University of Virginia Library

33. CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE WRONG LAP.

As this movement of Dick of Tophet brings him within the
precincts of the Widow Avinger, it may be proper that we
should also take the same route, and inquire after our late companions.
Several days have elapsed since we left them safely
housed, in a condition of greater comparative comfort and security
than they had enjoyed while under the escort of Coates's
army, or in their subsequent wandering away from it. But,
our baron of Sinclair was by no means in the mood to enjoy
this state of ease and safety. It brought no ease to him. The
excitements which he had undergone had brought upon him one
of the severest fits of the gout which his manhood had ever yet
been required to endure. His agonies, for several days, were
such as to occasion the liveliest apprehensions in his daughter's
mind, who had never before seen him so humbled by his infirmity.
Fortunately, Mrs. Travis, otherwise Smith, was a woman
of large experience, great good sense, and thoroughly domestic.
She and her daughter, both, came to the succor of Carrie Sinclair,
and shared with her the duties of watch, tendance, and
nursing. Night and day they were indefatigable — solicitous
of every movement — every complaint — of the querulous baron;
anticipating every want, and sympathizing with every pang.
Rough and stern, haughty and proud, as he was, Colonel Sinclair
was a true gentleman; and, even in his sufferings, when
his agonies were worst, and compelled his wildest ravings, his
eye, and, occasionally, his tongue, made ample and grateful
acknowledgments for all the kindness and attention he received.
His suffering had reached that degree which humbled pride;

and, in his impatience, he was as pliant and submissive as the
child that dreads the birch.

You will please suppose that, for five days, the watch and
nursing of all these parties, together and severally, have been
continued, day and night, and until the acuter pangs of the sufferer
have undergone mitigation. When somewhat relieved,
the old man was exhausted, and lay in a partial drowse half the
time. Then the care was to nourish and revive the strength,
and restore the vital energy, which had been consumed in the
struggle; and, in this respect, the skill and experience of Mrs.
Travis, and the tenderness of the girls, proved quite as important
as the ministry which they had exercised in his more exacting
trials. We will not endeavor to detail the nice little
dishes which they contrived to tempt the appetite; nor the various
social arts with which they sought to divert the mind of the
sufferer. We do not know that we have anywhere spoken of
the musical talents of Bertha Travis, which, without being
greatly cultivated, were yet considerable. She had, like Carrie
Sinclair, a natural gift in this province; singing like a wild
bird — native woodnotes only — but these were, perhaps, best
calculated to satisfy an ear like that of our baron, who was earnest,
passionate, unaffected, and knew none of the subtleties of
European art — had never refined away, in the acquisition of
its complicated graces, any of the natural vigor of his tastes.
The two girls, without any instrument, sung together; and it
was something of a surprise to Carrie Sinclair, to find that Bertha
Travis, otherwise Smith, knew precisely the songs in which
she herself most delighted. It was a pleasant coincidence,
which first moved surprise, then awoke delight; and, while the
old man drowsed upon the rude settee, where, supported by
cushions, he lay most of the day, they carolled together like a
pair of well-contented mocking-birds, who dwell together in
amity in the boughs of the same sheltering orange. But the
hearts of both of them were sad, even while they sang. Bertha,
from the apprehensions and griefs which haunted every
thought, and of which she dared not speak; and Carrie, from
natural misgivings in respect to her father's condition. Little
Lottie, meanwhile, picked up the songs of both, and they found
it an additional mode of diversion from their cares, in tutoring

her little pipes, according to their degree of knowledge in the
exquisite art, in which even sorrow finds it so natural to indulge.

And thus the days passed: full of anxiety no doubt, and suffering;
but anxiety not without hope, and suffering not wholly
without compensation. There had been a sufficient progress in
religion, among all the group, to enable them to rise to the
grand law and lesson which teach resignation; and subdued,
humbled, sorrowing and apprehensive, there was no slavish
despondency of mood in any of the fond, feeble hearts, whom
we have been compelled to bring together in our poor widow's
house of refuge. Her story was a sadder one than any of theirs,
and her deportment conveyed a sweet, Christian lesson, of becoming
fortitude, to the worst sufferer in the circle.

And, all things considered, our aristocratic baron behaved
with rare courage and manfulness, under the extreme physical
tortures which he was compelled to endure. It seemed, indeed,
that his temper grew better in the extremity of his afflictions.
In proportion as the pains became intense, he rose in soul, defiant
under their pressure. He believed himself to be dying,
regarded this as the final attack which should carry him off;
and, with this conviction, his soul fully asserted itself, as it
would have done in the field of battle. Like most persons,
small afflictions made him querulous and peevish only; but the
belief that death was at length confronting him, made him put
on all the soldier. Then it was that he not only became patient,
calm, and fearless, but he put on the sweetness, grace, conciliation,
and courtesy of the gentleman. He suddenly stopped complaint.

“This is death, Carrie!” he said, after one of his terrible
twinges — “death, my child! But I am a man. Read to me
— sing to me! Whatever you please. I must not wince now.
I am a sinner, I know! But I am not wilfully so — only too
weak to be good. I must get strength from on High! Read,
child, or sing. I care not which.”

And she read the Bible for awhile. He stopped her.

“I know all that — by heart. Now sing! Something martial!
Ah!” — A pang. — “My affairs are all settled! You
will have no trouble; and — lest in my pain I should hereafter

forget it — say to Willie that I forgive him. Let him marry
whom he pleases, fight whom he pleases — marry and fight
according to his own conscience! He is a brave, good fellow;
he will never do a mean action, anyhow! — of that I am sure.
And you, too, my child; marry whom you please! And God
help you to a noble gentleman, a husband whom you will never
cease to honor! To see you all happy is all my care. I have
not been very selfish, Carrie, my child — never so selfish as not
to think first of my children. If I have not lived wholly for
them, I could have died for them at any time. I have been
rough, you say. Well, well—” interrupting her — “you don't
say it. And you are right. Mere manners, though very good
things in their way — essential things in society — say very
little for the heart. Mine have been always those of a soldier.
It is the effect of soldier-training, and a frontier life. But they
never declared for my affections — at all events they never
marred them. I will tell you now, for the first time, of one of
my good deeds, that answer for my heart, when my manners
would report against it. I rescued an Indian babe from the
burning of the Cherokee towns in the expedition of Grant and
Middleton, carried it forty miles on the saddle before me, and
finally, after great painstaking and privation, restored it to its
mother. That was the sweetest moment of my life. It comes
back to me now as a great satisfaction. I have been trying to
look up my good deeds, in the last three days, to see what offsets
I had to the bad ones. These told for themselves, and kept
me always in remembrance. It was some effort to recall the
good. That looks squally, Carrie, my child, as the day of settlement
approaches. But Heaven help us! If God be not the
merciful creditor that I hold him! I have that faith in his mercies,
child, that helps me wondrously in this adjustment of my
profit and loss account!

And so, for an hour, the old man rambled on;— his conscience
busy after a rude soldier fashion, in subduing the evil principle
in his bosom, and preparing him for his last combat. That he
should apprehend the approach of death, naturally impressed
Carrie with the conviction that such was his danger, and never
did poor fond, loving, dutiful heart strive more earnestly than
hers, to keep down her anguish, and to maintain the appearance

of calm in his presence. But, how it sunk — that heart — sunk,
sunk, all the while; and when she escaped, for a moment, to
her chamber, it was to get relief, and strength, for a longer trial,
in a gush of tears, and a short spasmodic prayer to Heaven.
This momentary relief obtained, she would return to her place
of meek watch, attendance, attention, and those homely ministries,
which, at such a moment, bring out all the nobler virtues
of woman, in the exercise of her peculiar mission. He would
resume, as soon as she reappeared, perhaps in another phase of
the same prevailing mood.

“I have been harsh to Willie! How harsh, I only begun to
feel when I had lifted weapon against his life. What a madness
was that! And why should I have been harsh to him?
He had been always dutiful. Never was more faithful son.
True, he had joined the rebel cause! But the world changes.
Laws change. Nations change. There must be change among
men and nations, for they are mortal. There have been revolutions
enough in Britain, and who was right? The present
house was not that which ruled my fathers. Was I not a rebel,
too, when I gave my allegiance to the Guelph, the house of
Stuart having still a living representative? Yet I feel justified.
Why? What is the argument? Not worth a straw! And
how should he care for either? This is a new world, and why
should it not have its own dynasties? Why not a new race
in authority here — as proper as any in Britain? This man,
Washington, is certainly a marvellous man. What if he
should found a house, and become the sovereign? Verily, if
this should be, the hand of man in the work would be as nothing,
compared with that of God. So be it! Let Willie choose
his own master. I forgive him the rebellion. He is faithless
to no duty, which, as a son, he owes to me! And what was his
other offence? He would choose a wife to suit himself, not me!
Ah! Carrie, what had I to do with that? Could I doubt that,
good, brave, noble fellow, as he is, with cultivated mind, and
generous heart, and nice sensibilities, he would choose wisely
and well? It was that devil of pride which I have too much
nurtured, which roused me up, in that matter, to such fierce hostility.
What have I to do with pride — sinner that I am —
feeble that I am — poor prostrate devil myself — looking with

fear to that God whom I have so often offended! Ah! my
child, how the eyes clear, and the thought, as the soul is about to
break away from its miserable tenement of clay. Let the boy
marry whom he pleases! I should not quarrel with him, now,
were he even to declare for this gentle little creature, with the
plebeian name of Smith. She is a good girl, as good a nurse,
almost, as you, Carrie; and as watchful and devoted to me as
if she were my own child. I have observed her, when she
thought I slept; and her face is very noble and beautiful. How
the devil, child, did such a creature become the proprietor of
such a name? What Smiths are they? Do you know?”

The answer was negative.

“I have known several Smiths — never intimately, and only
among men. A woman with the name should change it as soon
as possible. There was a Smyth whom I knew on the Ashepoo.
But that family has died out. The people of the name, who
rank in Britain, all spell it with a y. Do these ladies do so?”

Carrie could not answer.

“Ah, Willie! It does not matter. If Willie would marry
that girl, though I can not bring myself to like the name, I
should not quarrel with him. Poor Willie! How I long to see
him. Oh, Carrie! if I should never see him more! My son!
my son! Why do you not come to me, my son!”

And with this passionate burst, the old man fairly sobbed.
And poor Carrie sobbed with him; and their tears mingled, she
on her knees beside him, striving hard, at the risk of choking,
to keep down her agonizing emotions.

Of course, such scenes were sacred to themselves. There was
no obtrusiveness in the solicitous attention of Mrs. Travis and
her daughter. It was only when Carrie seemed to need assistance
that they were present at the communion of the father
with his children. In his hours of extreme suffering, such as
that we have shown, they felt, by natural instincts, that their
place was elsewhere.

But this, and other paroxysms passed, and gradually diminished
in their frequency and intensity. The immediate danger
disappeared at the end of the week, and it only remained to
soothe the harassed mind, to invigorate the exhausted frame,
and to minister, with loving arts, to the fancy and the tastes.

And so, as we have said, the young damsels sang together,
while, stretched upon the sofa, or propped by cushions in its
corner, the feeble old man listened to his favorite melodies, and
rewarded the minstrels by the increasing interest which he betrayed
in their exercises. His appetite, meanwhile, came back
to him, and — though more slowly — his strength; and, very
soon, an increase of irascibility declared for his general improvement
of physique, if not of temper.

It happened, in this stage of his progress, that, one evening
toward dusk, while propped in his cushion upon the sofa, he
seemed to drowse, Carrie Sinclair had occasion to leave the
room. She motioned to Bertha to take the seat quietly beside
him, and to maintain her watch during her absence. Bertha did
so. She had not long been seated, when the veteran somewhat
suddenly subsided from his pillows toward her. She thought
him about to fall from the sofa and extended her arms to arrest
his descent; but it seemed that he was not unconscious, nor
without a purpose, for, yielding to her grasp, his head gently
descended into her lap. Meanwhile, he murmured low and
broken sentences. Whether he dreamed, or mused in a revery,
Bertha could not say. But she soon found that, sleeping or
waking, he was speaking to her as if he thought her Carrie.
Her situation was a novel but not an unpleasing one. When
she thought of the relation in which she stood to his son, and
of his hostility to that relation, she felt it rather an awkward
situation; but, though piqued at his rejection of her claims,
Bertha could not feel any resentment for the father of her lover.
Besides, his prostration disarmed every sentiment of anger;
while his age, dignity of character, and real nobility of soul,
impressed her veneration; and she sustained the head, thinly
clad in hair of silvery whiteness, with all the tender sympathies
of a loving child. His eyes were closed as she watched him,
and, supposing him to be asleep, though he murmured still at
intervals, her fingers played with and parted gently, his long,
white locks. After awhile his tones were raised, and his voice
became audible.

“I feel, Carrie, that I could die easily, and now, if Willie
were present. My boy, my boy! I will never cross him more.
Let him marry the girl if he pleases. I have no doubt, worthless

as her father is, that she is worthy. He would never love
her were she not. He would never so war with my prejudices,
and his own tastes and character. No! she must be worthy.
Still, I should like to see and know her. Not that I doubt him,
or her. But I would wish, before I die, to see the being to
whom he would confide his happiness. It would not be hard,
after that, to die! No! death is not hard. Pain has reconciled
me to it all, except the separation from the hearts that
shall suffer when I am gone, and for whom I can do nothing.
But who shall say that? Who shall say that the soul, that
subtle, winged, powerful spirit, shall not be able to minister
still, though insensibly, to the weal and happiness of those
whom it loves, and leaves on earth? I will not believe otherwise.
That must be a part of its mission. I feel that I shall
watch over my children; over you, Carrie, so that you shall
encounter no serpent in your path, without timelier warning
than his rattle will give you; — over him, Carrie, in the field of
battle, and, if possible, to make the bullet swerve aside from his
bosom! That I may do this, my child, is my faith; and, with
this faith, death seems to me but a small trial of the strength
and courage. I feel that I shall sink into sleep without a murmur.
You must tell Willie all that I have said, should we
never meet again. My son! my noble son! why did we ever
quarrel?”

And Bertha noted the big tear standing in his eyes. Her
own were dropping precious dews of sympathy. He continued:—

“And you know nothing of these ladies — these Smiths? I
confess, I can't endure the name. Shakspere can not persuade
me that a rose would smell quite as sweet if called a carrot.
But, spite of the name, I love them. What a dear, kind,
good old lady is the mother! If she had been my own sister,
she could not have nursed me more tenderly and fondly. And
that daughter, what a beautiful, gentle creature! Her voice
reminds me of yours, Carrie, though it is far less powerful; and
she sings all your songs. Her education has been good. What
a pity that the name is Smith! But she will change it. Such
a girl can not go long without finding a husband. I hope he
will be worthy of her. She would just suit Willie; I should

fancy just such a woman for him. What a pity that her name
is Smith, and that he is already committed elsewhere! But, as
he wills. I will oppose his wishes no more.”

There was a pause. Of course, Bertha made no reply to all this
— how could she? Her position grew momently more awkward;
yet there was no escape from it, but in silence. And with what
conflicting emotions — gratification predominant — did she listen?
How she longed to clasp the stern old baron in her arms,
and declare herself. But she dared not. With what a delicious
maidenly triumph, did she listen to his concessions! And how
she did begin to loathe the vulgar name of Smith! The veteran
resumed — still talking, as was his wont, to Carrie — at fits,
ramblingly, just as the thought happened to occur to him. Of
course, all the speeches that we have given him, were spoken
at random, as it were, not consecutively as we have condensed
and delivered them. They wandered off to the war; to the
plantation; to the interests of the king and the country; and
to those of the negroes — Tom, Sam, Sambo — and the rest, not
one of whom appeared to escape his recollection. It seemed
as if, though relieved from his acuter pains, and from the present
fear of death, that he yet contemplated only the final issue,
and was making due preparations for it.

In the midst of his monologue, Carrie Sinclair re-entered the
room, and started, with an exclamation of surprise, as she beheld
the scene. Her exclamation caused the old man to open
his eyes. He looked and saw his daughter. In whose lap had
his head been reposing all the while? He changed the direction
of his eyes, and read the disquieted and half-bewildered
features of Bertha Travis.

“Good heavens! my dear Miss Smith — you — and I thought
it Carrie all the while!”

“It makes no difference, dear sir,” answered Bertha, trying
to look playful and careless, and smiling through a little gush of
tears.

“Ay, but it does! Lord bless me! what have I been talking
about?”

This reflection stunned the old man into silence; and as he
raised himself from his usurped place in her lap, Bertha made
her escape. Of course, our baron had a world of apologies to

make, and he burdened Carrie with a most submissive message.
His worst annoyauce was in the reflection that he had been
speaking very freely about the Smiths themselves; but what he
had said, he could no more have recalled than flown.

“But I could not have said any evil about them, Carrie —
that is some consolation — for I think nothing but good of them
and am grateful for all their kindness.”