University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
IN LOVE.

The first words of my fair hostess increased
my perplexity and amazement.

“So, truant, I have you at last!” she
exclaimed, with animation, stepping
back a pace, resting a hand on each
shoulder, and letting her soft bright eyes
look full into mine. I was bewildered.

“Good heavens!” cried I, “do you
know me?”

“To be sure I do: did you think two
years would efface your image from my
remembrance? Ah! I would have
known you had we met accidentally in
a strange city; how much more then
here, when I knew you were coming.
You look well,” she continued, while I
stood dumb with astonishment; “better
than I ever saw you before; travel has
improved you; you are right handsome.”

Here she turned her head aside, and
I could perceive a nervous twitching of
the muscles around her mouth, as if she
were trying to repress the exhibition of
some deep emotion. But in vain her
effort; and the next moment she lay
heavily against my breast, and her tears
flowed freely.

“Chide me not!” she murmured;
“chide me not! I promised not to weep;
but I cannot help it; I am so glad to
see you.”

“This must be some mistake,” I now
ventured to say, hardly knowing whether
to regard what I saw and felt as
real, or as some vision of the brain—a
dream from which all too soon I must
wake.

“How a mistake?” she inquired,
looking up.

“Why, who do you take me for, fair
lady?”

“Come, come—no more of your
jokes—at least not now. You cannot
play upon me. I tell you I know you.
I recognized your voice, when you so
innocently inquired who is Miss Clara;
but I thought I would be sure, ere I
made any demonstrations of joy. But
where is aunt? and how is it you come
alone? Ah! some mischievous plot of
yours, I'll be bound.”

“Miss Clara,” replied I—“since
such I understand is your name, this appears
to be a very singular mistake,
which on your account I regret exceedingly.
You are expecting some one,
between whom and myself there must
be a very extraordinary resemblance;
but I do assure you, most sincerely, I
am not the person you take me for; and
that never, till within this hour, had I
the pleasure of looking upon your countenance.”

“Ah, brother,” she said, pouting her
rosy lips, “why will you persist in
teasing me in this way? Come! I shall
get angry, if you do not instantly acknowledge
that you are Walter Moreland,
my own dear brother, and then
give me such a kiss as a sister ought to
have.”

“Moreland!” repeated I: “Moreland!
surely that name is familiar to
me—where have I heard it before? Ha!
yes—it must be the same!” exclaimed
I; and hastily producing my pocketbook,
I took from it a memorandum of
facts gathered from the letters of the
young man who perished the victim of
a gambler on the Neptune. “Thomas
Moreland, of Centreville, Texas,—
Son of the Widow Moreland,” I read.
“May I ask, Miss Clara, if you know
the individuals mentioned? and if they
are connected with your family?”

“Brother, why will you tease me
so?” cried my fair companion, with a
vexed expression. “You know Thomas
is our cousin.”

“Miss Moreland,” said I, gravely,
taking her hand, “I see you still persist
in calling me brother; but you must be
undeceived, as you soon will be. I solemnly
give you my word of honor as a
gentleman, that I am not your brother—
that my name is not Walter Moreland,
—and that, till yesterday, I never set
foot on the soil of Texas.”

Miss Moreland looked at me incredulously,
for a moment or two, and then,
starting back, alarmed, exclaimed:

“If not Walter Moreland, my brother,
then who on earth are you?”

`My name is Henry Walton, and I
am from Virginia.”

“Oh, what have I said and done?”
she cried, hiding her blushing face.
“Stay! one test!” and suddenly springing
to me, she lifted the hair from my
right temple. Ah! no,” she said; “I
am wrong; the scar is not here. Oh!
sir, ten thousand pardons! I am overwhelmed
with confusion. Hetty, (to the
servant, who had all this time been a silent
spectator,) did you not think this
gentleman my brother?”

“Didn't know, Missee Clara; rader
tink so when I seed you kiss him.”

“Go and attend to your duties, Hetty!”
said Miss Moreland, sternly, fresh
color mounting to her temples, till her
face glowed like a coal of fire. Then,
turning to me again: “Ah, sir, I shall
never forgive myself for making such a
ridiculous mistake.”

I felt I could forgive her a hundred
such; and so no doubt would you, reader,
of the sterner sex, had you been in
my place. Had she been old and ugly,
the case might have been different; but
it seems a very easy matter to forgive a
young and beautiful woman, when her
only crime is that of being a little too
affectionate.

And here let me pause to say that
Clara Moreland was both young and
beautiful. Her age was about eighteen,
and her form well developed and symmetrical.
Every motion combined
grace and dignity, with a sort of winning,
affectionate ease, if I may be permitted
such a term, which made her very
charming. Her complexion was light,
and her skin soft, and clear. She had
sunny hair, and mild, liquid blue eyes,
which beamed upon you, through their
long lashes, a soul of intellect and tenderness.
Her face was full, almost
round, with a kind of radiant expression,
which even in repose gave her an
animated appearance. Her lips were
full, and slightly pouting, and just sufficiently
open to display a row of pearly
teeth. A warm tint, of rosy health,
rested on her cheeks; and her color
came and went in keeping with her
feelings—presenting, not unfrequently
in the same moment, the varying shades
of an Aurora Borealis. Nothing could
exceed in beauty the plumpness of her
arms—which were now bare to the
elbow—and the lady-like taper of her
hand and fingers. Her smile was the
most bewitching I had ever seen, and
her laugh the most musical I had ever
heard. In short, she surpassed the
ideal picture I had formed from hearing
her sing; and as I intend to be candid
with you, reader, I must frankly confess,
that from the first I felt myself most desperately
in love with her.

In reply to what she had said in
the way of apology, I stammered out
something about being too happy in
knowing that I resembled one so dear to
her: and was going on in this strain—
which would have brought me up, I
know not where—when it suddenly occurred
to me, that I was taking unwarrantable
liberties with a mistake: and I
in turn became confused and embarrassed,
and finally ended with:

“I crave pardon, Miss Moreland! I
know not what I am saying.”

A dead silence ensued, and we both
stood blushing and abashed. I would
have given no small sum, to have extricated
myself in a polite and dignified
manner; but if my life had depended on
it, I would not have ventured another
sentence, for fear of making a fool of
myself. Oh, the humiliating agony of
that moment! I shall never forget it. I
have been in some very perilous and
trying situations since; I have seen
death staring me in the face in various
forms; but candidly I confess, I do not
know that I ever felt more, in the same
space of time, in my life. You may

laugh, reader,—you that have never
been similarly tried; but I appeal to all
of experience in such matters, to say if
they doubt the truth of my assertion.
Talk about bayonets and batteries! I
have since faced both, like a man, when
the battle was raging, and death was
doing its work on every side; but it
was nothing to standing before the battery
of the lovely Clara Moreland's
eyes. I could think, reason, speak and
act on the battle-field; here I could
do neither; all my intellectual faculties
seemed jumbled into chaos; and poor
I standing there, a kind of “wreck of
matter.”

Woman, by a peculiar gift, is generally
the first, at such times, to recover
herself; and it was so in the present
instance: for Clara, accidentally resting
her eyes on my box, said, timidly:

“I believe you called to—”

“Oh, yes,” I interrupted, speaking
the first clear idea that entered my
head, and which I gathered from following
her eyes to the box; “Yes, I called
to sell you some jewelry; have some
very fine, I assure you;” and I made a
motion toward the box, when her language
arrested me.

“Jewelry?” she repeated, with a
look of surprise. “Oh, then you are a
pedler?” and I fancied she drew herself
up a little proudly, “I was about to observe,
I thought you called to learn
something concerning my cousin, Thomas
Moreland, as you mentioned the
name.”

Reader, did you ever, in a dream,
fancy yourself in a glorious region of
beatitude? and then, by a blunder of the
foot, feel yourself pitched headlong
down, far down, into a quagmire? If
you ever did, you no doubt felt somewhat
“fallen from your high estate;”
but even then, you feelings were bliss
compared to mine, when I fully comprehended
what a mercenary blockhead
I had made of myself. If what I had
previously experienced may be termed
the torture of bashfulness—what I now
underwent must be denominated the
quintessence of meanness.

What! seek to sell jewelry to the
divinity before me? I, of the best blood
of old Virginia—a descendant of the
Cavaliers—the son of a wealthy planter
—a gentleman of independent fortune?
I, Harry Walton, to seek to dispose of
my gew-gaws, for a profit, to the only
being I had ever seen that I loved? Oh,
I could have cut my tongue out for uttering
the words; I would have torn
myself with red-hot pincers, to have had
them unsaid; and as for the box of vile
trinkets, if my wishes on that had been
granted, it would long since have been
in a place where I hope I never shall
be. It has been said of the lamented
Davy Crocket, that when he wanted to
crawl through a hole one-half the size
of his body, he thought of the meanest
thing he ever did, and went through
easily; and on the same principle, I
believe, just then, I could have crawled
through a gimlet hole. “Well,” thought
I, with an old motto, “ `desperate diseases
require desperate remedies;' and
something must be done now, Harry, to
regain your footing, or you will never
be able to hold your head up again.”
For the time it would take one to count
ten, I thought intensely, desperately,
agonizingly; and then I had settled on
my course.

“Miss Moreland,” I began, with a
courtly ease that, three minutes before,
I would almost have sacrificed my right
hand to possess: “Miss Moreland, in
judging by appearances, we often judge
wrongly. I am not what I seem. I
am not a pedler. True, this is a box of
jewelry; and on the road hither I have
stopped at several dwellings, and effected
several sales. But in doing so I had
a purpose, which at present I cannot
explain to you. And now, pardon me
for speaking candidly, and saying why
I am here. I was passing this house
with a friend, when we were both arrested
by hearing sounds of melody that
I fancied could proceed from no ordinary
being. To behold that being I felt
an irresistible desire; and without thinking
further, than that I could make my
adopted vocation an excuse for my intrusion,
I made bold to enter here, and
you know what has followed.”

My fair companion again blushed, and
seemed more embarrassed than ever;
but finally stammered out:

“This—this is quite singular—very
strange!”

“It is strange, Miss Moreland; for
everything appears strange to us, that
we cannot give a reason for; but what
seems most singular of all, is, that in
me you should behold such a likeness
to your brother, and that in you I should
find so near a relative of one who, a
stranger to me, I chanced to see die, and
consigned to a stranger's grave, in a
strange land. It seems more than accident,
Miss Moreland; and I am fain to
believe that Providence has brought us
together.”

“I do not understand you, sir,” she
said, turning pale.

“Thomas Moreland, your cousin, is
no more.”

“Dead?” she almost shrieked.

`Alas! that I must say yes.”

“How? where? when? Oh! this is
terrible news! You are not deceiving
me, sir?”

“He that could trifle with your feelings
on such a subject, Miss Moreland,”
I replied, gravely, “is a vile wretch—
and I trust you do not think me such.”

“Oh, no, sir—no—forgive me! I
knew not what I said—this news came
so sudden. Oh, tell me how it happened!”

“Calm, yourself, Miss Moreland,” I
said; and I proceeded to give her all
the particulars I knew concerning the
gambler's victim—how he died and
where he was buried—the which being
know to the reader, I need not here repeat.

She burst into tears, and wept like a
child.

“Poor Thomas!” she exclaimed;
“what a terrible fate! Alas! alas! his
poor mother! this blow, I fear, will kill
her—for he was all her hope;” and she
wept anew.

I did not offer anything in the way
of consolation—for well I knew there
is no solace for grief equal to tears. At
last, becoming somewhat tranquilized,
she proceeded to answer my inquiry
concerning the unfortunate young man,
by giving me a brief history of his family,
which was in substance as follows:

Frederick Moreland, the father of
Thomas, had removed to Texas, from
Kentucky, during the early struggles of
the late Republic for independence. He
had a wife and four children, the youngest
of whom, Thomas, was then an infant.
He had purchased a tract of land near the
Brazos, and been settled upon it only
about six months, when a gang of Mexicans
came to his house one night, killed
him and three children, plundered the
dwelling, and set it on fire. Just previous
to the attack, Mrs. Moreland, with
her youngest born in her arms, had
stepped out, and hearing the murderous
assault, concealed herself in a thicket,
and so escaped the massacre. This
terrible blow had nearly proved fatal to
her; but she had survived it, to concentrate
all her thoughts, affections, hopes,
and fears, upon the only remaining child.
He grew up a wayward youth, was
over-indulged, and had squandered her
fortune in drinking and gambling. For
the last two years, however, he had
been a reformed man; but, alas! his
early dissipation had planted the seeds
of disease that bade fair to make him its
victim. His mother, with whom he
lived, could not bear the thought that he
should die so young, and advised him to
travel; and, to give him the means, was
about to sell the little all she possessed,
when it was accidentally discovered, that
Frederick Moreland, the husband and
father, had a claim on the United States
Government for services rendered, as
surveyor on the Red River, previous to
his removal to Texas. This claim, with
interest, amounted to between one and
two thousand dollars; and Thomas, to
see the country, and improve his health,
had gone to Washington, to petition
Congress to settle it. Since then, Clara
had heard nothing of him, till I informed
her of his death. We were now led to
believe, from what I had heard him utter,
that he had succeeded in getting the
money, and was on his return, when
the desire of gaming getting the better of
his resolution, he yielded to the temptation,
and so shortened his days. What
an awful destiny was his! and oh! how

terribly must the intelligence of his doom
fall upon the ear of his poor mother! I
shuddered at the thought.

My narration of the death and burial
of Miss Moreland's cousin—her brief
story of his history, and the causes that
led to his untimely end—together with
the uniting of our sympathies on the
same objects, living and dead—established
at once a feeling of intimacy between
her and myself, that months might
not have effected, had we met under
other circumstances; and as for myself,
I could hardly realize that we had
known each other less than two hours
—or rather, perhaps, correctly speaking,
that we hardly knew each other yet.

In further conversation she spoke
freely of her own history—said she resided
in Houston—that her father was
one of the early pioneers of the country
—was a personal friend of General
Houston—had fought under him for the
independence of Texas—had risen to
the rank of Colonel—was a member of
the Texan Congress, and had been a
strenuous advocate for annexation. She
had one brother older, and one sister
younger than herself, and a mother—all
now living. Her brother—who bore a
remarkable resemblance to myself, and
who, as nigh as I could judge, was quite
an original in his way—had been absent
two years in Europe, and was now
on his return. A letter had been received
from him, dated at New Orleans,
in which he stated he expected to reach
Galveston by a certain steamer, which
was now due. She, Clara, had come
down to stay a day or two with her
aunt—her mother's sister—who, with
her children, three in number, had gone
to meet her brother at the boat. As
there was not convenient room in the
carriage for more, she had preferred
awaiting his arrival here.

Thus conversing, happy beyond wish
of change, I “took no note of time,”
till I chanced to hear a clock strike the
fifth hour from noon. This suddenly
brought to recollection where I was, and
in what manner I had left my friend. I
sprang to my feet.

“You are not going?” said Miss
Moreland, in a tone of bewitching sweetness.

“I must—I must!—heavens! how
the time has flown! I cannot realize
we have been three hours together.”

“To me it seems as if we had been
much, very much, longer acquainted,”
replied my fair companion, with the utmost
naivete. “But perhaps,” she
added, quickly, blushing at the thought
of the construction I might put upon
her words—“perhaps it is because of
your striking likeness to my brother.
But surely, Mr. Walton, you can stop
to tea? My aunt would be delighted to
see you; and my brother also, if he
comes.”

“And no one could be more delighted
at my accepting your kind invitation,
than your humble servant, Miss Moreland,”
I replied; “and accept it I
would, I assure you, had I only myself
to consult. But there are others in the
case. I have a friend awaiting me, and
must therefore decline. But, Miss
Moreland—” here I ventured to take
her hand, which trembled, as did my
voice, while her respiration changed
the color deepened on her beautiful features,
and her soft bewitching eyes
sought the ground, and their long lashes
drooped over them: “Miss Moreland—”
here I really began to grow
embarrassed, with excess of emotion,
and my brain to grow clouded: “Miss
Moreland—I—that is—will you—may
I hope—this is not—our last—meeting,
and that I—”

“Dar's a nigger out here, says as how
his name's Tom, and wants to know ef
his Massa Walloon in dis house,” cried
Hetty, at this moment bursting into the
room.

Reader, you must fancy what followed—or
if you cannot, you may console
yourself with the reflection, that
you know just as much about it as I do.
I have an indistinct recollection, however,
of seeing something white disappear,
and something black take its
place; and Tom has since assured me,
in a sorrowful way, that the black was
himself, and that on that memorable occasion
he was nearly shaken to death.

I am rather inclined to think he had
some foundation for his assertion, from
the fact, that the first thing I do distinctly
remember, I was standing in the
middle of the road, and had the collar
of his coat closely compressed between
two thumbs and several nervous digits.