University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

The house which Dr. Lacey occupied, was situated on one
of the pleasantest streets in New Orleans. It was a large,
airy structure, which had formerly been owned by a wealthy
French gentleman, who had spared neither money nor pains
to adorn it with every elegance which could minister to the
luxurious habits common to a southern clime. When it
passed into the hands of Dr. Lacey's father, he gratified his
northern taste, and fitted it up with every possible convenience,
moulding its somewhat ancient aspect into a more
modern style.

When Dr. Lacey reached the age of twenty-one, his
father made him the owner of the house, he himself removing
to another part of the city. At the time of which
we are speaking, nothing could exceed the beauty of the
house and grounds.

The yard which surrounded the building was large, and
laid out with all the taste of a perfect connoisseur. In its
centre was a fountain, whose limpid waters fell into a large
marble basin, while the spray which constantly arose from
the falling stream, seemed to render the heat of that sultry
climate less oppressive. Scattered throughout the yard were
the numerous trees, and flowering shrubs which grow in such

profusion at the “sunny South.” Here the beautiful magnolia
shook its white blossoms in the evening breeze, and
there the dark green foliage of the orange trees formed an
effectual screen from the midday sun.

The building was surrounded on all sides by a double
piazza, the slender pillars of which were entwined by the
flowering honey-suckle, and luxuriant passion-flower, which
gave the house the appearance of a closely wreathed arbor.
Within the piazza was filled with rare tropical plants. The
beautiful oleander, magnificent rose, and sweet-scented geranium,
here united their fragrance, while the scarlet verbenum
and brilliant heliotrope added beauty to the scene.

The interior of the building corresponded with the exterior.
The rooms, large and airy, were carpeted with velvet,
and adorned with costly marble and rosewood furniture.
The windows, which were constructed in the French style,
that is, reaching to the floor, were curtained with richly-embroidered
lace. Let us ascend the winding staircase, and
enter the dressing-room of the owner of all this splendor.

Half reclining on a crimson lounge sits Dr. Lacey, dressed
in a fashionable brocade morning-grown. On first glancing
at him, we think there is no change in his countenance,
since we last saw him on Mrs. Crane's steps in Frankfort,
but as we note the expression of his face, we can perceive a
shade of anxiety resting there. At last he rises and rather
impatiently pulls the bell-rope.

His summons is immediately answered by an exquisite
dandy, who is neither African, European, French, nor Spanish,
but an odd mixture of the four. He is dressed in the
extreme of fashion, and on entering the room, bows most
gracefully, at the same time casting an admiring glance at
himself in the large mirror, and passing his hand carelessly
through his perfumed locks. With the utmost deference,
he awaits the commands of his master.

“Well, Rondeau,” said Dr. Lacey, “haven't you finished
breakfast yet?”

“Yes, marster,” answered Rondeau, with a very low
bow. “I've got through a moment since. What can I do
for you? Will you ride this morning?”

“No,” answered Dr. Lacey, “I do not wish to ride, but
I want you to go to the post-office and back immediately;
remember now, and not stop to gossip.”

“Certainly not,” said the negro. “When marster's in a
hurry, Rondeau is never found foolin' away time.”

“And don't stop more than an hour in the kitchen to
talk to Leffie. Do you understand?” continued the Doctor.

“Oh yes, I won't,” said Rondeau, extending his mouth
into a broad grin, at his master's allusion to Leffie, a bright
looking handsome mulatto girl, whom next to himself, Rondeau
thought was the prettiest creature in the world.

At last he bowed himself out of the room, and proceeded
to execute his master's commands. On passing the
kitchen, he “just looked in a little,” and the sight of Leffie's
bright eyes and rosy lips, made him forgetful of his promise.
Going up to her, he announced his intention of kissing her.
A violent squabble ensued, in which the large china dish,
which Leffie held in her hand, was broken, two pickle jars
thrown down, chairs upset, the baby scalded, and the dog
Tasso's tail nearly crushed! At last Aunt Dilsey, the head
cook and the mother of Leffie, interposed, and seizing the
soup ladle as the first thing near her, she laid about her
right and left, dealing no very gentle blows at the well oiled
hair of Rondeau, who was glad to beat a retreat from the
kitchen, amidst the loud laughter of the blacks, who had
witnessed the scene.

Leaving the house he was soon on his way to the post-office,
and having procured his master's mail he started for home.
At length slackening his pace, he took from his pocket the

letters and carefully scrutinized the inscription of each. He
was in the habit of going to the post-office, and after his
master's return from Kentucky, he had noticed two or three
letters written in what he called “a mighty fineified hand,”
and he had whispered to Leffie as a great secret that “'twas
his private opinion, marster was going to marry some Kentucky
girl.” Recently he had noticed the absence of those
letters, and also the absence of his master's accustomed cheerfulness.
Rondeau was pretty keen, and putting the two
circumstances together, he again had a whispered conference
with Leffie, whom he told that, “most probably the Kentucky
girl had flunked, for marster hadn't had a letter in
ever so long, and every time he didn't get one, he looked as
blue as a whet-stone!”

“Glad on't,” said Leffie. “Hope he won't have any your
foreigners. Allus did wish he'd have Miss Mortimer. Next
to old marster and young marster Lacey, her father's the
toppinest man in New Orleans. And it's a pity for young
marster to stoop.”

After examining all the letters closely, Rondeau came to
the conclusion that the right one wasn't there, and he thought
“Well, Leffie 'll be glad, and marster 'll be sorry, and hang
me if I ain't sorry too, for marster's a plaguey fine chap, and
desarves any body there is in Kentucky.”

Meantime Dr. Lacey was anxiously awaiting Rondeau's
return, and when he caught sight of him, coming at an unusually
rapid rate towards the house, he thought, “Surely
Rondeau would never hurry so, if he had not good news for
me,” but the next thought was, “How should he know what
it is I am so anxious to get?” Still he waited rather impatiently
for Rondeau to make his appearance. In a moment
he entered the room, and commenced pulling the letters from
his pocket, saying, “I've got a heap this time, marster.”

He then laid them one by one on the marble dressing

table, counting them as he did so; “Thar's one, thar's two,
thar's three, thar's four.”

“Stop counting them, can't you, and give me all you
have directly,” said Dr. Lacey, as his eye ran hurriedly over
the superscription of each, and found not the one he sought.

“That's just what I've done, marster,” said Rondeau bowing.
“The one you want wasn't thar.”

Dr. Lacey glanced hastily at his servant, and felt assured
that the quick-witted negro was in possession of his secret.
“You may go,” said he, “and mind, never let me hear of
your commenting about my letter.”

“No, marster, never; 'strue's I live,” said Rondeau, who
left the room and went in quest of Leffie. But he did not
dare to repeat the scene of the morning, for Aunt Dilsey was
present, bending over a large tub of boiling suds, and he felt
sure that any misdemeanor on his part, would call forth a
more affectionate shower-bath than he cared about receiving.
So he concluded to bring about his purpose by complimenting
Aunt Dilsey on her fine figure, (she weighed just two
hundred!)

“Aunt Dilsey,” said he, “'pears to me you have an uncommon
good form, for one as plump and healthy-like as
you are.”

Aunt Dilsey was quite sensitive whenever her size was
alluded to, and she replied rather sharply. “You git along,
you bar's ile skullcap. 'Twon't be healthy for you to poke
fun at me.”

“'Pon my word,” said the mischievous Rondeau, “I ain't
poking fun at you. I do really think so. I thought of it
last Sunday, when you had on that new gown, that becomes
you so well.”

“Which one?” said Aunt Dilsey, a little mollified,
“the blue and yaller one?”

“The same,” answered Rondeau. “It fits you good.
Your arms look real small in it.”

Leffie was nearly convulsed with laughter, for she had
tried the experiment, and found that the distance round her
mother's arm, was just the distance round her own slender
waist.

“Do tell!” said Aunt Dilsey, stopping from her work and
wiping the drops of perspiration from her shining forehead,
“Do tell! It feels drefful sleek on me, but my old man
Claib says it's too tight.”

“Not an atom too tight,” answered Rondeau, at the
same time getting nearer and nearer to Leffie, and laying
his hand on her shoulder.

Before she was aware of his intention, he stole the kiss
he was seeking for. Leffie rewarded him by spitting in his
face, while Aunt Dilsey called out, “Ain't you 'shamed to act
so, Leffie? Don't make a fool of yourself!”

Assured by this speech, Rondeau turned, and kissing
Aunt Dilsey herself, was off just in time to escape a basin
of hot suds, which that highly scandalized lady hurled after
him.

“I'll tell marster this minute,” said she, “and see if he
hain't got nothin' to set the lazy lout a doin'.” So saying,
the old lady waddled into the house, and going up stairs,
knocked at Dr. Lacey's door.

“Come in,” said the Doctor, and Aunt Dilsey entered.
In a very sad tone, she commenced telling how “that 'tarnal
Rondeau was raisin' Cain in the kitchen. He's kissed
Leffie, and me too!”

“Kissed you, has he?” said Dr. Lacey.

“Yes, sar, he done that ar very thing, spang on the
mouth,” said Dilsey.

“Well, Dilsey,” said the Doctor with a roguish twinkle
of the eye, “don't you think he ought to be paid?”

Aunt Dilsey tried to cry, and said, “I never thought that
marster would larf at poor old Aunt Dilsey.”

“Neither will I,” said the Doctor. Then tossing her a
picayune, he said, “take that, Aunt Dilsey. I reckon it
will pay for the kiss. I'll see that Rondeau does not repeat
his offence on you at least.”

Aunt Dilsey went back to the kitchen, thinking that
“Marster George was the funniest and best marster on
arth.”

While Rondeau was carrying on this flirtation in the
kitchen, Dr. Lacey was differently employed. Hope deferred
had well nigh made his heart sick. “What can be the
reason,” thought he, “that Fanny does not write? I have
written repeatedly for the last two months and have had no
answer.” Then as a new idea struck him, he added, “Yes,
I'll write to Mr. Miller, and ask him what has happened.”
Suiting the action to the word, he drew up his writing desk,
and in a short time a letter was written, and directed to Mr.
Miller.

He arose to summon Rondeau to take it to the office;
but ere he had touched the bell rope, pride whispered,
“Don't send that letter, don't let Mr. Miller into your private
affairs. If Fanny were sick, some one would write to you.”

So the bell was not rung, and during the next half hour,
Dr. Lacey amused himself by mechanically tearing it into
small fragments. Ah, Dr. Lacey, 'twas a sorry moment
when you listened to the whispering of that pride! Had
that letter been sent, it would have saved you many sleepless
nights of sorrow. But 'twas not to be.

That night there was to be a large party at the house of
Mr. Mortimer, whom Leffie had mentioned as second to the
Laceys in wealth. Mr. Mortimer was the uncle, at whose
house Florence Woodburn was visiting, and the party was
given partly in honor of her arrival, and partly to celebrate

Mabel Mortimer's birthday. Mabel was an intelligent, accomplished
girl, and besides being something of a beauty,
was the heiress expectant of several hundred thousand. This
constituted her quite a belle, and for three or four years past,
she and Dr. Lacey had been given to each other by the
clever gossips of New Orleans. Mr. Lacey senior was also
rather anxious that his son should marry Mabel; so Julia
was not far out of the way, when she wrote to Fanny that
Dr. Lacey's parents wished to secure a match between him
and a New Orleans belle. Had Dr. Lacey never seen Fanny,
he possibly might have wedded Mabel. But his was a heart
which could love but once, and although the object of his
love should prove untrue, his affections could not easily be
transferred to another; so 'twas all in vain that Mabel Mortimer,
on the evening of the party, stood before her mirror
arranging and rearranging the long curls of her dark hair,
and the folds of her rich white satin, wondering all the while
if Dr. Lacey would approve her style of dress.

Turning to Florence she said, “Cousin, did you see Dr.
Lacey, while he was in Frankfort?”

“No, I did not,” answered Florence; “but I do hope he
will be here to-night, for I am all impatience to see this
lion who has turned all your heads.”

A slight shade of displeasure passed over Mabel's fine
features, but quickly casting it off, she said, “Why are you
so anxious, Florence? Have you any designs on him? If
you have, they will do you no good, for I have a prior claim,
and you must not interfere.”

“Dear me, how charmingly you look!” said Florence.
“But, fair coz, do not be too sanguine. Suppose I should
tell you that far off in old Kentuck, as the negroes say, there
is a golden-haired little girl, who has —”

“Stop, stop,” said Mabel. “You shall not tell me. I
will not hear it.”

At that instant the door bell rang, and in a moment several
young girls entered the dressing-room, and in the chattering
and laughing and fixing which followed, Mable forgot
what her cousin had been saying. After a time the young
ladies descended to the spacious drawing-rooms, which were
rapidly filling with the élite of the city.

Mabel's eye took in at a glance all the gentlemen, and
she felt chagrined to find Dr. Lacey absent. “What if he
should not come?” thought she. “The party would be a
dreadfully dull affair to me.” Some time after, she missed
Florence and two or three other girls, and thinking they
were in the parlor above, she went in search of them. She
found them on the balcony, not far from the gentlemen's
dressing-room, the windows of which were open. As she
approached them, they called out, “Oh, here you are, Mabel!
Florence is just going to tell us about Dr. Lacey's sweetheart.”

“Dr. Lacey's sweetheart!” repeated Mabel. “Who is
Dr. Lacey's sweetheart, pray?”

“Do not blush so, Mabel; we do not mean you,” said
Lida Gibson, a bright-eyed witty girl, with a sprinkling of
malice in her nature.

“Of course you do not mean me,” said Mabel laughingly.
“But come, cousin; what of her?” And the young
girls drew nearer to each other, and waited anxiously for
Florence's story.

Little did they suspect that another individual, with
flushed brow, compressed lip, and beating heart, was listening
to hear tidings of her whom Florence had designated as
his sweetheart. Dr. Lacey had entered the gentlemen's
dressing-room unobserved. He heard the sound of merry
voices on the balcony, and was about to step out and surprise
the girls, when he caught the sound of his own name coupled
with that of Fanny Middleton. His curiosity was aroused,
and he became a listener to the following conversation:

“Come, Florence,” said Lida, “do not keep us in suspense
any longer. Tell us whether she is black or white, fat
or lean, rich or poor?”

“But first,” said Mabel, “tell us how you know she is
any thing to Dr. Lacey.”

“That is what I don't know,” said Florence. “I am only
speaking of what has been.”

“Well then,” said Mabel more gayly, “go on.”

“This Fanny Middleton,” said Florence, “looks just as
you would imagine a bright angel to look.”

How Dr. Lacey blessed her for these words.

“But,” continued Florence, “there is a singularly sad
expression on her marble face.”

“I never observed it,” thought Dr. Lacey.

“What makes her sad?” asked Lida.

“That is a mystery to me,” answered Florence. “Report
says that she loved a Mr. Wilmot, who was engaged to
her sister.”

“Engaged to her sister!” repeated Mabel. “How strange!
But won't it make trouble?”

“It cannot,” said Florence. “Mr. Wilmot is dead, and
it is whispered that Fanny's heart was buried with him. I
should not be surprised if it were so, for Fanny has the saddest
face I ever saw. It made me want to cry when I looked
at her. I should have pitied her more, however, had she
not been so well cared for by a Mr. Stanton, from New-York.”

Large drops of perspiration stood thickly on Dr. Lacey's
forehead, and his hands, convulsively clasped, were pressed
against his heart; still he did not lose a syllable, as Florence
continued. “I did not blame her for liking Stanton, for he
would break half your hearts and turn the rest of you crazy.”

“But the sister,” asked all the young ladies, “how was
she affected to think Fanny loved her betrothed?”

“Oh, that sister!” said Florence. “You ought to see her!
She is beautiful, beyond any thing I can describe. She
eclipsed every thing and every body.”

“And is she as agreeable as handsome?” asked Mabel,
whose fears were aroused that Julia might be her rival, instead
of Fanny.

Florence replied, “I was told that she was formerly very
passionate, so much so that her father nicknamed her Tempest.
Within a few months she has entirely changed, and is
now very amiable; but I liked Fanny's looks the best.”

“But, Dr. Lacey,—what had he to do with Fanny?” asked
Lida.

“It was said they were engaged; but I do not think they
are. In fact I know they are not, from what Fanny said
herself; for she assured me that Dr. Lacey was nothing to
her more than a common acquaintance; and the sad but
sweet smile which broke over her face whenever she raised
her soft blue eyes to Stanton's animated countenance, confirmed
what she said.”

“So, Mabel, you can have the Doctor after all,” said
Lida. “You know you used to say that 'twas all settled, for
your parents and his had arranged it.”

Dr. Lacey waited for no more. He knew of a back
stairway, down which he could escape into the open air unobserved.
In a moment he stood alone, in Mr. Mortimer's
garden, but the evening breeze, although it cooled his brow,
failed to calm his excited feelings. Suddenly it occurred to
him that his absence from Mr. Mortimer's would excite attention
in those who saw him enter, so he made a desperate
effort to be calm, and retracing his steps, was soon in the
drawing-room, with Mabel Mortimer on his arm, much to
that young lady's satisfaction.

As they passed near a group of young girls, in the centre
of which stood Florence Woodburn, Mabel suddenly said,

“Oh, Dr. Lacey, let me introduce you to cousin Florence.
She has just come from Frankfort, and knows some of your
acquaintances there.”

So saying she drew him towards Florence, who had all
the evening been waiting for an introduction to him. Dr.
Lacey rather wished to avoid making Florence's acquaintance,
fearing that she might say something to him of Fanny.
But there was no escape, and he greeted Florence with a
smile and bow, which, to use her own words, “Nearly drove
every idea from her head.”

Once during the evening he found himself standing with
Florence, alone, near an open window. Florence improved
her opportunity, and raising her bewitching hazel eyes to
the Doctor's face, said, “Why do you not ask me about
your Kentucky friends, Dr. Lacey?”

Had Florence observed her companion closely, she would
have noticed the pallor, which, for an instant, overspread his
face. It passed away, and he replied with an assumed
gayety, “How should I know that we have any acquaintances
in common in Frankfort?”

Before Florence had time to reply Mabel joined them.
She was unwilling to risk a tête-à-tête between the Doctor
and her fascinating, graceful cousin, and as soon as she found
them standing alone, she went up to them. Her example
was followed by several other young ladies, among whom was
Lida Gibson, who began by saying, “Doctor, do you know
that Miss Florence has told us all about your love affair, and
also described the Golden Fairy? Now why didn't you fall
in love with her sister? Florence says she is far more beautiful.”

Dr. Lacey answered calmly, “What reason has Miss
Woodburn to think I am in love with either?”

“No reason,” said Mabel quickly; “neither does she
think you are in love with either.”

“Dear me!” said Lida. “Of course you do not wish to
think so, and we all know why; but never mind frowning
so dreadfully, Mabel; I won't tell!” and the mischievous
girl glided away, laughing to think that she had succeeded
so well in teasing Mabel Mortimer.

After a moment Dr. Lacey turned to Florence, and said,
“It seems you saw Julia Middleton. Do you not think her
very handsome?”

“Yes, very,” answered Florence; “but I liked Fanny's
looks the best.”

A pang shot through Dr. Lacey's heart at the mention
of Fanny's name, but he continued to inquire concerning his
friends in Kentucky. Before the party closed, Florence,
Mabel, and Lida, had each managed to repeat to him all the
conversation which he had overheard in the first part of
the evening, never once thinking how desolate was the heart
which beat beneath the calm manner and gay laugh of him
who listened to their thoughtless raillery.

At length the party drew to a close. Dr. Lacey was
among the first that left. He longed to be alone with his
troubled thoughts. Mechanically bidding Mabel “Good
night,” he ran down the marble steps, and stepping into his
carriage, ordered Claib, the coachman, to drive home as soon
as possible. There was no particular necessity for this command,
for Claib had been fretting for the last hour about
“White folks settin' up all night and keepin' niggers awake.
Darned if he didn't run the horses home like Satan, and sleep
over next day, too.”

With such a driver the horses sped swiftly over the smooth
road, and in a very few minutes Dr. Lacey was at home,
alone in his room. Then the full tide of his sorrow burst
forth. He did not weep. He would scorn to do that. But
could one have seen him as he hurriedly paced the apartment,
he would have said, his was a sorrow which could not

vent itself in tears. Occasionally he would whisper to himself,
“My Fanny false!—she whom I believed so truthful, so
loving, so innocent! And she loves another,—one, too,
whom it were almost a sin to love. Fool, that I did not see
it before, for what but love could have drawn such devotion
to him on his death-bed. And yet she assured me, that I
was the first, the only one, she had ever loved; and I believed
it, and gave her the entire affection of my heart.”

Then came a reaction. Resentment towards Fanny for
thus deceiving him, mingled with his grief. But he had
loved her too deeply, too truly, to cherish an unkind feeling
towards her long. Throwing himself upon the sofa, and
burying his face in his hands, he went back in fancy through
all the many happy hours he had spent in her society. While
doing this sleep descended upon him, and in his dreams he
saw again his darling Fanny, not false and faithless as he
had feared, but arrayed in a spotless bridal robe. She stood
by his side as his own wedded wife. Was that dream ever
realized? We shall see.