University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
VIOLA.

Viola St. Auburn is the only daughter
of a wealthy gentleman, who has of
late years resided in the city of Mexico.
Previous to his removal thither, he
owned and worked a large cotton plantation
in the State of Georgia, on which
estate Viola was born, some eighteen or
nineteen years ago. In youth my father
and St. Auburn were friends; but
unfortunately both loved the same lady,
grew jealous of each other, quarrelled,
fought, and my father was carried from
the field, as it was supposed at the time,
mortally wounded. St. Auburn fled;
but learning afterward that my father
was likely to recover, he returned, and
subsequently married the lady who had
innocently been the cause of this rivalry
and estrangement. My father never
forgave him; and to this day the name
of St. Auburn—no matter where, by
whom, nor how casually mentioned in
his hearing—always puts him in a sort
of frenzy, which threatens the most serious
consequences. In our family it is
a prohibited word, and is never spoken
in the presence of my father, who,
though not exactly insane, is judged to
be of unsound mind by those who know
him best; and this slight aberration of
intellect, is thought to date from his recovery
and the loss of his first love.
Some say that I inherit my father's failings—but
of that anon. As to St. Auburn,
though the successful rival of my
father, I believes he still hates the latter
as much as on the day he lodged a bullet
in his side—at least he never made

any overtures of reconciliation, and ever
since has been known to shun, with a
kind of horror, all persons bearing the
name of Harley. With this little prelude,
Harry, you will better understand
what follows.

“It is about three years since I first
saw Viola St. Auburn. I had finished
my collegiate course, and was on a visit
to a cousin of mine in Virginia. In the
place where he resided was a female
seminary; and in the rear of this seminary,
was a rather wild, romantic wood,
through which, over a rocky bed, dashed
a little stream of pure water. I am rather
of a romantic turn at times; and
one of my chief delights, during the
short stay with my kinsman, had been
to steal off by myself, and angle in this
stream for trout. There was a quiet,
picturesque beauty about this retreat that
pleased me more than any spot I had
ever seen; and never had my enjoyment
been greater and purer, than when
scated on my favorite rock, with a leafy
canopy above my head, a warm, clear
blue sky over that, and the flashing,
leaping, murmuring waters at my feet.
Here, pole in hand, and line in water, I
used to sit for hours, alone, undisturbed,
and lost in a kind of poetic reverie.

“Well, it chanced one day, while
seated on my favorite rock, that I heard
a footstep behind me. I turned my
head, without changing my position, and
beheld what seemed to me, in my peculiar
frame of mind, a Peri just dropped
from Paradise. But to speak more
directly to the point, I saw a beautiful
maiden, over whose fair sunny countenance
some fifteen or sixteen summers
had passed. To her personal appearance
I cannot do justice, even now;
therefore, suffice it to say, it was such
as to rivet my gaze, enchant me, hold
me spell-bound, magnetize me, or what
you will. I saw before me an airy,
floating form, a heavenly face, all guileless
and innocent, around which dangled
golden curls, and eyes whose softness
and lustre exceeded my most perfect
ideal creations; and I saw and thought
of nothing else. In one hand she carried
a collection of bright flowers, and
to one arm her bonnet or hood was attached
by the strings. She did not see me,
for her eyes were mostly bent on the
earth: she was looking for more flowers.
I dared not speak, nor move, lest I
should break the spell, and cause her to
vanish like a spirit—for I could not at
the moment call up sufficient reason to
satisfy myself that she was only mortal.

“Gradually she drew near the rock,
and at last stood at its very base. It
was high, and as I was sitting below its
summit on the opposite side, I could
not now see her without changing my
position. I attempted to do so without
noise; but my pole slipped, and splashed
in the water, just as I had brought my
eyes once more to bear upon her. She
heard it—it startled her—and taking a
step or two backward, she looked up
timidly. Our eyes now met for the
first time; and with a cry of alarm, she
turned to flee.

“ `Stay, beautiful creature! one moment
stay!' cried I, leaping from the
rock, intending to give chase; for I was
so excited and bewildered, I knew not
what I did.

“She stopped, and turning toward me,
pale and trembling, exclaimed, in tones
of fear.

“ `Oh, sir, do not harm me!”

“ `Harm thee, sweet angel!' cried I:
`when I do may heaven desert me?
Harm thee? If ever such a thought enters
my brain, I will instantly send my
soul to judgment!'

“ `Oh, sir,' she rejoined, still trembling,
and as much alarmed as ever, for
my wild manner was not very well calculated
to reassure her: `Oh, sir, if you
do not intend to harm me, let me go!
For I do not know you—and—and—
and I am afraid.'

“ `Oh, do not go yet! not just yet!'
I pleaded. `Stay, if only for a few
minutes, and let me tell you how much
I love you! No, no,' pursued I, beginning
to gather my senses once more,
as I saw her start, draw herself up
proudly, and blush to the temples: `No,
no, I did not mean you—pardon me!—
I meant flowers: let me tell you how
much I love flowers! and these you
have are so very, very beautiful.'

“Had they been weeds, noxious

weeds, they would have seemed beautiful
to me then.

“She now appeared less alarmed;
and casting her eyes—those large, soft,
lustrous eyes—upon the ground, replied,
with the most perfect naivete:

“ `I, too, love flowers.'

“Had she spoken for an hour, with
an eloquence never equalled, I could not
have been more charmed than by that
simple sentence—those four little words
—`I, too, love flowers.' Methinks I
hear them now, as they dropped in silvery
melody from her ruby lips. Yes,
I do hear them now, and I shall ever
hear them, till this heart hath ceased to
beat. Her whole soul spoke in those
words—a soul pure, guileless, true. It
is useless to attempt to describe my
feelings, then; they cannot be described;
you might as well attempt to paint the
sun's heat. I can only say, I felt I
could worship the ground she stood on.
It was some time ere I could add anything
to what I had already said; not,
in fact, till, with an embarrassed look,
she turned to leave me: then again I
found my tongue.

“ `Stay, thou mortal spirit! thou
fairy thing of earth!' I began; and
then bethinking myself, I changed my
language and manner, and added:
`Stay, lady! I beseech you! I wish
to speak of flowers;' and forthwith I
summoned all my floral knowledge to
my aid, and went off in a strain of passionate,
poetic fervor—speaking, to the
best of my recollection, on the subject
named—but surely thinking of nothing
but the living subject before me—the
flower which must eventually bloom
in Paradise.

“How long I thus went on—or how
long I might have continued, had I
been left to finish of my own accord—
I cannot say; but I was interrupted in
a silvery voice, which said:

“ `You must excuse me, sir! I have
already overstayed my time, and fear
to remain here a moment longer.'

“But tell me,' said I, `who you are,
and where you belong! for we must
meet again.'

“ `My father, is a merchant, in the
city of Mexico,' she replied, `and I am
here attending the seminary. There!
hark! I hear the bell. Oh, sir, I
must fly! and I shall even then be too
late.'

“ `But you will come here again for
flowers? I shall meet you again
here!' I said, earnestly. `Oh, do
not hesitate!—say yes—and I will
have prepared for you a beautiful bouquet!'

“ `I do not know,' she replied, hurriedly,
changing color. `I fear it would
not be right; my teacher—I—that is—
perhaps—I will think of it. There, I
must go; good-bye, sir;' and she bounded
away, with an airy fleetness, which
soon took her from my sight.

“As for me, my first impulse was to
follow her; but for once propriety
came to my aid, and I remained, gazing
on the spot where her form was
last seen, and wondering if ever so
bright a thing would cross my vision
again. How I passed the day, I never
knew; but I did not return to my cousin's
till night; and was then so absent-minded,
as to answer his question
concerning my success in such a way
as to lead him to fear I was suffering
under partial derangement.

“I had forgotten to ask the fair unknown
her name; but I remembered
my promise, and thought it must be
Flora, and so fixed it in my mind.
The next day I was up, bright and
early, culling flowers, while yet the
dew lay on the grass.

“But not to weary you, let it suffice,
that the maiden and I met on the same
spot; and so continued to meet for more
than a month; but it was not till the
fourth meeting that we exchanged
names, and I learned that she was
called Viola St. Auburn. A few hurried
questions and answers, now put us
both in possession of the painful truth,
that our fathers were deadly enemies.
But we learned it too late. Both loved;
and the very fact that we now knew
we might never be allowed to meet
again, should our secret become known
to the friends of either party only served
to fan the flame, and make our
attachment little less than a frenzied
passion. A slave to impulse, I would

have married Viola at once, and braved
the consequences; but she, more rational
than I, would not consent to a
step so rash.

“ `Morton,' she replied, one day, on
my making the proposition to her, `that
I love you with my whole soul, I do
not deny; but what you propose is
folly. I am young, and perhaps do
not know my own mind. We must
wait; a misstep now might render us
both miserable for life. Know this, I
will wed no other; but without my father's
consent, which you are not very
likely to obtain, I will not consent to
become yours till I have seen my eighteenth
birth-day.'

“ `And then, Viola?' exclaimed I.

“ `Well, then—if—that is—but we
will speak of that another time,' she
answered.

“I have said that we met daily for
more than a month; and during this
time the secret of our meeting remained
undiscovered. But at length it was
found out, and reached the ears of
Viola's preceptress. She, being a
prudish old maid, was filled with indignant
horror; and the father of Viola
arriving in the village about the same
time, to see his daughter, the matter
was communicated to him, with false
and exaggerated details. You can judge
of his rage, on learning that Viola had
met, clandestinely, the son of his most
bitter enemy. He sought me out, and
scrupled not to insult me in the grossest
manner. Had he been other than Viola's
father, he would never have lived
to repeat his words. As it was, I bore
all in the best manner I could. He
said that rather than his daughter should
wed me, a detested Harley, he would
see her consigned to the tomb. Not
satisfied with this, he wrote an insulting
letter to my father, which put him
in a rage, and rendered him a raving
maniac for several weeks. Viola was
then removed, I knew not whither,
and I went home. Our brief period
of happiness seemed past, to return
no more.

“I will pass over the interview between
my father and myself, on the
return of his reason. Enough, to say
it was terrible. I will not repeat the
remarks of my relations, who considered
themselves disgraced through
me; for I am of a race who clan by
blood, subscribe to family feuds, nurse
revenge, to be glutted by their posterity
on the posterity of their enemies, and
who regard an insult to one of their
name, as an insult to all, and no disgrace
equal to that of settling a quarrel
other than by blood.

“Picture to yourself, Harry, how I
was received, when it became known
that I had ever seriously thought of
uniting myself by marriage to the
daughter of my father's enemy! Why,
would you believe it, my friend, I was
actually afraid of assassination—for they
would sooner have killed me, than had
me wed Viola; and it was only by accident
I discovered a plot, whereby I
was to be trapped into such peculiarity
of speech, (they understood my nature
and how to work on it,) that two physicians
in attendance would be able to
give the necessary papers for my commitment
to a mad-house. But I knew
their kind intent in time to foil them;
and foil them I did, to their chagrin and
dismay; for I turned the tables on them;
and had I followed up my advantage,
they would have found the consequences
very serious.

“Well, to pass on, I made an arrangement
with my father, to give me my
portion in money. This sum I safely
invested, and the interest, which is paid
me semi-annually in this city, is sufficient
for all my expenses.

“Six months after leaving home—
which I did with the hope that travelling,
change of scene, and amusement of
various kinds, would tranquillize my
mind—I again saw Viola. You, Harry,
would say we met by accident; so
would most persons. But, sir, it was
not by accident. No, so surely as there
is a Power above us, I believe our
meeting was by the hand of destiny;
there is a fate dividing and uniting us.
It happened thus: I was passing
through an inland town in Tennessee,
where there was a large female seminary.
I stopped beside the gate, which
opened into a beautiful enclosure, to

look at the building and admire the surrounding
scenery. A female brushed
past me, and put her hand upon the
gate. In the act of opening it, she
turned her head. Our eyes met. It was
Viola. What followed, beyond her
fainting in my arms, I must tell you
some other time—at least not now.
Suffice it, for the present, that I promised
to leave her, and not to seek her
again till she had passed her minority.
She said that, should her father learn
we had met again, it might cost her
her life—that was argument enough for
me.

“Well, since then, I have been an un-happy
wanderer—gay at times, to the
height of folly—gloomy, at times, to a
depth of despair bordering on madness.
But, Harry, you know what I am;
though, my dear friend, I must in justice
say, I have been more like myself during
our brief companionship, than for a long
time previous. I look upon you as
a friend—you must remain my friend.
Yes, I read you aright—you will. God
bless you! I will make you my confidant;
I am doing so now; you are the
first. Pardon me these tears! Do not
think me weak because I weep; but you
know not what a blessing it is to have a
friend, to whom you can unbosom yourself—into
whose sympathizing soul you
can pour your pent up griefs, and take
counsel in return. You do not know the
value of such a friend, because you
have never felt the need of one: your
life has been sunshine—mine storm.

“Ere you and I met on the boat at
Louisville, I had resolved on going to
Mexico. For two reasons. That I
might have some wild, exciting adventures,
and again see Viola. I had not
seen her since we parted in Tennessee;
and I doubted not, her education finished,
she had gone home to her father.
I knew she was now of age; and,
if such a thing were possible, I was resolved
on seeing her, and leaving the
rest to fate.

“But fate has favored me. I saw her
yesterday, when I least expected it.
Do you wonder I was excited? Were
you me, would you have been less so?
She passed me in a carriage. It was
going fast, and I only caught a bare
glimpse of her features as she went by.
But two years had not altered them beyond
my recognition, though time has
done much in her favor. She is more
mature—more in bloom—is paler, and
more spiritual.

“Well, I followed that carriage—
how?—let my garments, soiled with
dust and mud, answer. It stopped on
the Levee, and I saw the idol of my
dreams—the object of my hopes and
fears—escorted on board a steamer by
her father. I went aboard. Fate still
favored me. Her father left her side
for a couple of minutes, and I made myself
known. She almost fainted, but recovered.

“ `Not a word,' she gasped, `or we
are lost! Go—my father, Galveston.'

“She could articulate no more. I
saw her father returning, and merely
saying I will be there, I turned away.

“Harry, my friend, another steamer
goes out to-day at four o'clock. I leave
on that. Will you go with me?”

“I will,” cried I.

“God bless you! your hand!” and
as my friend wrung it heartily, I saw
his eyes fill with tears.

Two hours later, Morton Harley and
your humble servant, reader, were
steaming it down the Mississippi to
the Gulf, bound for Galveston, Texas,
and, as the sequel proved, for some rather
strange and thrilling adventures.