University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

The next day was the Sabbath. Contrary to their usual
custom on such mornings, Mr. Middleton and his negroes
were astir at an early hour. The female portion of the latter
were occupied in preparing a great breakfast in honor of
“Marster William's” arrival, while Mr. Middleton busied
himself in removing a part of his dark, heavy beard.

When William made his appearance in the sitting-room,
he was greeted by his brother with, “How are you, Bill?
Hope you slept better than I did, for 'pears like I couldn't
get asleep no how, till towards mornin', and then I was
mighty skeary about wakin' up, for fear I should find it all
moonshine, and no Bill here after all.” After a moment's
pause, he added, “Whar's t'other chap? If he don't come
directly, the hen 'll spile, for Judy's had it ready better than
half an hour.”

Ashton soon appeared, and the party did ample justice
to Aunt Judy's well-cooked breakfast. That meal being
over, Mr. Middleton said, “Now, boys, what do you say to
goin' to meetin'? The Babtiss have preachin', and I've a
mind to go. How the folks 'll star though to see Bill. Say,
will you go?”

The gentlemen signified their assent; and at the usual

hour they proceeded to the church, which was situated
about two miles from Mr Middleton's. We are sorry for it,
but truth compels us to say, that on this day Uncle Joshua
was not quite as devotional as usual. He was looking over
the congregation to see what effect his brother's presence was
producing. When he saw that no one exclaimed or turned
pale, and that even the minister kept on the even tenor of
his discourse, he inwardly accused them all of being “dough-heads,”
and wondered he had never before discovered how little
they knew. However, when meeting was over, the neighbors
crowded around the old man, congratulating him on
the unexpected return of his brother, whom they welcomed
so warmly that Uncle Joshua began to think he had been
too hasty in condemning them, for “after all, they knew a
heap.”

That night, after supper, Mr. Middleton was again seated
in the little porch with his guests. They had been speaking
of the sermon they had heard, when Mr. Middleton said,
“That's the right kind of meetin' to my notion. A feller
can sleep a bit, if he feels like it; but whar my gals go, in
Frankford, they have the queerest doins—keep a gittin' up
and sittin' down; 'pears like you don't more'n git fairly sot,
afore you have to hist up agin, and you can't sleep to save
you. Then they have streaked yaller and black prar-books,
and keep a-readin' all meetin' time.”

“Do your daughters prefer that church?” asked William.

“Why, yes,” returned his brother; “or, that is, Dick,
poor boy Dick, belonged thar; so did the young Lefftenant,
Carrington; so does Dr. Lacey; and that's reason enough
why Sunshine should prefer it. Tempest goes thar, I reckon,
because it's fashionable, and she can have a nice prar-book
to show. You ought to see the one I bought for Sunshine.
It's all velvety, and has gold clasps, with jest the word

`Sunshine' writ on it. Tempest has got a more common
one. It didn't cost half as much.”

“I notice that you make quite a distinction between your
daughters,” said William. “May I ask why you do it?”

Mr. Middleton stopped smoking, and said, “If you please,
Bill, I'd rather say nothin' about that now. I make it a rule
never to swar Sundays, and if I git to goin' it about Tempest,
and the way she used poor Dick, I should have to swar
and no mistake. Mebby you think I'd better not swar any
time.”

“Yes,” answered William; “I should be glad if you
would not. It is a bad habit, and I wish you would discontinue
it.”

“Well now, Bill,” said Mr. Middleton, “Lord knows—
no, I mean I know I've tried a heap of times to break off,
and now I'll try again. I'll not cuss a word till I forget.
Dick used to want me to stop, and when he died I promised
myself I would; but the pigs and horses got into the corn,
and fust I knew, I was swarin' wus than ever. I wish you
had seen Dick; but it can't be—he's gone for ever.”

“Have you no daguerreotype of him?” asked William.

“No, I hain't, but his folks have; and Mr. Miller and
Kate are goin' home this summer, and they'll fetch me one.
That makes me think Sunshine is so puny and sick like,
that I'm goin' to let her go North with them. It'll do her
good; and I'm goin' to buy her four silk growns to go with,
but for Lord's—no, for land's sake don't tell Tempest.”

“I hope you are not very anxious to have Fanny go
North,” said William; “for it will seriously affect a plan
which I have formed.”

“Well, what is it?” asked Mr. Middleton.

William then told of the house he had purchased, and
of his intention to take both his nieces back with him. “I
know,” said he, “that it seems strange to take them there

in hot weather; but down by the lake it will be pleasant
and cool, and I must have them with me.”

“Have you said any thing to them about it?” asked Mr.
Middleton.

“Yes,” answered his brother. “I have mentioned it to
them.”

“What did they say?”

“Fanny said nothing, but Julia seemed much pleased
with the idea,” said William.

“I'll warrant that,” returned Mr. Middleton. “She's
tickled enough, and in her own mind, she's run up a bill
again me for at least five hundred. Sunshine is so modest,
I s'pose, because Dr. Lacey will be there, that she does not
want to seem very glad; but she'll go. I'll have them come
home to-morrow, and will talk the matter over. I'd as soon
have her go to New Orleans as to New-York.”

Here the conversation was interrupted by Mrs. Middleton,
who came to tell her husband that 'twas past nine. Mr.
Middleton had a great horror of being up after that hour, so
he hastily bade his brother and Ashton good-night, saying
to the former, “Now I've got kind of used to your being
alive, Bill, I hope I shan't have such pesky work goin' to
sleep.”

Next morning Ashton returned to Frankfort in the carriage
which Mr. Middleton had sent for the purpose of bringing
his daughters home. For once in her life, Julia was delighted
with the idea of visiting her parents. She had learned from
a note which her mother had written, that the reason of their
being sent for was to talk over the matter of going to New
Orleans. Fanny felt differently. She wished, yet dreaded
to go home. She too knew why they were sent for; and as
she was determined not to go to New Orleans, it would be
necessary at last to tell her father the true reason. She

was certain he would be unsparing in his wrath against Dr.
Lacey, and she almost trembled for the consequences.

When at last she was ready, she descended to the parlor,
and sitting down to her piano, ran her fingers lightly over
the keys. At that moment Frank Cameron entered. He
had learned from his cousin, Kate, enough of Fanny's history
to make him fear that she never could be aught to
him; and yet the knowledge that he could not, must not
hope to win her, only rendered the attraction stronger. He
was intending to start for home the next day, and had now
come to spend a few moments alone with Fanny, ere he bade
her good-bye. As he entered the room, she ceased playing,
and said, “I believe you leave town to-morrow, do you
not?”

“I do,” replied Frank, “and am come to bid you good-bye
now; for when you return, I shall probably be looking
on the dust, smoke, and chimneys of the Empire City.” As
Fanny made no answer, Frank continued, “Miss Middleton,
we shall meet again, I trust. Kate tells me that you are to
accompany them to New-York this summer. I shall expect
you, and shall watch anxiously for your coming.”

Fanny replied, “I have thought of going North with Mrs.
Miller, but it is possible I may be disappointed.”

“Disappointed!” repeated Frank; “you must not be
disappointed, or disappoint me either. I would hardly be
willing to leave Frankfort if I did not hope to see you again.
And yet if we never do meet, I shall know that I am a better
man for having once seen and known you; and I shall
look back upon the few days spent in Kentucky as upon
one of the bright spots in my life.”

We do not know what Fanny would have replied; for
ere she had time to answer, Julia appeared in the door, calling
out, “Come, Fan, the carriage is ready. But, pray excuse
me,” continued she, as she saw Frank; “I had no idea

that I was interrupting so interesting a conversation as
your looks seem to indicate.”

This increased Fanny's confusion, but she endeavored to
appear at ease; and rising up, she offered Frank her hand,
saying, “I must now bid you farewell, Mr. Cameron.”

Frank took her hand, and quick as thought, raised it to
his lips. Fanny's cheeks reddened as she hastily withdrew
her hand, saying rather indignantly, “Mr. Cameron, I am
surprised!”

Frank expected as much, and he said, rather gaily,
“Pardon me, Miss Middleton, I could not help it, and would
not if I could. It is all I ever hope to receive from you;
and years hence, when I am a lone, lorn old bachelor, I
shall love to think of the morning when I bade good-bye to
and kissed Fanny Middleton.”

A moment more, and the carriage drove rapidly away.
Frank watched it until it disappeared down the street; then
turning away, he thought, “I have met and parted with the
only person on earth who has power to awaken in me any
deeper feeling than that of respect.”

When Julia and Fanny reached home, they were greeted
kindly both by their parents and uncle. The latter had resolved
to watch them closely, in order to ascertain, if possible,
the reason of his brother's evident preference for Fanny.
During the day, nothing was said of the projected visit to
New Orleans; and Julia was becoming very impatient, but
she knew better than to broach the subject herself; so she
was obliged to wait.

That evening the family, as usual, assembled on the little
porch. Fanny occupied her accustomed seat and low
stool by the side of her father, whose pipe she filled and refilled;
for he said, “The tobacker tasted a heap better after
Sunshine had handled it.”

Julia could wait no longer, and she began the conversation
by asking her uncle something about New Orleans.

“Thar, I knew 'twould be so,” said Mr. Middleton;
“Tempest is in a desput hurry to know whether I'm goin'
to cash over and send her to market in New Orleans.”

“Well, father,” said Julia, coaxingly, “you are going to
let Fanny and me go with Uncle William, I know.”

It was lucky for Julia that she chanced to mention her
sister; for however much her father might be inclined to
tease her, the word “Fanny” mollified him at once, and he
answered, “Why, yes; I may as well let you go as to keep
you here doing nothing, and eating up my corn bread.”
Then drawing Fanny nearer to him, he said, “I've talked
some of letting Sunshine go to New-York, but she'll jump
at the chance of going to New Orleans, I reckon.”

There was no answer, and as Julia was not particularly
desirous of having her sister's silence questioned, she rattled
on about her expected visit, and even went so far as to caress
her father, because he had given his consent to her going.
It was decided that Mr. William Middleton should return, as
he had intended, in two weeks' time, so as to have every
thing in readiness for the reception of his nieces, who were
to come on as soon as school closed, which would be about
the tenth of June.

During all this time, Fanny said not a word; and at last
it occurred to her father, that she had neither expressed her
desire nor willingness to go; so he said, “Come, Sunshine,
why don't you hold up your head and talk about it? We
all know you want to go mightily, and see that little Doctor.”

Fanny knew it was of no use delaying longer, and she
answered gently, but decidedly, “Father, I have no desire to
go to New Orleans. I cannot go.”

“Fudge on being so very modest,” replied Mr. Middleton.

“It is nateral-like that you should want to see him,
and nobody'll think less of you.”

Fanny answered, “You know I have thought of going
to New-York with Mr. and Mrs. Miller. I am still anxious
to do so; but to New Orleans I cannot, shall not go, unless
you command me to do so.”

“Saint Peter!” said Mr. Middleton. “What's the row
now? What's happened to make little Sunshine spirit up
so? Don't you want to see Dr. Lacey, child?”

“No, father; I never desire to see him again.”

The old cob pipe dropped from Mr. Middleton's mouth,
and springing up, he confronted Fanny, saying, “What in
fury is the racket? You not wish to go to New Orleans, or
see Dr. Lacey either! I half wish you was Tempest for a
spell, so I could storm at you; but as it is Sunshine, I can't
even feel mad.”

“Oh, father, father!” said Fanny, weeping; “if you
knew all that has occurred, you would not blame me.”

“What do you mean, darling?” asked Mr. Middleton,
suddenly becoming cool. “What has happened?” Then
looking at Julia, whose face was crimson, a new idea struck
him, and he exclaimed more wrathfully, “How now, Tempest?
What makes you turn as red as a hickory fire!
Have you been raising a rumpus between Dr. Lacey and Sunshine?
Out with it, if you have.”

It was now Julia's turn to cry and appeal to her uncle,
if it were not unjust in her father always to suspect her of
evil, if any thing were wrong. William very wisely kept
silent, but Fanny said, “Do not accuse Julia, for she is not
guilty. She knows it all, however, and is sorry for it.”

“Knows what? Sorry for what? hy don't you tell?”
said Mr. Middleton, stalking back and forth through the
porch, and setting down his feet as heavily as if he would
crush every thing which might chance to fall beneath his
tread.

“I cannot tell you now,” said Fanny; “but when we are
alone, you shall know all.”

In a few moments William thought proper to retire, and
as his example was soon followed by Julia, Fanny was left
alone with her parents. Drawing her stool nearer to her
father, and laying her hot, feverish forehead upon his hand,
she said, “Before I give any explanation I wish you to make
me a promise.”

“Promise of what?” asked her father and mother, simultaneously.

“It is not probable,” answered Fanny, “that you will
ever see Dr. Lacey again, but if you do, I wish you never to
mention to him what I am about to tell you.”

The promise was readily given by Mrs. Middleton, but
her husband demurred, saying, “I shan't commit myself until
I know what 'tis. If Dr. Lacey has been cuttin' up, why
I'll cowhide him, that's all.”

“Then I shall not tell you,” was Fanny's firm reply.

Her father saw she was in earnest, and replied, “What's
got your back up so high, Sunshine? I never knew you
had so much grit. What's the reason you don't want Dr.
Lacey to hear of it?”

“Because,” said Fanny, hesitatingly, “because I do not
wish him to know how much I care about it; and besides,
it can do no possible good. Now, father, promise you will
not tell him or any one else.”

Mr. Middleton was finally persuaded, and his promise
given. Fanny knew it would not not be broken, for her father
prided himself on keeping his word. So she gave an account
of Dr. Lacey's conduct, and ended her narrative by producing
the letter, which she supposed came from him. Up to this
moment Mr. Middleton had sat perfectly still; but meantime
his wrath had waxed warmer and warmer, until at last

it could no longer be restrained, but burst forth in such a
storm of fury as made Fanny stop her ears.

She, however, caught the words: “And I was fool enough
to promise not to say a word. Well, thank the Lord, I
didn't promise not to shoot the puppy. Let me catch him
within pistol shot of me, and I'll pop him over as I would a
woodchuck. And if he don't come back, I'll go all the way
to Orleans for the sake of doin' on't. I'll larn him to fool
with my gal; yes, I will!”

Fanny's fears for Dr. Lacey's safety were immediately
roused; and again were her arms wound round the neck of
her enraged father, while she begged of him to be quiet, and
think reasonably of the matter. Not long could any one resist
the arguments of Fanny; and in less than half an hour
her father grew calm, and said more gently, “I shouldn't
have been so rarin' mad, if it had been any body besides you,
Sunshine. I s'pose I did go on high, and swar like a pirate.
I didn't mean to do that, for I promised Bill I'd try and
leave off.”

“Leave swearing?” said Fanny: “Oh, I am so glad! I
hope you will. Now promise that you will, dear father, and
say again that you will not mention Dr. Lacey's conduct
either to him or any one else.”

“I have promised once,” said Mr. Middleton, “and one
promise is as good as forty. Old Josh 'll never break his
word as long as he has his senses. But that paltry Doctor
owes his life to you, Sunshine. Half an hour ago, I was as
fully set to knock him over as I am now determined to let
the varmint go to destruction his own way.”

Fanny shuddered at the idea of her father becoming the
murderer of Dr. Lacey, and Mrs. Middleton rejoined, “I am
glad, husband, to hear you talk more sensibly. It can do
no possible good for you to shoot Dr. Lacey, and then lose

your own life, as you assuredly would; besides, I think the
less we say of the matter, the better it will be.”

“I reckon you are right, Nancy,” said Mr. Middleton;
“but hang it all, what excuse shall I give Bill for not lettin'
the gals go to New Orleans?”

“But, father,” said Fanny, “you will let Julia go, of
course. Uncle knows I do not intend to go, and consequently
will think nothing of that; and there is no reason
why Julia should not go to New Orleans, and I to New-York.
Now say we may, that's a dear father.”

“I s'pose I'll have to, honey,” answered Mr. Middleton;
“but if I can see ahead an inch, you're bitin' your own nose
off by sending Tempest to New Orleans without you.”

Afterwards Fanny remembered this speech, and understood
it too; but now she was prevented from giving it a
thought by her father, who continued, “Doesn't that Carmeron
chap live some'us in New-York?”

There was no reason for it, but Fanny blushed deeply
as she replied, “Yes, sir, Mr. Cameron lives in New-York
city; but I am not going to see him.”

“Mebby not,” answered her father; “but my name ain't
Josh if he won't be on the lookout for you. And 'twixt us,
darling, now the Doctor's sarved you such a scaly trick, I
shouldn't pitch and dive much if I heard that you and Carmeron
were on good terms.”

“That will never, never be,” answered Fanny. “I shall
always live at home with you and mother.”

“You are a blessed daughter,” said Mr. Middleton, “and
I hope thar's better fortin in store for you than to stay hived
up with us two old crones; and I can't help thinkin' that
you'll have Dr. Lacey yet, or somebody a heap better. Now
go to bed, child, for your eyes are gittin' red like, and
heavy.”

Fanny obeyed and retired to her room, where she found

Julia sitting up and waiting for her. As soon as Fanny appeared
she began, “Fan, you are a real good girl. I was
pleased to hear you talk. Nobody but you could have done
any thing with the old heathen.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Fanny.

“Why,” said Julia, “I had my head out of the window,
listening all the time, and overheard what you said. Once
I trembled for fear father would take it into his head not to
let me go any way; but you fixed it all right, and I thank
you for it.” As Fanny made no answer, Julia continued,
“I heard, too, all about Frank Cameron. Now, Fan, I know
he admires you, and I really hope you'll not be silly enough
to discourage him. I shall expect you to write that you
have promised to become Mrs. Cameron.”

“Will you please, Julia, say no more on that subject,”
said Fanny. “I do not suppose Frank Cameron has any
particular regard for me; and if he has, it will do no good.”

Thus the conversation ended for that night. The next
day Mr. William Middleton was informed that Julia would
spend the summer in New Orleans, but that Fanny preferred
going North. He was rather disappointed. His preference,
if he had any, was for Fanny. She was so quiet, so gentle,
he could not help loving her; but Julia puzzled him. There
was a certain bold assurance in her manner which he disliked.
Besides, he could not help fearing there was some
good reason why her father censured her so much. “I will
watch her closely,” thought he, “and if possible, discover
her faults and help her correct them.”

It would seem that Julia suspected her uncle's intentions,
for she intended to be very correct and amiable in her deportment,
whenever he was present, Thought she, “I shall
thus retain his good opinion; and by so doing I shall more
easily win Dr. Lacey's regard.”

In the course of a few days Fanny and Julia returned to

school; the one, elated with the prospect of going to New
Orleans, and the other, quietly anticipating a pleasant but
rather sad journey to New-York. Two weeks after their return
to Frankfort, their uncle called upon them, on his way
South. He again repeated his invitation that Stanton and
Ashton would spend a part of the summer with him. Ashton
consented, but Stanton still plead his important business
North, and his excuse was considered a sufficient one.

Mrs. Carrington, who had become rather weary of Raymond's
attentions, and was longing for a change of place
and scene, now tried by every possible manœuvre to induce
Mr. Middleton to invite her also. Julia readily understood
her; and as she feared Mrs. Carrington's presence would
frustrate her plans, she resolutely determined that she should
not be invited. Consequently, when that lady talked to Mr.
Middleton of New Orleans, and the desire she had of again
visiting that city, Julia would adroitly change the conversation
to some other subject; and once, when Mr. Middleton
had actually opened his mouth and commenced giving the
desired invitation, Julia, as if suddenly recollecting herself,
started up, saying, “Excuse me, Uncle, but I have a painting
in my room which I wish you to see. Pray come with
me now, for I cannot bring it down, and as it is getting dark,
there is no time to be lost.”

Mr. Middleton arose and followed his niece, who congratulated
herself on the success of her stratagem. After
reaching her room, and exhibiting her painting, she said to
her uncle, “I do hope you will not ask Mrs. Carrington to
go to New Orleans this summer.”

“Why not?” said Mr. Middleton. “She seems anxious
that I should do so.”

“I know it,” answered Julia; “but I am afraid she is
not a good woman. At least she has a bad influence over
me, and I always feel wicked after being with her a while.”

As Julia had supposed, this had the desired effect. Mr.
Middleton would not ask one to visit him whose influence
over his niece was bad. Consequently, all Mrs. Carrington's
hints were unnoticed or misunderstood. She, however, knew
tolerably well to whom she was indebted for the slight; and
when, after Mr. Middleton's departure, Julia said to her, “I
wonder Uncle did not invite you too; I thought he was going
to do so,” she replied, rather sharply, “I fancy I should have
been under no obligations to you, Miss Julia, if I had received
an invitation.” Then turning, she hastily entered her
room, and throwing herself upon the sofa, she tried to devise
some scheme by which she could undermine Julia, provided
Dr. Lacey should show her any marked attention.

Mrs. Carrington was not in a very enviable mood. The
night before Raymond had offered her his heart and hand,
and of course had been rejected. He was in the parlor when
Julia so abruptly took her uncle away. As there was no
one present besides Mrs. Carrington, he seized upon that
moment to declare his love. It is impossible to describe the
loathing and contempt which she pretended to feel for him
who sued so earnestly for her hand, even if her heart did not
accompany it. Nothing daunted by her haughty refusal,
Raymond arose, and standing proudly before the indignant
lady, said, “Ida Carrington, however much dislike you may
profess to feel for me, I do not believe it. I know I am not
wholly disagreeable to you, and were I possessed of thousands,
you would gladly seize the golden bait. I do not ask
you to love me, for it is not in your nature to love any thing.
You are ambitious, and even now are dreaming of one whom
you will never win; for just as sure as you sun shall set
again, so sure you, proud lady, shall one day be my wife.”

When Mrs. Carrington had recovered a little from the
surprise and anger into which Raymond's fiery speech had
thrown her, he was gone and she was alone. “Impudent

puppy!” said she; “and yet he was right in saying he was
not disagreeable to me. But I'll never be his wife. I'd die
first!” Still, do what she would, a feeling haunted her
that Raymond's prediction would prove true. Perhaps it
was this which made her so determined to supplant Julia in
Dr. Lacey's good opinion, should he ever presume to think
favorably of her. How she succeeded, we shall see hereafter.