University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.
“COURSE OF TRUE LOVE.”

Though prepared to wait patiently, for the appearance of
the party whom he sought, Willie Sinclair was by no means
prepared to wait in vain. But such was his luck on this
occasion. Fastening his good steed in the deep thickets
which spread between the road and river, he put himself in
position, so as to watch the former from a spot where he
himself might lie unseen. By nature, he was not a person of
very patient temperament. His blood coursed freely and impetuously
in his veins. His moods were all ardent. He lived
properly in action. But he had somewhat schooled this nature,
and partisan warfare is of an admirable sort to assist in the
proper training. A few awkward little reverses, some surprises,
and narrow escapes, at the beginning of the war, had been of
great service to our young major, as to most of the partisan
gentry of the country, in curbing their natural impatience of
character, and quieting their impulses to more staid paces.
Willie Sinclair had learned something of that grand and necessary
lesson — so essential to all progress and development — so
particularly essential to success in everything — to wait!

“Patience and shuffle the cards,” he muttered, after he had
lingered for an hour in the same spot; and he crossed to the
opposite side for relief. But another hour passed unprofitably,
and another. The sun, meanwhile, rose high in heaven. The
winds were hushed. It was one of those terribly clear days in
midsummer, when the sun rules with despotic sway; when the
eye looks up vainly for a friendly cloud to interpose; when the

air is glittering with quivering motes, in that incessant motion
which pains the sense to behold; and when the brain seems to
reel and burn in sympathy with the hot glare and vibratory
motion of the firmament. Where Sinclair watched, there was
no need of shelter from the sun. Never was guardian shade
more sure and solemn, than in those deep thickets. Great stalwart
pines rose up out of a dense wilderness of undergrowth;
cedars and scrubby oaks — a thousand varieties — all seemed
struggling forward to crowd every interval of space, stretching
upward as emulous of every ray of light, while, like the roofs
of great cathedrals, of grand and delicate tracery, the broad
branches of the pine stretched overhead, interlaced, linking
arms, twining mazily together, and spreading great shields, as
it were, above and abroad, so as to deny the smallest shaft of
sunlight the privilege to strike below.

But, if thus sheltered from the glare, the region below was
equally sheltered from the breeze. Not a breath could penetrate
that sombrous and silent sanctuary. Not a leaf trembled
under the pulsing pressure of the zephyr. It grew to be stifling
hot, and our lurking major felt it necessary to change his position
frequently, to escape the feeling of faintness which became
too oppressive for endurance.

But change of position brought no relief. Even military patience
could endure it no longer. He had now waited for more
than four mortal hours, and in vain. He had seen no human
being — nay, not even a squirrel. It was a time, it must be remembered,
when the condition of the country, under the ravenous
consumption of both armies, was approaching famine; and
every beast of the forest, that could be made the prey of hunger,
fell a victim to the insatiate appetites of a half-starving population.
Squirrels and rabbits are rarely eaten in the south, and
they multiply amazingly at ordinary periods. But now, if you
beheld a squirrel, he was a disconsolate, wearing mourning for
his tribe! He looked like one who felt his desolation. You
might see him at sunset sitting melancholy upon the top of
some rotten tree, musing sadly upon the prospect, like Caius
Marius among the ruins of Carthage. We may surely forgive
the impatience of our hero, if it grew restiff after four hours

of watch, in such a region, and under such circumstances of
heat and solitude.

Besides, it must not be forgotten that he was but a mile or
two from Holly-Dale, and Holly-Dale was the home of Bertha
Travis — that damsel of whom we have heard something already,
of whom we shall know more presently, and of whom the memories,
in the heart and brain of brave Willie Sinclair, were at
once perpetually active and deliciously exciting.

Our major of dragoons was as brave a soldier, as ever smiled
upon a broadsword; but he was as fond a lover as ever buckled
a fair woman, like a belt of beauty, to his bosom. He was
not, it is true, a soft sentimental cavalier; but he was an earnest
and very passionate one. Love with him was not a mere
sentiment. It was a necessity and a life. It was no small
trial of his strength to require him to wait and watch for hours,
when within a few bounds of the home where his beauty harbored;
and it was no small sacrifice which he made to a patriotic
policy, those four hours which he denied to love.

He could deny the tender interest no longer. Concluding
that Captain Travis was not to visit Orangeburg that day, he
resolved to seek him at home. He must seek him — must meet
him — that day or the next; and this now seemed the only
proper process for doing so, whatever might be the peril which
it would involve.

He felt that Kit Rowe was right. He felt that there was
peril. Travis, though the father of Bertha, was not one in whom
faith might be put easily. He was a man who notoriously
acknowledged no considerations superior to those of self. He
was greedy of gain; eager for power, cringing when feeble, despotic
when assured and strong; altogether, a man totally deficient
in the magnanimous virtues. He was, besides, smooth
and subtle; scrupling at no arts, to be secured by no pledges,
when he might gratify any of his leading passions. Willie
Sinclair well knew that there was but one method of securing
and making him steadfast; and that was by making it his
policy to be so. He fancied that he had the means to do
this; and that, in fact, he had done something toward it
already. But for this, he never would have periled himself,
alone, in the precincts of one bearing such a character, and

very well known to be in the actual employment of the British
commandant of Charleston.

But Sinclair dismissed all his doubts as, mounting his horse,
he took the way to Holly-Dale.

This beautiful little plantation retreat lay on the west side
of the north branch of the river Edisto, but a few miles above
Orangeburg. It contained about a thousand acres, some two
hundred of which were in swamp. But a small portion of the
tract, speaking comparatively, had been cleared. The produce
was corn, indigo, and tobacco, cultivated by some twenty slaves.
We may here mention, however, that Travis possessed a much
larger number of slaves which he had contrived to secrete beyond
the Santee, and to cover under the name of his wife's sister
— an old maid in whom he entertained the most perfect confidence.
He was thus, in some degree, secured against the
vicissitudes of the war. But he did not feel himself quite secure,
and he had in view even larger operations, chiefly upon
British resources, which kept him perpetually scheming. If the
British triumphed, he contemplated the valuable lands and
chattels of certain estates, the confiscation of which was certain.
If they succumbed to the revolutionists, there were still some
processes by which to fleece them before they evacuated the
country. And, whatever the final result, it was still necessary
to his securities that he should drive a bargain with the rebel
authorities. He could give the quid — such was his assurance
to Willie Sinclair — for any favors which the revolutionists
could bestow.

But we need not anticipate!

The approaches to Holly-Dale, whether from above or below,
conducted you through long, dark, silent avenues of the
natural forest, to within three hundred yards of the grounds
and dwelling-house. This building, a comfortable frame-work
of two stories on a basement, divided in the centre by a great
passage, faced south and west, with a piazza running along in
front; a wing at each extremity afforded two pleasant guest-chambers.
The house was not more than a short quarter of
a mile from the river, but a pleasant wood between, of massive
old trees, shut the latter out from sight. The ridge upon
which the dwelling stood, was considerably above the general

level of the plantation, and gradually narrowed to a promontory
— a goodly bluff upon the river — the land on either side rapidly
sloping away till it subsided into dense swamp; a vast
thicket, thoroughly massed with foliage, through which, in times
of freshet, the river swept unobstructed, and which, at all times,
was penetrated by its tributary waters, creeks, lagunes, ponds,
rendering it wholly irreclaimable. The ridge occupied by the
settlement, being sandy, bore among its more massive forest
trees, numerous groups of the holly, and hence the name given
to the place. Suppose the usual outhouses of a well-ordered
settlement, worm fences enclosing remoter fields, and neat white
palings circumscribing gardens, over which white and red roses
clambered at pleasure, smiling, like loving idiots, at all comers,
and we may be content with thus much said by way of description.

Our major of dragoons was not forgetful of his caution. As
he knew not whom it might be his fortune to encounter at the
house, he proceeded with due circumspection; and, stabling his
horse in the thickets, advanced on foot toward the open
grounds. When he reached the immediate bounds of the settlement,
he turned to the right, and made his way to the bluff
upon the river. Stealing from tree to tree, he at length gained
the banks, and looked out upon the stream, which rolled along
placidly, bright as a silver serpent in the sunshine. At the
distance of a hundred yards above, a little dugout — a canoe
hollowed, Indian fashion, from a cypress — rested lazily upon
the water, half shaded by overhanging trees. In this sat a
youth, not more than fourteen or fifteen, fishing for blue-cat
and perch. You have never eaten the blue-cat of the Edisto,
gentle reader — or you have? — in either case you have something
to live for. The blue-cat of the Edisto is one of the
nicest fish that swims, tender as young love, white as maiden
purity, delicate as a dream of innocence, satisfactory as a capital
prize in the lottery, to one who has spent his last dollar in
the selfish business of feeding hunger and clothing nakedness.
Take an Edisto cat in July if you can — boil, of course — use
as little dressing as possible, beyond the melted butter; eschew
all fish-sauces, whatever their supposed virtues, and reconcile
yourself, with all despatch, to a world which is still capable of
such goodly productions.

Our young fisherman was evidently earning his dinner. Sinclair
stole down the bluff, wormed his way into the swamp, and,
unheard, unseen, crept out to the banks not a dozen yards from
the canoe.

“Henry!” he called.

The boy was in the act of taking a perch — a goodly subject
for such treatment as Saint Dominic bestowed on heretics.
The red-belly perch of the Edisto is not one of its aldermen,
but it is nevertheless a good citizen — well to do in the waters
— armed to make himself respected where he goes; and, not
unwilling to take off his armor, when the fight is done, and
suffer himself to be properly dressed for company and table.
You may use your fish-sauces upon him. His delicacy does not
revolt at strong condiments. In that respect, there is but little
sympathy between himself and the azure cat, his neighbor.

The boy had just taken one of these goodly perch from the
waters, when his name was called, in low tones, but sufficiently
loud to reach his ears. He knew the voice, dropped the fish
into the boat, and turned about, all in the twinkling of an eye,
to face the summoner.

“Who is it?”

Then, as if he saw through all disguises, he cried out in a
voice, a little sharper and shriller than was absolutely essential
to the occasion:—

“Major Willie! is it you? Oh! I'm so glad to see you!”

The canoe was put about for the shore in a moment, and the
boy was soon clasped in the arms of his military friend. Verily,
a tall and goodly boy was he, with a sunbrowned, but frank, ingenuous
face, and a fine dark, sparkling eye, full of intelligence
and life.

“And how's all, Henry?”

“Well, well — all well.”

“And Bertha!”

“Oh! she's well too; but she's not in a good humor. She's
been cross to me of late. Won't do anything I ask her. It's
all owing, Major Willie, to your not coming when you promised.”

The major laughed merrily.

“But I'm come now, Henry, and we'll see if Bertha's humors
will improve.”

“Oh! when I say she's been cross, Major Willie, I don't
mean that exactly. She's only been forgetful, and don't mind
what I say, and don't do what I ask her. There, it's a week
since she was to make my lines for me — yet see what I have
to fish with now — old cotton strings so rotten that a good big
fish would snap 'em all to pieces — and I do think she's never
thought of them since. And you don't know how much I want
'em. The fish are now biting famously. See what I've caught in
an hour. Three fine cat, seven perch, and two jackfish, in an hour
— less than an hour; and if I had come out at sunrise, I might
have caught twice as many; and if I come about sunset, I'll be
sure to do so. The river is just right now, Major Willie — low
enough—”

“And warm enough!”

“That it is,” answered the boy, wiping the sweat from his
brow — “But you're well, Major Willie? You're not wounded?
Have you had any more fighting? Oh! I so want to see you
a-fighting — in a charge, with that brave black horse! Where's
the black, Major Willie — you haven't had him shot? He isn't
killed or hurt? Where is he now?”

The queries of the boy poured out in a flood. Sinclair tried
to answer them all.

“No!” he said, “the black is as brave and sound as ever;
I'm not hurt, as you see; we have had some little skirmishing,
but nothing much; and, as for your seeing a fight, Henry, I
wish you were only ten years older, that you might try your
own broadsword in it, and strike, side by side with me, in a
charge upon the redcoats.”

“Ha! wouldn't I then? How I would cut right and left!
Hurrah! hurrah! How I could make 'em skip!”

And the boy yelled with the exciting idea. Sinclair put his
hands on his mouth.

“Sh! — sh! A good partisan, Henry, waits for the moment
of charge for giving the war-whoop! At all other times, his
rule is to know first who may be listening. For we never give
the `hurrah' till the broadsword is flashing in the air, and we
are ready to smite with it, over the shoulders of the enemy.”

“Oh! there's nobody here now, Major Willie. You're quite
safe.”

“Where's your father?”

“In Orangeburg. He went over yesterday, and didn't come
back last night — won't come back, I reckon, till to-night.”

“Ah! — but mother and sister are both at home, and quite
well! There's been no trouble, Henry.”

“Not a bit! Oh! not a bit! All's so dull at home! We
never see, nor hear anything hardly of the fighting, for father
keeps a close tongue. Oh! he is so close — so shy of his words;
— and then mother don't want to hear of the war — and sis is
afraid to hear! It is so dull, Major Willie, that I wish you'd
beg for me, and carry me off somewhere, where I could see
something, and learn to do a little of the fighting myself. Why,
I can't even try my gun. Father says powder's too scarce, and
there's nothing to shoot; and that's true — there's no seeing
even a squirrel; — and father's hid my gun in his own room.
He says people would take it away from me. But would they,
do you think, Major Willie, if I had a good load in it, and had
only time enough to draw sight? I'd like 'em to try it!”

“Why, you are, indeed, cut off from all resources, Henry.”

“Isn't it too bad, Major Willie? And there's sis too, that
don't even try to please me, and don't make my lines, though
she promised me. And—”

“Henry!” at that moment, soft and musical, yet full and
clear as a silver bell, sounding over a mountain-lake, was the
call of a voice from the edge of the highlands.

“That's Bertha now!” murmured Willie Sinclair.

“Yes! it's sis! I wonder what she wants.” And he shouted
in reply, and, immediately afterward, darted through the
swamp, calling to Sinclair to follow him. This the latter did,
with almost as little deliberation as the boy, though with far
more difficulty. The latter leaped lightly, and knew the way;
the large frame of our major of dragoons rendered the task of
rapid progress through the undergrowth a much more serious
one to him. But he scrambled through after a fashion; and,
with the frank, heartful ardor of an honest love, prepared to
ascend the little elevation upon which the damsel stood awaiting
his approach.

Was Bertha Travis a beauty? It is enough that Willie
Sinclair thought so. She was certainly such a creature as

would compel admiration in any circle; of fine shape, medium
size, graceful movement, and dignified yet eager carriage.
Her figure was slight, yet sweetly rounded. Her eyes were at
once dark and brilliant. Her cheek was somewhat pale ordinarily.
It now wore a delicate flush which might be due to
a brisk walk from the dwelling to the bluff, in that ardent summer's
day; but was, in all probability, the fruit of the unexpected
encounter with her lover. Such an event is well calculated
to bring the blood of a young fond heart out upon the
cheek.

“See who's come, sis!” cried the boy, beckoning to Sinclair
— “see whom I've brought you, sis! It's Major Willie, in
spite of the homespun hunting-shirt.”

“He has been reproaching you, Bertha,” cried Sinclair, as he
ascended the bluff.

“Ah!” exclaimed Henry, “but I was wrong. See, she
has done the lines and brought them. She's a good little sister
after all.”

He took the lines from her hand while speaking. She remained
silent.

“Bertha!” said Sinclair, clasping her hand in his own; “we
meet once more.”

“You are safe, Willie, quite safe?”

“Yes; unhurt, and only much wearied. I have had a hard
travel, in an anxious quest, and come for solace. Can you
give it me? Here you have peace? Shall I say love also?”

She looked at him very earnestly, and he now detected,
mingling with a deep shade of sadness upon her cheek, an expression
of reserve and caution in her eye. There was something
of a trembling motion in her lips which arrested his observation,
and made him feel that something had gone wrong.

He turned from her to the brother and said:—

“Go, try your new lines, Henry, while Bertha and I talk of
our own affairs.”

The boy laughed consciously and merrily, and said:—

“It's almost too late for much sport now. The fish will be
slow to bite till toward sundown; but I know you never want
me when you can have sis; and so, I'm off. Call me when you
get tired of your own talk. I'll be in the boat.”

“Sensible boy,” said Sinclair quietly, as the lad trotted down
into the swamp. When he was fairly gone, the lover said, possessing
himself of Bertha's hand:—

“What troubles you, Bertha? I do not misunderstand the
signs in your eye, and upon your face. You are grave, sad —
something has happened to disquiet you; but nothing, I trust,
dear Bertha, to make you doubtful of, or displeased with me.”

She released to him the hand without scruple, and he pressed
it warmly in his own. A moment after she replied frankly,
and with all that sweet natural impulse which shows the true
heart, untouched and untrammelled by convention.

“No, Willie; it is scarce possible that you should ever displease
me; and I have no doubt of your truth and love! If I
had, I should not linger with you a moment. But I confess to
doubts and anxieties of my own, Willie, that make me unhappy
— unhappy, even in the possession of your love.”

“What! why is this? What has happened, Bertha, to occasion
these perplexities?”

“Willie, you must speak to me honestly and truly, as you
can! You shall know all that troubles me; and I shall be too
glad, Willie, if you can relieve me of my fears and anxieties.
I do not wish to doubt, or fear, or feel anxious, in any way,
where your love is the subject. I have given you all my heart.
I need all of yours; and it would be the greatest of miseries and
disappointments to me, dear Willie, if anything should happen
to make me feel that I ought not to wish you mine, or to keep
your pledges that you would make me yours.”

She paused and looked most sweetly into his full eyes. He
saw that her troubles were really felt, and no mere lover-anxieties,
such as idleness and loneliness will breed.

“Why, dear heart, you alarm me! What can have caused
these doubts, these misgivings? Tell me all — hide nothing!
Has that subtle and treacherous Richard Inglehardt been at
work, to make you fearful?”

Oh! his working should never occasion doubt or fear in my
heart; least of all could word of his, or any one, affect my trust
in you. It is not that, but something of a far different kind.”

“And what is it, my own Bertha?”

“I know not how to speak, Willie: — it is of so difficult a

nature; yet” — desperately — “I must! It must be spoken,
Willie, for if I have given you up all my heart, I have not
given up my pride; and if I am to bear your name, Willie,
I must not feel, or suffer any one to feel or think, that I am not
worthy of it.”

“Oh! who can think or speak thus, dear Bertha? Speak!
tell me frankly of your cause of trouble. Do not keep me in
suspense.”

She sighed deeply, and looked mournfully into his eyes. He
would have drawn her to his bosom, but she resisted firmly,
saying, “No, Willie — no!”

But he repossessed himself of one of her hands, and his arm
half circled her waist; and thus they stood, side by side, beneath
the sheltering boughs of an ancient water-oak. And thus
they stood silent for a while; — she, at least, silent, while he
only interrupted the interval by entreating her full speech. He
was now sufficiently anxious himself, showing more of the tender
lover than altogether beseemed the rustic garb he wore, and
his sanguinary profession.

“Henry said you were sad and suffering, Bertha — at least
I gathered thus much from what he did say — but I fondly fancied
that your griefs grew from my absence, as all that I suffer,
at any time, is due to yours. But that there should be any
serious cause of disquiet — that you should feel, or fear, my love
to be a snare to your pride or sensibilities — I never thought or
dreaded that, Bertha.”

“Nor is it, Willie. Of you I have no fear — no doubt: — for
you, I have but one feeling, and that one is the very life to my
heart; but—”

“And for whom else should you care?” he exclaimed, almost
fiercely; but she stopped him, laying one hand on his arm, and
withdrawing, at the same time, from his embrace. She had
now evidently nerved herself to a difficult task, and her eyes
met his firmly as she lifted up her face. Her love was a very
artless, ingenuous passion, and betrayed itself without reserve.
In such cases, the pain is in the thought of giving pain. Bertha
knew that what she was about to say must do this. Her
preliminaries were instinctively designed to strengthen herself
and to mollify the annoyance she was compelled to inflict. He

gazed in her sweet, sad, but ingenuous eyes, and subdued himself
to patience, as he urged her tenderly to proceed.

“Willie, dear Willie, you know even better than I what difference
exists in the several ranks of our society. Now, you
know, that mine is comparatively of humble stock; and though
my mother comes of good family in the Low country, yet, in
marrying my father, who was an obscure Indian trader, she
incurred the reproach and anger of her own kindred. They
neglected, and finally cast her off.”

“She was as good and noble as any of them.”

“Yes, but in such cases, it seems, the wife sinks to the husband's
rank, and loses something of her own. But be patient
and hear me. It is a fact to be remembered, however, that
they cast her off. Their reasons for this cruelty were to be
found in this difficulty of social caste. The career of my father
has not been pursued in such walks as could restore her to position;
and you perhaps know that, even along the Edisto, there
are many who do not hold my father of like rank with themselves—”

“Pshaw, Bertha, who shall cure conceit of its folly? and how
great must be his folly who shall attempt it! These distinctions
here are ridiculous enough.”

“Patiently, dear Willie. You must know, too, that it is one
of my poor father's weaknesses to desire, above all things, to
conciliate the favor of the great — to take rank among the
very people who despise his humble beginnings, and who, at
best, when they make concessions, only tolerate those whom
they fear, or whom they wish to use for some selfish or slavish
policy. To me, the favor of such people is a thing of no moment.
I do not despise it, but I would not seek it. Favor,
friendship, love, must all come from natural sympathies, or they
hide a falsehood at the core, and I care for no sympathies that
are not free gifts of the heart — that the heart is compelled to
purchase.”

“And you are right, my Bertha. In this lies the whole secret
and security of the affections. Have I ever taught otherwise?
Do I desire less for you — offer less to you? To what, dear
Bertha, do all these expressions tend?”

“Do not be impatient, dear Willie. I have so much to say,
that I know not well how to say it.”

“Let us sit, Bertha — there, in the shade of those cedars on
the slope of the hill. The day is so warm; but a little breeze,
rising from the river, sweeps up the slope. Let us sit, and we
can talk more easily.”

And he led her down the slope, and found for her a shady
spot upon the dry leaves that strewed the earth. After a brief
pause, she resumed:—

“I have not been kept in ignorance, dear Willie, of the differences
of rank in society, which draw a line between my own
and the more distinguished families in our county. I know my
father's history — his humble rise, his poverty at first, all his necessities,
and that the trade which he pursued with the Indians,
was held in scorn by our wealthy planters. My mother, brought
up in these very prejudices, was quite aware of their operation
upon her own position when she married my father, and she
has not suffered me to remain in ignorance. But, until recently,
I never suffered them to disturb me, or to occasion any doubts
of my own security in my mind.”

“And why should they now, Bertha?”

“You shall hear in time. When you became known to me,
Willie, and I found, and showed the pleasure which I found in
seeing you, my mother warned me that your family was a very
proud one, of great wealth, of old rank, and bade me be cautious
how I suffered you to see that I loved you. But I did not then
feel or fear her warnings. I had no caution, Willie; I only
felt happy when you came, happier when you spoke to me
kindly, and very unhappy when you went. I am afraid, dear
Willie, that I suffered you to see this as soon as my dear
mother saw it.”

“And if you did, sweet Bertha, it only served to make another
heart as happy as your own. Was there harm or loss to
you, my love, in such heedless policy. Nay, was there ever
more politic counsellor for love than the fond confidence which
begets a love like its own, and is never so successful as when
it delivers itself blindly to the faith which it feels. Why should
you repent this heedlessness, Bertha? I have never trespassed
upon, never abused it. It won back all that it gave — as

much as it gave — and unless you have learned to question my
truth, dear Bertha, you have lost nothing, incurred no peril —
only put out your affections at interest, in a sweet traffic of affections
which have brought in rare profits — have doubled
your original capital. You see, my sweet, that I too can talk
in the language of trade, even in the affairs of the heart.”

“Willie, I believe you. It is all true. But this is not all.
As I was saying, I was counselled that my family held no such
rank as yours in society; that we were obscure and humble;
that your family was proud among the proudest; mine just
rising from the dust. My mother spoke of all these distinctions
too clearly to leave me in any doubt. And she did not undervalue
me in her eyes, or disparage me to my own, when she
told me that I was but a simple country-girl, having no experience
of life among the great, ignorant of much that they know,
artless, unsophisticated, too believing, too confiding, and with
nothing to commend me, Willie, but a pretty face — and a true
heart.”

He caught her to his bosom as she spoke.

“What more! What more!” he cried — “did I ever lead
you to think, my Bertha, that the heart of Willie Sinclair
longed for more?”

“No, Willie; and, so far as you are concerned, I repent not
that you have caught me in your arms — I sigh not because
your kisses have been sweet upon my lips. They have been
very sweet to me, Willie. They have filled my heart with a
new life — a joy — that it never knew until I breathed under
your love. Ah! Willie, is not this enough for confession! See
how free I am of speech. And against this, mother warned me
also. She knew that my lips still spoke as my heart felt, and
she shook her head in frequent warning. But I loved you from
the first, Willie, and it was so sweet, so easy to tell you so. I
could die for you, Willie, and never feel the pain; and why
shouldn't I tell you so.”

“Why not, indeed!” he murmured, looking into her eyes,
the tearful tenderness which he felt.”

“And I told you so — and I gave you all my heart — and I
told mother all that I had said and done, and she sighed to
hear it, and had her misgivings still — but she approved when

she came to know you well — and her hopes grew with my own
of happiness. Do I tire you, Willie?”

“No! no! It is so much music that I seem to dream. I
could listen to you for ever, Bertha.”

“And we were betrothed. Ah! Willie. I shall never forget
the trembling happiness of that moment when you wrapped
me in your first embrace, and I felt as if I were dying in your
arms, but without any of the pang or fear of death. We were
betrothed, and it seemed to me as if the world was mine, with
all its moonlight, and flowers, and sweet breezes. It was a
child heart that I gave you, Willie, having a perfect confidence
in all the beauties and blessings of this world, and taking them
all as your gift and yours only. Was it not all very foolish of
me, Willie, so to think and feel?”

“Foolish, Bertha! This is the very wisdom of the heart.
The child is apt to be wiser than the man. It is the faith,
after all and before all, the generous gift of confidence, the implicit
trust that believes only where it loves, and loves to believe,
that makes the true virtue in love, and renders it the most
precious of all earthly possessions — nay, more than earthly —
makes it a thing heavenly, akin to all that is precious in
immortality. Ah! Bertha, if you should outgrow this child
heart!”

“That is the new pain that troubles me, Willie. My father
knew of our engagement, my mother told him all; and, though
he warned us all to secresy, he yet approved; nay, Willie, I
must tell you, he was very proud of it — it promised to help
him to the social position for which he had so much yearned.
He said to me, `The Sinclairs are among our first families —
rich, popular, distinguished' — but this did not lift my heart in
pride. No, Willie, if I felt pride at all, it was only in the one
Sinclair whom I so loved to think my own — my own.”

Ah! flatterer! — But did your father say why he enjoined
you to secresy?”

“Not exactly; but we gathered enough from what he did
say to learn that he was particularly anxious that it should not
get to the ears of Richard Inglehardt.”

“Ah! as I thought!”

“But why — what is Inglehardt to him or to me?”

“Of that hereafter, Bertha! We are still far off from the
thing that troubles you.”

“Oh! Willie, I wish I could not tell you that! But I must
tell it. There must be nothing in my bosom, which I should
seek to shelter or to keep from you.”

“Speak fearlessly, dear Bertha.”

“Well, my father, without saying a word to us, went down
to see your father, and came back to us in a perfect rage. At
first, he said, that there should be no engagement between us;
that there was an impassable wall between us — that your father
had grossly insulted him — that he had treated him like a dog
— that your sister was the haughtiest woman breathing — that
she had not noticed him at all, or so contemptuously, that every
word, and every look was an insult;—that, speaking of you,
Colonel Sinclair told him that the subject was not one proper to
his mouth; that there could be no circumstances which should
justify him in adverting to you at all; and when, it seems, my
father mentioned, as delicately as possible, your attentions to
me, then, that your father broke out in the wildest rage, and
said that the whole suggestion was a lie, and that his son could
never so much demean himself, as to think of the daughter of
an Indian trader. My father, in his fury — for I never saw
him half so roused before — said that he didn't tell us half the
insults to which he submitted; and, at the time, he forbade that
I should think any more of you.”

“But he has thought differently since, Bertha — has spoken
differently?” said Sinclair with a sad interest in his look.

“Oh! yes! But Willie, this makes no difference to me!
Shall I enter a family which scorns me — which holds my family
in scorn — which treats my father with contempt and abuse —
which wrongs the family of my mother — and makes my very
affections for you the means by which to do them dishonor?”

“My own dear Bertha! This has come upon me prematurely.
All that you have said about my family rank and
wealth is undoubtedly true; all that you have said of the too
frequently idle distinctions of caste prevailing in our social
world, is also true, unhappily. Col. Sinclair, my father, is by
nature and education, a proud and haughty person. He is also
a man of violent passions when under provocation; full of false

notions of blood, and the victim of many prejudices. But he is
one who means to be just, and all his instincts are honorable,
and all his sympathies are true. Forgive me now, if I say that
your father committed a very serious error, if not offence, in
broaching to a father — and such a father — a subject, of so delicate
a nature, concerning his son, of which the son himself had
never spoken. My father felt that such a communication should
never have been first made by a stranger. This did me harm
with him. You are not now to be told that my father is a loyalist.
As such, he holds my course with the patriotic party,
to be monstrous and criminal. We see each other but seldom
now. Until recently, we have not exchanged a syllable for
months. Your father anticipated me, and thus prejudiced my
argument. I had — I confess to you — and believe — a difficult
task to perform, in overcoming the prejudices of a life, in the
mind of an old man, suffering from a painful chronic disease,
and so irritable, in consequence, that the very opening of a subject
to him which threatens to disturb old opinions, is calculated
of itself to irritate. Your father finds him in this condition of
mind and body, and — without any preparation — without any
consideration of the condition of the subject — without even
respecting his political prejudices — knowing too that Colonel
Sinclair had personal prejudices against himself growing out of
affairs that happened when the two served together in the war
against the Cherokees — he bluntly proposes a sort of trade, your
heart and mine being articles of certain value to be set off against
the claims of the British crown — claims which, to an old loyalist,
were paramount to all other considerations.”

“Did my father do this?”

“So I gather from the spasmodic and angry speeches of my
father, and from the partial report of my sister.”

“And that sister, Willie? Is she so proud, so haughty, so
scornful of the humble name of Bertha Travis.”

“Carrie Sinclair! Oh! how little you know that sister from
the report of your father. She knew nothing of his real mission
till he was gone. She heard of him only as a British
commissariat, seeking to contract with my father, for a
hundred head of beeves for the Charleston garrison. Nay, there
was a contract, and the beeves furnished, and it was only when

the contract was executed, that your father broached the subject
of our intimacy to mine. This was after Carrie Sinclair
had retired from the table. Her conduct was, I will venture to
say, only what yours would have been under the same circumstances.
You come down to dinner and find a stranger, of whom
you know nothing, seeking cattle, and you are civil to him as a
lady at your own table, but reserved, and not disposed to encourage
familiarity or approach. This was all. In your father's
eagerness to attain an object, he overlooked all its difficulties,
never sought to anticipate them, rushed at them impetuously,
and was baffled.”

“Ah! but, Willie, the prejudice is still there. How can I
enter a family which looks upon the approach of mine — its
alliance — with aversion?”

“Bertha, my love, I am not aware that God, among his
many mercies, has ever guarantied to man a perfect success
and facility in the prosecution of any of his objects. This,
which is true of all objects of human desire, is said to be particularly
true of the affections. The great poet, Shakspere,
whom, I trust, I have taught you to love and venerate, and
to study, had especially insisted upon such unavoidable, nay,
necessary obstacles, in love, and in love too which is most distinguished
by its sincerity. Crafty love, bargain and sale love,
trading and selfish love, calculating and conniving love, are all
much more likely than sincere, deep, profound honest love, to
attain their ends; for the simple reason that their ends are all
meaner, more vulgar, more common, depending upon arts and
interests, of a character not more noble than the driving of a
clever bargain. It is true love whose course does not run smoothly,
and I do not know, dear Bertha, that it lessens the value of
the commodity that its impediments are so great and many! I
never disguised from you the fact that there were impediments
— nay, prejudices, of all kinds the worst — to be overcome.
But I told you they should be overcome, dear Bertha,
and I begged you to have faith in me. What shall I, or can I,
say more? Suppose I should fail to overcome the prejudices
of my father — suppose that he persists in his blindness and determined
hostility to the real interests of my heart — is love
thereby baffled, my Bertha? Will love submit to take its law

from blindness and prejudice, and unreasonable obstinacy?
Heaven forbid? Though Heaven requires that its waters
shall not flow smoothly, it does not require that they shall be
dammed up: nay, dear heart, it provides the obstacles, and opposes
the current, and drives it back, only the better to test its
strength and honesty — only that it may acquire the necessary
force to break down all barriers, and assert over all in triumph
its living, earnest and life-giving sincerity. So shall it be with
ours, dear Bertha! So shall our love triumph over all opposition
of father as of all others. Nay, though my father never
yielded — though my family still kept insensible to your merits,
yet shall I so wrong them — so wrong myself — as to yield to
the wrong, and give you up, and sacrifice myself to silly prejudices,
or a blind mulish obstinacy that rejects, reason, feeling,
and the claims of youthful ardor? But, there is no obstacle,
here, however seemingly stubborn, which will not be overcome.
My father is a man of warm affections, and most loving of his
children, when most seemingly hostile. He has his humors, but
they subside finally into concessions which better show his
heart. He will be conciliated. As for Carrie Sinclair — ah!
if you cherish one doubt of her, I shall love you one kiss the
less. Know that Carrie has already commissioned me to kiss
you with a sister's love, and to bear to you a sister's welcome.
She is prepared to believe you all that I have painted you to
her imagination.”

The girl yielded with a sweet sigh, to the ardent clasp with
which the lover folded her to his arms, at the conclusion of
his speech. Let us leave them for a-while, to watch the circles
in the water, if they please, to note the glittering shafts of sunlight
upon the ever-glimpsing stream, to listen to the sudden
voice of the mocking-bird which has just taken perch upon a
twig of the tree not twenty feet above their heads, and there
sits, balancing and swinging, while he sings of the gay life of
the triumphant lover.