 | CHAPTER II. Bankrupt stories |  |
2. CHAPTER II.
WILL CONTAIN A BRIDAL AND A BURIAL.
IT was something more than a fortnight since the arrival
of young Tremlett in Charleston and he lay sick, almost
to death of a loathsome and virulent disease. On landing he
had called immediately upon Mr. Loudon and frankly told
him the cause of his visit, and that correct and high spirited
merchant, though mortified in the extreme when he heard it,
convinced him of the entire groundlessness of the information
received by his father, by offering to pay on the spot the full
amount due to his firm the moment a balance could be made.
This was abundantly satisfactory, of course; but not satisfied
with John's assurances, Mr. Loudon had his book-keeper to
make out a full statement of his affairs, with an affidavit of
its correctness affixed, showing him to be worth a very considerable
sum after all his debts should be paid. But this
John refused to examine or even to take with him to his
father. He was exceedingly well pleased with the termination
of his business, and made his arrangements for leaving
the next day, although he felt a strong inclination to accept
of Mr. Loudon's invitation to spend a day or two on his plantation
a few miles from the city. But his anxiety to return
home was very great, not only on his father's account, but for
the sake of Fidelia, whose image had haunted him, sleeping
or waking, ever since he left her, and he retired to his chamber
at an early hour partly that he might rise early in the morning,
head and back, which he attributed to over exertion and want
of rest. His servant awoke him at the appointed hour in the
morning, but when he attempted to rise, he found himself too
weak to stand; his head seemed to be on fire, and in a few
moments, he lost all consciousness, save only a wild and fearful
thought that he could not lose, that he was lying in the
midst of a burning lake; how long this horrid seeming continued
he knew not, but when he awoke to a perception of
the things about him he more than ever thought himself in a
wild and feverish dream. His acute sufferings would not
allow him long to remain under such a delusion. His hands
were bound up so that he could not move them; his eyes
were swollen; his whole body, from his head to his feet,
burned as though he were lying upon a bed of coals, and a
fiery thirst seemed to dry up all the moisture of his frame.
A negro woman stood at his head, bathing his face with a
sponge wet with rose-water and milk.
“Where am I?” he said gazing about him and trying to
rise, “where am I? how got I here?”
“Lord love you, young master,” said the negro woman,
you are in your own room; lie still, honey.”
“Where is my father? where is Jeremiah? where is Mrs.
Swazey?”
“O, honey, lie still. Blessed Lord! don't talk master.”
“This is not my room, I don't know it. Who are you,
what are you? Why are my hands bound? Let me look
in a glass that I may know who I am.”
The nurse brought him a small mirror from the dressing
bureau, and as he caught sight of his face he fell back with a
groan. He well might doubt his own impersonality, for his
face bore no possible resemblance to his recollection of himself.
He lay a long while, fully conscious of his sufferings,
but unable to reconcile his present condition to his former
else with his own recollections, but directly he caught sight of
his watch hanging by his bed, and Mr. Loudon coming in a
few moments afterwards, related to him the full particulars of
his situation. He had been confined to his bed a week and at
one time his physician had considered his case hopeless, but
since his disease had shown itself they felt confident of his recovery.
His hands had been bandaged to prevent him from
scarring his face by tearing his flesh in his delirium. Mr.
Loudon had taken a favorite slave from his own family to
wait upon him; and although she was a good nurse, she was
peculiarly well qualified to wait upon him, as she had had
the disease herself but a few months before, and was perfectly
familiar with the proper treatment of it; for she was a valuable
servant and had been attended by the best physicians in
the place. He was pained to hear that Mr. Loudon had written
to his father informing him of his danger, and begged that
another letter might be immediately written to inform the old
gentleman that he was getting better. Mr. Loudon promised
to do so in the morning, and as the day was drawing to a
close and he had to go to his plantation, he bade him good
night, after a very short stay, and left him. Juno, the nurse,
had gone out, and he was all alone; his head burned and he
gasped for a cooling drink; but his hands were bound so that
he could not pull the bell and he was too feeble to call for
assistance. There was no candle burning, but a faint streak
of red in the west cast a gloomy and uncertain light into the
chamber and threw heavy and indistinct masses of grotesque
shadows on the walls that seemed to oppress him, he knew
not why, for he knew they were but shadows. The air was
hot and dull and the mosquitoes were beginning to buzz
around his head threatening to add to his already insupportable
heat by their poisonous bite. A huge ungainly bird flew
lazily past his window flapping its dusky wings and croaking
and sounds, and thinking how much his sufferings would be
lessened if only Fidelia, or his father, or even Mrs. Swazey
were near him, and ejaculating “O, if God thought it not
good that man should be alone in Eden, man can never know
how good it is to have a help-meet here until he has been
stretched upon a bed of sickness,” when suddenly, O, welcome
sight, his father approached to his bed-side and looked
upon him with a sad pale face, but spoke no word.
The young man sprang upwards by a great effort and exclaimed,
“O, father, father!” But, still his father spake not.
“O, father, will you not speak to me? O, why did they not
tell me you were here. But, overcome by the exertions he
had made, he fell back upon his pillow, his eyes still resting
upon his father's form, whose mournful and troubled gaze
alarmed him. He was just trying to reach out his arms when
his nurse came in and his father disappeared from his side.
“Where is my father gone?” he said, “Why did they not
let me know before that he was here? when did he arrive?
O, beg him to come back to me, Juno.”
“O, honey!” said Juno, “bless your sweet soul, young
master, old master has not been here. Don't talk, honey.
Let me wash your face wis rose water and cool milk.”
“Why do you deceive me?” he cried pettishly, “it is cruel
to trifle with me; go, Juno, and send my man Patrick to me.”
“Dear heart, you is took sick, took sick, honey. Lie still
one little minute. There, honey.” She bathed his face with
the sponge and then went out and returned in a few moments
with Patrick.
“O, Patrick,” said John, “why did you not come and tell
me that my father was here?”
“Heaven bless you sir,” said Patrick, “but Mr. Tremlett
has not been here at all.”
“Why do you all deceive me, he stood here but a moment
since.”
“Faith thin you may depind upon it, sir, but I did not
know of it at all before.” And then Patrick whispered behind
the curtains to Juno that the poor young gentleman was
quite gone out of his senses. Which was not in fact far from
the truth, for he had over-exerted himself and the agitation
of his mind had heightened his fever, and he soon began to
talk wildly and vehemently until, becoming weak and exhausted,
he fell into a troubled slumber, which lasted until
past midnight, and when he awoke, the real incidents of the
evening appeared to him like a part of the dream that haunted
him in his sleep; and he made no more enquiries about his
father, believing that he had only dreamed of seeing him.
From this time he grew better although he still continued to
suffer severely. The fourth day after his cousciousness returned,
as he lay in a half dreamy state while Juno bathed his
burning brow with a cooling wash, and his imagination called
around him a host of beautiful figures, each of them in
some manner reminding him of Fidelia, and yet each unlike
her, Patrick came into his chamber with a very important air
and announced to him that a young lady had just arrived
from the north who insisted on seeing him.
“A young lady, Patrick? And, did she send her name?”
“Faith, sir, she wouldn't,” said Patrick, “and when they
told her she musn't see you she took on like mad.”
“Let her come, Patrick, let her come,” replied John, for
his mind had been so filled with Fidelia that he could think
of nobody beside her. O, what a dear delight, to have her sit
by his bed-side and soothe him to sleep with her sweet voice,
or to cheer him with her bright and innocent looks when he
awaked from his troubled dreams. But no, she must not see
him, it would endanger her life, and he told Patrick, that she
mnst not be admitted. But before Patrick could leave the
chamber an altercation was heard on the stairs wherein
mingled the voices of the landlord of the hotel, the physician,
Mr. Loudon, and the sobs and supplications of a woman.
when he expostulates with her on the danger she incurs
in visiting the sick chamber. And now the kind and earnest
voice of Mr. Loudon is heard.
“Consider, my dear young lady, the risk to your life. Let
me beg of you for your own sake as well as for his, that you
defer seeing him for a while. Remember your friends at
home.”
“O, I cannot be denied,” replied the young lady,” I cannot
endure to remain here and not see him. Let me go.
Let me go.”
“Be composed, Madam, be composed,” said the Physician
“in a few days he will be well, and then you can see him
without danger to yourself or to him.”
“No, no, he will die and I shall not see him; do not hinder
me, I cannot live if you do.”
“What can we do?” said Mr. Loudon.
“Let her go in, let her go in,” said the landlord's wife who
now joined them upon the stairs, “it will do them good,
both; I'll answer for the consequences.”
“Perhaps your lady is right,” said the Doctor to the landlord,
“madam follow me; but command your feelings in his
presence.”
The door of the chamber was immediately opened and the
Physician entered, followed by Julia Tuck leaning upon Mr.
Loudon's arm.
“Don't be agitated,” said the Physician, as he approached
the bed-side of his patient, and at the same time took the hand
of the young lady and presented her to him. But this was
like a gunner cautioning his piece not to go off as he applied
his match to the priming. His patient was agitated, dreadfully
so; and Julia no sooner caught sight of his disfigured
and swollen face than she fell senseless in the Physician's
arms. But proper remedies having been applied she soon revived
again and was able to sit with some degree of composure
and no one spake to her, for they were all touched by
her grief, and even Patrick and Juno sobbed aloud. As to
John, he was stupified with amazement, and could say nothing.
What, indeed, could he say? But Mr. Loudon thinking
that delicacy prevented him from giving utterance to his
feelings while there were so many spectators and listeners,
considerately motioned to them all to withdraw, and the two
unhappy young persons were left alone together.
“O, forgive me, forgive me,” cried Julia, as she fell upon
her knees by his bed-side.
“Rise, rise,” he said feebly, “rise and do not ask my forgiveness.
I am too deeply sensible of the sacrifice you make
for my sake, and it is I that should ask to be forgiven. I am
not entitled to this sacrifice. Believe me. Seriously I am
not. This frightful disease will deprive me of whatever
graces your partiality may have fancied that I possessed, even
though I should recover.”
“O, do not say so, you will recover; you must recover! I
know that you will.” And then she wept, and covered her
face with her hands, for now that she found herself in the
presence of him for whose sake she was willing to peril her
life and even her good name, she was overcome by a sense of
shame and a conviction of the imprudent course she had
taken. Her anxiety of mind and the strength of her passion
had sustained her on her journey, but now she sunk under
her feelings, and could do nothing but sob. But rising, at
last, from her knees, she said; “tell me that you will not despise
me for this, and I will ask no more.”
John was touched to the heart by her passionate and earnest
manner, and he could not but reflect on his own guilt in
allowing her to remain ignorant of his real feelings so long;
and now that she had incurred danger and the reproach of
friends for his sake, what could he do? He could not tell her
under such circumstances that he did not love her, and drive
no home. Knowing the vehemence of her nature he feared
that such an announcement might prove fatal to her; and
furthermore he might not live, and if he should die, his secret
would die with him, and she might yet be happy. Luckily
for him the physician came back before he could reply to her
passionate appeal, and motioned to her that it was time to
withdraw. After she left the room he felt his patient's pulse
and perceiving that his fever had increased, cautioned him
against holding long and earnest conversations, and in a very
round-about and delicate manner gave him to understand that
the young lady must not visit him again, until he got much
better. He was a kind-hearted, sympathetic man, although a
learned physician, and so singularly modest that he avoided
every appearance of etiquette or formality with his patients,
and always listened to their complaints as though he derived
great pleasure and instruction therefrom, and sometimes made
them feel as though they really had been doing him a good
turn by relating the full particulars of a long sleepless night
or the effects of an undigested dinner. John was not exactly
one of this class for he fully appreciated the doctor's kindheartedness
and simplicity of manner, and he almost smiled
at his delicacy of expression in telling him that his new visitor
would not be allowed to sit by him until he got better, for
had the announcement been made to him in the most direct
and positive terms, it would have produced no unhappy effect
upon him, but on the contrary, it would have been one of the
surest means of giving him strength and peace. But this the
doctor could not know, for such a case of maladie du coeur as
his patient's, he had probably never met with in his practice
or his books. He gave him a new prescription and withdrew,
leaving him alone to his own reflections, which were distracting
enough.
The events that we have recorded in so short a space, occupied
a good portion of the afternoon in their occurrence,
twilight of a southern sky was rapidly melting into darkness,
and all the objects in the room began to assume a strange uncertain
aspect when some passing sight or sound recalled to
John's mind the fact that his father's form had visited his
bed-side but a few days before. It flashed upon his memory
with a startling distinctness; he was alarmed, he scarce
knew why, and he was just on the point of calling for his
nurse, when suddenly the same venerable form stood before
him again. He was paralyzed, but hardly with fear. What
had he to dread from his father's form. He tried to move,
but he could not; he tried to speak, but his tongue was powerless;
he could not even close his eyes, or turn them away
from the appearance before him. The old man looked upon
him with a tender, compassionate expression, wholly divested
of the care worn and troubled features with which he gazed
upon him before. Then he seemed as if he would speak,
now a holy, calm and happy air of serenity prevaded his
looks. The lineaments of the face seemed unchanged and yet
the young man knew that it no longer belonged to the earth.
O, with what fondness he gazed upon those mild eyes, so full
of purity and love and peace, and how he longed to clasp his
arms around that venerable form. But he knew that he could
not. The barriers of Life and Death were between them, although
they looked upon each other face to face. How long
his father's form continued to gaze upon him he knew not,
for he soon became unconscious to everything about him, and
when the nurse returned she found him lying with his eyes
wide open, but entirely insensible and incapable of motion.
The physician came and bled him, but it was many hours
before he began to manifest a returning consciousness, which
was first manifested by his making enquiries for his father.
The physician and Mr. Loudon, who had both been sent for,
as they had supposed him to be dying, exchanged significant
glances, and Patrick could scarce be restrained by their looks
hearing. They had just learned the news of the old gentleman's
death, and they were afraid if he were informed of it,
that it would prove fatal to him. The intelligence was
brought by Fred Tuck who had followed close upon the heels
of his sister. But they might have told him the sad news
without apprehension of danger, for he knew it already. He
knew it as positively as though he had closed the old man's
eyes and followed him to the grave. But he did not say so.
He knew it himself, and he cared not for others.
A great change had taken place in his feelings. He no
longer wished to live. His father had looked upon him with
his face so full of peace and content, so devoid of care and
pain, of evil and apprehension, that he longed to be with him
and at rest. His sufferings had given him a distaste for life,
and he feared almost to recover. He was embarrassed at the
thought of Julia Tuck, and apprehensive that Fidelia might
spurn him from her presence. There seemed nothing worth
living for, and he turned his back upon his attendants with a
deep sigh, without making a murmer or a complaint.
The physician discovered an alteration in his patient and
he became alarmed; he summoned his consulting brethren
and they came to the conclusion that the young man could
not live. Soon he perceived an alteration in the manner of
his attendants, and of his physician; they regarded him with
solemn looks and moved with a soft and stealthy tread about
his room, and Patrick, his servant, knelt down by his bedside
and sobbed when they were left alone together; they
gave him but little medicine and no other nourishment than
cooling drinks; and they asked him if he would object to a
visit from a clergyman; the landlord's wife and daughter
came into his chamber and looked upon him with a strange
expression of wonder, and then left him with their handkerchiefs
to their eyes without speaking a word; a Bible and a
prayer-book were placed within his reach as if by accident,
to restrain him from using them; his black nurse, Juno,
sang a methodistic hymn to him, in a low soft voice full of
simple ejaculations of happiness and glory; and bye and bye
there came to him a venerable old man, dressed in black, with
long white locks flowing over his shoulders but with a ruddy
healthy face and a clear soft eye, and he sat down by the bedside
and talked of Christ and his atoning blood, of the joys of
Heaven and the ills of earth; and then knelt down and prayed
long and devoutly. All these things soothed his mind; and
he felt himself growing weaker and weaker, sinking, sinking,
and he knew that he must die. But he felt no dread, no apprehension;—not
even a wish to recover. This gentle, peaceful
sinking into the arms of death was slightly disturbed by the
entrance of Fred Tuck into his chamber accompanied by Mr.
Loudon and the physician; they gathered around his bed
with sad looks and tearful eyes; and Mr. Loudon told him
that his father was no more. To their amazement, he showed
no surprise, not even grief; and they attributed his stillness
to weakness and his own near approach to death. Tears
fell from all their eyes but his. Why should he weep? He
had seen his father and knew that he was happy, and he
would soon be with him never again to be parted.
Presently they all withdrew from his sight but Mr. Loudon
and the Physician. The merchant attempted to speak to him,
but his voice choaked and he sat down and wept. Then the
physician took his place and asked his patient if he had any
requests to make in case that he should not recover, and told
him with great tenderness and feeling that he had no longer
power to aid him, and that he hoped his mind had been reconciled
to a change of scene. Even this announcement that
they had feared to make to him, he heard without emotion.
But he requested that a lawyer might be sent for that he
might dictate a will to him. He had Jeremiah and Fidelia
in his thoughts, and he would not have them think that he
had died forgetful of them.
But before the lawyer came, Julia Tuck was led into the
room by her brother. She had been told that young Tremlett
must die, and she gave herself up to distracting grief.
She threw herself upon his bed and declared that she would
die with him; and her brother, who had seen her a thousand
times in paroxyms of grief, without being moved, now wept
with her. It was like a leaf from a novel, and it touched his
heart. Suddenly, however, this young gentleman was seized
with an idea that had a most powerful influence in drying up
his tears. Young Tremlett was going to die for a certainty,
but there was no immediate cause for apprehending the dissolution
of his sister. Why not, then, let them be married
that she might inherit his property, and then if she should die,
he and his brother would inherit it from her. Happy thought!
Most brilliant conception! He could scarce refrain from
laughing, in the ecstacy of his joy, surrounded even as he
was with so much sadness and grief. Full of this grand
idea, he caused his sister to be removed to her own apartments,
and went in pursuit of Mr. Loudon who had already
left. He found the merchant on his wharf engaged in sampling
cotton, but he drew him aside and told him that he had
discovered that a necessity existed for the marriage of young
Tremlett and his sister Julia, to save her family from disgrace,
and begged that he would make use of his influence with the
dying man to bring the marriage about before it should be too
late; he would have offered him a bribe, if he had dared to do
so, but there was no need; his story appeared so plausible to
Mr. Loudon, and he had become so much interested in the
young lady, and perhaps had a shadowy thought that where
so much property was at stake some of it might possibly
fall into his hands, either as commissions or in some other
way, that he listened attentively to the young gentleman's request,
and promised to exert himself immediately in his behalf.
As death might interfere and frustrate their project if it were
delayed too long, they resolved to lose no time. So Mr. Loudon
who had already paid John a visit, requesting him to
call immediately at the hotel, where the sick man lay, with
his gown and prayer-book; and then they called together
upon the physician, who confessed, upon hearing the proposition
from Mr. Loudon, that he had already made up his mind
that a necessity for the marriage did exist, for in no other way
could he account for the young lady's conduct; and having
heard that not only she, but her supposed lover, was possessed
of a very large fortune, promised to give his aid in promoting
the marriage. Who could tell what might come of doing
a good turn to rich people. So they took themselves immediately
to the hotel, reflecting silently as they went on the
uncertainties of life and death, the inconsiderateness of youth
and the chances of getting something bye and bye for their disinterested
benevolence; the physician regretting that he had
not been the first to propose the marriage, and the merchant
wondering that he had not himself thought of the same thing,
since the circumstances of the case were so very suspicious.
When they arrived at the hotel, they were met in the bar-room
by good Doctor Esyman dressed in his gown and bands, with
his prayer-book in his hand ready to execute any orders in
his line. The good old doctor had also heard that young
Tremlett was likely to fall into a great estate if he should live,
and with that instinctive reverence for the possessor of a fortune
which all men feel, but no man will acknowledge, he
had moved with a greater degree of alacrity, perhaps, than
he might have done, if the sick man had been a pauper or a
slave. Good old doctor Esyman was as little influenced by
worldly considerations as a man well could be, and we would
not insinuate the slightest word against the purity of his
morals, the soundness of his doctrines, or the benevolence of
his disposition. The doctor's conduct has always been above
suspicion, but he had a large family whose wants had imperceptibly
led him to look upon the possessor of a fortune as a
the most exaggerated reports flying about the circle in which
the pious man travelled, relating to the dying man's wealth;
some making him worth at least ten millions, whilst others
reduced the amount to less than five. But it is our office to
chronicle men's actions and not to scrutinize their motives.
The fact is undeniable that the merchant and the physician
found the D. D. at the hotel when they arrived there, and
that he no sooner heard their proposition than he declared
that it was a highly benevolent and proper enterprise, and that
he would join them in promoting it, and he undertook to prepare
the mind of the young lady, while they agreed to arrange
matters with John.
How exceedingly hateful is sin. How universally is wrongdoing
condemned. It is hard to reconcile the existence of so
much evil as yet remains in the world, with so much virtuous
indignation towards wrong-doers as finds a place in
every human breast. We doubt if any of our readers ever
knew an individual so utterly abandoned and graceless as not
to reprobate the evil acts of others.
When Mr. Loudon and the physician entered the chamber
of the dying youth on their benevolent business, they experienced
a kind of conscious integrity that they had not felt on
their former visits, when they did not know that he had
been guilty of a very improper, not to say sinful act; and
they looked upon him, weak and sinking as he was, with
perhaps the least possible glow of indignation for his youthful
indiscretion; he was by far too well off in the world,
miserable as he appeared, to be despised, let his crimes have
been what they might. Poor youth, it would be doing him a
good service of which he would not perhaps be sensible while
he lingered on the confines of this world, to compel him to
make what reparation he could to an injured fellow mortal,
and that fellow mortal a wealthy young lady too; it was
worth trying for, at least. They stood and looked at each
and at last, the merchant, after clearing his throat with a good
deal of difficulty, spoke to the poor feeble youth, who looked
up with a faint expression of wonder, as if anticipating something
strange, but was entirely at a loss to conceive its import.
“Hem! hem! once I was young myself,” said Mr. Loudon,
“and if I had died then, hem! there would have been
many acts, hem! that would have troubled my mind.” Here
he stopped as if he expected his auditor to make some reply,
but he only looked up with an approving glance as much as
to say, he had not the slightest doubt of it. The physician
had been sitting during this short address with his hand to his
eyes, but perceiving that his coadjutor had completely run
aground, and that the object of their visit was likely to be
frustrated for the want of a proper explanation, he took up the
subject where Mr. Loudon had dropped it and thus went on.
“Hem! Yes. But it is the duty of every one, young and
old, whether in the immediate prospect of death or not, to
make all the reparation in his power to whomsoever he may
have wronged. It is a painful thing to me, my young friend,
to name a subject to you that cannot but cause you much
uneasiness. I would be spared this duty if I could. But,
situated as I am, hem, and feeling a natural desire to promote
the welfare, both temporal and spiritual of those whom Providence,
in a manner, brings me as it were, by its inscrutable
ways in contact, I have undertaken as a friend to both parties
to break this subject to you. Hem! The young lady, possessing,
no doubt, some of the weaknesses as well as many of
the virtues of her sex, who has evinced such a strong sympathy
for your welfare, bringing in a manner the censure of the
world upon herself and shame upon her friends, and sacrificing
the proprieties of life for your sake, has established a
claim upon your gratitude and affections; and it appears to
us that it would be making her but a slight return for her
reputation and your own conscience may both be washed
from their stains. Hem!” Here the orator rested, naturally
expecting a reply. But no reply was made. For the young
man, already exhausted by the events of the day, now entirely
overcome, had fallen into a deep but quiet slumber. His
breathing was so low and still, that at first they thought he
was dead; and while they were debating whether it were
best to awaken him, and make their proposition to him a-new
in a more formal and decided manner, Doctor Esyman and
Fred Tuck appeared at the door with Julia between them,
and their entrance awoke him. He looked up at them, and
a cold shudder shook her frame as she saw how dim and
lustreless were his once bright eyes. The good old clergyman
pressed her cold and clammy hands and whispered in
her ear, bidding her remember that a time would come when
she and her lover would meet never more to be separated.
A rumor of the marriage had spread through the house,
and the room was filled with strange people, mostly women,
who would have hesitated through fear to visit the dying
man, but were impelled by curiosity to encounter the risk of
taking his disease. As John saw them crowding about his
bed, with wonder-stricken looks he thought that they had come
to see him die, and this thought was confirmed when the
venerable doctor planted himself near, with his prayer book
open in his hand. But he soon discovered what they were
about to do. Julia was placed close to his side, pale and
trembling, and supported by her brother Fred, who, fearing
that the bridegroom might not live for the ceremony to be
consummated, motioned to the doctor to being the rites;
whereupon the venerable man wiped the moisture from his
spectacles and began the solemn service. There was a deathlike
stillness in the chamber, which was rendered more solemn
by the suppressed sobs of the bride. John had scarce strength
to oppose the ceremony if he had been disposed to do so, but
negligence in not informing her of the true state of his
feelings, in time to save her from the trial that she was undergoing
for his sake, and feeling that his end was so near at
hand, it seemed to him of little moment what mere ceremony
were performed over his unresisting body. In a few hours
and all would be over. Mr. Loudon gave away the bride,
and as the reverend doctor pronounced, in a trembling voice,
the closing words of the ceremony; “the Lord mercifully
with his favor look upon you, and fill you with all benediction
and grace, that you may so live together in this life, that
in the world to come you may have life everlasting,” she fell
into the arms of her brother and was borne away to her own
apartment with scarce a sign of life. As for the newly made
bridegroom, he had hardly shown any consciousnes, during
the ceremony, and his hand was placed in hers without any
effort on his part either to withdraw it or to extend it; and he
now closed his eyes, as if for the last time, and turned his head
to the wall. The doctor having his prayer-book still open,
and witnessing the extreme case of the poor youth, without
turning a leaf, continued to read on from the order for the visition
of the sick; “Take, therefore, in gentle part, the chastisement
of the Lord &c.”
Fred Tuck soon returned from his sister's apartment with
a written certificate of the marriage which he caused all present
to sign, who could write their names, and then deposited
it with Mr. Loudon, to prevent accidents. In the flush of
the moment, while his spirits were bright and joyous, and his
heart was overflowing with gratitude, he took out his pocket-book
and handed Doctor Esyman a fifty dollar bill, assuring
him that it was a mere trifle to what should follow. But we
must be just to the good doctor and bear witness to the fact
that he declared with many blushes that it was entirely too
large a sum, and protested against it, although he made no
motion to return it, but tucked it cautiously under the belt of
his robe.
This marriage was a thing to talk about, and as the landlord's
lady and daughter, were not destitute of gossiping acquanitainces,
there were not many families in Charleston that
had not discussed the strange affair with that kind of freedom
and interest with which affairs are discussed by those who
have no possible interest in them, before they retired to their
beds that night; and the fortunes of the two young persons,
the amount of which they did not know themselves, grew, as
the report passed from mouth to mouth from half a million at
first up to twenty or thirty millions; and every circumstance
attending the marriage was magnified in like proportion. We
do not condemn this very natural inclination of the world to
pry into other people's affairs, for if every man and woman
minded his and her own business solely, and paid no attention
to their neighbors, who would read this history? We
only regret that there are not more anxious enquiries into
other people's affairs. For some reason that we cannot clearly
resolve ourselves, there does not appear to be that feverish
anxiety to learn the particulars of our Hero's fate, now that it
may be obtained in an authentic shape, and on reliable testimony,
that was manifested by the public when only idle reports
in relation thereto were flying about from mouth to
mouth. A friend of ours whose judgment we are disposed
to put faith in, tells us it is owing to the want of an international
copy-right. Perhaps he may be correct; we hope it
is for no worse cause.
The next morning after the marriage, the bride groom
awoke, after a long night's refreshing sleep, such as he had
not experienced before since his illness, and very much to his
surprise felt within him promptings for breakfast. He had
closed his eyes, expecting never to open them again until the
with his thoughts dwelling upon coffee and toast. Marvellous
change! But it was true. His life had been saved by his
physicians giving him up. They had ceased giving him medicine,
and Nature had been left free to regain her authority;
his fever was gone, and although he was still exceedingly
feeble, he felt the glow and invigorating influences of returning
health. The house was still silent although he saw the
sun lighting up the white spire of a church visible from his
chamber window; and his chamber was deserted by all but
his faithful nurse who was sleeping in a rocking-chair near
his bed side.
This woman had watched over him with the tenderest care
during his sickness, and her gentle and affectionate manner,
had won upon his good will; for her attention, though involuntary
at first, seemed to be prompted solely by kindly regard.
He forgot that she was a slave, acting in obedience to
the commands, not of her master, but her owner; and she
seemed scarcely conscious of the relation which she bore to
him. They were both human beings, and why should they
not regard each other with kindly sympathies? She was not
more than twenty-five, although a good nurse, and her form
having been left free to mature without the aid of a mantua
maker, was perfect in shape and as graceful as health and
content could render it. Her complexion though dusky was
warm and glowing, resembling a ripe peach more than any
other object in nature, and told that there was more of the free
blood of the Saxon race in her veins, than of the slave race
of Africa, her hair was black and glossy and her full black
eyes, gave her a voluptuous air that well became her name.
Having always been employed as a house servant, and enjoyed
priveliges which her faithful conduct gained for her, she
had learned a gracefulness of manner, rarely seen in her unfortunate
race. But she was a slave, and her present owner
had purchased her at the public sale of one of his neighbors,
effects.
She awoke very soon, and perceiving that her charge was
already awake, and apparently better; she jumped up with
great glee, and exclaimed, “O, honey, bless God, master,
you are still there. Are you better, honey.”
“I am much better Juno,” replied John, “I feel now as
though I should get well. I want something to eat, Juno.”
The faithful creature laughed outright, “Bless the Lord,
young master,” she said, “I'll tell master doctor, and he will
give you everything to eat. But I am afraid to give you anything,
honey; it might bring on your fever again.”
“Then I must wait until he comes; but you can give me
some lemonade, Juno; there that will do. And now Juno
bring me the glass that I may see myself once more. Ah, ah,
I am sadly altered,” he said as he surveyed his features in the
glass, “do you think anybody will know me after this,
Juno?”
“O, honey, your wife will know you, she will know you.
O, honey!” she turned away her head and wiped a tear from
her cheek as she spoke.
“My wife! my wife! Juno! what do you mean by my
wife?”
“O, blessed Lord, master, do you forget? Have you forgotten
about last night?”
“God help me, Juno,” he exclaimed clasping his hands
together; “Was that real? It seemed like a dream. But I
remember now. O, Juno, I am sick again. O, Juno, I must
die. O, my father! O, Fidelia! God help me, Juno, I am
very sick.”
“O honey! Wait for master doctor. Wait and see for
him. Blessed Lord, master, you musn't die.” She poured
out a tea-spoonful of morphine and begged him to swallow it,
but he refused. He closed his eyes and lay a long while
without speaking; but he was aroused at last by the entrance
of the physician, who was surprised to find him not only alive
but evidently better. He had now considerable fever, but
something to eat, he ordered him a bowl of gruel.
“So, then I am married,” said John, looking reproachfully
at the physician.
“Hem! yes, and I ought perhaps, to have informed you
that your lady would not have deserted you at this time, but
she has been, herself, very ill all night. I have this moment
come from her room and I fear that she has taken your complaint.”
“And how did the marriage happen, why was it? Did I
express a wish for it? I am afraid that my poor head has
been disordered.”
“Be composed, sir,” said the physician, “be composed, and
we will explain matters to you fully bye and bye. You will
be satisfied when you hear all. Don't be alarmed about
your lady; she is quite ill now, but as soon as she gets better
she shall come to you.” And then the doctor withdrew, after
giving some directions to Juno about the gruel.
In spite of John's anguish of mind, which was very intense
when he reflected on the double misfortune of the loss of
his father and his acquisition of a wife, he grew better hourly,
while Julia grew worse; it was very soon evident that her
disorder was varioloid, and that she had caught it from visiting
his chamber there could be no doubt. The symptoms of
the disorder were very alarming in the commencement, and
the increasing heat of the weather made her situation more
precarious. Her brother was unceasing in his attentions, and
as her danger increased and John grew well, he began to
think that he had been digging a pit to bury himself in.
It was the fifth day after the marriage; John had so far recovered
as to be able to sit up part of the day, and he had
just composed himself in his easy-chair when Mr. Loudon
came into his room with a terrified look, and announced to
him that Julia was dying. Although he was still too feeble
to leave his room, yet he insisted upon being carried to her
last breath. He looked upon her with a kind of stupefaction,
from which he was scarcely aroused by the dismal
moans of her brother Fred, who wept over her with unaffected
sorrow. All his hopes of wealth were blasted by her
death. He saw in a moment the hopeless and desperate
condition in which he had placed himself and his brother
and mother by causing her to be married. They were all
now at the mercy of young Tremlett, and he dreaded the
reproaches of his brother, and more serious consequences
which he knew must follow this disastrous termination of all
his plans and schemes. But John, who had never thought
about the property which his marriage had given him a title
to, commisserated Fred's unhappy condition and did what he
could to comfort him; but as he did not know the real cause
of his grief, his words had but little effect. For himself, he
was rejoiced that he could hide his real feelings under an
unassumed deportment of silence and seriousness. And he
was taken back to his own apartment where he was allowed
to remain in the undisturbed enjoyment of his own sad
thoughts.
The funeral of Julia was not long delayed, and her brother
Fred returned to give an account of his proceedings to his
mother and brother, leaving John behind him, who in another
week followed, quite restored to health, and with but small
marks of his disorder remaining in his face. His mind had
been awakened to the changes and uncertainties of life, and
as soon as he was strong enough he had his will drawn up
in due form and deposited it with Mr. Loudon, whom he appointed
his agent for Charleston. The good doctor Esyman,
and his physician, both received handsome presents from him,
and to Juno, his faithful nurse, he would have given the
highest gift that can be bestowed upon the children of God—
her freedom. But Mr. Loudon refused to sell her, although
John tempted him by offering a very large sum for her. I
her freedom without offence. He had been indebted
to her owner for her services, which were freely offered, and
it would have been but a poor return for the hospitality of his
friend to deprive him of his slave. The poor creature wept
bitterly at parting with him; she kissed his hand and bathed
it in her tears, and called upon God to bless him and protect
him. The last words that rung in his ears and made the
deepest impression upon his heart was her fond expression,
“O, honey, you will never see Juno again, O honey!”
He was now returning to New York after an absence of
less than a month, strangely altered in his fortunes. He was
the sole possessor of the entire wealth of Tremlett & Tuck,
but the right which he had acquired to Julia's portion he
determined to relinquish to her brothers. It was a large sum
to give up, but he felt that he had no right to keep it; and as
he had been the means of depriving them of their sister, he
looked upon the money as of trifling importance when compared
with their loss.
It is proper to add here, that before leaving Charleston, he
made arrangements for a marble tablet to be placed over the
remains of Julia, and entrusted to his friend, Mr. Loudon, the
charge of its execution.
| CHAPTER II. Bankrupt stories | |