University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
THE STRANGER FINDS THE YOUNG MAN WHERE HE HAD EXPECTED
TO FIND HIM.

As he drew near the “Globe,” again the stranger cast
a mournful look down the long street leading to, or rather
running through the former “German quarter,” which,
edged with tall golden-foliaged trees—autumn was coming
fast—lost itself in the distance toward the western, sun-flushed
mountain. He stopped a moment evidently hesitating
whether he should bend his steps in that direction,
and so exhaust his memories with an exploration of those
long-loved and sorrowfully-remembered localities, as he
had just done in the old house upon the hill.

Here, he reflected, was little food for merriment or
laughter, such as he had but now indulged in at the freaks
of his imagination in the old stone mansion yonder. Here
was no provocation to laughter, rather tears; no gay recollections,
only griefs. Why stir up those slowly dying
sparks—why blow upon that brand, and thus with a
breath, dispelling the white crumbling ashes, fan again
into a burning coal that gradually expiring ember? It
was well perhaps, to revisit again the scenes of joy and
merriment—the spirit was refreshed by those bright and
happy memories, which threw, even yet, some rays of
the old splendor on the path now sterile, once so full of
flowers and velvet-grasses. Would these other woeful
memories in the same manner revive again the brightness
of the past? No—much more all the sorrow of the past,
the agony, the yearning, the fond tears. Why visit scenes,
then, full of those influences? “No, no,” the stranger

muttered, “I must go and comfort one who already feels
too much of this.”

And he entered the “Globe.” The young man was
not there; he had gone out, they said; and, upon diligent
inquiry, the stranger discovered that the direction he
had taken was toward the German quarter. The traveler
sighed, and again putting on his hat, and drawing his surtout
around him, took his way toward the place indicated.

A walk of ten minutes brought him in front of a large
low dwelling, covering much ground, and overshadowed
by two enormous oaks, reddened by the near approach of
autumn. The house looked desolate and uninhabited;
moss grew upon the stones before the door, and upon the
low drooping eaves; the windows had more than one
broken pane, and the heavy shutters turned slowly in the
melancholy wind upon their rusty hinges.

The traveler's heavy-heeled boot rung on the flag
stones, arousing mournful echoes in the old walls, now
touched by the light of the rising moon. An old dog
chained to the door-post rose suddenly as if to bay, but as
suddenly commenced whining and wagging his tail. He
had plainly recognized a friend or an acquaintance in the
stranger, who caressed him mournfully, fearing almost
to enter the house, though the door stood ajar, ready to
yield to the slightest push.

The traveler entered and found himself, as he had feared,
in the presence of the young man who, however, did not
see him, so deeply was he moved, and so unconscious of
all now around him. Seated in a broad leathern chair,
his head lying on his arms, which were folded upon the
ponderous table, he seemed a prey to the most agonizing
grief. The moonlight streaming through the open window
revealed to the stranger this mournful figure, motionless
but for the suppressed agitation of the head with its
long fair hair, silent but for the passionate sobs which
from time to time shook the slight form, and forced their
way through the trembling lips.

The traveler seemed much moved, and for a few moments
stood looking at this sorrowful picture in silence.
Then he laid his hand on the young man's shoulder and
said, in a low tone,

“My child!”

The young man started with terror, and rose to his
feet, shuddering, his face pale, his eyes full of tears, his
lips agitated by a nervous tremor. Recognizing the stranger
he fell again in his seat, pressing one hand on his heart.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, “you frightened me so, sir!”

“Frightened you, my child?”

“Yes, sir; I am nervous lately, and the time—this
place—oh, I have been so wretched here!”

And covering his face with his hands, the young man
burst into a passionate flood of tears.

The stranger standing calm and silent, looked at him,
making no effort as yet to check these tears. He was too
well acquainted with human nature and with physiology
not to know that they would somewhat relieve the full
heart and brain.

“Max,” he said, at length, “you have much distressed
me by again yielding to these feelings. I had hoped that
after my request, you would struggle against them, knowing
as you do know how much your affliction afflicts me—”

“Oh, sir—how could I—”

“How could you help it? You were going to say
that; were you not?”

“Yes, sir,” sobbed the young man.

“I will tell you. By following the advice I gave you;
do you not remember that advice my child? First, to
never seek occasions for such outbursts, and you have
sought such an occasion to-night; never to listen to
music which arouses memory; not to visit places which
revive again all those saddening recollections which
affect so powerfully your fragile constitution. I have
more than once impressed upon you the importance of
these things, and I am grieved to find that you have so

little confidence in my judgment; I will not say, pay so
little attention to my wishes, for I know you love me.”

“Oh, indeed I do, sir,” cried the young man, “God is
my witness!”

“Why then, have you caused me so much distress?
You know you are not well—you are as delicate as possible,
though not, strictly speaking, unhealthy, since
proper care will in a short time establish your health
firmly; and now, with all this delicacy of temperament
and constitution, ready to be turned into disease, or into
robust strength, you come to this melancholy place, where
every breath of air you draw is poison, where you feel the
oppressive sense of a death,” the stranger by a powerful
effort commanded his agitated voice, and spoke with
firmness, “you come here and I find you—in what state?
Why, God preserve me! so unmanned that you start and
shudder at my entrance, and sink down with your hand
upon your heart—a bad sign, very bad—saying you are
frightened! unnerved!”

“I was terrified, sir,” groaned the young man; “I have
done wrong in coming.”

“Why—why did you come, my child?” said the stranger,
gazing with profound love on the pale, wan face.

“I could not help it, sir,” murmured the young man.
“My feet moved here against my will; I could not resist
the influence which brought me. I was drawn both ways
—by the recollection of your commands, and my feelings.
My brain was heated, my heart cold. What could I do?
I hardly saw where I was going, through the mist before
my eyes—and the first thing I was conscious of was
Bugle's jumping up and licking my hand. I found the
door unlatched and no one was here, and so I sat down and
was thinking—and got nervous—and when you came in I
thought it was!—I always was superstitious!—I was—”

The young man stopped, powerfully agitated, and wiped
his eyes. The stranger took his hand tenderly.

“Enough, Max,” he said, “come, we will leave this
place, for you are really unwell. Come, come! my child,
you must never leave me again—I have but you.”

At the same moment a noise was heard on the steps at
the back of the house, and a stick hastily clashing on the
floor as the walker approached, seemed to indicate age.
An old negro woman, bent down with years entered, crying
in the cracked voice of extreme age: “Who's there?
who's there? who's in the house?”

“I and Max, aunt Jenny,” said the stranger, taking
her hand, “we have come back.”

The old woman stood in great amazement for a moment,
her thin form lit up by the weird moonlight, then
burst into a flood of joyful exclamations which she inter-spersed
with tears.

“Massa Max come back 'gin; glory! The ole woman's
eyes is rejoice once more a-seein' of him: same face,
same eyes! and young massa Max—he's a handsome
chile, the Lord help me! and growed so tall, and look so
han'some! He's a han'some one, the Lord help me!
every body always say he was a han'some chile! young
missis eyes agin for all the world! How tall he is done
growed! I 'blige to look up when I'm a speakin' to him;
he's a han'some chile, yes he is. I always said he was a
pretty chile; and like his mother. A settin' one day
with him on my knee—he was playin' with his little brass
candlestick, you know, Massa Max, with the red flannel
rag aroun' it—and his mother—a blessed saint in the
glory of the Lord, my massa—says his mother, `what a
pretty chile he is, mammy,' a lookin' so beautiful and so
lovin' at the boy; and says I, `you right Miss Neeny, and
he's jest like you—for all the world.' That made her
laugh, you know, Massa Max, and she say, `no, no,' and
she tooked him and chucked him up, and he laughed too
—this very blessed young massa, now growed so tall, yes!
And he was a good chile—mighty han'some—`chuck,

chuck!' sez she, and he laughed, Massa Max—so you
did, young Massa Max—you laughed; and when she ask
you if you was much lovin' of her, and if you wasn't so
much more han'somer than she was, you stop laughin'
and nod your head jest so and say `um! um!'—the
Lord take me to glory! for all the worl' like you knowed
what she was a sayin'. Well he's a-growed so tall and
han'some—and the ole woman is goin' mighty fast—she
nussed him—he was a good chile—so was you, my
massa,” addressing the stranger, “but you was frolick-somer,
and mighty bad! for I nussed you too—yes I did!
Well the old woman's a-goin', but the blessed Lord done
let her see her massa once agin! Massa come to take
care of his own agin, I spose. Hard times when he ain't
here: is you got a little change for the ole woman for
to buy sugar and coffee? Mighty hard times! well
the Lord 'sarve you, Massa Max, and bless you! and my
pretty child done give the old woman somethin', too! I
'blige to pay that lazy good-for-nothin' Jake, who stays
'long with me here. He's growed so han'some! Yes he
laugh and say `um! um!' and then he was soon a-playin'
on the carpet. Missus is gone to glory—the Lord do so
to me also. She never see the pretty chile since he
growed so tall! But he look sorry, mighty sorry,” muttered
the old woman, wistfully; “why he's cryin'.”

“Come, my child,” said the agitated stranger, “too
much of this. Aunt Jenny, I have come back for good,
and don't fear not being taken care of: I never desert
my friends—I will come soon again—very soon. See
that all is closed after us.”

And taking the weeping young man by the arm, the
stranger led him from the house, himself silent and
gloomy. The effect of this last scene upon the young
man had shocked him profoundly—he began to have
something more than vague presentiments of evil.

On the next morning the stranger sallied forth at an

early hour, intent on procuring two horses. These he
found without difficulty, no further off than the stables
of the Globe itself: and they were soon ready for the
journey, which the stranger seemed to have determined
on for himself and his younger companion.

The young man came out, pale and worn with weeping,
and slowly mounted. The stranger threw upon him his
habitual look, piercing but tender, and then with one
vigorous movement got into his saddle.

“My baggage and my son's,” he said to the landlord,
“can remain I suppose, until I send for it. My name is
upon it—Doctor Maximilian Courtlandt.”

And with these words the stranger set forward toward
the west in the bright sunlight, followed by his son.