University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.
SPRING BANK.

It was a large, old-fashioned, wooden building, with
long, winding piazzas, and low, square porches, where the
summer sunshine held many a fantastic dance, and where
the winter storm piled up its drifts of snow, whistling
merrily as it worked, and shaking the loosened casement,
as it went whirling by. In front was a wide-spreading
grassy lawn with the carriage road winding through
it, over the running brook and onward beneath tall forest
trees until it reached the main highway, a distance of
nearly half a mile. In the rear was a spacious garden,
with bordered walks, climbing roses and creeping vines
showing that some where there was a ruling hand, which,
while neglecting the sombre building and suffering it to
decay, lavished due care upon the grounds, and not on
these alone, but also on the well kept barns, and the
white-washed dwellings of the negroes,— for ours is a Kentucky
scene, and Spring Bank a Kentucky home.

As we have described it so it was on a drear December
night, when a fearful storm, for that latitude, was raging,
and the snow lay heaped against the fences, or sweeping
down from the bending trees, drifted against the doors,
and beat against the windows, whence a cheerful light
was gleaming, telling of life and possible happiness within.
There were no flowing curtains before the windows,
no drapery sweeping to the floor — nothing save blinds

without and simple shades within, neither of which were
doing service now, for the master of the house would
have it so in spite of his sister's remonstrances.

“Some one might lose their way on that terrible night,”
he said, “and the blaze of the fire on the hearth, which
could be seen from afar, would be to them a beacon light
to guide them on their way. Nobody would look in upon
them, as Adaline, or 'Lina as she chose to be called
seemed to think there might, and even if they did, why
need she care? She was looking well enough, and she'd
undone all those little braids which disfigured her so
shockingly in the morning, but which, when brushed and
carefully arranged, gave her hair that waving appearance
she so much desired. As for himself, he never meant to
do anything of which he was ashamed, so he did not care
how many were watching him through the window,” and
stamping his heavy boots upon the rug, for he had just
come in from the storm, Hugh Worthington piled fresh
fuel upon the fire, and shaking back the mass of short
brown curls which had fallen upon his forehead, strode
across the room and arranged the shades to his liking,
then, sitting down before the fire, he went off into a reverie,
the nature of which his mother, who was watching
him, could not guess; and when at last she asked of what
he was thinking so intently, he made her no reply. He
could hardly have told himself, so varied were the
thoughts crowding upon his brain that wintry night.
Now they were of the eccentric old man, from whom he
had received Spring Bank, together with the many peculiar
ideas which made him the strange, odd creature he was,
a mystery to his own sex, and a kind of terror to the female
portion of the neighborhood, who, looking upon him as a
woman-hater, avoided or coveted his society, just as their
fancy dictated. For years the old man and the boy had
lived alone in that great house, enjoying the freedom from
all restraint, the liberty of turning the parlors into kennels

if they chose, and converting the upper rooms into a
hay-loft, if they would. No white woman was ever seen
upon the premises, unless she came as a beggar, when some
new gown, or surplice, or organ, or chandelier, was needed
for the pretty little church, lifting its modest spire so unobtrusively
among the forest trees, not very far from Spring
Bank. John Stanley didn't believe in churches, nor gowns,
nor organs, nor women, but he was proverbially liberal;
and so the fair ones of Glen's Creek neighborhood ventured
into his den, finding it much pleasanter to do so after
the handsome, dark-haired boy came to live with him;
for about Hugh there was then something very attractive
to the little girls, while their mothers pitied him, wondering
why he had been permitted to come there, and
watching for the change in him, which was sure to ensue.

Not all at once did Hugh conform to the customs of
his uncle's household, and at first there often came over
him a longing for the refinements of his Northern home,
and a wish to infuse into Chloe, the colored housekeeper,
some of his mother's neatness. But a few attempts at reform
had taught him how futile was the effort, Aunt Chloe
always meeting him with the argument,

“'Tain't no use, Mas'r Hugh. A nigger's a nigger;
and I spec' ef you're to talk to me till you was hoarse
bout your Yankee ways of scrubbin', and sweepin', and
moppin' with a broom, I shouldn't be an atomer white-folksey
than I is now. Besides Mas'r John wouldn't bar
no finery; he's only happy when the truck is mighty
nigh a foot thick, and his things is lyin' round loose and
handy.”

To a certain extent this was true, for John Stanley would
have felt sadly out of place in any spot where, as Chloe
said, “his things were not lying round loose and handy,”
and as habit is everything, so Hugh soon grew accustomed
to his surroundings, and became as careless of his
external appearance as his uncle could desire. Only once

had there come to him an awakening — a faint conception
of the happiness there might arise from constant association
with the pure and refined, such as his uncle had
labored to make him believe did not exist. He was
thinking of that incident now, and it was not strange that
he did not heed his mother when she spoke, for Hugh was
far away from Spring Bank, and the storm beating against
its walls was to him like the sound of the waves dashing
against the vessel's side, just as they did years ago on
that night he remembered so well, shuddering as he heard
again the murderous hiss of the devouring flames, covering
the fated boat with one sheet of fire, and driving into
the water as a safer friend the shrieking, frightened
wretches who but an hour before had been so full of life
and hope, dancing gayly above the red-tongued demon
stealthily creeping upward from the hold below, where it
had taken life. What a fearful scene that was, and the
veins grew larger on Hugh's brow while his broad chest
heaved with something like a stifled sob as he recalled
the little childish form to which he had clung so madly
until the cruel timber struck from him all consciousness,
and he let that form go down — 'neath the treacherous
waters of Lake Erie never to come up again alive, for so
his uncle told him when, weeks after the occurence, he
awoke from the delirious fever which ensued and listened
to the sickening detail.

“Lost, my boy, lost with many others,” was what his
uncle had said.

“Lost” — there was a world of meaning in that word
to Hugh and though it was but a child he lost, yet in the
quiet night, when all else around Spring Bank was locked
in sleep, he often lay thinking of her and of what he
might perhaps have been had she been spared to him.
He had talked with her scarcely an hour in all, but even
in that time she had made upon him an impression
which could never be effaced. He was thinking of her

now, and as he thought, visions of a sweet, young face,
shadowed with curls of golden hair, came up before his
mind, and he saw again the look of surprise and pain
which shone in the soft, blue eyes and illuminated every
feature when in answer to some remark of hers he gave
vent to the half infidel principles he had learned from his
uncle. Her creed was different from his, and she explained
it to him so earnestly, that he said to her at last
he did but jest to hear what she would say, and though
she seemed satisfied he felt there was a shadow between
them which was not swept away, even after he promised
to read the Bible she timidly offered him and which he
had accepted wondering at her interest in one whose name
she did not even know. Hers was written on the fly-leaf
of the little book which he had yet hidden away where
no curious eye could find it, while carefully folded between
its leaves was a curl of golden hair. That tress and the
Bible which enclosed it had made Hugh Worthington a
better man. He did not often read the Bible, it is true,
and his acquaintances were frequently startled with opinions
which had so pained the little girl on board the St.
Helena, but this was merely on the surface, for far below
the rough exterior there was a world of goodness, a mine
of gems kept bright by memories of the angel child who
flitted for so brief a span across his pathway and then
was lost forever. He had tried so hard to save her —
had clasped her so fondly to his bosom when with extended
arms she came to him for aid. He could save her,
he said — he could swim to the shore with perfect ease;
and so without a moment's hesitation she had leaped
with him into the surging waves, and that was about the
last he could remember, save that he clutched frantically
at the long, golden hair streaming above the water, retaining
in his grasp the lock which no one at Spring
Bank had ever seen, for this one romance of Hugh's life
was a secret with himself. No one save his uncle had
witnessed his emotions when told that she was dead; no
one else had seen his bitter tears or heard the vehement
exclamation, “You've tried to teach me there was no
hereafter, no Heaven for such as she, but I know better
now, and I am glad there is, for she is safe forever.”

These were not idle words, and the belief then expressed
became with Hugh Worthington a fixed principle,
which his skeptical uncle tried in vain to eradicate.
“There was a Heaven, and she was there,” comprised
nearly the whole of Hugh's religious creed, if we except
a vague, misty hope, that he, too, would some day find
her, how or by what means he never seriously inquired;
only this he knew, it would be through her influence,
which even now followed him every where, producing its
good effects. It had checked him many and many a time
when his fierce temper was in the ascendant, forcing back
the harsh words he would otherwise have spoken, and making
him as gentle as a child; and when the temptations
to which young men of his age are exposed were spread
out alluringly before him, a single thought of her was
sufficient to lead him from the forbidden ground.

Every incident connected with his brief acquaintance
with Golden Hair seemed to be recalled to his mind this
wintry night, and so absorbed was he in his reverie that
until twice repeated he did not hear his mother's anxious
inquiry,

“What is that noise? It sounds like some one in distress.”

Hugh started at last, and after listening for a moment
he, too, caught the sound which had alarmed his mother,
and made 'Lina stop her reading. A moaning cry, as if
for help, mingled with an infant's wail, now here, now
there it seemed to be, just as the fierce north wind shifted
its course and drove first at the window of the sitting
room, and then at the ponderous doors of the gloomy
hall.

“It is some one in the storm,” Hugh said, going to the
window and peering out into the darkness.

“Lyd's child, most likely. Negro young ones are
always squalling, and I heard her tell Aunt Chloe at supper
time that Tommie had the colic,” 'Lina remarked,
opening again the book she was reading, and with a
slight shiver drawing nearer to the fire.

“Where are you going, my son?” asked Mrs. Worthington,
as Hugh arose to leave the room.

“Going to Lyd's cabin, for if Tommie is sick enough to
make his screams heard above the storm, she may need
some help,” was Hugh's reply, and a moment after he
was ploughing his way through the drifts which lay between
the house and the negro quarters.

“How kind and thoughtful he is,” the mother said,
more to herself than to her daughter, who nevertheless
quickly rejoined,

“Yes, kind to niggers, and horses, and dogs, I'll admit
but let me, or any other white woman come before him as
an object of pity, and the tables are turned at once. I
wonder what does make him hate women so.”

“I don't believe he does,” Mrs. Worthington replied.
“His uncle, you know, was very unfortunate in his marriage,
and had a way of judging all our sex by his wife.
Living with him as long as Hugh did, it's natural he should
imbibe a few of his ideas.”

“A few,” 'Lina repeated, “better say all, for John Stanley
and Hugh Worthington are as near alike as an old and
young man well could be. What an old codger he was,
and how like a savage he lived here. I never shall forget
how the house looked the day we came, or how satisfied
Hugh seemed when he met us at the gate, and said, `everything
was in splendid order,' ” and closing her book, the
young lady laughed merrily as she recalled the time when
she first crossed her brother's threshold, stepping, as she
affirmed, over half a dozen dogs, and as many squirming
kittens, catching her foot in some fishing tackle, finding
tobacco in the china closet, and segars in the knife box,
where they had been put to get them out of the way.

“But Hugh really did his best for us,” mildly interposed
the mother. “Don't you remember what the servants
said about his cleaning one floor himself because he knew
they were tired!”

“Did it more to save the lazy negroes' steps than from
any regard for our comfort,” retorted 'Lina. “At all
events he's been mighty careful since, how he gratified
my wishes. Sometimes I believe he perfectly hates me,
and wishes I'd never been born,” and tears which arose
from anger, rather than any wounded sisterly feeling,
glittered in 'Lina's black eyes.

“Hugh does not hate any one,” said Mrs. Worthington,
“much less his sister, though you must admit that you try
him terribly.”

“How, I'd like to know?” 'Lina asked, and her mother
replied,

“He thinks you proud, and vain, and artificial, and
you know he abhors deceit above all else. Why he'd
cut off his right hand sooner than tell a lie.”

“Pshaw!” was 'Lina's contemptuous response, then
after a moment, she continued, “I wonder how we came
to be so different. He must be like his father, and I like
mine, that is, supposing I know who he is. Wouldn't it
be funny if, just to be hateful, he had sent you back the
wrong child!”

“What made you think of that?” Mrs. Worthington
asked, quickly, and 'Lina replied,

“Oh, nothing, only the last time Hugh had one of his
tantrums, and got so outrageously angry at me, he said
he'd give all he owned if it were so, but I reckon he'll
never have his wish. There's too much of old Sam about
me to admit of a doubt, and, laughing spitefully, 'Lina returned
to her book, just as Hugh re-entered the room.

“Have you heard that sound again?” he asked. “It
wasn't Tommie, for I found him asleep, and I've been all
round the house, but could discover nothing. The storm

is beginning to abate, I think, and the moon is trying to
break through the clouds,” and going again to the window,
Hugh looked out into the yard, where the shrubbery
and trees were just discernible in the greyish light of
the December moon. “That's a big drift by the lower
gate,” he continued; “and queer shaped, too. Come see,
mother. Isn't that a shawl, or an apron, or something
blowing in the wind?”

Mrs. Worthington arose, and joining her son, looked in
the direction indicated, where a garment of some kind
was certainly fluttering in the gale.

“It's something from the wash, I guess,” she said. “I
thought all the time Hannah had better not hang out the
clothes, as some of them were sure to be lost.”

This explanation was quite satisfactory to Mrs. Worthington,
but that strange drift by the gate troubled Hugh,
and the signal above it seemed to him like a signal of distress.
Why should the snow drift there more than elsewhere?
He never knew it do so before. He had half
a mind to turn out the dogs, and see what that would do.

“Rover,” he called suddenly, as he advanced to the
rear room, where, among his other pets, was a huge New-foundland,
of great sagacity. “Rover, Rover, I want
you.”

In an instant the whole pack were upon him, jumping
and fawning, and licking the hands which had never
dealt them aught save kindness. It was only Rover,
however, who was this time needed, and leading him to
the door, Hugh pointed toward the gate, and bade him
see what was there. Snuffing slightly at the storm which
was not over yet, Rover started down the walk, while
Hugh stood waiting in the door. At first Rover's steps
were slow and uncertain, but as he advanced they increased
in rapidity, until, with a sudden bound and a cry,
such as dogs are wont to give when they have caught
their destined prey, he sprang upon the mysterious ridge,
and commenced digging it down with his paws.

“Easy, Rover — be careful,” Hugh called from the
door, and instantly the half savage growl which the wind
had brought to his ear was changed into a piteous cry, as
if the faithful creature were answering back that other
help than his was needed there.

Rover had found something in that pile of snow.