the messenger.
He resumed his letter. There was little more to be read, but that little
was full of fate.
“It matters not to me, now, dear Mark, what quarter of the country I
live in. That shall be decided by the will of my fair queen, Valeria.
One thing is certain—this ‘law shop’ and this village must be given up.
My evacuation of the premises will leave a fair opening for any
enterprising young gentleman who may choose to fill it. What say you? If
you are still ‘seriously inclined’ to the ingenious profession of the
law, let me know. If you are disposed to step into my shoes, you will
find them not much worn, with not even the gloss off, only the creak and
harshness taken out of them a little. Think this over, so as to be able
to give an answer, by the time I see you. You may expect me soon.”
Full of thought, Mark Sutherland folded up his letter, and went to the
study of Colonel Ashley.
The old gentleman received him with a degree of kindness almost
paternal. He arose and took his hand, and requested him to be seated.
Then, after some delicate hesitation, he said—
“I was not, until this morning, made aware of the very interesting
relations which you once sustained towards a young lady—your cousin—now
the wife of my son. You were once engaged to be married to Miss
Sutherland, I hear?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the young man, seating himself, in a calm,
unembarrassed manner; while the old gentleman scrutinized the expression
of his countenance, without finding anything there to displease him.
“Will you object to informing me of the cause of the disruption of that
engagement?”
“Certainly not, sir: we differed upon the subject of slavery. She took
sides with her friends, and—we parted; that is all.”
“You mean, my honoured young friend, that when called to do so, you made
a stupendous, an unprecedented sacrifice of fortune, family affection,
and love, for the sake of principle—mistaken principle, perhaps, yet
still principle. Was it not so?”
Mark Sutherland bowed.
“My dear young friend, _we differ in opinion_; but I highly respect you.
I earnestly pray that you may be set right,” said the old gentleman,
warmly, as he held out his hand to Mark, who grasped it, pressed it, and
let it fall.
“Mr. Sutherland, in every exigency of your life, I pray you to consider
me as your friend, ready always to serve you with counsel or assistance
of any kind I have fancied that since the unexpected rencounter of last
evening, you might have something to propose; or, rather, that you might
_wish_ to propose, yet be withheld by some exquisite sense of honour and
delicacy. I entreat you now to waive all considerations save those of
truth, and speak freely to me.”
“I had something to say to you, Colonel Ashley, and, under the
circumstances, the approach of the subject was, as you rightly inferred,
extremely difficult to me. I thank you for having opened the way,” said
the young man, _totally misapprehending him_; then, after a moment’s
hesitation, he went on to say—“You have doubtless surmised the nature of
the communication I had to make to you. It is, that I love your niece,
Miss Vivian; I have told her as much within a few hours past, and have
her permission to entreat your sanction of our engagement.”
Colonel Ashley sprang from his chair, shoving it behind him, and stood
gazing with astonishment upon the young man—with simple astonishment,
unmixed with regret or resentment. At last—
“How long has this gone on, sir, without my knowledge?”
“I fancied it was _not_ without your knowledge, sir. Our association has
been very open. I fancied, from your own words, that you expected the
communication I have just made,” said Mark, with a surprise almost equal
to his own.
“No, sir, no! my words referred to a totally different matter, which I
shall explain presently,” replied the old gentleman, resuming his seat,
with a somewhat changed manner. “So you have addressed Miss Vivian?”
Mark bowed.
“And won her consent to be yours?”
Another bow of assent.
“Humph! well—so I have been truly warned, after all! Pray, Mr.
Sutherland, have you ever tried to instil into the minds of my sons,
your pupils, any of your own opinions in respect to slavery?”
“I have never named the subject to them, sir. I have endeavoured to
cultivate in them principles of truth, justice, and mercy, and left the
application of those principles to that subject to time and
circumstances.”
“Humph! Have you ever convened my coloured people, and preached
insurrection to them?”
“Sir!” exclaimed Mark, with the indignant blood purpling his forehead.
“Nay, nay! don’t look so. God knows, if you had done so, I should have
sought no vengeance, young man.”
“Colonel Ashley, I am neither mad nor unprincipled, however I may have
been misrepresented to you.”
“I believe it, Mark! I quite believe it. I will not examine you upon the
_fourth charge_! Heaven knows what demonstrations of indignation would
meet my question, should I ask you if, poet-wise, you had endeavoured to
awaken in Mrs. Ashley’s memory any sentimental reminiscences of the
past!”
Mark smiled.
“Yet nevertheless, my dear young friend, it was upon _that subject_ that
I wished to speak to you. Mr. and Mrs. Ashley will make this house their
permanent home. My son’s wife will be the mistress of the establishment,
of course. Will it be pleasant for you to meet them in daily, hourly
intercourse? I have seen it written, that ‘friendship sometimes turns to
love, but love to friendship never.’ A brimstone sentiment, I admit.
Still, I can imagine cases and characters to which it is applicable. For
instance, I do not think it possible for you and your cousin ever to be
friends.”
Mark was silent.
“You do not speak. Do you perchance imagine that you two could live
comfortably under the same roof?”
“Colonel Ashley, I know we could not.”
“That will do; we understand each other. And I leave all the rest to
yourself. I will speak with you again to-morrow. In the meantime, do me
the favour to let Miss Vivian know that I wish to see her.”