University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
THE HOME OF CLARA.

It was on one of the most delightful days of delightful
October, that, in company with Walter Moreland, I
stepped from the boat to a carriage, and was driven
through the pleasant streets of Houston, to the abode of
one who already had a hold upon my heart such as none
of her sex had ever had before. Yes, I was about to
behold Clara for the second time—to gaze upon her lovely
features, bright eyes, and hear again that melodious voice,
which had exercised over me such a spell ere we ever met.
It were vain for me to attempt to analyze my feelings—
to resolve to simple elements that strange compound in my
heart which is known by the term of love. Hopes I had
—fears and doubts—delightful anticipations and tremulous
misgivings. What would be her reception of me? It
would be cordial, I flattered myself, from what her brother
had told me, and from the fact that I had come home with
him, and invited guest, to remain for a week or two, or
longer. But would there be any evidence in her manner
that she had my interest at heart beyond the polite
etiquette of good breeding? In short, should I find her
heart-whole? and if not, what part had I in her being
otherwise? As thus I pondered, occasionally replying to
my companion's remarks, the carriage entered a broad,
beautiful street, and presently turned through a gate into
a large, handsome inclosure. Thence moving up a circular,
well shaded avenue, past a small pond, on whose
bosom a few ducks were lazily sailing, it approached a

large, fine-looking mansion, of a rather cumbrous style of
architecture, which stood on the brow of an eminence, and
commanded a view of the town and the river, and of a
broad, level, beautiful prairie, which stretched away in
the rear beyond the enclosure.

As we drew up before the portico, the first object I
beheld was Clara, as she came tripping down the steps to
welcome her brother home. Just as she reached the carriage,
Tom, who accompanied me, had dismounted and
opened the door. As I was nearest to her, she did not
perceive her brother, who had purposely drawn himself
up in one corner; but holding her hand out to me, said:

“Oh, I am so glad you have come—I have such news
for you. But heavens! Walter, how pale you look!—are
you ill?”

“I believe this is not the first time Miss Clara Moreland
has mistaken me for her brother,” I returned, playfully.

“Why, as I live, it is Mr. Walton!” she said, in a tone
of surprise, blushing to the temples. “Ah, you rogue! I
see you now,” she continued, peering in at her brother,
who had betrayed his presence by a hearty laugh. “This
is another of your innocent jokes, is it?”

“Faith, I think it is one of your own, Clara; for
something like it, you know, once occurred during my
absence. Well, if you want to kiss him again, in mistake
for me, I will turn my head.”

“Goodness knows I think it is pretty well turned
already,” cried Clara, laughing gaily, to cover her confusion.
“Would you believe it, Mr. Walton,” she continued,
turning to me, the color still as deep as ever on
her beautiful features—“Walter is actually in love with a
young lady, who, report says, doesn't care a straw for
him.”

“Well, that is certainly a very interesting piece of

intelligence to a gentleman who is my very counterpart in
looks,” returned Walter, tapping her under the chin, as
he alighted from the carriage. “That is as much as to
say, a gentleman of his personal appearance cannot be
successful with your sex—which, to say the least, is very
complimentary.”

“Oh, you mad-cap! you provoking teaze! you know I
didn't mean any such thing,” rejoined Clara, clapping her
soft, white hand over his mouth. “Do not mind him, Mr.
Walton! If you do look like him, I will wager the resemblance
ends in looks. But here comes papa, and so I will
leave you;” and she went bounding up the steps, with the
airy lightness of the fawn, whispering a word or two to her
father as she passed him.

The latter now came toward me, and Walter hastened
to introduce us.

“Happy of your acquaintance, sir,” returned Colonel
Moreland: “I have heard Clara speak of you. You
knew my nephew, Tom—or rather, saw him die, I understand.
He might have been a clever youth, had he
avoided dissipation. Well, come, walk in! walk in! Bless
me!” he continued, taking another look at me—“Why,
what a likeness! Walter, he ought to be your brother.”

And so I intend to be, I thought to myself.

“Yes,” answered Walter, “we could pass very well for
twins even.”

“Curious are the freaks of nature—physiology is an
interesting science, Mr. Walton. Is he yours?” pointing
to Tom.

I answered in the affirmative.

“Fine boy, sir! fine boy! good build! good eye.
Would you like to sell him?”

“No, Colonel, Tom and I can only be parted by death.”

“Aha! strong attachment. Well, come, follow me;”

and the father of my intended, as I already began to
regard him, went humming up the steps, and ushered me
into a large, fine drawing-room, richly, but somewhat
quaintly, furnished.

Colonel Moreland was, in some respects, a character—
by which I mean a personage distinguished from the many
by certain peculiarities. He was tall, muscular, but not
what is termed stout. His age I judged to be somewhere
between forty-five and fifty. His hair was quite gray,
which gave him a venerable appearance, and the cast
of his countenance was such as to add a certain degree of
dignity. His eye was dark, bright, and shrewd; and his
features generally had the strongly marked outlines of the
Scotch. He had high cheek bones, a large nose and
mouth, and around the latter the lines indicated decision
and firmness amounting almost to stubborness. He was a
little bald on the top of his head, which made his broad,
high forehead appear still broader and higher; and altogether
he had quite a commanding, intelligent appearance.
He dressed plainly, and was devoid of ostentation. He
had pride, however, and was ambitious, both for himself
and family. He was a man in general of few words;
and these, as is the case with people that speak little,
were ever to the point. He might be slow in making up his
mind to any thing new—but when once he had settled
upon a thing, right or wrong, it was almost impossible to
change him.

An early pioneer in the wilds of Texas, he had grown
up, politically speaking, with the country, and I believe
he really had her interest at heart. During her struggle
for independence, he commanded a regiment under
Houston, who was his personal friend; and subsequently
he had been elected a member of the Texan Congress—a
post of honor which he still held. Though a public man,

he had not neglected his own private interest; and by
speculating to some considerable extent in lands, he had
amassed quite a fortune. He owned a large cotton plantation
some miles away, which was worked by negroes under
charge of an overseer and agent, and from which he
derived a handsome income. He had taken some pains
with the education of his children, three in number—
Walter, Clara, and Mary—and altogether I found the
Morelands were among the first families of the Republic
—or State, as I should now call it—of Texas.

Bidding me be seated, the Colonel went out; and presently
Clara reappeared, accompanied by her mother and
sister. Mrs. Moreland—a pale, handsome, intellectual
woman—I found to be a perfect lady—mild, affable, and
winning though not a great talker; but Mary, unlike her
in this respect, was a perfect chatterbox, full of spirit and
raillery. The latter was about fifteen years of age, with
black hair and eyes, and very pretty features, which were
seldom in repose. I did not think her as handsome as
Clara; for I have a partiality for blue eyes, sunny hair,
and a light complexion, and in this respect Clara seemed
perfect. There was a family resemblance between the
two—but Clara seemed to me more dignified, graceful, and
lovely. Clara, however, was three years Mary's senior;
and as I have acknowledged to being in love with her, I
suppose the reader will not set me down as an impartial
critic.

Both Mary and her mother were struck with the resemblance
between Walter and myself; and as this opened
the way to conversation, without going through the lackadaisical
formalities generally incident upon the introduction
of strangers, I soon felt at my ease, and began to
regard my new friends as old acquaintances.

“Are you not paler than usual?” inquired Clara, in the

course of conversation, and in a tone that I fancied had a
touch of feeling in it.

“Yes—I have been confined to my room, of late, by
reason of my wounds.”

“Wounds?” she exclaimed, quickly, in a tone and with
a look of anxious surprise—“What wounds? have you
been wounded?”

“Yes, in an affray with a gang of desperadoes.”

I saw Clara's cheek pale as I said this; but ere she
could make any reply, Mary ran up to me, with the
freedom of an old acquaintance, exclaiming:

“Oh, do tell us all about it, Mr. Walton—do! Oh,
it is so romantic! isn't it, sister? My! did you really
have a fight with robbers? Dear me! I wish I had been
there: I'm so fond of adventure.”

“Hush, daughter—you do not consider what you are
saying,” chided Mrs. Moreland.

“Yes but I do, mamma—only try me, and see if I
don't.”

I told them in brief my story—of the ensnaring of
Viola, and her providential deliverance—of the assault
made upon us while crossing the country from the Brazos
to Galveston—with a detail of the fight, and of my own
narrow escape from death by the timely appearance and
heroic conduct of my faithful servant Tom; and concluded
with the disclosure of the dying St. Auburn and the
marriage of Harley and Viola.

Each of my listeners was deeply interested in my recital
—but each in a manner peculiar to herself. Mrs. Moreland
heard me through with a mother's feelings and
sympathies; Clara, I fancied, saw in myself the hero of
the tale; and while speaking of my narrow escape, I
perceived that her lovely features were very pale, and that
she was unusually excited; but Mary was one glow of

delight throughout; and the moment I had done, she
exclaimed, clapping her hands:

“Oh, charming! delightful! so romantic! How I
should like to have been in Viola's place!”

“Come, come, child—no more of such nonsense,”
chided her mother.

“Nonsense?” echoed Mary, pouting her pretty lips.
“I do believe, mamma, there is no romance in you.”

Mrs. Moreland smiled.

“No, child, my days of romance are gone by.”

“And mine are just coming on,” was the reply.

Walter and his father now came in together; and
Mary, running up to the latter, began to relate to him the
story she had just heard.

“Ay, ay,” he interrupted—“Walter has just been
telling me something of this. And so,” he continued,
turning to me, “you think this Count D'Estang, as he is
styled, is a counterfeiter, eh?”

“I have good reason for thinking so, Colonel.”

“Yes, and I doubt not he is more than that,” he
pursued. “About a year since, I was passing through
that part of the country, with a span of as fine horses as
can be found in this region. I stopped at a village inn;
and while there, a gentleman accosted me, wishing to
purchase the animals. I told him they were not for sale.
He inquired where I resided; and on my informing him,
and giving him my name, he replied that, in the course of
a week or two, he expected to visit Houston, and should
take the trouble of calling on me, in hopes that by
that time I might change my mind. Well, he called, but
I was not at home; and he left his card, Count D'Estang.
Subsequently he called again—but I still refused to sell.
He went away, after having been to look at my horses in
the stable, and two weeks from that time they were stolen.

I do not know why—perhaps because I did not like his
looks—but from that day to this, I have never been able
to divest myself of the idea that he had some hand in
taking them away.”

`Very likely,” I returned; “for I consider him capable
of any crime.”

“Well, well, we may be able to trap him yet. I will
write at once to the Sheriff of Brazoria, who is a personal
friend of mine, and tell him your story, and what I
suspect.”

The day gradually wore away; and the more I saw of
Clara, the more I thanked Fortune for her favors. As if
to charm away the time, she sat down to a fine-toned
piano, and played and sang several songs. I was
enchanted. Had she been as ugly as Milton has described
Sin, one's heart must have warmed toward her, for her
melodious voice—so sweet, so touching. It was this voice,
so used, that had magnetically drawn me to her at first;
and therefore the reader cannot be surprised that I was
now in a state of rapture.

Being pressed to sing in turn, and believing I possessed
some little talent in that way, I took up a guitar which
stood by the piano, and gave them, “Come Share My
Cottage, Gentle Maid”—throwing my whole soul into the
words, for I felt every line. Perhaps Clara thought so;
for ere I had done, her eye, which at first was fixed on
mine, drooped to the ground, and a warm glow came upon
her cheeks and remained there.

“Beautiful!” murmured Mrs. Moreland, when I had
finished.

“Too sentimental by half!” cried Mary, with a laugh:
“isn't it, Clara?”

“Eh?” exclaimed the latter, starting in some confusion;

for her mind had evidently followed the words of the song,
and she had forgotten that eyes were upon her.

“Why, one would think that you fancied the words
intended for yourself,” said Mary, roguishly.

Clara now blushed crimson; and I much fear I did not
remain any too pale; at all events, I know I felt very
red.

“Come, come, Mary—you are too rude—too wild,”
again chided her mother; while Walter, I fancied, smiled
to himself—though he appeared not to notice us. The
Colonel was not present.

Mary glided round to my chair, and said, in a whisper:

“Don't sing any more such sentimental songs, Mr.
Walton, will you?”

“Why, I thought you were fond of the romantic,” I
replied.

“So I am; but something wild, grand, terrible;” and
her black eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. And then she
added, archly: “It's of no use for you to sing `Come
Share My Cottage' to Clara.”

I felt the blood rush to my temples; but I affected to be
amused, and, in a careless tone, inquired:

“Why so?”

“Why, because her cottage is engaged;” and she
bounded away with a merry laugh.

It is impossible for me to describe my feelings for the
next five minutes. I felt confused, vexed, and foolish, and
the last sensation I think predominated. Had I really
made a faux pas in my first love adventure? and was I
really seeking the affections of one already engaged?
Engaged, forsooth! How that word grated on my feelings!
But no! I could not think it true; and yet my
heart somehow misgave me. But I will know, I thought

to myself; and if I find my fears confirmed, then farewell
to Texas and my first romantic love-dream.

“My! sister! just see how pale Mr. Walton looks!”
were the words which aroused me from my reverie, and
which proceeded from the lips of Mary, whom I now
began to regard as a regular teaze.

I looked up, and saw all eyes fixed upon me.

“Are you not well?” asked Clara, with a look of
anxiety, which made me exclaim, mentally:

“If her hand is engaged, her heart is not.”

“A little faint,” I returned to her inquiry. “A glass
of water, if convenient.”

Walter sprung to the bell-pull, and the crystal liquid
was soon produced.

“Perhaps you find it too close here,” suggested Mrs.
Moreland. “Better step out and take the air.”

I availed myself of her suggestion, and took a short
stroll with Walter; and we conversed on various subjects,
but touched not upon the one that lay nearest my heart.