 | Alice May, and Bruising Bill |  |
ALICE MAY.
1. CHAPTER I.
One cheerful autumnal morning, six years ago, a group of lovely
girls was assembled in a window of a fashionable boarding school in
one of the handsomest streets crossing Mount Vernon. One or two
of them were seated with embroidery in their hands, but the rest were
standing and talking, and amusing themselves by watching the passers
by; for there was yet an idle quarter of an hour to recitations.
`Do see that poor old man! how white his hair is, and how he
bends beneath his years, while that empty bag he carries seems a load
for him,' said a pretty blue-eyed girl in a tone of deep sympathy, with
which the expression of her face sweetly harmonized. `Open the
window Ann, and let me throw to him a quarter of a dollar. I never
see an old silver-haired man, but what I think of my dear grandfather,
and for his sake love and pity him.'
`I can never see any thing romantic in an old ragged beggar,' said
a tall, grey-eyed girl with a very high forehead, and a look like one
of Miss Radcliffe's heroines: `if he was an aged minstrel, with a robe
and staff, and flowing locks of silver, and had a harp in his hand, and
sandals on his feet, how delightful it would be! I wish I had lived
in days of chivalry, these modern times are too common place.'
`I am content to live when and where my life will be most a blessing
to those around me,' said the first speaker with animation. `Do
open the window, Aunt, as you are near the spring, and let me throw
him the money. See, he has stopped and lifts up his aged eyes. Did
you ever behold such a look of eloquent pleading?'
`How much enthusiasm for a mere every day pauper!' said Miss
Letitia, the romantic girl, with a toss of her head.
The window was thrown up; and the example set by the benevolent
girl being followed by the others, the old man received into his torn
hat a shower of silver pieces. How lovely is charity in the young and
beautiful!
The aged beggar lifted up his venerable countenance with a grateful
look, bowed his bared and hoary head low to the pavement, and
saying in a trembling voice, `God bless you, young ladies,' went on
his way.
While the window was still up, and they were looking after his feeble
steps—for we all feel an interest in the objects of our charity—a
young gentleman, well mounted upon a dark bay horse came dashing
along. He was handsome, of a manly figure, and dressed and rode
well.
`Do shut the window down, girls,' said one of the young ladies,
laughing and retreating; `he will certainly think we have opened it on
purpose to look at him; and I don't choose to let any young gentleman
have such vain thoughts of himself—for they are vain enough
now. See he is looking this way.'
The young horseman seeing a bevy of pretty girls at an open window,
could not well help looking at them very earnestly. Suddenly
he half reined up, his features became animated with a look of surprise
and happy recognition, and bowing with the deepest reverence while
his face crimsoned with embarrassment and joy, he continued on his
way towards the avenue, at the same pace at which he had been before
going.
`He bowed to some one of us! who knows him?' said they all.
`Not a soul I believe—he thought we were foolishly admiring him,
and so impudently acknowledged it,' said another.
`No, he looked as if he recognized one of us. Let us see who looks
conscious, as no one will speak,' said Auna Linton; `look at Alice
May's face. See her blushes and confusion. She is the one.'
Instantly every eye was fixed upon a young dark-eyed brunette not
more than seventeen years of age, whose delicately olive shaded complexion
was incardined with the richest blood. Her long-fringed eye-lids
were cast to the floor, and she stood silent, beautiful, conscious
—her pretty fingers picking in pieces a rose bud. Never was a maiden
of seventeen lovelier than she who now stood confessed before
them, the shrine of the handsome horseman's adoring reverence.—
darkly beautiful in glossy waves about her finely shaped head and
throat. Her form was singularly graceful, every motion yielding to
the eye a new shape of beauty. The exquisite finish of her arm and
hand would have made Canova an idolater. her features were faultless.
Her low, gentle brow, with its dark, arching eyebrows, `like
two delicate feathers plucked from the black breast of the singing
ummill,' was a throne of serenity and beauty. Never were such eyes
as beamed beneath; large, languid, gentle, and, but for the purity of
the soul within, voluptuous. Passion was there, but in the shape of
love yet vestal and unawakened. The young and happy heart with
all its guileless emotions unveiled and open, was ever drawing in them,
to gladden the hearts of all around her. None beheld her but they
loved her. She was the idol of the school, and the friend of all.
All conscious the lovely girl stood before them, and her downcast
eyes and attitude told a tale each was dying to get at the mystery
of.
`Oh, where did you see him?'
`Where did you know him, Alice?'
`Is he from the south—an old lover?'
`Don't stand there blushing and making yourself look so wickedly
lovely. Do tell us,' were the questions with which she was over-whelmed.
Alice, however, laughed and blushed only the deeper, and breaking
away from them fled to her room.
2. CHAPTER II.
Perhaps the curiosity, raillery, and playful interference of others often
induces a young girl to think seriously of the individual about
whom she is teased, and to believe she is in love with him, whom perchance
she has met but once; when, in reality, if he had not been
named to her again after the first accidental meeting, she would never
have given him place in her thoughts. This was not, however, the
case with lovely Alice May. While she is confidentially confessing
her meeting with him to her young friend, Auna Linton, who had followed
her to her chamber and playfully teared her secret out of
her, we will give it to the reader in language of our own.
About a month previous to the period on which our briefly-sketched
story is opened, a young gentleman of fortune, recently a graduate
of Harvard, whose name is Edward Orr, and who was a native of
Boston, was one morning riding on horseback, as was his favorite
custom, in the direction of Mount Auburn, when seeing a funeral
train coming out of the arched gateway, he was prompted by the momentary
impulse to alight and enter. Without any definite object in
view, save to enjoy in the quiet of his soul the solemn repose of the
place, he wandered on from tomb to tomb, through dell and winding
walk, enjoying the romantic seelusion and experiencing that calm
and intellectual delight, (in which the more hallowed feelings always
might,) which the solemn loveliness of the place inspires in every
properly cultivated mind.
Suddenly he emerged from a narrow path, thickly shaded by larch
trees, upon a secluded spot in the most lovely and quiet portion of
the cemetery. Before him, within a few paces, was a young girl arranged
in simple white, her straw hat fallen back from her head, her
hands folded before her, and her eyes directed towards a name upon
a small, exquisitely sculptured monument of white marble. The
grace of her fingers, the gentle earnestness of her bending attitude,
the rich beauty of her face, on which rested an expression of intellectual
admiration in which much of the heart was visible, charmed,
surprised, enraptured him. The dark trees were bending over the
spot; the white marble rose from the verdant sward in strange beauty
over it, seemed like an angel watching the tomb to receive and
bear heavenward the `arisen,' when at length the trump of Gabriel
should rend it open.
He feared to advance lest he should intrude upon hallowed ground.
His eye fell upon the inscription, upon which her soft dark eyes were
gazing so thoughtfully. It was simply.
“To my Wife
Mary.
20.
`What beautiful and touching eloquence in those few simple words,'
she said in a low sweet voice that came from her heart, while he saw
that a tear glistened from her cheek. `There is a sad story of love
aud hope and joy and woe and death, couched beneath them. How
perfect the taste of the husband who in one simple line records the
volumes of his love. Thus would I be buried. My memory graven
on the hearts of those I love, my name simply carved on my tomb.'
At this moment her eyes were uplifted with the consciousness of
being intently observed, and they met those of the young man, whose
earnest admiring gaze, was not difficult to be translated by any maiden.
She slightly blushed, and instead of flying or betraying any
foolish weakness, smiled with great sweetness, and with a just propriety
that charmed him.
`I fear, sir, you have heard some pretty nonsense. But I was not
aware I had an auditor. Yet what can be conceived more touching
than what has brought forth my soliloquy,' and casting her eyes upon
the inscription, she replaced her bonnet and was retiring.
`It is indeed beautiful and touching,' said Edward lifting his hat as
he stood by the monument. Will you have the kindness to tell me
what young bride lies buried here?'
The question was put so respectfully, his manner was so pleasing,
his face so intelligently handsome, his voice so rich and low, his eyes
so reverential yet so brilliant, that she could not resist a reply:
`I am ignorant, sir.' She then added apologetically, `I have strayed
here, away from my party, who, calling me till they were tired left
me to myself. I must hasten to find them.'
`I fear you will not find them easy in this labarynth of walks,' said
Edward, seeing her retire. `Allow me to escort you.'
`No—' she answered playfully, yet blushing; `I think I shall not
get lost;' and bounding away he lost sight of her in a bend in the avenue.
For some moments he stood gazing where she had disappeared, and
then with a deep drawn sigh, and with a sensation of gentle melancholy
stealing over him, the first dawning of love, he slowly resumed his
ramble. Deep was the impression she had made upon his heart, and
as he walked he was lost in a brown-study, of which she was the mystic
volume.
He had wandered how far and how long, whether five minutes or
an hour, he did not know, when he was aroused by the side of `the
terrace of tombs,' by a figure crossing his path. He looked up and
saw it was the maiden of the monument, whose image love was busily
graving upon his heart. She was approaching him, and he saw that
she looked warm, hurried, and a little alarmed.
`I am overjoyed to meet you sir,' she said, coming near him with
a hurried step. `You will think me a very strange person; but I
have, as you predicted, really lost myself! I have been wandering
the last half hour through a hundred paths, and this is the third
time I have reappeared before these tombs.'
`Will you do me the honor to accept my guidance,' said Edward.
`You will think me a very foolish girl. I certainly have been
very imprudent. As I cannot hope to find my party in this wilderness,
you will oblige me by conducting me to the entrance where
I will wait for them in the carriage.
The young man never felt so happy in his life, as at this moment
the lovely wanderer frankly placed her hand on his arm, and walked
by his side.
Edward was not familiar with the avenues, but, listening and
hearing the distant roll of wheels along the turnpike, he carefully
noted the direction of the sound, and struck into the paths that he
believed would lead them towards the highway.
The birds that twittered and chirped in the branches that over-hung
their way, have not betrayed to us their conversation as they
walked; and we leave our readers to imagine what two young, ardent,
intellectual, enthusiastic persons, thus romantically cast upon
each others companionship, discoursed about at such a season.
`There is Spurzheim's tomb, and not far distant and visible from
which they had been sometime slowly traversing. `I must now
part from you; but to bear with me the recollection of this hour as
the happiest of my life.'
His eyes sought hers, but they were downcast, and her blushing
face was averted. She suddenly withdrew her hand from his arm,
for footsteps and voices were heard. The next moment several young
girls preceded by two elderly ladies appeared conducted by one of
the party.
They were looking earnest, anxious and hurried.
`Your friends?' asked Edward.
`Yes.'
At this same moment she was discovered; and they all came flying
towards her.
Amid the exclamations, embracings, chidings, wonderings, and joy
at recovering her, Edward retired unperceived. Alice, after being
told a hundred times by half a dozen dear voices, how much she
had been sought for, how they believed she had been drowned in
`the lake,' or had been spirited away, or had eloped with some lover,
was triumphantly escorted along the turnpike towards the city.
3. CHAPTER III.
A year elapsed and Alice May left the boarding school to return to
Louisiana, for she was a dark-eyed child of the sunny south. She returned
home with her father a betrothed bride! During the year that ensued
her first interview with Edward Orr, in Mount Auburn, and the
bow she had from him at the window, he had sought her acquaintance,
and intimacy grew to love. They parted in the drawing-room of the
Tremont, where he had called to bid her good-bye the evening preceding
her departure. He promised in the spring to come out and be
married—for till then he would not come into possession of his estate.
Their engagement was known to and approved of by her father, a tall,
handsome man, with a haughty air, and manners something cold and
unprepossessing. Edward did not like him from the first; perhaps
because his arrival in Boston was the signal of his departure from
Alice. He was, however, tender and affectionate to his child, who
seemed to be devotedly attached to him. Of him, Edward had learned
that he was a wealthy planter who resided near Lauvidais in the
vicinity of New Orleans, that he was a widower, and that Alice was
his only child.
The parting between the lovers was favored by the voluntary and
judicious absence of Colonel May from the room, and with the usual
protestations of love, in this case, painfully sincere, and a promise
mutually drawn from each other to write once a week. Alice at length
received the last lingering kiss—and the next moment was left weeping,
alone.
It was the evening of the 22d of February. It was to be celebrated
by one of the most magnificent assemblies that had ever been in
the capital of Louisiana. In a planters' villa a few miles from the city
was one fair inmate preparing for the brilliant scene. It was Alice
May. Four months had elapsed since she had left Edward, and her
love burned clear and pure and steady. He was her idol—her heart
thinking of him daily, hourly. Her letters were transcripts of her
heart's deep, holy and fervent feelings. Her life was wrapped up in
his, and she knew from his letters that he loved her with the same unwavering
devotion.
She had been much courted, caressed and flattered since her return
home. In every place she was the star of all eyes. But her love for
Edward Orr was the polar star of all her regard, and the compliments,
the flattery and homage she received, made no impression upon her.
If she had had her own will she would have withdrawn from society;
for she cared for no pleasure that he did not share with her. But her
father, proud of her extraordinary beauty, and flattered by the attention
paid her, carried her to every public place of amusement, with
which the city was then rife. On the present occasion she had entreated
to remain at home, as she had felt all day unusually depressed.
But he had a motive in urging her compliance with his wishes, and
she consented to prepare and accompany him to town in the carriage.
She was seated at her window which looked out upon a spacious
lawn, ornamented with noble elms and sycamores, with a glimpse of
the river beyond. The moon was filling her shield with light as the
twilight deepened, and shone broadly down between the light trellised
columns of the piazza. A mocking bird near by was making the air
musical with a hundred stolen songs, and at intervals from the quartier
of the slaves came the low chant of some African air.
Behind Alice was kneeling a young female slave braiding her long
raven hair; for she had for some months ceased to let it have its freedom.
Reclining on a couch beside her, lay a beautiful quadroone
about thirty eight years of age. She was an invalid, and her large
black eyes seemed to beam with unearthly beauty. Her hand was
thin and transparent, and a deep rose seemed opening beneath the
olive delicacy of her cheek. She was a consumptive, and lay there
like a child unconscious of her danger, and as interested in the trifles
about her, as if death had not lifted his finger and beckoned her away.
Her name was Desirée, and she was a slave. Many years before,
struck with her beauty, while she was yet a child, Colonel May had
purchased her for his wife's attendant. The lady educated her, and
made her rather a friend and companion than a slave. When the
handsome Desirée had reached her twentieth year her mistress died,
since which period she had been a housekeeper and overseer of the
other female domestics. To her, Alice was greatly attached, and the
mother to her child.
`Ah, Miss Alice, your hair is already as long as mine,' she said,
admiring for some time the raven tresses of the maiden; `and I have
been said to have the most beautiful hair in Louisiana!'
`Was my mother's hair like mine, Desirée?'
`Mistress' hair was fair brown,' answered the slave, with a hesitation
in her manner, and looking as if she would have avoided replying
to the question.
`I wish I could have seen to recollect my mother. She died, alas,
when I was born! Motherless I have been from my birth, and oh,
how have I sighed to lean on a dear mother's bosom!'
The quadroone sighed; then her eyes suddenly sparkled with animation;
she half rose from the couch, and with parted lips eagerly
bent towards her young mistress as if she would speak! but the words
died in her heart as she sank back upon her couch and hid her face
in her hands.
During the remainder of the toilet she remained silent; and at
length Alice being richly yet tastefully dressed drove off with her father.
4. CHAPTER IV.
The loud, crashing music of the orchestra, pealed through the gergeous
halls of the St. Louis, and sounds of mirth and festivity reached
their ears as they alighted at the thronged door. As they reached
the hall the floor was already occupied by the dancers, and the noise
and glare of chandeliers, and the motion of the restless crowd was
bewildering.
`Come this way, Alice,' said her father, `I wish to introduce you
to the Count Bondier, who has expressed a desire to become acquainted
with you. He is of a distinguished French family, and I wish
you to be civil to him. Perhaps I may as well tell you that I wish
lover had best be no more thought of.'
This was whispered in her ear as the crossed the hall to an alcove
where Colonel May had discovered the foreigner.
If Alice had not been a girl of a strong mind and independent native
character, she would have sunk through the floor at this annonncement.
As it was she trembled like an aspen leaf, and internally
resolved to hate him. He was presented to her, and coldly yet
politely received. He was a good looking Frenchman, about thirty
with an air of high fashion. He was at once struck with the charms
of which he had heard so much; and Colonel May taking an opportunity
to desert his daughter, left her dependant on the Count for a protector
in the throng. He offered his arm which she knew not how to
decline in her unprotected state, and accepted. He found her disinclined
to converse, and proof against his compliments. After trying
his best for half an hour to entertain her and get into her good graces—for
the Count's estates were under mortgage, and the young
Louisiana belle was an heiress—he began to despair. At length her
father reappeared, and she flew to his arm in a way that convinced
him of the difficulty of getting a titled son-in-law. In her presence
he invited the Count to dine with them the next day; an invitation
which he accepted, it seemed to her, with great pleasure.
This event so embittered the hours of the assembly that Alice at
length prevailed on her father, on the plea of ill health, to retire with
her. The ensuing day the Count came, and Colonel May studied to
leave him alone with her. But coldness and distance alone characterized
her manner in his presence.
Day after day he was a visitor to Lauvidais, and daily pressing his
suit by every attention and every gentle device in love's armory—but
in vain. At length he made a bold stroke and addressed her. She
refused him civilly but firmly. This enraged her father, who threatened,
unless she gave her consent to marry him within three months,
he would deprive her of her inheritance, and shut her up in a convent.
`Give me half that time to decide,' said she with firmness.
`I grant it Alice; and expect at the end of the period that you will
be prepared to comply with my wishes, and those of Mr. Bondier,
who is devoted to you. Your alliance with him will place you in the
best society in Paris!'
On her father's departure, Alice fastened her chamber door, and
setting down to her escritoire, wrote the following letter;
I write to avail myself of my privilege and duty as your betrothed
wife, to throw myself, at a crisis which has just occured in my life,
upon your love! A certain Count Bondier is persecuting me with
his attentions, and althogh I have in every way, not absolutely to
insult him, shown him my repugnance to his suit, and also distinctly
and firmly declined his addresses, yet he pursues them encouraged by
my father, who is warmly in favor of an alliance with his powerful
family through me. My father has just left me with the menace that
unless I will consent to marry him at the end of three months, that
he will immure me in a convent, which God knows is to be prefered.
I have asked and obtained six weeks to decide. This letter will reach
you in two. It will take three for you to reach here. I need not ask
you to fly—for my love tells me you will soon be here to claim your
own lover's bride.
This letter was received by Edward Orr in less than two weeks after
it was penned, and its perusal gave him intense agony. He made
instant preparations to proceed South, to rescue her from her fate
but before his departure he received another letter—it was but a single
line.
I have just heard something that has frozen my blood! I write, I
know not what! Do not come! I am lost to you forever!
Edward gazed at the words with a glazed eye. What fearful mystery
was this! What had happened? `I will know the worst.—
Lost to me forever! No! she cannot be false! I will fly to her—
for assuredly some dreadful evil hath befallen her. How wild and
large the writing! so unlike her usual hand—yet it is hers! Alice, I
heed not your command! I fly to you!'
With this determination the almost phrenzied lover sprang into the
carriage and drove to the depot, his mind tortured with the mystery,
his heart bleeding with the agony of suspense.
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.
6. CHAPTER VI.
The mystery that involved the death of Alice May seemed to Edward
impenetrable. He could obtain no clue to the motives which
led to her strange flight from her father's roof, or her seclusion in
the remote convent of Sacre Cœur. The cause of her father's suicidal
end was equally inscrutable. Lost in mystery and burdened with
grief, he left New Orleans, and after traversing the rivers and lakes
of the west, at length reached Boston. A settled gloom was upon his
mind, and with his clouded brow and grave and sad countenance he
seemed ten years older than when he left three months before. The
mystery in which Alice's fate remained wrapped had preyed deeply
upon him, and kept him in a state of feverish anxiety and nervous expectation.
His health was suffering, and his mind wandering and
unsettled—for night nor day did it rest; but was ever active, ever
seeking some clue to unfold her destiny.
It was night when he reached his native city. The carriage which
bore him to his lodgings was whirled rapidly along through lighted
and thronged streets, and at length drew up at his door. He alighted,
and scarce returning the congratulations of his family, he hastened
to his rooms'. Every thing seemed as he left it. He cast himself
into a chair, and for a few moments remained with his head buried in
his hands. Suddenly he recovered himself as his servant entered with
his baggage.
`Thomas!'
`Sir.'
`Has any letter—has any package arrived for me, since I left?'
`Yes sir—a dozen nearly. I have kept them locked up here.' As
the servant spoke, he deposited his master's valise upon the floor, and
unlocking a draw in his secretary, handed him several letters and parcels.
With a trembling, hurried hand, Edward turned them over,
glancing at their addresses, and throwing each successively aside with
a gesture of impatience. He looked at the last, and then with a look
of painful disappointment, cried:
`What did I hope for? She wrote me no more after that letter
which led me to fly to her! Why should I hope to find another from
her? No, no! the cause which led to her flight and death, must forever
remain in mystery—a mystery, that like an internal fire, will
feed upon my brain till reason perish! It will make me so mad! I
have had since the hour of her death but one thought—one burning,
overwhelming thought! and that is to find the key to these fearful
events.'
`Here, sir,' exclaimed Thomas, who had returned to close the
drawer, `here, I have found another letter; perhaps it is the one you
want. It was edge-wise up, and I did not discover it before.'
Edward sprang to snatch it from him; and the instant his eye rested
upon the superscription, he uttered a cry of mingled joy and anguish,
and sunk almost insensible into his chair. Thomas flew to assist
him.
`No—I need it not! Go—go, Thomas; I am better now. Leave
me, I wish to be alone—all alone—with my heart and her!' He
waved his hand faintly yet resolutely, and his servant, after casting
upon him a look of pity and wonder, quitted the chamber.
For several minutes the lover remained seated with the sealed letter
grasped in his hand. He seemed to want energy to break it open.
At length he raised it to his eyes, and read the address with evident
anguish.
`Yes, dear Alice—those grateful characters were traced by thy
own fair fingers. And you did not forget me at the last moment of
your flight! How shall I read this?' he cried, starting up. `Here
is evidently the key of all that I would learn—of all that ignorance of
which has been driving me melancholy mad! And yet my hand trembles
to open it and read! my heart shrinks! I feel that I have not
the courage to come to the knowledge of all I would most learn. It
is a double sheet, and perhaps contains a narrative of all, to read
which may fire my brain with I know not what terrible passions! I
load of uncertainty which has so long borne it down!'
As he spoke he tore the seal and unfolded the letter. A lock of
dark hair fell from it, which he caught and pressed to his lips and
heart with a passionate exclamation. He again seated himself, but
again and again he had pressed the dear signature of `Alice May' to
his lips, and many was the hot tear that fell upon it, ere he commenced
reading; and often did he interrupt himself, and rise and
pace the room, now in tears, now in resentment, before he came to
the close.
In the preceding chapters to this story, the reader has seen Alice
May the loveliest among the beautiful of her school companions, and
winning all hearts equally by the attractions of her person, and the
excellencies of her heart and mind. He has seen her the betrothed
of a young gentleman worthy of her, and beheld her on her return to
the `sunny south,' the idol of a doting father, and surrounded with
every luxury that wealth and taste could contribute. He has seen her
there, in the midst of those means of enjoyment happy only in the
love of her betrothed; living only in him; and looking forward to the
spring when he was to come and claim her as his bride. The reader
has also seen how happy Edward was in her correspondence, and
how hopefully he looked forward to his meeting and union with the
lovely Louisianian. He has witnessed the sudden termination of this
happiness by his reception of her two letters, filled with mysterious
words, and imploring him to forget her—`that she was unworthy of
his love or of his thoughts.' He has seen that, tortured by suspense,
and apprehending every evil, he had immediately started south, and
after finding her father's house deserted, Colonel May dead by his
own hand upon the floor, and Alice flown, he at length discovered
her in a convent laid upon a bier, and ready to be borne by virgins
to her grave; that to this moment all concerning her from the time
he had got her letter was wrapt in the most impenetrable mystery.
To find, therefore, a letter dated, as he now saw it was, on the day of
her flight, which promised to unravel these strange things, was an
event calculated to rouse the most painful curiosity in Edward's mind.
The letter was as follows:
`I know not how to address you. `Dear Edward,' was flowing
from my pen—but I am unworthy to give you any endearing title. In
my last letter—it was a wild—strange one—but I was nearly mad
when I wrote it—I told you that events had transpired that rendered
I left all in mystery. But reflection has come to my aid—reason has
returned, and after hours of terrible insanity I can think and write
calmly. I did intend, Edward, to keep the dreadful secret forever
locked up in my own bosom. But this is pride; and with pride I
have no more to do. It would be cruel to you, whom my soul loves!
Oh, if I could forget—but no! I must live and remember. How
shall I relate my shame. I have sat down to do it that I might relieve
your mind from suspense, and show you I have not lightly trifled with
your love for me; for too well I know how fondly you love me. Alas,
that your noble heart had not been bestowed upon a worthier object.
But I will no longer avoid the painful subject. In three hours—tonight
at midnight I fly from my home, leaving no trace of my flight.
Before I take this step I wish you, Edward, to do me justice. Therefore
do I now write to you. You saw me first at the boarding schools
and knew me as the daughter of an opulent southern planter. You
offered me your noble love, and in return I gave you my heart. Oh,
the happiness of that hour when I first learned that you regarded me
with favor—that you loved me! But I cannot dwell upon these days
of happiness fled forever. Alas, why has heaven made me to be accursed!
Let me speak of more recent events. Let me explain to
you the meaning of the dark language of my last letter. I told you
that the only alternative of my union with the Count was to be immured
in a convent for life. I entreated you to fly to my rescue, ere
the time given me by my father for deciding between the two, elapsed.
This letter was followed in two days by another recalling my request,
and telling you that an event had occurred which rendered it necessary
that we should meet no more, that I was going to fly and hide
from the world, for I was unworthy your love or slightest regard. It
is this letter which now I am on the eve of flight I feel it my duty to
explain; then farewell forever, and forget that I have ever lived. Oh,
how can I relate my shame to him whose approbation and love I regard
next to Heaven's? But I must to my painful duty.
The evening of the day on which I wrote you that if you wished to
save me from the persecuting attentions of the Count, you must fly
to me, Desiree, the beautiful and affectionate Quadroone nurse, of
whom I have spoken to you, as having been with my mother when
she died, and who had been my nurse through childhood, was taken
suddenly ill. I flew to her with affectionate anxiety, for I had loved
her us a mother, and she had always shown me the most affectionate
fever; and as my father was absent with the Count in town, I prescribed
what I thought would relieve, and was about sending for the
family physician, when she called me to the side of her couch, and
said:
`No, Alice, it's no use! I feel that I am death-struck; I am dying!
Come near, I have something to say to you.'
I threw myself upon my knees by her bedside, in tears, and kissing
her hands bade her live for my sake.
`You are the only mother I have ever known! If you die, I
shall be wretched indeed!' I cried, and bathed her burning hands
with tears.
`Miss Alice,' she said, placing her hand upon my forehead, and
putting back my hair, while she looked into my eyes with the fondest
affection, `I have but a short time to live! Yet before I die, I would
give utterance to the tide of maternal affection which for years has
been pent up in my breast. Yes, Alice, for seventeen years I have
kept locked in my breast the secret which is a mother's life and joy
to utter in each hour in kisses and caresses upon her child. But I
have been denied this! Fear and love—fear of your father and love
for you, for I knew it would make you unhappy, has kept me from it.
But death has now come, and is stronger than your father's threats—
and stronger than death is a mother's love! Alice, you are my own
child! Bend over me and let me fold you to a mother's heart, that
for years has yearned to empty itself upon your bosom. You are my
child, my long cherished, fondly loved child!'
I listened to her without power to stir. I did not doubt—for a hundred
things of the past, never understood before, now rushed upon
my mind to corroborate her assertion; and while I listened I believed.
She ended and would have clasped me to her heart. I shrunk from
her with a cry of mingled leathing and anguish, and should have fallen
but for the support of the couch by which I knelt. I remained
for several minutes in a state of stupor, with only one sensation, and
that one of misery unutterable and scarce comprehended.
`You refuse to embrace me!' said Desiree—nay, I will call her
what she was—my mother. `I knew this would he so—and therefore
that I might not have your hate has been one of my motives in
keeping so secretly your birth from you. But it matters little now,
Alice, whether you hate or detest me! I have relieved my heart; I
have eased my conscience; and death will come less heavily upon
`Oh, tell me—tell me,' I cried, shrinking from her embrace, and
burying my face in the curtain, `tell me the whole fearful tale!—
Who was she, then, whose memory I have been taught to reverence
as my mother's?'
`She was the lawful wife of your father. When she was a bride,
I was purchased to be her attendant. But I have few words to give
to the story, Alice!' she said, suppressing a cry which her physical
suffering wrung from her; `a year after your father's marriage with
her she gave birth to a daughter, and in giving it life gave up her
own. The infant lived but a week, and the morning of its death I
gave birth to a daughter. The two children, I need not say, had
but one father.'
`And I was that child?' I asked eagerly.
`Yes, you were a lovely babe, and your father proposed to me to
let the dead babe pass as mine, and to raise you as his own. Tempted
by the offer he made me, and ambitious to have you placed in
such a position in society as would be the lot of a daughter of Colonel
May, I promised it. Seventeen years have I kept the secret, daily
yearning to give you a mother's love. Death has now approached,
and my breast would hold the secret no longer. The mother's love
would find its channel ere the fountain of her heart dried up forever.
You will hate me—you will curse my memory. But we are alone
no ear but thine has heard, and beyond this death-bed the secret never
need reach. My desire is gratified in acknowledging you as my
child, and my conscience lightened of a load it has too long borne.—
Nay, will you not give the mother one of the kisses you were ever
ready to bestow upon the supposed nurse Desiree?'
I remained motionless. My bosom was agitated by a hundred
conflicting emotions. That all she said was true I believed. I did
not for an instant doubt that I was her child. I felt the most intense
resentment toward my father, which then was transferred to her, for
suffering me so long to remain ignorant of my degraded birth. For
I was not only a Quadroone, but a slave—for such Desiree still was
to my father! Horror filled my mind and rendered me almost insensible!
For an instant—only an instant, and once, the idea of concealing
my birth as she had suggested, occurred to me; but I immediately
banished the temptation. Your love was to me at that moment
the anchor of my integrity. I could not deceive you, Edward!
Under other circumstances—that is, if I had not loved, and been
the world's good and honorable opinion, might have made me hesitate.
But I rejected the suggestion! I resolved that, however great
the sacrifice, I would willingly be the victim rather than you should
be deceived. My mother seemed to be reading my thoughts as she
fixed her large lustrous dying eyes upon me.
`Alice, breathe not the secret, or you will perish. Live and be
happy! Only by secresy can you hold your present position.'
`I will perish, then!' I said firmly. `Mother, if such I must now
call you—you have poisened my existence! Nay, I do not blame
you. I loved you as my nurse—I love you as my mother! I will
embrace you! There, I acknowledge you to be my mother! I will
acknowledge it to the world!'
She seized my hand, and weeping implored me to preserve the fatal
secret. At length I promised to conceal it from all but my father
and you, and then fly to a convent. She spent her last breath in endeavoring
to prevail upon me to lock it in my own breast; and finding
all her tears and entreaties ineffectual, began bitterly to reflect
upon herself for making the disclosure. But these regrets were now
unavailing either for herself or me, and she shortly after expired, imploring
in her last appealing look my forgiveness. I could only cast
myself upon her body and weep.
It was near sunset she died, and an hour after my father came home
I heard his step on the portico. He was alone, and seemed from the
tone in which he spoke to his servant, to be in a cheerful mood. I was
kneeling weeping by my mother's couch, but instantly rose on his entrance,
as some one told him that Desiree was dead!
He merely glanced at me, and approaching the bedside fixed a few
moments upon the face of the once beautifol, and then sinking upon his
knees bent over it, laid his head upon the pillow and wept. The sound
of his manly sobs in an instant suppressed the fierce purpose in my
breast with which on hearing his step I had impulsively determined to
meet him, charging him with my shame. I stood by in silence till he
rose up, kissed the lips of the dead, and walked to the window. I
knew then that he had loved—loved her more (as she had told me) than
his wife. Yes, or he would never have taken her child, and thus assumed
her as his own. At length he approached me and asked me why
I wept? Instantly my spirit awoke within me, and I answered:
`I weep my mother's death! Doth it not become a daughter to show
respect for a mother dead!'
He started, less I suppose, at the unusual tones of my voice, than
at the expression of my face! He gazed on me an instant with a
look of suspicion, and then said fiercely, while he pointed sternly
towards the body,
`How—has she dared to confess—'
`Nay, father, words and rage are useless,' I said in as firm a tone as
I could command. `I know the whole truth! It is graven with a pen
of fire upon my soul! I am the daughter of that woman, and my
father's slave!'
He cast himself at my feet and implored my forgiveness—implored
me to keep the secret and save him and myself from ignominy and contempt.
I was resolute to divulge it, and that I would do so to the Count
and to you! He menaced and entreated me by turns, when finding me
determined, he said in a low deep voice that sunk to my soul,
`Then since you will be my slave, you shall know the power of a
master!'
He took me by the arm. I followed him unresisting; and he locked
me up in a strong room, and there left me. The next morning he came
to me early, and entering cast himself on his knees, implored me to regard
my own happiness and keep the dreadful secret of my birth. At
length I told him I would not divulge it (which he most feared,) to the
Count—nor but to one person in the world. Who that person was
(yourself) I declined telling him. With this he was better satisfied,
and releasing me desired me to breakfast with him. After breakfast he
wrote two notes, and despatched them hurriedly by two slaves in opposite
directions. While he was at the door sending off the servants, I
secretly despatched an intelligent slave on foot to meet them at the gate
of the avenue, and learn where they were going. He returned and
said one was to Father de L—, the priest, the other to Count—. I
suspected this, and knew my father's object to be to unite me to the
Count at once. I pleaded illness, and shortly retired to my chamber.
In a few minutes afterwards I had packed all my jewels and secreted
them about my person, and escaping from my window upon the gallery.
gained the stables and saddled my own riding horse. I mounted; several
paths led in various directions from the stables, and taking one of
them that led by the river, I galloped along its banks until I came to a
woodman's cabin, where I had frequently been before. I knew steam-boats
almost daily stopped there for wood, and I intended to go on
board the first. One was in sight as I came near the hut, and soon approached.
I told the woodman I wished to go on board, and that he
may not say in what direction, lest you will hope to discover my retreat.
In two hours after leaving my father's roof I was on board, and in the
state room, from which I now write you. This letter will be mailed to
you from the first town.
I have now written you all, dear Edward. I feel you will, while you
acquit me of rudely trifling with your honorable affection, do me the
justice my painful position challenges. In sacrificing your love I have
sacrificed myself. Do dot hope to find my retreat! I am going to bury
myself in a convent, where I shall at least have serenity of mind. Happy
I never expect to be in this world! Farewell. dear Edward! We
shall meet again in Heaven!
Singular and unusual as the foregoing incidents seem, they are
taken from the life of one, who, not less hapless than she was lovely,
now rests in a flower-adorned grave in the little cemetry of the
Convent of the Sacred Heart.
| Alice May, and Bruising Bill | |