University of Virginia Library

47. CHAPTER XLVII.
AN AUTUMNAL VISIT.

THE defunct having left no will, administrators of his estate
were appointed. These deemed it proper to be guided
by the wishes of the widow and the daughter, notwithstanding
the latter was still a minor. Those wishes were, that the identification
of Miss Berwick, conclusive as it was, should be
frankly admitted, and her property, with its accumulated interest,
restored to her without a contest.

There was a friendly hearing in chambers, before the probate
and other judges. The witnesses were all carefully examined;
the contents of the sealed package in the little trunk were identified;
and at last, in accordance with high legal and judicial
approval, the vast estate, constituting nearly two-thirds of the
amount left by Charlton, was transferred to trustees to be held
till Clara should be of age. And thus finally did Vance carry
his point, and establish the rights of the orphan of the Pontiac.

It was on a warm, pleasant day in the last week of September,
1862, that he called to take leave of her.

Little more than an hour's drive beyond the Central Park
brought him to a private avenue, at the stately gate of which
he found children playing. One of these was a cripple, who,
as he darted round on his little crutch, chasing or being chased,
seemed the embodiment of Joy exercising under difficulties.
His name was Andrew Rusk. An old colored woman who was
carrying a basket of fruit to some invalid in the neighborhood,
stopped and begged Andrew not to break his neck. Vance, recognizing
Esha, asked if Clara was at home.

“Yes, Massa Vance; she 'll be powerful glad to see yer.”

While Vance is waiting in a large and lofty drawing-room

for her appearance, let us review some of the incidents that
have transpired since we encountered her last.

One of Clara's first acts, on being put in partial possession
of her ancestral estate, had been to present her aunt Pompilard
with a furnished house, retaining for herself the freedom of a
few rooms. The house stood on a broad, picturesque semicircle
of rocky table-land, that protruded like a huge bracket
from a pleasant declivity, partly wooded, in view of the Palisades
of the Hudson. The grounds included acres enough to
satisfy the most aspiring member of the Horticultural Society.
The house, also, was sufficiently spacious, not only for present,
but for prospective grandchildren of the Pompilard stock. To
the young Iretons and Purlings it was a blessed change from
Lavinia Street to this new place.

Amid these sylvan scenes, — these green declivities and
dimpling hollows, — these gardens beautiful, and groves and
orchards, — the wounded Major and aspiring author, Cecil
Purling, grew rapidly convalescent. The moment it was understood
in fashionable circles that, through Clara's access to
fortune, he stood no longer in need of help, subscribers to his
history poured in not merely by dozens, but by hundreds. He
soon had confirmation made doubly sure that he should have
the glorious privilege of being independent through his own
unaided efforts. This time there is no danger that he will ruin
a publisher. The work proceeds. On your library shelf, O
friendly reader, please leave a vacant space for six full-sized
duodecimos!

Pompilard's first great dinner, on being settled in his new
home, was given in honor of the Maloneys. In reply to the
written invitation, Maloney wrote, “The beggarly Irish tailor
accepts for himself and family.” On entering the house, he
asked a private interview with Pompilard, and thereupon bullied
him so far, that the old man signed a solemn pledge abjuring
Wall Street, and all financial operations of a speculative
character thenceforth forever.

The dinner was graced by the presence of Mr. and Mrs.
Ripper, both of them now furious Abolitionists, and proud of
the name. The lady was at last emphatically of the opinion
that “Slavery will be come up with.”

Clara had Esha and Hattie to wait on her, though rather in
the capacity of friends than of servants. Having got from
Mrs. Ripper a careful estimate of the amount paid by Ratcliff
for the support and education of his putative slave, Clara had
it repaid with interest. The money came to him most acceptably.
His large investments in slaves had ruined him. His
“maid-servants and man-servants”[1] had flocked to the old flag
and found freedom. A piteous communication from him appeared
on the occasion in the Richmond Whig. We quote
from it a single passage.

“What contributed most to my mortification was, that in my
whole gang of slaves, among whom there were any amount of
Aarons, Abrahams, Isaacs, and Jacobs, there was not one Abdiel,
— not one remained loyal to the Rebel.”

The philosophical editor, in his comments, endeavored to
shield his beloved slavery from inferential prejudice, and said:

“The escaped slave is ungrateful; therefore, slavery is
wrong! Children are often ungrateful; does it follow that
the relation of parent and child is wrong?”[2]

Could even Mr. Carlyle have put it more cogently?

The money received by Clara from Mrs. Ratcliff's private
estate was all appropriated to the establishment of an institution
in New Orleans for the education of the children of freed
slaves. To this fund Madame Volney not only added from
her own legacy, but she went back to New Orleans to superintend
the initiation of the humane and important enterprise.

“Into each life some rain must fall.” The day after the
dinner to the Maloneys intelligence came of the death of
Captain Ireton. He had been hung by the fierce slaveocracy
at Richmond as a spy. It was asserted that he had joined the
Rebel Engineer Corps, at Island Number Ten, to obtain information
for the United States. However this may have been,
it is certain he was not captured in the capacity of a spy; and
every one acquainted with the usages of civilized warfare will
recognize the atrocity of hanging a man on the ground that he
had formerly acted as a spy. The Richmond papers palliated

the murder by saying Ireton had “confessed himself to be a
spy.” As if any judicial tribunal would hang a man on his
own confession! “Would you make me bear testimony
against myself?” said Joan of Arc to her judges.

Much to the disgust of the pro-slavery leaders, who had
counted on a display of that cowardice which they had taught
the Southern people to regard as inseparable from Yankee
blood, Ireton met his death cheerily, as a bridegroom would go
forth to take the hand of his beloved.[3] It reminded them unpleasantly
of old John Brown.

The news of Ireton's death was mentioned by Captain Onslow
while making a morning call on Miss Charlton. Her
mother had dressed herself to drive out on some visits of charity.
As she was passing through the hall to her carriage, Lucy
called her into the drawing-room and communicated the report.
The widow turned deadly pale, and left the room without
speaking. She gave up her drive for that day, and commissioned
Lucy to fulfil the beneficent errands she had planned.
Captain Onslow begged so hard to be permitted to accompany
Lucy, that, after a brief consultation between mother and
daughter, consent was given.

Thus are Nature and Human Life ever offering their tragic
contrasts! Here the withered leaf; and there, under the decaying
mould, the green germ! Here Grief, finding its home
in the stricken heart; and there thou, O Hope, with eyes so
fair!

Colonel Delancy Hyde speedily had an opportunity of showing
the sincerity of his conversion, political and moral. He
went into the fight at South Mountain, and was by the side of
General Reno when that loyal and noble officer (Virginia-born)
fell mortally wounded. For gallant conduct on that
occasion Hyde was put on General Mansfield's staff, and saw
him, too, fall, three days after Reno, in the great fight at Antietam.
On this occasion Hyde lost a leg, but had the satisfaction
of seeing his nephew, Delancy junior, come out
unscathed, and with the promise of promotion for gallantry
in carrying the colors of the regiment after three successive
bearers had been shot dead.

Hyde was presented with a wooden leg, of which he was
quite proud. But the great event of his life was the establishment
of his sister, the Widow Rusk, with her children, in a
comfortable cottage on the outskirts of Pompilard's grounds,
where the family were well provided for by Clara. Here on
the piazza, looking out on the river, the Colonel played with
the children, watched the boats, and read the newspapers.
Perhaps one of the profoundest of his emotions was experienced
the day he saw in one of the pictorial papers a picture
of Delancy junior, bearing a flag riddled by bullets. But the
Colonel's heart felt a redoubled thrill when he read the following
paragraph: —

“This young and gallant color-bearer is, we learn, a descendant
of an illustrious Virginia family, his ancestor, Delancy
Hyde, having come over with the first settlers. Nobly has the
youth adhered to the traditions of the Washingtons and the
Madisons. His uncle, the brave Colonel Hyde, was one of
the severely wounded in the late battle.”

The Colonel did not faint, but he came nearer to it than
ever before in his life.

Can the Ethiopian change his skin? It has generally been
thought not. But there was certainly an element of grace in
Hyde which now promised to bleach the whole moral complexion
of the man; and that element, though but as a grain
of mustard-seed, was love for his sister and her offspring.

Mr. Semmes was glad to receive, as the recompense for his
services, the exemption of certain property from confiscation.

At their parting interview Vance ingenuously told him he considered
him a scoundrel. Semmes did n't see it in that light,
and entered into a long argument to prove that he had done no
wrong. Vance listened patiently, and said in reply, “Do you
perceive an ill odor of dead rats in the wall?” Semmes
snuffed, and then answered, “Indeed I don't perceive any bad
smell.” “I do,” said Vance; “good by, sir!” And that was
the end of their acquaintance.

But it is in the track of Vance and Clara that we promised
to conduct the reader. Clara had proposed a ramble over the
grounds. Never had she appeared so radiant in Vance's eyes.
It was not her dress, for that was rather plain, though perfect
in its adaptedness to the season and the scene. It was not
that jaunty little hat, hiding not too much of her soft, thick
hair. But the climate of her ancestral North seemed to have
added a new sparkle and gloss to her beauty. And then the
pleasure of seeing Vance showed itself so unreservedly in her
face!

They strolled through the well-appointed garden, and Vance
was glad to see that Clara had a genuine love of flowers and
fruits, and could name all the varieties, distinguishing with
quick perception the slightest differences of form and hue. In
the summer-house, overlooking the majestic river, and surrounded,
though not too much shaded, by birches, oaks, and
pines, indigenous to the soil, they found Miss Netty Pompilard
engaged in sketching. She ran away as they approached, presuming,
like a sensible young person, that she could be spared.
Even the mocking-bird, Clara's old friend Dainty, who pecked
at a peach in his cage, seemed to understand that his noisy
voluntaries must now be hushed.

The promenaders sat down on a rustic bench.

“Well, Clara,” said Vance, “I have heard to-day great and
inspiring news. It almost made me feel as if I could afford to
stop short in my work, and to be content, should I, like Moses,
be suffered only to see the promised land with my eyes, but not
to `go over thither.'”

“To what do you allude?”

“To-morrow President Lincoln issues a proclamation of
prospective emancipation to the slaves of the Rebel States.”

“Good!” cried Clara, giving him her hand for a grasp of
congratulation.

“But I foresee,” said Vance, “that there is much yet to be
done before it can be effective, and I 've come to bid you a
long, perhaps a last farewell.”

Clara said not a word, but ran out of the summer-house
below the bank into a little thicket that hid her entirely from
view. Here she caught at the white trunk of a birch, and
leaning her forehead against it, wept passionately for some
time. Vance sat wondering at her disappearance. Ten minutes
passed, and she did not return. He rose to seek her,
when suddenly he saw her climbing leisurely up the bank, a
few wild-flowers in her hand. There was no vestige of emotion
in her face.

“You wondered at my quitting you so abruptly,” she said.
“I thought of some fringed gentians in bloom below there, and
I ran to gather them for you. Are they not of a lovely blue?”

“Thank you,” said Vance, not wholly deceived by her calm,
assured manner.

“So you really mean to leave us?” she said, smiling and
looking him full in the face. “I 'm very sorry for it.”

“So am I, Clara, for it would be very delightful to settle
down amid scenes like these and lead a life of meditative leisure.
But not yet can I hope for my discharge. My country
needs every able-bodied son. I must do what I best can to
serve her. But first let me give you a few words of advice.
Your Trustees tell me you have been spending money at such
a fearful rate, that they have been compelled to refuse your
calls. To this you object. Let me beg you to asquiesce with
cheerfulness. They are gentlemen, liberal and patriotic. They
have consented to your giving your aunt this splendid estate
and the means of supporting it. They have allowed you to
bestow portentous sums in charity, and for the relief of sick
and wounded soldiers. I hear, too, that Miss Tremaine has
sent to you for aid.”

“Yes; her mother is dead, and her father has failed. They
are quite poor.”

“So you 've sent her a couple of thousand dollars. The first
pauper you shall meet will have as much claim on you as she.

Would I check that divine propensity of your nature, — the
desire to bestow? O never, never! Far from it! Cherish
it, my dear child. Believe in it. Find your constant delight
in it. But be reasonable. Consider your own future. A little
computation will show you that, at the present rate, it will not
take you ten years to get rid of all your money. You will
soon have suitors in plenty. Indeed, I hear that some very
formidable ones are already making reconnoissances, although
they find to their despair that the porter forbids them entrance
unless they come on crutches; and I hear you send word to
your serenaders, to take their music to the banks of the Potomac.
But your time will soon come, Clara. You will be
married. (Please not pull that fringed gentian to pieces in
that barbarous way!) You will have your own tasteful, munificent,
and hospitable home. Reserve to yourself the power
to make it all that, and do not be wise too late.”

“And is there nothing I can do, Mr. Vance, to let you see I
have some little gratitude for all that you have done for me?”

“Ah! I shall quote Rochefoucault against you, if you say
that. `Too great eagerness to requite an obligation is a species
of ingratitude.' All that I 've done is but a partial repayment
of the debt I owed your mother's father; for I owed him my
life. Besides, you pay me every time you help the brave fellow
whose wound or whose malady was got in risking all for country
and for justice.”

“We must think of each other often,” sighed Clara.

“That we cannot fail to do,” said Vance. “There are incidents
in our past that will compel a frequent interchange of
remembrances; and to me they will be very dear. Besides,
from every soul of a good man or woman, with whom I have
ever been brought in communication (either by visible presence
or through letters or books), I unwind a subtile filament
which keeps us united, and never fails. I meet one whose
society I would court, but cannot, — we part, — one thinks of
the other, `How indifferent he or she seemed!' or `Why did
we not grow more intimate?' And yet a friendship that shall
outlast the sun may have been unconsciously formed.”

“You must write me,” said Clara.

“I 'm a poor correspondent,” replied Vance; “but I shall

obey. And now my watch tells me I must go. I start in a
few hours for Washington.”

They strolled back to the house. Vance took leave of all
the inmates, not forgetting Esha. He went to Hyde's cottage,
and had an affectionate parting with that worthy; and then
drove to a curve in the road where Clara stood waiting solitary
to exchange the final farewell.

It was on an avenue through the primeval forest, having on
either side a strip of greensward edged by pine-trees, odorous
and thick, which had carpeted the ground here and there with
their leafy needles of the last years growth, now brown and dry.

The mild, post-equinoctial sunshine was flooding the middle
of the road, but Clara stood on the sward in the shade. Vance
dismounted from his carriage and drew near. All Clara's
beauty seemed to culminate for that trial. A smile adorably
tender lighted up her features. Vance felt that he was treading
on enchanted ground, and that the atmosphere swam with the
rose-hues of young romance. The gates of Paradise seemed
opening, while a Peri, with hand extended, offered to be his
guide. Youth and glad Desire rushed back into that inner
chamber of his heart sacred to a love ineffably precious.

Clara put out her hand; but why was it that this time it was
her right hand, when heretofore, ever since her rescue in New
Orleans, she had always given the left?

Rather high up on the wrist of the right was a bracelet; a
bracelet of that soft, fine hair familiar to Vance. He recognized
it now, and the tears threatened to overflow. Lifting the
wrist to his lips he kissed it, and then, with a “God keep
you!” entered the carriage, and was whirled away.

“It was the bracelet, not the wrist, he kissed,” sighed Clara.