University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

“I left Lamar in the city of New-York, under
the hands of an experienced surgeon, doing well
as to his bodily wounds, and on such a footing with
his rival as becomes them both, as gentlemen and
old acquaintances. As soon as I had obtained
from the surgeon so much of the foregoing information
as was professional, I took my passage on board
one of the Albany steamboats. About eight o'clock
of the same day, which at this season of the year
is just after dark, the sky was clear, serene, and
beautiful, save along the western horizon, where a
long veil of purple drapery interposed between the
land and the sky, as the sun sank to rest in quietness
and beauty, while the moon and the stars at
the opposite point of the compass were just beginning
to shed their paler rays over the magnificent
scenery of the Hudson. Our boat glided over the
scarcely rippled surface of the noble river, until
the little bell of the engineer, or of some one in
command, was heard in the quiet scene, as a signal

for the engine to cease its ponderous movements,
while the captain at the same moment was heard
to cry out, `Passenger for Oaklands.' A boat was
speedily manned and lowered from the stern, containing
the said passenger and a small travelling
trunk. It was none other than your old chum and
humble servant.

“In a very few moments I was left standing on
the banks of the river, and the boat was speedily
moving out of sight. I looked all around me, to
see in what direction the lights from the mansion
were visible, but all was darkness amid the trees
in the direction of the land. The surface of the
river was still, but no such serenity reigned within
my own bosom. Not that I have no taste for tranquil
scenes; it was just such a one as I love to
dwell upon; but I was approaching a house, the
owner of which was secretly hostile to the objects
of my visit; all the rest of the family, save one,
were strangers to me, and that one was last seen
under circumstances of doubt and mystery, painful
and impressive to the heart of one who has been
always charged, and perhaps justly, with fastidiousness
as to female purity and refinement.

“Leaving my small trunk hid in a boat-house
which I found upon the banks of the river, I began
leisurely to ascend a gravelled walk, which was
skirted on each side by a row of huge forest trees,
each of which, as its black outlines stood forward
from the darker regions of others behind, looked
like a gigantic bastion of the citadel at the head of

the lawn, to guard against such intruders as I began
to fear I might be considered by some of the
garrison. Although I had yet some eight or nine
hundred yards to attain the level at the end of
the lawn where the house stood, the dogs began to
warn the inmates of my approach; and as I ascended
a little mound, more steep in its ascent than
the rest of the walk, the mansion presented itself,
dimly seen by the doubtful rays of the rising moon.
The size and structure of the edifice I could partly
discern from the lights within, as well as from the
gleam without. It seemed to be a two-story frame
building, painted white, with the longest side facing
the river, and a wing or smaller building at each
end; in the centre of the main building was a portico,
surrounded at the top by a heavy balustrade.
The trees and shrubbery, as I approached, became
thicker on each side of the avenue, opening into
something like a half circle in front of the house
with the convex towards me. Within this area
there were also trees and shrubbery, but the former
were smaller and of a different kind, and the latter
more tastefully arranged than that interspersed
between the trees along the avenue.

“I did not present myself immediately in this
area to sound my bugle and summon the castle,
but wound round one of the wings to reconnoitre
the premises. I had a reason for this movement.
As I stood among the trees on one side of the avenue,
waiting till some one should chain up the
dogs, a gentle sound at intervals vibrated through

the still air, in delightful unison with the scene, the
occasion, and my own feelings. There was pathos
in the touch of every string, as its tones died
away amid the serenity of the night.

“I skirted round among the trees to the other
side of the wing from which the sounds seemed to
proceed. There was no light in the window, but
I could see the gentle songstress as she sat in the
casement, the features of her face being just enough
discernible in the rich and silvery tints of the queen
of night, as her horizontal beams fell amid the
boughs of the trees, to give employment to the
imagination. I could discern her loosened ringlets,
as they fell over a polished forehead and temples,
and occasionally caught the lustre of the eye, as
she turned her face (under the full rays of the
moon) towards the thick grove in which I stood.
The song ended,—and by some strange operation
of the mind, I began to think of a favourite
air which I sometimes play, and which I had given
her in score; the thought had scarcely passed
through my mind, before she touched the identical
melody in her peculiarly soft and `moonlight' style.
Was it not strange? Yet I do not see why we
should so consider these things, occurring so often
as they do. I call to mind my having once adverted
suddenly in thought, and without any visible
cause, to a friend whom I had not seen for years.
But a few minutes afterward I met the identical
person, and that too in a city five hundred miles
from the spot where we had met before. Is there

some secret connexion or intercommunication of
the mind which we know not of, except by its
effects? Is the German theory a mere whim?
But waving these inquiries, the fact that the same
ideas were passing through my mind and that of
this beautiful and melancholy being, produced novel
and delightful emotions. There must have been
congeniality of thought, if not of feeling. I could
hear the servants scolding and beating the watchful
guardians of the night, as they still, from time
to time, growled forth their knowledge of my presence.
I nevertheless maintained my position
against one of the venerable oaks, until the air was
ended; she touched the guitar no more that night,
but leaning her head on her hand, she gazed on
the captivating scene in what seemed profound
sadness.

“`Now,' thought I, `the plain flute in my pocket
(which I always carry with me in my travelling
expeditions) will be in place; and the rest of the
family in the apartments fronting the river are not
likely to hear my soft tones;' (and I made them
more soft than usual,) as I attempted to imitate a
distant, dying echo of the air she had just been
playing.

“The effect was instantaneous; she started
from her sad revery, with her head erect, in the
most expressive attitude of listening. I ceased
instantly when these effects were visible. She
soon seemed to think it a delusion, and, holding her
hand to her forehead for a few moments, resumed

her former position. I waited to assure myself
that I had not aroused any other members of the
family.

“After remaining in that position for a few moments,
she began in a kind of thoughtful abstracted
mood to sigh over the same air. When she had
finished it, I again softly breathed the echo upon
the instrument. For an instant only she started
to her feet,—looked out of the window,—held her
hand to her head again for some time, as if trying
to ascertain whether she were dreaming or awake.
I thought now that I had practised upon her feelings
long enough; I therefore replaced the instrument,
and walked round to the main entrance of
the building, where I held the knocker some little
time in my hand before I could summon resolution
for the attack. My knock was soon followed by
the sound of footsteps, and when a servant opened
the door, I announced myself as Mr. Chevillere of
South Carolina. He left me seated but a few moments,
before he returned with Mr. Brumley. The
latter was more polite and hospitable in his manner
than I had expected, and invited me into the parlour,
where his wife, the mother of Miss St. Clair,
was sitting at her work-stand, in a very domestic,
and, to me, pleasing fashion.

“She arose upon the introduction, and held out
her hand in southern style, giving me altogether
one of the most smiling and benignant welcomes
I have received for some time. It immediately
carried me back to relatives and the scenes of

home. In addition to this, it was inexpressibly
soothing to me on another account! It said
plainly that I had been well reported to her by
some one, and that one, I was sure, was not her
husband. A servant was despatched for Miss
Frances; in the mean time, the good lady made me
quite at home in a few moments; during which,
as I have above intimated, I found her and her
daughter were of one counsel. Such things are
easily discovered without much of the world's
tact.

“Mrs. Brumley, formerly Mrs. St. Clair, is about
the middle height, and apparently about thirty-five
years of age, though she may be much older.
Her hair is light brown, and her eyes are like her
daughter's, blue; she is really handsome in feature
and expression; the latter especially charmed me.
With women of her age, there is generally an expression
of suppressed suffering,—partly subdued
misanthropy,—disappointment,—bigotry or fanaticism.
How seldom do we see cheerful matrons of
the middle age? But Mrs. Brumley was not only
cheerful,—she was simple, unaffected, intelligent,
and benevolent.

“The younger lady entered. I could not exactly
determine whether she was alarmed or embarrassed,
but she was evidently labouring under
some excitement. She was in more simple attire
than I had seen her wear before. There was
something of the home look both in her dress and
manners which I had never observed, and which

was inexpressibly delightful to me. And the half-mourning
dress sets off fair hair and a fair complexion
to the best advantage. In addition to all
these things, a young lady appears different at home
and in the world. Upon her deportment in the
latter respect it depends whether that difference
redounds to her advantage. Has she been simple
and unaffected in the world? home will make her
simplicity more captivating. But if she has been
abroad in a holyday suit of manners and deformed
with affectation, as is too often the case with very
youthful females, the change made by home will
be painful to the beholder, because this holyday
suit must be thrown aside. It will not pass current
in that market. Even the servants would comment
upon such an assumption, and the lady would be
subjected to the mortification of being laughed at
and criticised by her own attendants.

“No such change was visible here; Frances
was evidently at home, in every sense of that delightful
word. Permit me to make another observation
here: the estimation in which one is held
by the persons around them, especially the servants,
is no bad criterion. When I see the servants
of a family pay unasked homage, and that peculiar
touching devotion which comes from the heart, my
own follows spontaneously. I would not lack the
love of my servants for any earthly consideration.
I can truly say that I never did lack it; and, contemptible
as it may appear to the proud and supercilious,

it has afforded me many an hour of self-congratulation.

“These were the first things that I looked for,
nor was I disappointed. Every heart seemed to
dictate the actions and services rendered to Frances
St. Clair. Mrs. Brumley, after ascertaining
that I had already supped, found some business
out of the room, whence her husband had been
previously called by one of the servants. We
were thus left alone within less than half an hour
after I had entered the house. I arose and seated
myself beside her, and presuming to take her hand,
was going to introduce the subject of my visit,
perhaps too suddenly, when she said, permitting
me still to retain her hand, `Ah! Mr. Chevillere,
a mental illusion concerning yourself greatly
alarmed me to-night. Is it not strange that a
thought or occurrence will sometimes recall the
image of a friend, but a few moments before that
friend himself appears?'

“`I am too happy,' said I, `to know that I sometimes
dwell in your thoughts during absence, to
ask the how or the wherefore; but I hope the illusion
was not wholly unpleasant?'

“`Do you perform on the flute, Mr. Chevillere?'

“`Imperfectly.'

“`Do you play the little air which you gave
me?'

“`As well as I play any thing.'

“`Then my illusion was still more strange than
I before thought it. Ah! I see you smile! perhaps

you have been practising upon my superstition;
but I thought of that. Ah! you smile again; so
you did play that air under my window! Still
there was something strange about it, for I had
but a few moments before touched it on the
guitar.'

“`Ah, dear lady, I was so happy as to hear it;
and I am so unhappy as to rob you of that slender
hold for your superstition also; but I will give
you a better one: at the very moment you touched
that air, I was leaning against one of those old oak-trees
of the grove behind the house, and that identical
piece of music floated as distinctly through
my mind, as if it had been played in the air immediately
over my head!'

“She was brilliantly beautiful for a moment, as
a new train of thought suddenly illumined her eye.
She then said, in an absent manner,—

“`It was strange!'

“`It was more than strange!' said I.

“`What, was it more than strange?' she eagerly
demanded.

“`It was delightful to me.'

“Her head dropped, while she blushed at the
idea of my reading her thoughts; `I shall fear you
in future!'

“`Not for the world, dear lady. Surely it is no
cause of fear that delightful thoughts will sometimes
be spontaneously felt between us; when I
say delightful, I speak for myself alone; they may
be very disagreeable to you. Of that I do not

pretend to speak at the present moment, further
than to acknowledge that I draw the most happy
presages from these simultaneous bursts of thought
and feeling, which you must often have observed;
nay, further, it is a kind of congeniality which I
have thought until lately had no existence except
in romances. Perhaps it is presuming too far to
say so with regard to the impulses of the heart;
but certainly you will admit the fact with regard
to most subjects.'

“`I shall not express my opinion just now, because
my mind and feelings have been too painfully
engaged since I saw you, to lengthen the
conversation in that direction which I see plainly
you are disposed to give it.'

“`Ha!' said I, `you too sometimes read thoughts.
But may I presume to ask what that painful employment
has been?'

“`I have been committing to paper a brief and
plain narration of those circumstances of my life
which I promised to relate to you. I preferred
this course, because my feelings have become so
irritable of late on the subject, that I should merely
tantalize you if I attempted to relate them. Besides,
in a painful and full confession (which you
will find much of this to be), it conduces to truth,
and an unvarnished statement of facts, to record
them in the closet. It then seems that if we set
down aught in extenuation, we lie to the great
Searcher of hearts himself.' She then presented
to me a roll of manuscript.

“On taking it, I said, `It shall be read and pondered
upon under the same solemn scrutiny. My
eyes shall not know rest until they have devoured
the contents of these pages; but I know full well
that my heart will rest as well thereafter as it can
do, until it receives its final blessing or quietus in
this life.'

“I did not need a second invitation to my quarters
for the night; but requesting the servant to
supply me with an additional candle, greedily devoured
what you will find I have transcribed for
you.