 | CHAPTER V. Alice May, and Bruising Bill |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
The fifteenth day after entering the cars at Boston, Edward Orr
was landed from the Pontchartrain line at the New Orleans depot.—
During the whole journey he had been in the greatest fever of excitement
and suspense. That some fearful evil hung over Alice he
knew; and he feared that he might hear on his arrival the most fatal
results. Driving to the St. Charles—the most magnificent hotel in
the world—he alighted, and, after taking a room, sent for the gentlemanly
proprietor, Mr. Mudge, whom, very fortunately, he had known
in the north. To him he communicated only so much of his urgent
business there as was necessary; and what he most wished, learned
from him the direction to Colonel May's plantation, and obtained from
him fleet horses. Mr. M. had heard nothing of his daughter, though
he had seen Colonel May in the hotel only the week before in company
with a Count Bondier, who had lately lodged there.
At this name Edward started to his feet.
`Is he here now?'
`No.'
`He is—he is—that is, is he married?'
`No,' answered the proprietor, witnessing his agitation with surprise.
`He had bachelor rooms. He has left for New York.'
`Alone?'
`Yes.'
This reply was a great relief to the agitated lover. As soon as the
horses were at the door, he sprang into the carriage, and soon left the
city behind him. His horses flew as if winged along the level causeway
by the river side. The scenery of villas, gardens and lawns was
beautiful and novel; but buried in his own thoughts he heeded nothing.
At length after they had been driving about an hour the coachman
drew up at a spacious gathway, and said,
`This is the gate to Colonel May's villa, sir.'
Aroused by his voice, Edward looked around him. It was already
sunset, yet a soft twilight made every object beautiful and distinct.—
Through the avenue he caught a glimpse of the dwelling. His heart
wildly palpitated with the consciousness of being near Alice. He
waited a moment to collect his thoughts and deliberate on what course
to take. He had left the St. Charles hotel without any decided plan,
and driven forward without reflection. As the coachman was about to
drive into the grounds he bade him stop.
`I will walk to the house. Remain in the highway ready to receive
me at a moment's warning. Probably I shall bring a young lady
with me!'
Thus speaking he entered the avenue, and took his way by a cross
path to the house. All was calm and serene. The birds that had
sought their boughs, twittered as he disturbed their repose, and hopped
higher in the tree; a nightingale, startled by his step, would utter
a shrill note of alarm, and fly into the depths of the grove. The
heavens were of a mellow roseate hue, and the golden atmosphere
fused by the lingering sun-glow, was like transparent amethyst. He
rapidly walked forward until he came out of the path near the southern
wing of the mansion. He surveyed the piazza and portico, but
no one was visible but an old African smoking his pipe beneath a
pomegranate tree that grew before a Venetian window. All around
wore the air of luxury, taste and wealth. It was the beau ideal of
the villas and grounds of a Louisiana planter. He could not help being
attracted by the beauty of all that met his eye. But he was too
intent upon his object to heed anything that had not a direct bearing
upon that.
He now reflected that it would be fatal to his hopes if he should
meet Colonel May. Yet how he should avoid him and see Alice he
could not tell. It became him to be secret, cautious and bold.
He therefore remained sometime in the covert of the path until the
shades of evening deepened, and then stole across the lawn to a ground
window which was open. The negro was asleep beneath it, his pipe
gone out and still held in his lips. All was still. Encouraged by the
silence he looked into the drawing room, and through the opposite
door a faint light glimmered. He stepped into the room and traversed
the carpet with a noiseless step. He crossed another apartment,
and came to the door which led into the lighted room. As he came
near he heard a faint moaning, and looking in he beheld lying upon a
now French couch, Colonel May. His face was distorted with mental
restless, and betraying great agony of spirit. A high fever burned
his cheek. He looked also haggard and worn, and at once excited
Edward's pity. By his side knelt two slaves, one of whom, an old
man, was soothing him with many kind words, and the other was bathing
his hands.
`Where could Alice be?' was Edward's mental inquiry. That she
was in some way the cause of this mental suffering, he was assured.
But how—in what way? What should keep her from her father's
bedside if she were—'
He dared not carry out his fearful and agonizing foreboding. His
first impulse was to enter the chamber and demand of the prostrate
father his daughter—his betrothed bride! But the majesty of the
poor man's suffering awed him; and he remained gazing upon him uncertain
how to proceed. Suddenly Colonel May sprung from the couch
to his feet.
`It is no use struggling with this feeling!' he said in tones of deepest
human emotion. It is hell here—it can be no worse! I will end
it! Alec bring me my pistols!'
`Massa—oh good Massa!' implored the slave casting himself at his
feet and clinging to his knees.
`Slave! obey me!' he cried in a voice that made the African release
his hold and rise to his feet.
The pistols were brought and placed on a table by his hand. He
opened the ease and took one out and examined it.
`Yes, it is in order. Alec, my faithful servant, see me decenfly
buried; and I know you will shed a tear for your master when he is
gone. I am weary of the madness in my brain, and must end it. My
Alice! thus will I atone to thee for the wrong I have done thee!'
The slaves cast themselves on their knees by him, and covered
their faces. He raised his hand, cocked the pistol and presented it to
his heart, when his hand was caught by Edward Orr.
`Hold, take not the life that is not thine own!'
`Ha, ha, ha! Thou art come too late for thy bride, sir,' said the
suicide; and forcibly disengaging his arm, he placed the muzzle of
his pistol against his temples, and discharged its contents into his
brain. He fell instantly dead at Edward's feet!
After the horror and intense excitement of the moment had passed,
and his slaves had laid him, by Edward's order, upon the couch, he
`It is Miss Alice, massa,' said the sobbing African.
`And she—oh, tell me where she is?' he asked with eagerness; for
in his horror at the deed he had witnessed, he forgot the object which
had brought him there.
`Miss Alice went off to some conven', Massa, and left behind a
letter dat make Massa crazy when he read it, and he never had his
sense since, but keep all de time walk up and down de house or lay
down groanin' and takin' on most pitiful.'
`Alice fled to the convent! Where? What convent?' he asked,
feeling relieved; for he had rather a convent's walls should hold her
than the chateau of Count Bondier.
Finding that nothing more was known either by the African, or any
of the other slaves who now flocked into the room, save that `Miss
Alice had fled to a convent,' he shortly after left and reaching his carriage
drove to town. He was now in a state of most intense solicitude.
All was mystery inscrutable! She had not been united to
Count Bondier, this at least was a relief. But why should she have
fled to a convent, when three weeks yet remained for her to make up
her decision? What could have led her to pen such a letter to him?
The more he reflected upon the affair, the more perplexing it became.
His determination, however, was to ascertain what convent had become
her asylum.
He learned on reaching his hotel that the only two convents in the
state was the one a league from the city, called the Convent d'Ursuline,
and another in the interior, on Red River, known as the Convent of
del Sacre Cœur.
By means not necessary to detail here, be learned that she was not
at the former convent; and while the whole capital was astir with the
news of Colonel May's suicide, and his daughter's disappearance, he
proceeded to the latter with a letter of introduction he had obtained
to the superior of the convent. On reaching Alexandria, he secured
a guide and galloped across the nine leagues of beautiful prairie to
the convent. It stood in the bosom of a lovely country, and with
natural woodland, copse, and lawn. Its walls rose to his eye above
a group of majestic oaks and were reflected in a lake. Herds of
wild cattle were grazing on the plain, and squadrons of hurses of the
prairie, startled by his approach, lified their proud beads, shook their
armed host, galloped thundering across the plain.
The sun was an hour high when he reached the convent gate, and
rung for admittance. An aged portress opened a lattice in the gate
and gravely inquired his business.
`I bear a letter to the superior, and desire to present it in person.'
She retired, and in a few moments returned, unbarred the gate, and
admitted him into the outer corridor of the convent. A tall and majestic
female approached him, and announced herself as the Lady Superior.
`I am the bearer of a letter to you from the Rev. Pierre Du—, a
Roman Catholic priest of New Orleans, and have visited the convent
of the Sacred Heart, to learn if a certain young lady, named Alice
May, has sought asylum here.'
Edward watched the grave countenance of the Lady Superior, as
her cold eye moved along the lines; but her features, schooled to conceal
expression, betrayed nothing upon which he could base hope or
fears.
`Follow me, young man!' she said in a low, deep voice, that he
thought trembled with emotion. She led the way along the corridor,
and as he walked the solemn sound of a dirge fell fitfully upon his ear
and sunk to his heart. He followed her across the court to a door
that opened into the vestibule of the convent chapel. As he approached,
the deep, solemn strain rose and swelled—now loud and startling
like a human wail, now low and painfully plaintive. With a full
heart, and his spirits weighed down by a gloom that he could not
throw aside, he entered the vestibule.
The superior now stopped, threw open the door of the chapel, and
placing one hand upon her bosom with a look of woe and pity, pointed
in silence with the other towards a bier which stood before the
altar!
`What means this? Speak!' he cried, half the truth rushing upon
his brain.
`There lies the Sister Martha, she whom you named Alice May!'
He rushed past her—broke from her—heedless of her warning that
no man ever entered there save God's priests, and making his way
through the group of nuns that surrounded the snowy bier, stood before
it. The face of the dead was uncovered, and a single look told
him that it was Alice May's. Calm, peaceful, lovely still in death
in agony unsupportable under her.
She was borne to her grave in a beautiful and secluded cemetery of
the convent. The lover was permitted to follow her remains—for by
all he was regarded as a brother. There was a mystery to all the
sisterhood about the dead, and they knew not her living ties.
The grave was closed over her remains—the funeral procession returned
to the convent, and yet Edward kneeled beside the fresh sod,
which enclosed all he loved. Night at length came on in her solemn
silence and starry beauty. Its influence calmed his troubled spirit,
and he arose and slowly left the spot. He sought the convent, and
solicited audience of the Lady Superior. To her he revealed his
passion—all her history as interwoven with his own—and then besought
her to tell him what had brought her to that sudden death.
The Lady Superior was deeply affected by his narrative and his
intense grief; but she replied that she would give him no information.
That two weeks before, she had arrived at the convent with
only a single black servant, who had instantly turned from the gate
and returned to Alexandria. That she applied for admission in the
name of charity, and the portress opened to her.
`When I beheld her,' said the Superior, `as she was conducted
before me, I was struck with her beauty, and also with a look of intense
suffering. She simply asked me to give her asylum from the
world, and to conceal from it her refuge. She said she wished to
take the veil and never more to be seen, but pass her life in prayer
and preparation for heaven. She then placed jewels in my hands to
a large amount, which she said had been hers, but which she now
gave to the church. We received her as sister Martha; and from
that day I became deeply interested in her. But she communicated
to me nothing of her history, save her name. I watched her closely,
for I feared, so deep and silent was her secret sorrow, that she might
lose her reason and take her life. She spent nearly all her time in
the chapel before the altar, and was always seen in tears. Day after
day I observed her wilt and fade like a flower, till at length a fever
seized her, and three days since she died like an infant falling asleep,
in my arms. Earth has lost a child but Heaven has gained an angel.
The feelings with which poor Edward listened to this simple narrative
cannot be described. After he had become somewhat composed
he asked if she had left nothing to lead to the cause which drove her
her was wrapped in mystery.
`All is, indeed, mystery inscrutable,' said Edward, as he mentally
recurred to the dreadful end of her father, of her strange letter to him,
and of her extraordinary flight and sudden death.
| CHAPTER V. Alice May, and Bruising Bill | |