University of Virginia Library

33. CHAPTER XXXIII.

“Come, Florence, put on your bonnet; we land in a few
moments,” said Mr. Stewart, entering the splendidly furnished
saloon of a Mississippi steamer, where she sat, book
in hand. Quietly the young wife, for such she now was,
complied with his request, and taking her husband's arm,
they advanced to the bow of the boat. It was a bright,
sunny morning in early May, and the balmy breath of the
opening summer wafted gladness to many a weary, aching
heart. The margin of the river was fringed with willow,
poplar, cotton-wood, and cypress, the delicate fresh green
foliage contrasting beautifully with the deep azure sky, and
the dark whirling waters of the turbid stream. It was such
a day as all of us may have known, when nature wore the
garb of perfect beauty, and the soothing influence is felt
and acknowledged gratefully—joyfully acknowledged by
every one accustomed from childhood duly to appreciate,
admire, and love the fair and numberless works of God,
who,

Florence was gazing intently, as each object receded
from her view. They turned an angle in the stream, and
drew near a landing, with only a solitary warehouse visible.
She started, and her clasped hands, resting on her
husband's arm, pressed heavily. He looked down into the
flushed face, and said with a smile:

“Well, Florence, what is it? Why do you tremble
so?”

“Mr. Stewart, I can not be mistaken: this is my father's
old landing! Why do you look so strangely? Oh! if you
knew what painful memories crowd upon my mind, you
could not smile so calmly!” and her voice faltered.

Laying his hand tenderly on hers, he replied:

“You once asked me whereabouts on the river my plantation
was situated. I evaded your question. You are aware
that I inherited it from a bachelor uncle. He purchased
it from your father, and to your old home, my dear Florence,
we have come at last. It is yours again, and I should
have told you long ago, but feared you might be impatient
of the journey; and then it is pleasant to surprise
you.”

Ere Florence could speak the mingled emotions of her
heart, the boat stopped, and the jangling bells warned them
to lose no time.

Mr. Stewart placed her on the bank, and beckoning to
a coachman mounted on a large heavy carriage, opened

the door, assisted her in, and then cordially shaking the
outstretched hand of the servant, inquired if all were well
at home?”

“Oh yes, sir! all well except your mother. She has
had the asthma, but is better. But ain't you going to let
me look at your wife? You put her in as if I wan't to
see my new mistess.”

Mr. Stewart laughed, and opening the door, bade Florence
look out; she threw back her long mourning vail,
and bent forward; their eyes met, and both started with
surprise:

“Isaac!”

“Miss Florry! sure as I am alive!” and he grasped the
white hand heartily.

“I can not understand this at all! Isaac, how came you
here?”

“Why you see, when the plantation was sold, we were
sold with it; that's how I come to be here.”

“My dear Florence, it is strange, very strange, that I
never once thought of your recognizing the servants, though
I should have known you could not forget them. In what
capacity did Isaac formerly serve?”

“He was always our coachman; and many a ride in
childhood I owe to his kindness and wish to make me
happy. Isaac, I am very glad to see you again.” And
her smile confirmed her words.

Mr. Stewart took the seat by her side, and was closing
the door, when the old man interfered.

“Miss Florry, I know old master is dead—we heard
that sometime ago; but where is Miss Mary? that blessed

good child, that never gave a cross word to one on the
plantation. Why didn't she come home with you?”

Florence could not reply, and the tears rolled silently over
her cheeks.

“Isaac,” said Mr. Stewart, in a low, saddened tone,
“Mary has gone to a brighter home in heaven! She is
happier far than she could be even here with us! She
died about a month ago.”

There was a pause, and then, wiping his rough sleeve
across his eyes, Isaac slowly said—“And Miss Mary is dead!
Well, she has gone to heaven, if ever any body did! for
she was never like common children. Many's the time
when my poor little Hannah was burnt, and like to die,
that child has come by herself of dark nights to bring her
a cake, or something sweet and good! God bless her little
soul! she always was an angel!” and again wiping his
eyes he mounted the box and drove homeward.

Ah! gentle Mary! no sculptured monument marks thy
resting-place! No eulogistic sermon, no high-flown panegyric
was ever delivered on thy life and death! Yet that
silent tear of old Isaac's outspoke a thousand eulogies! It
told of all thy kindness, charity, love, angelic purity of heart,
and called thee “Guardian Angel” of the house of Hamilton.

Night found Florence sitting alone in the parlor of her
old and dearly loved home. The apartment was much as
she had left it five years before, and old familiar articles of
furniture greeted her on every side. She sat down to the
piano, on which in girlhood she had practiced, and gently
touched the keys. The soft tones, waking the “slumbering
chord of memory,” brought most vividly back the scenes

of other days. Again she stood there an only cherished
daughter, and her father's image, as he used to stand leaning
against the mantle-piece, rose with startling distinctness
before her. And there, too, stood her cousin, with the
soft blue eyes and golden curls of her girlhood; and she
fancied she heard, once again, the clear, sweet voice, and
felt the fond twining of her arms about her. Long forgotten
circumstances in primitive freshness rushed upon her
mind, and unable to bear the sad associations which crowded
up, Florence turned away from the instrument, and
seating herself on the sofa, gave vent to an uncontrollable
burst of sorrow—

And calmly Florence wept, not bitterly, for she had had
much of sorrow to bear, and schooled her heart to meet
grief and sadness. Yet it was hard to come back to her
cherished home and miss from her side the gentle playmate
of her youth, the parent she had almost idolized, and feel
that she had left them in far distant resting-places. She
heard her husband's step along the hall, and saw him enter
—she strove to repress her tears and seem happy, but the
quivering lips refused to smile. He sat down, and drawing
his arm around her, pressed her face to his bosom, and
tenderly said:

“My mother had much to say, after my long absence, and
I could not leave her till this moment. My own heart
told me that you suffered, and I longed to come to you and
sympathize and cheer.”

“Do not think me weak, Mr. Stewart, because you find

me weeping. It is seldom I give vent to my feelings, but
to-night I am overwhelmed with recollections of the past.
Oh! now, for the first time, I realize that Mary has indeed
gone forever. Mary! Mary! my heart aches already
for you, and your warm, unchanging love! Oh!
how can I look forward to the long coming years, and feel
that I shall never see her again?”

“Florence, my own Florence, I would not have you repress
a single tear. I know how sadly altered all things
are, and what a dreary look your home must bear. All I
ask is, that when you feel lonely and unhappy, instead of
hiding your grief, come to me, lay your weary head upon
my shoulder, and I will strive to cheer you, my precious
wife! Let nothing induce you to keep aught from me—
let perfect confidence reign between us; and do not, for a
moment, doubt that I wish you other than you are. The
past is very painful both to you and to me, and the memory
of Frank and Mary constantly saddens my spirit.
Yet we will look forward to a happier future, and strive to
guide and cheer each other.” He kissed the broad brow
as he spoke, and drew tighter the arm which encircled his
wife, as though no danger could assail while he was near.

“Of late, Mr. Stewart, I have wondered much how you
ever learned to love me; for I am much changed, and in
my girlhood I was cold, proud, and often contemptuous in
my manner. Ah, Mary, how different from you! If
I have higher aims in life, and purer joys, I owe it all
to her, for she led me to love the law of God, and exemplified
in her daily life the teachings of Christ! But for
her, I shudder to think what I should now have been!

O God, I thank thee that I am saved even as a burning
brand from the fire! I have hope of happiness on earth,
and at last a joyful reunion with the loved ones that have
gone on home before me. And you, my husband, help me
to conquer myself to break down my pride, and to be more
like Mary. Oh, forgive my weaknesses, and ever love me
as you now do!”

He clasped her to his heart, and whispered—“Fear not,
Florence, that I will ever love you less! I, too, have faults
which you may be called on to excuse, yet all is bright for
us, and I trust no common share of happiness will be our
portion through life!”