University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

The glance of Colonel Colleton indicated no
small astonishment. He was now for the first
time made conscious of the rapid progress of events,
and the effects which a few comprehensive years
had had upon his household. His daughter, at that
moment, seemed much taller than he had ever before
seen her; and, as with a stern expression, his eye
settled upon the fine and speaking features of Ralph,

the youth certainly grew more than ever erect.
There was something in the glance of his uncle
which pleased him not; and, proudly sensitive, his
soul rose in arms at the thought that his relative was
desirous of assuming a new position of relationship
to which he felt not the slightest disposition to
yield assent. The countenance of Edith was full
of a certain consciousness, than which, at such a
period, no expression could be more sweetly
natural. Still, the look of her father, as, without
advancing, he stood at the entrance, with fixed eye
scanning the young offenders, had little of encouragement.
Though one, who, at no time, had overmuch
troubled himself with his child, he had never
been positively unkind; at least, though neglectful,
he had not been stern; consequently, the features
which he now wore were somewhat unwonted.
Struck, therefore, by contrariant emotions into
dumbness, the young maiden uttered no word; but
in silence, following the direction of his finger, she
left the presence of her father; not however without
stealing, as it were by instinct, a gentle and
rather confident glance at her more assured lover.
The departure of Edith was the signal for that issue
for which the two parties were evidently preparing.
Colonel Colleton, having mustered his storms,
approached for the attack; his looks were dark
and unpromising; his glances were addressed
searchingly to the youth, who, somewhat chafed
with their unusual expression, returned him look
for look, while his own brows, unconsciously, also
grew lowering and dark. These preliminaries
were, however, but the work of a single instant;
the colonel broke the silence, at last, by the brief
inquiry.

“And what, Ralph, am I to understand from this?”

“Why, uncle, what should you understand, but

that Edith and myself have discovered that we
are something more than cousins to each other?”

“Indeed! and how long is it, I pray, since you
have made this discovery, fair nephew?” was the
response, with a dryness of phrase and manner nowise
seductive.

“Within the hour, sir. Not that we have not
always loved each other, uncle; but that, until this
moment, we had not been conscious of the true nature
of our feelings.”

The youth replied with a simplicity the most
provoking to the colonel, who, it appears, had
taken it for granted that his disinclination to such
a proceeding should have been intuitively understood.

“And with what reason, sir, should you suppose
that I would sanction such a passion? what, I pray
you, are your pretensions to the hand of Edith
Colleton?” were the haughty interrogations.

“My pretensions—the hand of Edith!”—were
the involuntary exclamations of the youth. “Do
I hear you rightly, sir? let me not misunderstand
you, uncle?”

“My words are as I have said them. They are
sufficiently explicit. You need not misunderstand
them. What, I ask, are your pretensions to the
hand of my daughter, and how is it that you have
so far forgotten yourself as thus to abuse my confidence,
stealing into the affections of my child?”

“Uncle, I have abused no confidence, and will
not submit to any charge that would dishonour me.
What I have done has been done openly, before all
eyes, and without resort to cunning or contrivance.
I must do myself the justice to believe that you
knew all this without the necessity of my speech,
and even while your lips spoke the contrary.”

“You are bold, Ralph, and seem to have forgotten

that you are yet but a mere boy. You
forget your years and mine.”

“No, sir—pardon me when I so speak—but it
is you who have forgotten them. Was it well to
speak as you have spoken?” proudly replied the
youth.

“Ralph, you have forgotten much, or have yet
to be taught many things. You may not have
violated confidence, but—”

“I have not violated confidence!” was the abrupt
and somewhat impetuous response, “and will
not have it spoken of in that manner. It is not
true that I have abused any trust, and the assertion
which I make shall not therefore be understood
as a mere possibility.”

The uncle was something astounded by the
almost fierce manner of his nephew; but the only
other effect of this expression was simply, while it
diminished his own testiness of manner in his
speeches, to add something to the severity of their
character. he knew the indomitable spirit of the
youth, and his pride was enlisted in the desire for
its overthrow.

“You are yet to learn, Ralph Colleton, I perceive,
the difference and distance between yourself
and my daughter. You are but a youth, yet—
quite too young to think of such ties as those
of marriage, and to make any lasting engagement
of that nature; but even were this not the
case, I am entirely ignorant of those pretensions
which should prompt your claim to the hand of
Edith.”

Had Colonel Colleton been a prudent and reflective
man—had he, indeed, known much, if any thing,
of human nature, he would have withheld the latter
part of this sentence. He must have seen that its
effect would only irritate a spirit needing an
emollient. The reply was instantaneous.

“My pretensions, Colonel Colleton? You have
twice uttered that word in my ears, and with reference
to this subject—let me understand you. If
you would teach me by this sentence the immeasurable
individual superiority of Edith over myself,
in all things, whether of mind, or heart, or
person, the lesson is gratuitous—I need no teacher
to this end. I acknowledge its truth, and none on
this point can more perfectly agree with you than
myself. But if, looking beyond these particulars,
you would have me recognise in myself an inferiority
marked and singular, in a fair comparison with
other men—if, in short, you would convey an indignity;
and—but you are my father's brother,
sir!” and the blood mounting to his forehead, and
his heart swelling, the youth turned proudly away,
and rested his head upon the mantel.

“Not so, Ralph; you are hasty in your thought,
not less than in its expression;” said his uncle,
soothingly. “I meant not what you think. But
you must be aware, nephew, that my daughter,
not less from the fortune which will be exclusively
hers, and her individual accomplishments, than
from the leading political station which her father
fills, will be enabled to have a choice in the adoption
of a suitor, which this childish passion might
defeat.”

“Mine is no childish passion, sir; though young,
my mind is not apt to vary in its tendencies; and,
unlike that of the mere politician, has little of inconsistency
in its predilections with which to
rebuke itself. But, I understand you. You have
spoken of her fortune, and that reminds me that I
had a father, not less worthy, I am sure—not less
generous, I feel—but certainly far less prudent than
hers. I understand you, sir, perfectly.”

“If you mean, Ralph, by this sarcasm, that my
considerations are those of wealth, you mistake me

much. The man who seeks my daughter must
not look for a sacrifice; she must win a husband
who has a name, a high place—who has a standing
in society. Your tutors, indeed, speak of you in
fair terms; but the public voice is every thing in
our country. When you have got through your
law studies, and made your first speech, we will
talk once more upon this subject.”

“And when I have obtained admission to the
practice of the law, do you say that Edith shall be
mine?”

“Nay, Ralph, you again mistake me; I only
say, it will be then time enough to consider the
matter.”

“Uncle, this will not do for me. Either you
sanction, or you do not. You mean something by
that word pretensions which I am yet to understand;
my name is Colleton, like your own,—
and—”

There was a stern resolve in the countenance of
the colonel, which spoke of something of the same
temper with his impetuous nephew, and the cool
and haughty sentence which fell from his lips
in reply, while arresting that of the youth, was
galling to the proud spirit of the latter, whom it
chafed nearly into madness.

“Why, true, Ralph, such is your name indeed;
and your reference to this subject now, only reminds
me of the too free use which my brother
made of it when he bestowed it upon a woman so
far beneath him and his family in all possible respects.”

“There again, sir, there again! It is my mother's
poverty that pains you. She brought my father
no dowry. He had nothing of that choice prudence
which seems to have been the guide of others
of our family in the bestowment of their affections.
He did not calculate the value of his wife's income

before he suffered himself to become enamoured
of her. I see it, sir—I am not ignorant.”

“If I speak with you calmly, Ralph, it is because
you are the indweller of my house, and because I
have a pledge to my brother in your behalf.”

“Speak freely, sir, let not this scruple trouble
you any longer. It shall not trouble me; and I
shall be careful to take early occasion to release
you most effectually from all such pledges.”

Colonel Colleton proceeded as if the last speech
had not been uttered.

“Edith has a claim in society which shall not be
sacrificed. Her father, Ralph, did not descend to
the hovel of the miserable peasant, choosing a wife
from the inferior grade, who, without education,
and ignorant of all refinement, could only appear a
blot upon the station to which she had been raised.
Her mother, sir, was not a woman obscure and
uneducated, for whom no parents could be found.”

“What means all this, sir? Speak, relieve me
at once, Colonel Colleton. What know you of my
mother?”

“Nothing—but quite as much as your father
ever knew. It is sufficient that he found her in a
hovel, without a name, and with the silly romance
of his character through life, he raised her to a position
in society which she could not fill to his honour,
and which, finally, working upon his pride and
sensibility, drove him into those extravagancies
which in the end produced his ruin. I grant that
she loved him with a most perfect devotion, which
he too warmly returned, but what of that?—she
was still his destroyer.”

Thus sternly did the colonel unveil to the eyes
of Ralph Colleton a portion of the family picture
which he had never been permitted to survey
before.

Cold drops stood on the brow of the now nerveless
and unhappy youth. He was pale, and his eyes
were fixed for an instant; but, suddenly recovering
himself, he rushed hastily from the apartment before
his uncle could interpose to prevent him. He
heard not or heeded not the words of entreaty
which called him back; but proceeding at once to
his chamber, carefully fastened the entrance, and
throwing himself upon his couch, found relief from
the deep mental agony thus suddenly brought upon
him in a flood of tears.

For the first time in his life, deriving his feeling
in this particular rather from the opinions of society
than from any individual consciousness of debasement,
he yet felt a sentiment of humiliation working
in his breast. His mother he had little known,
but his father's precepts and familiar conversation
had impressed upon him, from his childhood, a
feeling for her of the deepest and most unqualified
regard. This feeling was not lessened, though rebuked,
by the development so unnecessarily and
so wantonly conveyed. It taught a new lesson
of distrust for his uncle, whose harsh manner and
ungenerous insinuations, in the progress of the
preceding half-hour, had lost him not a little of
the youth's esteem. He felt that the motive of his
informer was not less unkind than was the information
painful and oppressive; and his mind, now
more than ever excited and active from this thought,
went on discussing from point to point all existing
relations, until a stern resolve to leave, that very
night, the dwelling of one whose hospitality had
been made a matter of special reference, was the
only and settled conclusion to which his pride
could possibly come.

The servant reminded him of the supper-hour,
but the summons was utterly disregarded. The

colonel himself condescended to notify the stubborn
youth of the same important fact, but with
almost as little effect. Without opening his door,
he signified his indisposition to join in the usual
repast, and thus closed the conference.

“I meet him at the table no more—not at his
table, at least,” was the muttered speech of Ralph,
as he heard the receding footsteps of his uncle.

He had determined, though without any distinct
object in view, upon leaving the house and returning
to Tennessee where he had hitherto resided.
His excited spirits would suffer no delay, and that
very night was the period chosen for his departure.
Few preparations were necessary. With a fine
horse of his own, the gift of his father, he knew
that the course lay open. The long route he had
more than once travelled before; and he had no
fears, though he well knew the desolate character
of the journey, in pursuing it alone. Apart from
this, he loved adventure for its own sake. The
first lesson which his father had taught him, even
in boyhood, was that daring of trial which alone
can bring about the most perfect manliness. With a
stout heart and with limbs not less so, the difficulties
before him had no thought in his mind; there was
buoyancy enough in the excitement of his spirit at
that moment to give even a pleasurable aspect to
the difficulties gathering before him.

At an early hour he commenced the work of
preparation: he had little trouble in this respect.
He studiously selected from his wardrobe such
portions of it as had been the gift of his uncle, all
of which he carefully excluded from among the
contents of the little portmanteau which readily
comprised the residue. His travelling-dress was
quickly adjusted; and not omitting a fine pair of
pistols and a dirk, which may be held in the

south and south-west legitimate companions, he
found few cares for other arrangement. One
token alone of Edith—a small miniature linked
with his own, taken a few seasons before, when
both were children, by a strolling artist—suspended
by a chain of the richest gold, was carefully hung
about his neck. It grew in value, to his mind, at
a moment when he was about to separate—perhaps
for ever—from its sweet original.

At midnight, when all was silent—his portmanteau
under his arm—booted, spurred, and ready
for travel—Ralph descended to the lower story, in
which slept the chief servant of the house. Cæsar
was a favourite with the youth, and he had no difficulty
in making himself understood. The worthy
black was thunderstruck with his determination.

“Ky! Mass Ralph, how you talk! what for
you go dis time o'night? What for you go 't all?”

The youth satisfied him, in a manner as evasive
and brief as possible, and urged him in the preparation
of his steed for the journey. But the worthy
negro absolutely refused to sanction the proceeding
unless he were permitted to go along with
him. He used not a few strong arguments for this
purpose.

“And what we all for do here, when you leff?
'speck ebbery ting be dull, wuss nor ditch-water.
Nomore fun—no more shuffle-foot. Old masser no
lika de fiddle, and nebber hab party and jollication
like udder people. Don't tink I can stay here,
Mass Ralph, after you gone; 'spose you no 'jection I
go 'long wid you? You leff me I take de swamp,
sure as a gun.”

“No, Cæsar, you are not mine—you belong to
your young mistress. You must stay and wait
upon her.”

“Ha!” was the quick response of the black,

with a significant smirk upon his lip, and with a
cunning emphasis—“enty I see—what for I hab
eye if I no see wid em? I 'speck young misses
hab no 'jection for go too—eh, Mass Ralph! all you
hab for do is for ax em!”

The eye of the youth danced with a playful
light, as if a new thought, and not a disagreeable
one, had suddenly broken in upon his brain; but
the expression lasted but for an instant. He overruled
all the hopes and wishes of the sturdy black,
who, at length, with a manner the most desponding,
proceeded to the performance of the required duty.
A few moments sufficed, and with a single look to
the window of his mistress, which spoke unseen
volumes of love, leaving an explanatory letter for
the perusal of father and daughter, though addressed
only to the latter—he gave the rough hand
of his sable friend a cordial pressure, and was
soon hidden from sight by the thickly spreading
foliage of the long avenue. It is scarcely necessary
to inform the reader, that the youth, whose
escape in a preceding chapter we have already
narrated, and Ralph Colleton of the present, are
one and the same person.

He had set forth, as we have seen, under the
excitation of feelings strictly natural; but which,
subtracting from the strong common sense belonging
to his character, had led him prematurely into
an adventure, having no distinct purposes, and
promising largely of difficulty. What were his
thoughts of the future, what his designs, we are
not prepared to say. His character was of a firm
and independent kind; and the probability is, that
looking to the profession of the law, in the study
of which noble science his mind had been for some
time occupied, he had contemplated its future
practice in those portions of Tennessee in which his

father had been known, and where he himself had
passed sundry very pleasant years of his own life.
With economy, a moderate talent, and habits of
industry, he was well aware that, in those regions,
the means of life are with little difficulty attainable
by those who are worthy and will adventure.
Let us now return to the wayfarer, whom we
have left in that wildest region of the then little-settled
state of Georgia—doubly wild as forming the debateable
land between the savage and the civilized
—partaking of the ferocity of the one, with the
skill, cunning, and cupidity of the other.