University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
THE UNCLE AND NIECE.

When Satchell had concluded his account of the mode in which the
papers had come into his possession, Colonel Harwood, who had
listened with deep attention, said,—

“I remember distinctly the man and for what I had him so severely
flogged; I also recollect his desertion. How extraordinary
that he should have been so mysteriously the instrument of my
subsequent sufferings and my present anxiety; for now that I am
relieved respecting myself, through the destruction of this treasonable
correspondence, I begin to feel fearfully for my dear child.
Would to God, Mr. Satchell, you would forego this thing. Be a
generous man, sir. Have pity upon her. Would you wed one
who loathes you?”

“You need not make any appeal to me, Colonel Harwood. The
price has been paid you. Your daughter is mine.”

“But only of her free will.”

“I repeat only of her free will.”

“Then she is safe. But suppose she refuses you, what equivalent
have you for the loss of the five thousand dollars which you might
have obtained for those papers?”

“I have no fears of losing, sir. Good morning, Colonel. I have
an engagement abroad at this hour.”

“Good morning, sir,” answered Colonel Harwood, with difficulty
repressing his anger at this cavalier mode of terminating the interview.
“Remember, Mr. Satchell,” he said, as he went out, “that
I no longer stand in fear of you; you are no longer my tyrant; and
I give you fair warning that I shall protect my child against any
force or machinations which you may attempt to bring to your
aid.”

“Do not fear, sir. But I would inform you, Colonel Harwood,
that you forget that I still have power over you. You know that I
hold a secret almost as dear to you as that I have but now resigned.”

“True, true!” cried the poor man. “When shall I be free from
your clutches and evil power?” he groaned out.

“When I have accomplished my revenge.”

“Revenge! Against me?”

“No.”

“Against my daughter?”

“No, sir.”

“Then whom?”

“It is not discreet to tell one's secret,” answered Satchell, “but
it is a man I do not love,” he added, with the deepest intonation
of hatred.

“But what connection can this person who has incurred your
hatred have with me or my daughter, that you couple our names?”

“Did I couple your names?”

“You said your evil power over me would only terminate when
your vengeance terminates; yet you say your vengeance is not
against me nor my daughter.”

“You repeat only that which is the truth.”

“Yet, one would think,—I must think, sir, that you hate my
child, in that you are willing to render her miserable. Could you
not have devised any other condition for the surrender of the
papers?”

“It is too late now to complain, sir,” answered Satchell, closing
the door and locking it after him.

Colonel Harwood finding himself in the narrow entry went down
stairs and out of the house, Satchell following him. As they went
out of the alley-door, Satchell said,—

“You will notify your niece, sir, that I will see her at seven this
evening.” With these parting words he turned down the alley.

Colonel Harwood walked slowly up the alley in the opposite
direction. He had now achieved the great object of his desires;
he had got possession of papers which would have hanged him; he
had burned them, one by one, and seen them consume to ashes. A
heavy load that nearly sunk him into the grave was all at once
lifted from his heart. He had received a reprieve like a criminal
condemned to die, and pardoned at the moment of execution. Yet,
now, that the first emotion of joy was passed, he seemed, when he

thought upon poor Caroline, to have purchased his reprieve at
a price far higher than it was worth; for, always, things ardently
longed for, when possessed seem valueless.

He took his way towards the boarding-school, thinking it better
to see his daughter in person than write her a note.

He found her alone in her room; her face was very pale, but she
met him with a smile. He thought that her manner was constrained:
it might have been so; for when one has loved what was
believed to be good, when it finds it has loved what is false, it may
still strive to yield as before the homage of the heart; but the heart
will slowly obey. Caroline could not forget the kindness she had
for years received from him, how he had watched over her, educated
her, supported her, and out of his narrow income giving her the
highest advantages of mental and personal cultivation. She loved
him for all this; she could never forget his kindness. But she had
been greatly, painfully disappointed to learn that her uncle was a
traitor. She might still love him indeed, but she felt she could never
respect him. She could no longer see in him the brave soldier, as
she gazed upon his gray hair, and fine, military countenance, and
martial figure, but the traitor! “Still, still he was her uncle,” she
would exclaim, as she sat by her window after he left her, sadly
reflecting upon the scene she had passed through with him. She
was a proud, sensitive, high-minded girl, and she felt keenly her
uncle's degradation; for in her mind he was degraded; to her
idolized love he had fallen. She could never look upon him in the
same light she had done. Perhaps she thought more heavily of his
treason than of her own painful situation with reference to Satchell.

“Have you seen him, sir?” she asked, as Colonel Harwood entered
and seated himself.

“I have, Caroline.”

“And those dreadful papers?”

“He gave them into my hands.”

“All—all of them?”

“Yes. I am free! I burned them up one by one before I quitted
his office; I saw them in their ashes.”

“And you have nothing more to fear then from that unhappy
affair?” she continued, in the same rapid tone of interrogation.

“Nothing, my dear girl.”

“Then my heart is light again!” she cried, with joyful smiles;
“now that this fearful danger no longer hangs over you, I am
happy. Your life, your honor, your family are saved.”

“But you forget the price, my dear Caroline,” he said sadly, and
taking her hand.

“No, I do not,” she answered with emotion, but firmly. “What
said this man? Did he freely give the papers?”

“Yes.”

“Only upon your assertion that you had seen me?”

“Yes, strange as it is, he surrendered them at once.”

“And yet was not certain that I would consent to be made the
price; it is extraordinary!”

“To me unexplicable. He is one of the most singular men I
ever knew; his conduct seems inconsistent, but I know that he is
not a man who will do things unadvisedly. He has some deep
motive; in a word, he knows that you will consent to be his wife.”

“How can he know it, sir?” she exclaimed, with flashing eyes.

“I do not say he knows it.”

“No, no; he cannot know what is not nor cannot be.”

“Has he not ever seen you except at the time you saw him at
the gate?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Can he have any power over you from any act of your life unknown
to me?”

“No sir,” she answered, deeply coloring at the inquiry; but it
was the rich hue of angry surprise at a question that involved the
inference of her having done some wrong in her life; “no, sir,” she
repeated, firmly.

“I am then wholly at a loss.”

“When am I to see this extraordinary man, uncle?” she asked,
with composure.

“He says he will call here at seven o'clock this evening. Till
then he has engagements.”

“I will see him; I do not fear him; it is in my power to act
freely and independently, now you are no longer in his hands, dear
uncle.”

“Then you will refuse to wed him?”

“I do, most positively.”

“Thank Heaven! But I tremble for the consequences.”

“I am indifferent to them. He cannot force me to consent. I
wish to see him; I have firmness and character enough to carry
me through with the interview. Were your life and honor to depend
upon its issue, I should feel differently and tremble. But now that
he has surrendered the papers to you on his own expressed conditions,
I am at liberty to do as I please.”

“You are. I breathe more freely again,” said the Colonel, with
animation. “I think that, shrewd as he is, he has this time overreached
himself. I will now bid you good morning. I left home
in such agitation and have been out so long, that they will be
alarmed if I am not there at dinner. Try and keep your mind
composed. I see that you nor I are in his power now. I will speak
to Madame Delano as I go down, and tell her that a gentleman will
call and see you on business this evening. I have the greatest confidence
in your discretion and judgment; your mind is equal to his,
and I dare say he will find that though you are young, you are not
a weak young girl to be intimidated into a hateful union. Doubtless
he hopes to work upon your fears, and in this places his chief
confidence of success; this must be his dependence. He regards
you as a young, timid school-girl, who will yield from alarm, whom
he can brow-beat. It is likely, when he saw you, that he took a
fancy to your face; for the idea that he has fallen in love, is
absurd.”

“Do not speak of it, sir. I shall not become his wife, he may be
assured.”

“Do you know that he is aware of your attachment to Edward
Manning?”

“How should he know it?” she asked, with deep blushes and a
sparkling eye.

“I told him of it.”

“In hopes to divert him from his purpose?”

“It was mentioned in our conversations,” answered Colonel Harwood,
who thought it best not to inform her of the particulars, lest
she should in truth heartily despise him; for he knew she would
look with haughty repugnance upon the very idea of his pre-planning
advantages from her possible union with Manning.

“What did he say?”

“He made no remark. But the hour of dinner is already at hand.
He will be here at seven. I shall be most anxious to learn the issue
of his interview; if I will send up my man Henry, will you
despatch a line or two to me stating the result?”

“I will, sir. Be assured that it will be favorable. Mr. Satchell
will retire from the contest with confusion; for now that he has
no power over you, he can hold none over me.”

Colonel Harwood left the house, and as he walked along towards
his own abode, the last words she had spoken still echoed in his
ear:—

“Now that he has no power over you, he can hold none over
me.”

They seemed to be repeated by a hundred inward voices. They
made a painful and still deeper impression upon him. He could
not help repeating the words aloud.

“Yes, if it were true; if the words were true,” he added, after
saying them over for the fifth time. “He still has power over me,
though she knows it not. Alas, she is the object and instrument of
that power! he has a fearful power still. I would rather die than
have that sweet, proud girl know that she is my natural daughter;
it would either drive her to madness or to the most reckless abandonment
of life and character. Caroline, in such case, could know
no half-way. Only by unfolding to her the secret of her birth,
could he have any influence with her. Dare he contemplate this?
if I thought so, he should not live an hour. But he solemnly promised
secresy. He fulfilled his promise about the papers, and
promptly surrendered them. Doubtless he will do so now. If possible
I fear more anxiety about this than about the discovery of my
treason. No, he will not tell her; if I believed he would—if I suspected
he would—I would either slay him, or remove her beyond
his power. But I will trust him. He can have no motive in betraying
the secret; it would rather defeat than secure his object.”

In this manner reflecting upon the coming interview between his
daughter and Satchell, he reached home, and entered his dwelling
with a heart quite as heavy and a countenance as sad as when he

left it, though from a different cause. Sorrow and anxiety always
fill the heart, from whatever source they spring. We think any
other grief preferable to the existing one; but each woe, as the ball
the cup, fits and fills up the whole heart.