"He is a man, setting his fate aside,
Of comely virtues;
Nor did he soil the fact with cowardice,
But with a noble fury and a fair spirit
He did oppose his foe."

Shakespeare.

Colonel Dumont's melancholy forebodings proved to be too well grounded, for in ten days after the departure of Henry Carroll he breathed his last, not fully ripe in years, but mature in the stature of a good man. His worldly affairs had all been arranged, and with his mind at peace with God and man he bade a final adieu to his weeping daughter and dissembling brother, and calmly resigned his spirit to its Author.

The mansion of Colonel Dumont had been the abode of happiness. Cheerfulness and contentment—rare visitors at the home of opulence—dwelt gracefully amid the luxurious splendor of this house. But now a heavy stroke of affliction had come upon the devoted Emily. The ruthless hand of death had struck down her father in the midst of prosperity and happiness. She felt that she was alone in the world. Her unsympathizing uncle seemed not to feel the loss, but appeared even more cold and churlish than ever. She could not expect from him the offices of kindness and sympathy. She was an orphan, but not till she was prepared to combat with the trials of life. Recognizing the hand of Providence in this visitation of the Angel of Death, she bowed meekly and submissively to the Master Will, and was even cheerful and happy in her tears.

It was about ten o'clock on the night succeeding the funeral of Colonel Dumont that a small canoe, containing a single individual, touched at the bank of the river near the now gloomy mansion. Leaping from the canoe, which was nearly swamped by the act, the person it had contained drew the frail bark beyond the reach of the rapid current, and ascended the steep bank. Following the smooth shell road through the long vista of negro huts, he reached the little grove of tropical trees which surrounded the proprietary mansion. Casting an anxious glance around him, to satisfy himself that he was not watched, he cautiously approached the only illuminated window on that side of the house, upon which, after a close scrutiny of the interior of the room, he gave several light taps. This signal was answered by Jaspar Dumont, who, with a word of caution, opened the window. The stranger, with a light spring which belied his apparent years, gained the interior of the room, which was the library of the late owner.

The person who had thus obtained admission was the lawyer, Antoine De Guy, whom Maxwell had suggested as a fit agent for the execution of Jaspar's scheme. He was certainly an odd-looking man. His face was of a very dark red color, much like that which is produced by the united effects of exposure and intemperance, and was encircled by a pair of black whiskers, intermixed with gray. His cranium was ornamented with a huge mass of the same parti-colored hair. His fiery red nose was placed in strange contrast with a pair of green spectacles, which entirely concealed the color and expression of his eyes. His clothes were of a most primitive cut, and had probably been black once, but were now rusty and white from long service. His form was portly, a little inclined to corpulency. His hands were most unprofessionally dirty; but this might have been occasioned by contact with the canoe in his passage. On one of his fingers glittered a diamond ring, which, considering the lack of ornaments in other respects, but ill accorded with the apparent parsimony of the man. It might, however, have been obtained in the way of trade, for Maxwell had hinted that he did business under the sign of the "three golden balls." He was apparently in the neighborhood of five-and-forty, and looked like the debauchee in the face, while his dress indicated the penurious man of business.

"Did any one see you?" asked Jaspar, whose teeth were chattering with apprehension, notwithstanding his natural boldness.

"Not that I am aware of," replied De Guy, in a silky tone, which, proceeding from such a form, would have astonished the listener.

"You met no one?" interrogated the anxious Jaspar.

"Not a soul! Everything was still."

"Let us be sure of it. Step into this room for a moment. I will see that all the servants have retired," said Jaspar, pushing his confederate into an adjoining apartment.

A light pull at the bell-rope brought to the library the body-servant of the late planter.

This "boy," who was known by the name of Hatchie, was a mulatto. He was about forty years of age, and, having never been reduced to labor in the cane-fields, bore his age remarkably well. He was about six feet in height, very stout built, and was endowed with immense physical strength. His brow was a little wrinkled, and his head was a little bald upon the top,—and these were the only evidences of his years. His expression was that of great intelligence. In his countenance there was a kind of humility, to which his demeanor corresponded, that might have resulted from his condition, or have been inherent in his nature. He was a man who, even in a land of slavery, would be instinctively respected.

He had been a great favorite with his late master, in whose family he had spent the greater part of his life. By being constantly in attendance upon him and his guests, he had acquired a much greater amount of information than is often found in those of his condition. He could read and write, and by his intelligence and singular fidelity had proved a valuable addition to his master's household. Possessing his confidence, and regarded more as a friend than a slave by Emily, he was a privileged person in the house,—a confidence which in no instance did he abuse, and which in no degree abated his affection or his fidelity.

Hatchie was not a phrenologist, but he had long ago acquired a perfect knowledge of Jaspar's character,—a knowledge which his master or Emily had never obtained.

Hatchie considered Emily, now that her father was dead, as his own especial charge, and he watched over her, in the disparity of their stations, very much as a faithful dog watches over a child intrusted to its keeping. Towards her he entertained a sentiment of the profoundest respect as his mistress, and of parental affection as one who had grown up under his eye.

"Hatchie," said Jaspar, as the mulatto entered the library, "are the hands all in?"

"Yes, sir," replied Hatchie, whose penetrating mind detected the tremulous quiver of Jaspar's lip; "all in two hours ago, according to regulations."

"All right, then. You can go to bed now."

"Yes, sir," replied Hatchie, with his customary obeisance, as he turned to depart.

"Stay a moment. Go to Miss Emily, and get the keys of the secretary," said Jaspar, with assumed carelessness.

Hatchie obeyed; and, suspecting something before, he was confirmed in the opinion now, and determined to watch. His suspicions of something—he knew not what—had been excited by seeing Maxwell in earnest consultation with Jaspar on the day of the funeral. He had, of course, no idea of the plots of the latter; but, in common with all the "boys," he hated Jaspar, and was willing to know more of his transactions.

Giving the keys to Jaspar, he left the room, and heard the creaking of the bolt which fastened the door.

As soon as the servant had departed, Jaspar called his confederate from his concealment.

"Are you ready for business?" said he.

"I am," replied De Guy, "as soon as you pay me the first instalment. I can't take a single step in the dark."

"Here it is," and Jaspar took from his pocket the money. "Have you the document?"

"I have," replied De Guy, producing the fictitious will, which Maxwell had drawn up in conformity with the instructions of Jaspar.

"And you are ready to affix the signature?" said Jaspar, who appeared not to be in the possession of his usual confidence. Few villains ever become so hardened as never to tremble.

"I am. I came for that purpose. Give me the genuine will, and I will soon make this one so near like it that the witnesses themselves shall not discover the cheat," replied De Guy, with an air of confidence.

"You shall have it; but first read this to me. I do nothing blindly."

The attorney, in his silky tones, read the paper through, and Jaspar pronounced it correct in every particular.

"I see nothing in the way of entire success," said Jaspar, rubbing his hands with delight at his prospective fortune.

"Nor I," replied De Guy, "except that these witnesses will deny the substance of it."

"How can they, when they know it not? The colonel, for some reason or other, would not let them read it or know its purport. Maxwell and myself are pledged to secrecy. It is upon this fact that I based the scheme."

"But the will would not be worth a tittle in the law with such witnesses."

"Bah! the colonel knew no one would contest it. He did it at his own risk."

"But will they not contest your will?"

"If they do, I shall find the means of proving what the document affirms, and my case will then stand just as well. As a kind of assurance for the witnesses my brother affixed a character,—a kind of cabalistic design,—upon the will, assuring them it was placed on the will alone. You have a copy of this design?"

"I have. Maxwell gave it to me, and I have practised till I can do it to perfection. Your brother had an odd way of doing business."

"He had; but his oddity in this instance is a God-send."

"But the other document, Mr. Dumont! My stay is already too long!"

Jaspar, taking the keys from the table, opened the secretary, and took from a small iron safe in the lower part of it a large packet, on which were several large masses of wax bearing the impress of Colonel Dumont's seal.

"Now, De Guy," said he, "do your best."

"Do not fear! I never yet saw a name I could not imitate."

"So much the better; but be careful, I entreat you! Think how much depends upon care!"

"O, I can do it so nicely that your brother himself would not deny it, if he should step out of his grave!"

"Silence, man!" said Jaspar, angrily, as a superstitious thrill of terror crept through his veins.

Jaspar took up the packet, and was about to snap the seals, when, quicker than thought, the window through which De Guy had entered flew open, and Hatchie leaped into the room. Without giving Jaspar or his accomplice time to recover from the surprise of his sudden entrance, he levelled a blow at the lawyer, and another at the perfidious brother, which placed both in a rather awkward position on the floor. Hatchie then seized the envelope containing the will, and made his escape in the manner he had entered, well knowing that Jaspar would not hesitate to take his life rather than be foiled in his purpose.

"Is this the daughter of a slave? I know
'Tis not with men as shrubs and trees, that by
The shoot you know the rank and order of
The stem. Yet who from such a stem would look
For such a shoot?"

Knowles.

The morrow came. Emily was summoned to the library, to hear the reading of her father's will. With her no worldly consideration could mitigate the deep grief that pervaded her heart. She derived her only consolation from a purer, higher source. She was a true mourner, and the acquisition of the immense fortune of which she was the heiress was not an event which could heal the wound in her heart. She looked not forward to the bright scenes of triumph and of conquest that awaited her. She was not dazzled by the brilliancy of the position to which wealth and an honorable name entitled her. Such thoughts never occurred to her. She did think of Henry Carroll; but not in the proud situation to which her wealth might elevate him, but as a pure heart that would beat in unison with her own, that would sympathize with her in her hour of sorrow; as one who would mingle his tears with hers, over the bier of a common parent. She was not sentimental in her love, nor in her grief. Sighs and tears with her were not a sentimental commodity,—an offering which the boarding-school miss makes alike at the altar of her love, or at the shrine of a dead parent's memory. The desolation of heart and home was not a trial which wealth and honors could adorn with tinsel, and thus render it desirable, or even tolerable!

Emily Dumont entered the library. The occasion was repugnant to her feelings. The unceremonious blending of dollars and cents with the revered name of her father was extremely painful to her sensibility. It seemed like a profanation of his memory.

Her uncle, Maxwell, the witnesses of the will, and several others,—intimate friends of the family,—were already there. On Jaspar's countenance were no tell-tale traces of the last night's villany. He looked gloomy and sorrowful. So thoroughly had he schooled himself in hypocrisy for this occasion, that the scene he knew would, in a few minutes, transpire, had no prophetic indications in his features. Like the tragedian who is tranquil and unaffected in the scene in which he knows his own death or triumph occurs, Jaspar was calm, and his aspect even sanctimonious.

As Emily entered Maxwell tendered his sympathies in his usual elegant manner, and so touchingly did he allude to the death of her father that with much difficulty she restrained a flood of tears. The scene in the office, and the disfavor with which she had lately regarded him, were forgotten in his eloquence.

After this courtesy to the daughter of his former patron, Maxwell again seated himself, and after briefly and formally stating the reasons of their meeting, to which he added a short but apparently very feeling eulogy of the deceased, he took the packet from the safe, and proceeded to break the seals.

In his full and musical tones the attorney read the preliminary parts of the instrument, and then commenced upon the principal items of the will. First came several legacies to charitable institutions and to personal friends; after which was a legacy of ten thousand dollars to Emily Dumont, to be paid in Cincinnati by his brother. The testator further declared that the said Emily was manumitted, and should proceed under the guidance of his brother to the place designated for the payment of the legacy.

Emily, who had scarcely heeded the provisions of the will until the mention of her name attracted her attention, was, as may be supposed, somewhat astonished to hear her own name in connection with a legacy. She raised her sad eyes from the floor, and heard the other stipulations in regard to her. So utterly unexpected, so terribly revolting, was the clause which pronounced her a slave, that for a time she did not realize its awful import. But the blank dismay of her friends, the well-counterfeited surprise of Jaspar and Maxwell, brought her to a painful sense of her position. She attempted to rise, but in the act the color forsook her face, and she sunk back insensible. In this condition she was conveyed to her room.

The attorney completed the reading of the will, though, after the extraordinary incident which had just occurred, but little attention was given him. The witnesses at once recognized the strange character, and acknowledged the signatures to be genuine. Here, then, thought they, was the reason why the provisions of the will had been concealed from them. So impressed were they with the apparent purpose of Colonel Dumont in throwing the veil of secrecy over the contents of his will, that the very strangeness of it seemed to confirm its genuineness; and they did not scrutinize it so closely as under other circumstances they probably would have done.

How often may a good motive be tortured, by the appearance of evil, into the most despicable criminality! Colonel Dumont in this will had devised large sums of money to various charitable institutions, and in the event of his life being prolonged, did not wish to be pointed at and lauded for this act. True charity is modest, and Colonel Dumont did not desire to see his name blazoned forth to the world for doing that which he honestly and religiously deemed his duty.

This modesty had favored Jaspar's plans. No one could now gainsay the will he had invented; and he felt strong in his position, especially after the witnesses had assented to their signatures.

Among the persona who had been present in the library was Mr. Faxon, an aged and worthy clergyman. He had for many years been an intimate friend of Colonel Dumont, and was a legatee in his will to a liberal amount. A constant visitor in the family, its spiritual adviser and comforter, he had possessed the unlimited confidence of the late planter and his daughter. To him the whole clause relating to Emily seemed like a falsehood. Pure and holy in his own character, it was beyond his conception that a man of Colonel Dumont's lofty and Christian views could have lived so many years in the practice of this deception. He had no means of disproving the illegitimacy of Emily. The family had been unknown to him at the period of her birth. The house-servants, with the exception of Hatchie, were all younger than Emily. Then, the statement was made in the will, and was, therefore, the statement of Colonel Dumont himself,—for the genuineness of the will he did not call in question. In accordance with his general character, her father had manumitted her, and left her a competence. From this clause he inferred that her father intended to place her beyond the reach of harm, and beyond the possibility of ever being reduced to the degraded condition so often the lot of the quadroon at the South. He had not only given her freedom, but had provided for her conveyance beyond the pale of slavery. With these intentions, if she were in reality a slave, Mr. Faxon could find no fault. They were liberal in the extreme. But why had he, at this late period, mentioned the stain upon her birth? Why not let her live as he had educated her? These queries were so easily answered that the good clergyman could not condemn the dead on account of them. If the daughter, then she was the heiress; if not, legitimately, it would be injustice to the brother.

Mr. Faxon reasoned in this manner. He could not believe, even with all the evidence before him. There was a reasonable answer, apparently, to every objection he could think of, and he resolved to apply to Jaspar and Hatchie for more information. All that Jaspar could say, or would say, in answer to his interrogatories, was that his brother's wife had died in giving birth to a dead child; and that Emily, who was the child of a house-servant by him, had so engaged his attention by her singular beauty that he had substituted her for his own child. This story, Jaspar said, his brother had told him in the strictest confidence, many years before. Mr. Faxon, appreciating the disappointment of a father with such a sensitive nature as Colonel Dumont, was willing to believe that Emily had been substituted to supply in his affections the place of the lost child; but that he should educate her as his own child, and then cast her out from the pale of society, was incredible!

The evidence was so strong, he could see no escape from the terrible conclusion that the gentle being, to whom he had ministered in joy and in sorrow, was a slave! It required a hard struggle in his mind before he could reconcile himself to the revolting truth. Her beautiful character, built up mostly under his own supervision, he regarded with peculiar pride. He was not so bigoted, however, as to believe his labors lost, or even less worthy, because bestowed, as it now appeared, upon a slave. In heaven his labors would be just as apparent in the quadroon as in the noble-born lady.

After the departure of the friends who had been summoned to the reading of the will, and whose stay had been prolonged by the melancholy interest they felt in the unfortunate Emily, Mr. Faxon requested to see her, and was shown to her room. She had just been restored to consciousness, by the assiduous efforts of her maids, as the good man entered.

"O, Mr. Faxon!" sobbed Emily, but she could articulate no more. The terrible reality of her situation had entirely overcome her.

"Be comforted, my dear child," said Mr. Faxon, affectionately, taking her hand. "The ways of Providence are mysterious, and we must bend humbly to our lot."

"I will try to be resigned to my fate, terrible as it is," replied Emily, looking at the minister with a subdued expression, while hot tears poured down her cheeks. "You will not forsake me, if all others do!"

"No, no, my dear child; it is my duty to wrestle with sorrow. I have come to direct your thoughts to that better world, where the distinctions of caste do not exist."

"O, that I could die!" murmured Emily, as a feeling of despair crept to her mind.

"Nay, child, you must not repine at the will of Heaven. In God's own good time He will call you hence."

"I will not repine; but what a terrible life is before me!"

"The future is wisely concealed from us. It is in the keeping of the Almighty. He may have many years of happiness and usefulness in store for you."

"But I am an outcast now,—one whom all my former friends will despise,—a slave!" replied Emily, covering her face with her hands, and sobbing convulsively.

"Nay, be calm; do not give way to such bitter thoughts. This may be a deception, though, to be candid, I can scarcely see any reason to think so."

Emily caught at the slight hope thus extended to her; her eyes brightened, and a little color returned to her pallid cheek.

"Heaven send that it may prove so!" said she; "for I cannot believe that he who taught me to call him by the endearing name of father; who watched so tenderly over my infancy, and guided my youthful heart so faithfully; who, an hour before he died, called me daughter, and blessed me with his dying breath,—I cannot believe he has been so cruel to me!"

"It seems scarcely possible; but, my child, the ways of Providence are inscrutable. Whatever afflictions visit us, they are ordered for our good. Trust in God, my dear one, and all will yet be well."

"I will, I will! My father's and your good instructions shall not be lost upon me, slave though I am. Dear father," said she, and the tears blinded her,—"I love his memory still, though every word of this hated will were true. I ought not to repine, whatever be my future lot. That he loved me as a daughter, I can never doubt; that he never told me I am a slave, I will forgive, for he meant it well."

"I am glad to witness your Christian faith and patience in this painful event. But, Emily, had you no intimation or suspicion of this trial before?"

"No, never, not the slightest," said Emily, wiping away the tears which had gathered on her cheeks.

"See if you cannot call to mind some slight circumstance, which you can now recognize as such."

Emily reflected a few moments, and then replied that she could not.

"And your house-servants are all too young to remember as long ago as your birth?"

"All but Hatchie."

"Perhaps you had better send for him, and I will question him.

"I will, and I pray that his knowledge may favor me."

Emily sent one of the maids for Hatchie; but she returned in a few moments, accompanied by Jaspar, who, hearing her inquiries for the man his rifle-ball had sent to the other world, had come to prevent any injurious surmises.

This man, Hatchie, had not escaped Jaspar's attention, in the maturing of his plot; but, as in some other of the particulars, he had trusted to the facilities of the moment for the means of silencing him. Being a man, it was not probable he could know much of the events attending the birth of Emily to his prejudice. If it should prove that he did, why, it was an easy thing to get rid of him. His rifle-ball or the slave-market were always available. But Jaspar's good fortune had smiled upon him, and he felt peculiarly happy, at this moment, in the reflection that he was out of the way, for he doubted not the object of Emily in sending for him.

"Miss Emily," said Jaspar, in a tone of unwonted softness, "I am sorry to say that your father's favorite servant met with a sad mishap last night, of which I intended to have informed you before, but have not had an opportunity."

Emily's cheek again blanched, as she saw all hope in this quarter cut off.

"Poor Hatchie!" said she, as calmly as her excited feelings would permit. "What was it, Uncle Jaspar?"

Jaspar's lip curled a little at the weakness which could feel for a slave, and he commenced the narrative he had concocted to account for the disappearance of Hatchie.

"About eleven o'clock last night," said he, "as I was about to retire, I heard a slight noise, which appeared to proceed from the library. Knowing that you would not be there at that hour, I at once suspected that the river-thieves, who have grown so bold of late, had broken into the house. I seized my rifle, and when I opened the door the thief sprung out at the open window. I pursued him down the shell-road to the river; upon reaching which I perceived him paddling a canoe towards the opposite shore. I fired. A splash in the water followed the discharge. The canoe came ashore a short distance below, but the man was either killed by the ball or drowned. In the canoe I found a bundle of valuables, which had been stolen from the library,—among them your father's watch."

"But was this Hatchie? Are you quite sure it was Hatchie?" asked Emily, with much anxiety; for she felt keenly the loss of her slave-friend.

"My investigations this morning proved it to be so. He is missing, and the appearance of the thief corresponded to his size and form. I am now satisfied, though I did not suspect it at the time, that he was the man upon whom I fired."

"But Hatchie was always honest and faithful," said Emily.

"So he was, and I must share your surprise," returned Jaspar.

"There is a possibility that it was not he," suggested Mr. Faxon.

"There can be no doubt," said Jaspar, sharply. "The evidence is conclusive."

"No doubt!" repeated Mr. Faxon, with a penetrating glance into the eye of Jaspar, whose apparent anxiety to settle the question had roused his first suspicion. "He was, if I mistake not, the only servant of your household who was on the estate at the time of Miss Dumont's birth?"

"He was, I believe," replied Jaspar, with a coolness that belied the anxiety within him.

"Were you alone when you shot him, Mr. Dumont?" asked the clergyman, sternly.

"I was alone. But allow me to ask, sir, by what right you question me. I am not your pupil or your servant," replied Jaspar, rather warmly, his natural testiness getting the better of his discretion.

"Pardon me, sir," replied the minister, in a tone of mock humility. "Do not let my curiosity affront you."

"But it does affront me," said Jaspar, losing his temper at the sarcastic manner of the other. "Now, allow me to inquire your business with this girl."

"I came in the discharge of my duty as a Christian minister, to impart the consolations of religion to this afflicted child of the church. Of course, my business could not be with you in that capacity."

"You seem to have departed very widely from your object," replied Jaspar, with a sneer which he always bestowed upon religious topics.

"True, I have. This last blow upon poor Emily was so sudden and so severe as to call forth a remark, and even a question of the validity of the will."

"Indeed!" replied Jaspar, with a nervous start; "you have the will as her father left it."

"Uncle, you said my father's watch was stolen? Was it not in the iron safe, with the other articles?" asked Emily, timidly.

"It was," replied Jaspar, coldly.

"How did he open it?" interrogated Mr. Faxon, taking up the suggestion of Emily.

"Did Hatchie return the keys to you last night?" asked Jaspar of Emily, promptly.

"He did not," replied she.

"I sent for them to put a note in its place, and sent them back by him immediately. The fellow stood by when I opened the safe, and must have witnessed its contents. You can judge how he opened it now," returned Jaspar, with a sneer, well pleased that he had foiled their inquiries.

"You say that the canoe in which he was making his escape came ashore. Where is it now? No canoe belongs to the estate."

"There is not," said Jaspar, uneasily.

"Perhaps an examination of it will disclose something of the robber, if not of the will."

"So I thought this morning, and for this purpose went to the river, but the canoe was not to be found. I did not secure it last night, and probably it broke adrift and went down," replied Jaspar, whose ingenuity never deserted him.

"Very likely," said the minister, with a kind of solemn sarcasm. "This whole affair seems more like romance than reality."

"I cannot believe my father was so cruel," cried Emily, the tears again coming to the relief of her full heart.

"Do you doubt the word of the witnesses, and the mark and signature of your father?" said Jaspar, fiercely, with the intention of intimidating her.

"No, no! but, Uncle—"

"Call me not uncle again! I am no longer the uncle of the progeny of my brother's slaves. This cheat has already been continued too long."

"I will not call you uncle, but hear me," replied Emily, frightened at Jaspar's violence.

"I will hear nothing more. You will prepare to leave for Cincinnati next week. I will no longer endure the presence of one upon whom my brother's bounty has been wasted. Have you no gratitude, girl? Remember what you are!"

With these cruel words Jaspar hurried out of the room, satisfied that he had established his position, and, at least, silenced Emily. The minister he regarded, as he did all of his profession, with contempt.

Mr. Faxon and Emily had a long consultation upon the embarrassing position of her who had so lately been the envied heiress. The murder of the mulatto, the conduct of Jaspar, and some other circumstances, afforded ground to believe that the will was a forgery. If such was the fact, the minister was compelled to acknowledge that it was a deep-laid plot. Everything seemed to aid the conspirators; for he was satisfied, both from the wording and the chirography of the will, that Jaspar, whatever part he played, was assisted by others. There was not the slightest clue by which the mystery could be unravelled. If there was hope that the will was a forgery, there was no immediate prospect of proving it such.

Under these circumstances, Mr. Faxon felt compelled to advise obedience to the instructions of the will. The journey to the North could do no harm, and was, perhaps, advisable, under the state of feeling which would follow the publicity of the will. Emily, painful as it was to leave the home of her childhood at such a time, acquiesced in the decision of her clerical friend. But there was a feeling in her heart that she was wronged,—that she should go forth an exile from her own Bellevue.

On the following week, Jaspar and Emily proceeded to New Orleans, in the family carriage, to take a steamer for Cincinnati.

"Day after day, day after day,
We stuck,—nor breath, nor motion,—
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean."

ANCIENT MARINER.

It was about the time of the events related in the preceding chapters, at the close of a variable day, in which the storm and sunshine seemed to struggle for the ascendency, that a plain-looking, home-made sort of man might have been seen attempting to effect a safe transit of the steamboat levee at New Orleans. This personage was no other than Mr. Nathan Benson, commonly called at home "Uncle Nathan." He was one of the better class of New England farmers, an old bachelor, well to do in the world, and was now engaged in the laudable enterprise of seeing the country.

Uncle Nathan, though he laid no claims to gentility in the popular signification of the term, was, nevertheless, a gentleman,—one of Nature's noblemen. He was dressed scrupulously neat in every particular, though a little too rustic to suit the meridian of fashionable society. He presented a very respectable figure, in spite of the fact that the prevailing "mode" had not been consulted in the fashioning of his garments. His coat was, without doubt, made by some village tailoress, for many of the graces with which the masculine artist adorns his garments were entirely wanting in those of our worthy farmer. His hat was two inches too low in the crown, and two inches too broad in the brim, for the style; still it was a good-looking and a well-meaning hat, for it preserved the owner's phiz from the burning rays of the sun much better than the "mode" would have done. His boots, though round-toed and very wide, were nicely polished when he commenced the passage of the levee, but were now encased in a thick coating of yellow clay.

Uncle Nathan was a medium-sized man, and preserved as much of nature's grace as a man can who has labored for five-and-thirty years at the stubborn soil of New England. His hair was sandy, and his full, good-natured physiognomy was surrounded by a huge pair of reddish whiskers.

The superficial, worldly-minded man would have deemed Uncle Nathan's principles rather too ultra for common, everyday use; but he, good soul, found no difficulty in applying them to every action he performed. He was, to use a common phrase, a "professor of religion;" but, less technically, he was more than a professor, and strove to live out the spirit of truth and righteousness.

After much difficulty, Uncle Nathan succeeded in effecting a safe passage to the planking which formed the landing for the boats. After a glance of vexation at the soiled condition of his boots (Uncle Nathan was a bachelor!), he commenced his search for an upward-bound steamer, for he was about to begin his homeward tour. Two columns of dense black smoke, the hissing noise of escaping steam, and the splashing paddles of a boat a short distance down the stream, attracted his attention, and towards her he directed his steps. Approaching near enough to read her name, he was not a little surprised to find the boat he had seen advertised to start a week before. Concluding, in his innocence, that some accident had detained her, he hastened on board. Entering the cabin, the scene which was there presented did not exactly coincide with his ideas of neatness or morality. Uncle Nathan had read descriptions of the magnificence of Mississippi steamers; but the Chalmetta (for this was the name of the boat) fell far below them. Even the best boats on the river he considered vastly inferior to the North River and Sound steamers.

After a hasty survey of the Chalmetta's capability of making him comfortable for a week or more, he concluded to take passage in her for Cincinnati, and accordingly he sought for the captain. To his inquiries for that personage a thin, cadaverous-looking man presented himself, and drawled out a civil salutation.

"How long afore you start, cap'n?" inquired Uncle Nathan.

"We shall get off in about ten minutes," replied Captain Brawler. "John," continued he, turning to a waiter near him, with a wink, "tell the pilot to be all ready, and ring the bell."

"Why, gracious!" said Uncle Nathan, hastily, as the waiter dodged into the pantry, "I shan't have time to get my trunk down."

"How far up do you go?" inquired Captain Drawler.

"To Cincinnati, if you can carry me about right," replied Uncle Nathan, with an eye to business.

"Well, as you are going clear through, I will wait a few minutes for you," suggested the captain.

Uncle Nathan thought him very obliging, and after some little "dickering" (for he had heard that Western steamboats were not particularly uniform in their charges), he engaged a passage, applying to the bargain the trite principle that "no berth is secured till paid for," which had been reduced to writing, and occupied a conspicuous place in the cabin. Without waiting to see the berth he had paid for, he hastened to the hotel for the large hair trunk, which contained his travelling wardrobe.

Our worthy farmer made it a point never to cause any one an unnecessary inconvenience; never to read the morning paper more than half an hour when an impatient crowd was waiting to see it; and never in his life stopped his five-cattle team in the middle of a narrow, much-frequented road, to the annoyance of others. So the captain did not have to wait more than five minutes beyond the stated time. Depositing his trunk upon a heap of baggage in the cabin, and turning with pious horror from the gaming-tables there, Uncle Nathan seated himself in an arm-chair on the boiler deck, to await the departure of the boat, and, in anticipation, to feast his vision with the wonders of the Father of Waters. He waited very long and very patiently, for Uncle Nathan considered patience a cardinal virtue, and strove manfully against every feeling of uneasiness. The tongue of the hugs bell over him at intervals banged forth its stunning cadence, the hissing steam let loose from its pent-up cells, the water which the wheels sent surging far up upon the levee, all were indications, to his unsophisticated mind, of a speedy departure.

Two hours he waited, with the same exemplary patience; but still the Chalmetta was a fixture.

Night came, and the music of the bell, and the steam, and the surging water, ceased. Uncle Nathan, thinking patience no longer a virtue, cardinal or secondary, hastened to the captain, with some appearance of indignation on his honest features. The worthy officer very coolly informed him that, owing to the non-arrival of the mail, he should be unable to get off till the next morning.

Uncle Nathan uttered a very peculiar "O!" and, seemingly perfectly satisfied with this explanation, asked to be shown his berth. The captain consulted the clerk, and the clerk consulted the berth-book, which conveyed the astounding intelligence that the berths were all taken!

"All taken!" exclaimed Uncle Nathan, aghast. "Haven't I paid for one?"

The gentlemanly clerk acknowledged that he had paid for one, and kindly offered him a mattress on the floor, assuring him that there would be plenty of berths after the boat got off.

"—And deep the waves beneath them bending glide.
The youth, who seemed to watch a time to sin,
Approached the careless guide, and thrust him in."

PARNELL.

"Accoutred as I was, I plungéd in."

SHAKSPEARE.

Early on the following morning, Henry Carroll and Uncle Nathan were on board the Chalmetta, ready and eager for a start. But they were doomed to more disappointment. Nearly all day the bell banged and the steam hissed; the captain told a hundred lies, but the boat did not budge an inch from her berth. Still there were certain signs that the hour of departure could not be far distant. Fresh provisions and ice in unusually large quantities were received on board about noon, and these are unfailing prognostics of "a good time coming."

At about five o'clock in the afternoon, the captain's ten minutes, with which he had secured an occasional fresh passenger, seemed actually to have expired. Our two friends on board, however, had been so often disappointed that they did not allow a single bright anticipation to enliven their hearts, till they actually heard the order given "to cast off the fasts and haul in the planks." And even then their hopes were instantly dampened by the sudden reversion of the order.

This unexpected change had been produced in the mind of the captain by seeing a splendid equipage dashing at a furious pace across the levee, the driver of which had, by his gestures, made it appear that his vehicle contained passengers.

The carriage drew up opposite the boat, and Emily Dumont and Jaspar alighted from it. Picking their way through the crowd of dealers in cigars, shells, and obscene books, who had just been ejected from the boat, they were soon on board. A few moments' delay in getting up the baggage of the new comers, and the welcome "cast off the fasts and haul in the plank" was again heard. The rapid jingling of the engineer's bell succeeded, and, to the joy of some three hundred souls on board, she backed out into the stream and commenced her voyage. Uncle Nathan breathed freely; the load of anxiety which had oppressed him was removed. But his joy was short-lived, for Henry Carroll informed him that the boat was headed down river!

"What in all natur' can be the meanin' of this?" exclaimed our Northerner, wofully perplexed.

"I cannot tell," replied Henry; "but I am much afraid we shall yet have to stay over Sunday in New Orleans."

"The Lord deliver me!" ejaculated Uncle Nathan. "I will go into the swamp back of the city, afore I will look upon the iniquities of that Sodom again."

"Rather a hard penance; but let us first see what this movement will amount to."

At this moment Captain Drawler descended from the wheel-house, and was immediately besieged by a dozen angry passengers, who had resolved to lynch him, or leave the boat,—which he dreaded more,—if satisfaction was not given.

The stoical captain, with perfect coolness, heard their complaints and their threats. He waited with commendable patience till they had vented their indignation, and then informed them that he only intended to receive a little freight at the lower city, which would not detain him "ten minutes."

The captain's assertion, with the exception of the ten minutes, was soon verified by the boat touching at a sort of dépôt for naval and military stores. The "freight" which the Chalmetta was to take consisted of several long boxes, which lay near the landing. These boxes contained coffins, in which were the remains of some sixteen officers, who had paid the debt of nature in the discharge of their duties in Mexico.

Henry Carroll, with a melancholy heart, witnessed the process of conveying these boxes to the deck of the steamer. In them was all that remained of many stout hearts, with whom, side by side, he had marched to glory and victory. There were the forms with whom he had triumphantly mounted the battlements at Vera Cruz, and raised the stars and stripes over the city of Mexico. There, before him, forever silent, were the dead heroes of Chepultepec and Perote. Those with whom he had endured toils and hardships of no common nature,—with whom he had contended against a treacherous foe, and a more treacherous climate,—were there encoffined before him. They died in defence of their country's honor; and he almost envied them the death which wrote their names, subject to no future stain, upon the roll of fame.

The sight of these boxes, and a knowledge of their contents, also awakened sad reflections in the mind of Uncle Nathan. But his reflections were of a different character from those of the soldier. War he regarded as an unnecessary evil,—one which men had no more right to countenance than they had the deeds of the midnight assassin. The honor of a nation were better sacrificed than that the blood of innocent men should flow in its support. He was a thorough disciple of the peace movement. With such views as these, his sympathies naturally reverted to the dwelling of the departed hero; to the home rendered desolate by the untimely death of a father; to the circle which gathered in tears around the fire-side, to deplore the loss of an affectionate brother and son; to the widow and the orphan, whom war's desolating hand cast into the world to tread alone its dreary path. To Uncle Nathan victory and defeat were alike the messengers of woe. Both were the death-knell of human beings; both carried weeping and wailing to women and children.

After the last box of the pile had been conveyed on board, and preparations were making to cast off, the reflections of hero and moralist were disturbed by several long, loud vociferations, in a strong Hibernian accent. They proceeded from a man, dressed in the tattered remnants of the blue army uniform, who was industriously propelling a wheel-barrow towards the landing, on which was a box of similar description to those just embarked.

"Hould on!" shouted he; "hould on, will yous, and take on this bit of a box?"

"Does it belong with the others?" asked the captain.

"To be sure it does," replied Pat. "What the divil else does it belong to? Arn't it the body of Captain Farrell, long life to his honor! going home to see his frinds?"

"Take it aboard," said Captain Brawler to the deck hands, after examining the direction.

The men lifted the box rather rudely, in a manner which seemed to hurt poor Pat's feelings.

"Bad luck to yous! where were you born, to handle the body of a dead man the like o' that?" said he. "Have yous no rispict for the mim'ry of a haro, that yous trate his ramains so ongintlemanly? Hould up your ind, darlint, and walk aisy wid it!"

"Lively there," cried Captain Drawler, "lively, men!"

"Bad luck to your soul for a blackguard, as ye are!" shouted Pat. "Where did you lave your pathriotism?"

The box was by this time on deck, and the captain, to do him justice, made all haste to proceed on his voyage.

The cases containing the remains of the officers were deposited in the after part of the hold, to which access was had by means of a hatch near the stern. Pat's peculiar charge was placed on top of the others, and he maintained a most vigilant watch over it.

There was now a fair prospect of commencing the voyage, and our two passengers were in high spirits. Henry was not a little fearful that the boat would resume her long-occupied position at the levee; the very thought of such a calamity was painful in the extreme. But this fear was not realized; the Chalmetta gave the levee a wide berth. The Rubicon was passed; the shades of doubt and anxiety were supplanted by the clear sunshine of a bright prospect.

"We are at last fairly started," said Henry, seating himself by the side of Uncle Nathan, on the boiler deck.

"Thank fortin, we are!" responded the farmer, heartily. "We are fast getting away from that den of sin."

"And you may preserve your morals yet," said Henry, with a pleasant laugh.

"My morals are safe enough, thank the Lord!" answered Uncle Nathan, a little touched at this reflection upon his firmness; "but I don't like the place, to say nothing of its morals."

"Very likely. But see that Irishman—the fellow who had charge of the box. He looks poorly enough, as far as this world's goods are concerned, but happy and full of mirth, for all that."

"He looks as though he had seen hard times," added Uncle Nathan, indifferently.

"He does, indeed, like many other of the poor soldiers; but, I warrant me, he has a stout will, and an honest heart. I say, my fine fellow," said Henry, addressing Pat, "come up here."

"Troth I will, then, for I see yous wear the colors of Uncle Sam," replied the Irishman, making his way to the boiler deck.

"Long life to your honor!" continued Pat, as he reached the deck, and making a low bow, as he doffed his slouched hat,—"but I wish I had the money to trate your honor."

"Which means," replied Henry, "as you have not, I should treat you?"

"That's jist it, your honor. I persave your honor is college-larnt by the way yous see into my heart."

Henry laughed heartily, and so did Uncle Nathan; though, to tell the truth, our moralist of the North was sorry to see his companion hand the man a "bit" to drink with, for he was a member of the temperance society.

Pat got the "smile," and with a grateful heart returned to his patron.

"Thank your honor, kindly," said Pat.

"Now tell me, Pat, what regiment you served in," said Henry.

"In the first Pennsylvanians,—Captain Farrell's company."

"Captain Farrell's! I knew him well,—a fine fellow and a gallant officer! Many were the tears shed when the vomito carried him off," said Henry, with much feeling. "And you were one of his company?"

"Troth, I was, thin. He was every inch a sodger and a gintleman."

"And the box you brought on board contains his remains?"

"Upon me sowl it contains the body of as good a man as iver breathed the breath o' life," replied Pat, very emphatically.

"Very true. You speak well of your captain, and he deserved all he will ever get of praise. Here, Pat, is a dollar for you; and if you want anything, come to me."

"Thank your honor," replied Pat, uncovering, with a bow and a scrape of the foot. "You are as near like poor Captain Farrell as one pay is like another. Long life to your honor,—may you live forever, and then die like a haro!"

"A genuine Irishman!" said Henry, as Pat descended to the main deck; "one in whom gratitude and faithfulness are as strong as life itself!"

"He seems a good sort of man," returned Uncle Nathan, who had but little appreciation of the Irish heart.

The conversation was interrupted by the ringing of the supper-bell. An eager multitude rushed to the cabin; but every seat was already occupied. On a crowded boat on the Mississippi there is often much selfishness displayed. On the Chalmetta half an hour before tea-time the most knowing of the passengers had stationed themselves in a line around the table, ready to charge upon the plates, like a file of soldiers, the moment the bell rang. Those who did not understand the necessity of this precaution, on entering the cabin were much surprised to find every place occupied, and were comforted with the assurance of a second table.

Uncle Nathan and Henry secured seats which had been reserved for ladies who did not appear to claim them. Opposite them were seated Emily and her uncle. She was dressed in deep mourning, and her countenance was saddened by the gloom of affliction. Her eyes were reddened by weeping, in which she had indulged freely in the quiet of her state-room. By intense effort she had subdued her violent agitation, and a sad calmness rested upon her face, that belied her feelings.

Henry Carroll, who had not before been aware of her presence, was, as may be supposed, astonished at this meeting. In her sable dress and melancholy aspect he read the sad affliction which had befallen her in the death of her father. Their eyes met, and exchanged warmer greetings than their words could have done. A sad smile—the smile of pleasure—rested upon her beautiful features, as they interchanged salutations. Her pale cheek was slightly crimsoned with a tell-tale blush. Her fluttering heart refused to retain its secret.

Henry expressed his grief at the melancholy event which had shrouded her in the weeds of mourning,—not in words alone, but his sorrow for the death of a kind friend was more eloquently told in his countenance.

Jaspar was chagrined at this meeting, and his awkward attempts to be civil to Henry were entire failures. This was an event for which he was not prepared,—the consequences of which filled him with anxiety. He knew that in Henry his wronged niece would have a zealous advocate;—not a superannuated priest, but a young man whose blood was warm, and whose soul was full of energy. True, he reasoned, the young officer was powerless as a diplomatist. Ho as yet knew nothing of the will, or of Emily's degraded position. Henry knew the feelings and character of his brother, and would be the last one to believe the infamous statement of the will. What the father might have said to him in regard to her he knew not. As guilt always does, he imagined a thousand dangers, and saw with a clear vision the real ones besides.

At the tea-table there was little conversation beside the ordinary courtesies of the occasion. Jaspar said but little.

The guilty never feel any security in the enjoyment of ill-gotten wealth. The murderer is haunted by the ghost of his victim. The cries of the widow and the orphan continually ring in the ear of the avaricious. The fear of discovery haunted Jaspar. Although he saw no probability of his villany being exposed, the fear of discovery troubled him day and night. Revengeful and cruel, dauntless and bold, as he had ever been, the present seemed a crisis in his life. He had accomplished the climax of villany, and as he had racked his powers of invention for the means of attaining his purpose, he now taxed them for the means of concealing it. The insecurity of his position was so tedious, that he sought, as the tempest-tost mariner seeks the quiet haven, to fortify it, so that he might be at rest from the tormenting doubts which assailed him. Vain hope! there is no rest for the wicked. Plots and schemes ran through his mind; but they afforded no satisfaction. There was only one event which promised the least mitigation of his mental sufferings, and this was the death of his niece. Black as he was at heart, he shrank from her murder,—not at the deed, but at the terrible consequences to him which might follow it.

Emily was conducted to the ladies' cabin by Jaspar, who, by a dogged adherence to her side, seemed determined to prevent any further conversation between her and Henry. But the black chambermaid, with an official dignity which is oftentimes necessary in her position, politely requested him to retire. Jaspar left, satisfied she would be safe from intrusion for the present.

Jaspar's disposition to prevent further conversation between Emily and Henry was not unperceived by the latter. He was satisfied that her uncle's close attendance at her side—so foreign to his former manner—was not without its purpose. Love, which he had in vain attempted to stifle, pressed more vigorously at his heart. In her recognition of him he had read that the sentiment in her heart was not abated by his absence. Her melancholy aspect had awakened a new interest in him. Disappointed in obtaining the interview he desired, he sought the hurricane deck to think of her, and to cherish the warm feeling in his heart. But what was his surprise, on reaching it, to find Emily there, and alone!

After the departure of Jaspar she had retired to the gallery which surrounds the cabin, to enjoy the freshness of the evening air. The gallery was somewhat crowded, and, with a lady and gentleman, she had ascended to the hurricane deck. Her companions, more gay and happy than she, soon left her to the gloom and comparative silence which usually reigns on the upper deck. There were no other passengers there, and, fearing not the darkness or the loneliness, she was there venting the sadness which pervaded her heart. She was about to descend, when she recognized Henry.

Emily related to him the circumstances of her father's death, and of the reading of the will.

"Impossible!" exclaimed Henry, in astonishment.

"It is strange; but I cannot see any reason to disbelieve it, except that my father's character assures me it is not so."

"Which would be a very good reason for disbelieving it. And you are now on your way to Cincinnati?"

"I am; and it is the most melancholy journey I ever attempted. But I ought to be thankful for all that comes,—if I am a slave, for the freedom that awaits me."

"Good Heavens! Emily, do not talk so! You freeze the blood in my veins!"

"Nay, I feel somewhat reconciled to the terrible reality now, for it little matters what I really am, since the will—true or false—condemns me to the odium of having been a slave. You will not wish now to own your sister!" said Emily, with a sad smile.

"Yes, were you ten times a slave, it would not obliterate the mark of the omniscient God! It could not alter the beauty of the features or the character. I should be proud of such a sister, even did she wear the shackles. But you! No, no, there is no stain upon your birth!"

"And can you regard me as you once did? A—"

"An angel. Yes, truly, as an angel of the higher order."

"Nay, nay, this sounds not like the Henry Carroll of a month since. You are a flatterer," said Emily, with a smile.

"I did but say what I would have gladly said then," replied Henry.

The fear of ingratitude to a father no longer chained his heart to the narrow limit of friendship. He saw her before him trodden down by misfortune, in the power of subtlety and villany, and as a child of misfortune his heart even more strongly inclined to her. He loved her more tenderly than before.

"Then, when sorrow was a stranger, you were subdued and distant to your sister," said Emily, her heart fluttering with the storm of emotion within it.

"I am as I was then; but you were a child of affluence, and I feared to—to—"

"Why did you fear?" asked Emily, not waiting to hear the word Henry was stammering to enunciate. "Had you no confidence in your sister?"

"I did have confidence in the sister. But I fear it was not a sister's confidence I sought."

"Indeed!" said Emily, her emotions destroying the appearance of surprise the word was intended to convey.

"Emily, I will not now attempt to conceal the feelings which have torn my heart," said Henry, in a low tone, as he took her willing hand. "When I bade you farewell,—alas! what misfortunes have come since!—when I left you for I dared not think how long, you know not what violence I did to the warmest feeling of my heart. You know not what misery the struggle between that feeling and duty has caused me. I have striven to conquer it; but Heaven has now put you in my path, thus bidding me resist no more the impulse of my heart. I love you, Emily, and I have tried, for your sake and your father's, to conquer my love. Say, Emily, may I venture to hope my love is not unvalued?"

A slight pressure of the hand he held was all the answer he received—was, indeed, all he asked.

"You forget what I am," murmured Emily.

"I will always forget what this will has said you are. But Heaven will not let the innocent be wronged, nor the guilty remain unpunished. A month since, how I wished you were not the heiress of a millionaire!"

"Why did you wish it? Did you think that gold would blacken my heart?"

"No, dear Emily, but it would have been ingratitude in me to win your love, and thus destroy any other plan your father might have cherished."