University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

A striking difference in personal appearance was presented
by the cousins, as they stood together. Florence,
though somewhat younger, was taller by several inches,
and her noble and erect carriage, in connection with the
haughty manner in which her head was thrown back, added
in effect to her height. Her hair and eyes were brilliant
black, the latter particularly thoughtful in their expression.
The forehead was not remarkable for height,
but was unusuallly prominent and white, and almost overhung
the eyes. The mouth was perfect, the lips delicately
chiseled, and curving beautifully toward the full dimpled
chin. The face, though intellectual, and artistically beautiful,
was not prepossessing. The expression was cold and
haughty; and for this reason she had received the appellations
of “Minerva” and “Juno,” such being considered
by her fellow-pupils as singularly appropriate.

Mary, on the contrary, was slight and drooping, and
her sweet, earnest countenance, elicited the love of the
beholder, even before an intimate acquaintance had

brought to view the beautiful traits of her truly amiable
character.

And yet these girls, diametrically opposed in disposition,
clung to each other with a strength of affection only to be
explained by that strongest of all ties, early association.

Florence broke the seal of her letter, and Mary walked
to the window. It looked out on a narrow street, through
which drays rattled noisily, and occasional passengers picked
their way along its muddy crossings.

Mary stood watching the manœuvres of a little girl, who
was endeavoring to pass dry-shod, when a low groan startled
her; and turning quickly, she perceived Florence standing
in the centre of the room, the letter crumpled in one
hand: her face had grown very pale, and the large eyes
gleamed strangely.

“Oh! Florry, what is the matter? Is your father ill
—dead—tell me quick!” and imploringly she clasped her
hands.

Florence made a powerful effort, and spoke, in her usual
tone:

“I was foolish to give way to my feelings, even for
a moment—my father is well.” She paused, and then
added, as if painfully, “But, oh! he is almost penniless!”

“Penniless!” echoed Mary, as though she could not
comprehend her cousin's meaning.

“Yes, Mary, he has been very unfortunate in his speculations,
obliged to sell our plantation and negroes, and now,
he says, `a few paltry thousands only remain;' but, oh!
that is not the worst; I wish it were: he has sold out every

thing, broken every tie, and will be here this evening on
his way to Texas. He writes that I must be ready to accompany
him to-morrow night.”

She paused, as if unwilling to add something which
must be told, and looked sadly at her cousin.

Mary understood the glance.

“Florry, there is something in the letter relating to myself,
which you withhold for fear of giving me pain: the
sooner I learn it the better.”

“Mary, here is a letter inclosed for you; but first hear
what my father says,” and hurriedly she read as follows:

...... “With regard to Mary, it can not be expected
that she should wish to accompany us on our rugged path,
and bitterly, bitterly do I regret our separation. Her paternal
uncle, now in affluence, has often expressed a desire
to have her with him, and, since my misfortunes, has written
me, offering her a home in his family. Every luxury
and advantage afforded by wealth can still be hers. Did
I not feel that she would be benefited by this separation,
nothing could induce me to part with her, but, under existing
circumstances, I can consent to give her up.”

Florence flung the letter from her as she concluded,
and approaching her cousin, clasped her arms fondly about
her. Mary had covered her face with her hands, and the
tears glistened on her slender fingers.

“Oh, Florry! you don't know how pained and hurt I
am, that uncle should think I could be so ungrateful as to
forget, in the moment of adversity, his unvaried kindness
for six long years. Oh! it is cruel in him to judge me so
harshly,” and she sobbed aloud.

“I will not be left, I will go with him, that is if—if—
Florry, tell me candidly, do you think he has any other
reason for not taking me, except my fancied dislike to leaving
this place—tell me?”

“No, dear Mary; if he thought you preferred going with
us, no power on earth could induce him to leave you.”

Mary placed her hand in her cousin's, and murmured,

“Florry, I will go with you; your home shall be my
home, and your sorrows my sorrows.”

A flash of joy irradiated Florence's pale face as she returned
her cousin's warm embrace.

“With you, Mary, to comfort and assist me, I fear nothing;
but you have not yet read your uncle's letter, perhaps
its contents may influence your decision.”

Mary perused it in silence, and then put it in her cousin's
hand, while the tears rolled over her cheeks.

“Mary, think well ere you reject this kind offer. Remember
how earnestly he entreats that you will come and share
his love, his home, and his fortune. Many privations will
be ours, in the land to which we go, and numberless trials
assail the poverty-stricken. All these you can avoid, by
accepting this very affectionate invitation. Think well,
Mary, lest in after-years you repent your hasty decision.”

There came a long pause, and hurriedly Florence paced
to and fro. Mary lifted her bowed head, and pushing back
her clustering hair, calmly replied, “My heart swells with
gratitude toward my noble, generous uncle. Oh, how fervently
I can thank him for his proffered home! yet, separated
from you, dear Florry, I could not be happy; my
heart would ache for you, and your warm, trusting love. I

fear neither poverty nor hardships. Oh, let me go with
you, and cheer and assist my dear uncle!”

“You shall go with us, my pure-hearted cousin. When
I thought a moment since, of parting with you, my future
seemed gloomy indeed, but now I know that you will be
near, I am content.”

A short silence ensued, broken by a mournful exclamation
from Florence.

“Ah! Mary, it is not for myself that I regret this change
of fortune, but for my proud, haughty father, who will
suffer so keenly. Oh, my heart aches when I think of
him!”

“Florry, we must cheer him by those thousand little
attentions, which will lead him to forget his pecuniary
troubles.”

Florence shook her head.

“You do not know my father as I do. He will have no
comforters, broods over difficulties in secret, and shrinks
from sympathy as from a `scorching brand.'”

“Still, I think we can do much to lighten his cares, and
I pray God I may not be mistaken,” replied Mary.

Florence lifted her head from her palm and gazed
vacantly at her cousin, then started from her seat.

“Mary, we must not sit here idly, when there is so
much to do. Madame — should know we leave to-morrow,
and it will take us all day to prepare for our
journey.”

“Do let me go and speak to Madame —; it will be
less unpleasant to me?”

“No, no; I will go myself: they shall not think I feel it

so sensibly, and their condolence to-morrow would irritate
me beyond measure. I scorn such petty trials as loss of
fortune, and they shall know it.”

“Who shall know it, Florry?”

Her cheek flushed, but without a reply she left the room,
and descended the steps which led to Madame —'s parlor.
Reaching the door, she drew herself proudly up, then
knocked.

“Come in,” was the response.

She did so. In the centre of the apartment, with an
open book on the table before him, sat the teacher who
officiated at prayers. He rose and bowed coldly in answer
to her salutation.

“Pardon my intrusion, Mr. Stewart. I expected to find
Madame here.”

“She has gone to spend the morning with an invalid
sister, and requested me to take charge of her classes, in
addition to my own. If I can render you any assistance,
Miss Hamilton, I am at your service.”

“Thank you, I am in need of no assistance, and merely
wished to say to Madame, that I should leave New Orleans
to-morrow, having heard from my father that he will be
here in the evening boat.”

“I will inform her of your intended departure as early
as possible.”

“You will oblige me by doing so,” replied Florence, turning
to go.

“Miss Hamilton, may I ask you if your cousin accompanies
you?”

“She does,” was the laconic answer, and slowly she retraced

her steps, and stood at her own door. The cheeks
had become colorless, and the delicate lips writhed with
pain. She paused a moment, then entered.

“Did you see her, Florry?”

“No, she is absent, but I left word for her.”

Her tone was hard, dry, as though she had been striving
long for some goal, which, when nearly attained, her failing
strength was scarce able to grasp. It was the echo
of a fearful struggle that had raged in her proud bosom.
The knell it seemed of expiring exertion, of sinking resistance.
Mary gazed sadly on her cousin, who stood mechanically
smoothing her glossy black hair. The haughty
features seemed chiseled in marble, so cold, stony was the
expression.

“Dear Florry! you look harassed aud weary already.
Why, why will you overtask your strength, merely to be
called a disciple of Zeno? Surely you can not seriously
desire so insignificant an honor, if it merits that title?”

“Can you, then, see no glory in crushing long-cherished
hopes—nay, when your heart is yearning toward some
`bright particular' path, to turn without one symptom of
regret, and calmly tread one just the opposite! Tell me,
can you perceive nothing elevating in this Stoical command?”

The cold, vacant look had passed away; her dark eyes
gleamed, glittered as with anticipated triumph.

“Florry, I do not understand you exactly; but I do know
that command of the heart is impossible, from the source
whence you draw. It may seem perfect control now, but
it will fail you in the dark hour of your need, if many

trials should assail. Oh! my cousin, do not be angry if I
say `you have forsaken the fountain of living water, and
hewn out for yourself broken cisterns, which hold no water.'
Oh! Florry, before you take another step, return to Him
`who has a balm for every wound.'”

Florence's face softened; an expression of relief began to
steal over her countenance; but as Mary ceased speaking,
she turned her face, beautiful in its angelic purity, full
upon her. A bitter smile curled Florence's lip, and muttering
hoarsely, “A few more hours and the struggle will
be over,” she turned to her bureau, and arranged her
clothes for packing.

The day passed in preparation, and twilight found the
cousins watching intently at the casement. The great
clock in the hall chimed out seven, the last stroke died
away, and then the sharp clang of the door bell again
broke silence. They started to their feet, heard the street
door open and close—then steps along the stairs, nearer
and nearer—then came a knock at the door. Mary opened
it; the servant handed in a card and withdrew. “Mr. J.
A. Hamilton.” Florence passed out, Mary remained behind.

“Come, why do you linger?”

“I thought, Florry, you might wish to see him alone;
perhaps he would prefer it.”

“Mary, you have identified yourself with us. To my
father we must be as one.” She extended her hand, and
the next moment they stood in the reception room.”

The father and uncle were standing with folded arms,
looking down into the muddy street below. He advanced

to meet them, holding out a hand to each. Florence
pressed her lips to the one she held, and exclaimed,

“My dear father, how glad I am to see you!”

“Glad to see me! You did not receive my letters then?

“Yes I did, but are their contents and pleasure at meeting
you incompatible?”

He made no reply, and then Mary said, in a low, tremulous
tone,

“Uncle, you have done me a great injury, and you must
make me all the reparation in your power. “You said, in
your letter to Florry, that you did not think I would wish
to go with you. Oh, uncle! you do not, can not believe
me so ungrateful, so devoid of love as to wish, under any
circumstances, to be separated from you. Now ease my
heart, and say I may share your new home. I should be
very miserable away from you.”

An expression of pleasure passed over his face, but again
the brow darkened.

“Mary! Florence is my child—my destiny hers, my misfortunes
hers; but I have no right to drag you with me in
my fall; to deprive you of the many advantages that will
be afforded, by your uncle's wealth, of the social position
you may one day attain.”

“Uncle! uncle! am I not your child by adoption? Have
you not loved and cared for me during long years? Oh!
what do I care for wealth—for what you call a high position
in the world? You and Florry are my world.” She
threw her arms about his neck, and sobbed, “Take me!
oh, take me with you!”

“If you so earnestly desire it, you shall indeed go with

us, my Mary.” And, for the first time in her life, he imprinted
a kiss on her brow.

When he departed, it was with a promise to call for
them the next morning, that they might make, with their
aunt, some necessary purchases, and remove to a hotel
near the river.

Every thing was packed the ensuing day, when Mary
suddenly remembered that her books were still in the recitation
room, and would have gone for them, but Florence
said,

“I will bring up the books, Mary; you are tired and
pale with bending so long over that trunk.” And accordingly
she went.

Mary threw herself on the couch to rest a moment, and
fell into a reverie of some length, unheeding the flying
minutes, when she recollected that Florence had been absent
a long time, and rising, was about to seek her; just
then her cousin entered. A change had come over her
countenance—peace, quiet, happiness reigned supreme.
One hour later, and they had gone from Madame —'s,
never to return again.