University of Virginia Library

34. CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE EVIL EYE.

That night, Bertha Travis told her mother all that had taken
place in the scene with the old baron; and when she had done,
she said:—

“Now, mother, this will never do. This fraud, however innocent
of evil purpose, is painful and oppressive to me. I can
not bear to go under an assumed name any longer. I must declare
the whole truth, at least, to Carrie. She deserves this
mark of confidence from us. She merits nothing less than the
truth from me. I have no doubt of her faith. I have every
confidence in her affection. Besides, I have Willie's assurances
that, with her, he has a right and full understanding. I must
tell her all. I can see that there are difficulties in the way of
an explanation with her father; for we are to suppose that it is
nothing to him, whether we have a name at all. We are merely
travellers, passing, and speaking kindlily together as we pass,
but, possibly, destined never to meet again. But, with Carrie,
the case is very different. I must reveal to her all our secret.”

The mother hesitated for awhile; then said:—

“Perhaps you are right, Bertha. Still, there can be no moral
reproach to us, my child, if we conceal or disguise ourselves,
for our own safety, in a moment of emergency, and where the
disguise and concealment operate no hurt to other persons.”

“Ah, but that question of hurt! Who shall say that there
will be no hurt? Do you not see that we were governed, in the
adoption of a false name, solely to escape the recognition of one
whose prejudices against our real name would have utterly prevented
our intimacy?”

“And who would have been the loser but himself? We have
served him — perhaps saved him — under the name of Smith.
Would he have rejected the service had it been tendered under
that of Travis?”

“Perhaps.”

“Hardly. He would scarcely have suffered his silly prejudices
to reach so far.”

“At least, he should have been allowed the privilege of determining
the matter for himself. But this matters not, mother.
It is impossible to say what evil consequences may grow out
of a falsehood, however seemingly innocent it may appear —
however really innocent the object.”

“In this case, my child, the consequences have been good.
We have conquered the unjust prejudices of this old man — he
has suffered us to serve and succor him. But for our timely
assistance, he might have perished on the roadside; for what
could that young girl have done? And, serving him, as we
have done, we have brought his mind, as you yourself report, to
the overthrow of its own prejudices.”

“Yes, we have beguiled him, under false pretences, of his
sympathies. Under a false name we have won his friendship
— his affections. And what will be the revulsion, when he
comes to know the truth? He will straight conceive the design
to have been deliberately meant to conciliate him in favor
of my marriage with his son! Oh, mother, this seems to me
the danger, with a person of his jealous moods and fiery impulse!”

“My daughter, do as you will. But I think your fears are
all imaginary, and your scruples somewhat too nice for our
present circumstances. We have employed no arts but such as
have been dictated by humanity. We did not seek Colonel
Sinclair. We found, on the public highway, an old man in
distress. We brought him to a place of shelter. We have
nursed him in his sickness, simply as Christian women. We
ask nothing at his hands. We studiously forbear to utter a
name in his hearing to which he is hostile — which it might
give him pain to hear — and to speak which, in his ears,
might seem the assertion of a claim upon his gratitude, in a
peculiar way, and on a subject, in which all his feelings are in

conflict with ours. This is all our offence. Our forbearance
has been for his sake, not our own; and I could still wish that
he, at least, should know nothing of us, except as the Smiths,
who were Samaritans in spite of a vulgar name. Now, if you
tell Carrie, she will be required to reveal it all to him, the moment
that he asks the question of her. She can not do otherwise;
for you can not enjoin her secrecy, at the moment when
a conscientious sense prompts you to throw off concealment as
burdensome and dishonorable to yourself. You will have to
tell her unreservedly.”

“And I mean to do so.”

“Then, for the consequences. With such a man, so proud,
passionate, irritable — so little capable, just now, of reasoning
justly — capricious too; for, when quite well and free of these
sufferings, his pride will return — he will forget the lessons they
have taught him — will forget his own meeker and better resolutions;
you may look to have a storm, the moment the discovery
is made!”

“Better the honest storm than the deceitful calm. We must
bear it as we may. But we need not bear it at all. We have
done all for him that we can. He will soon be able to resume
his journey. He already speaks of sending Sam up to the
plantation for fresh horses. In a few days he can be on his
way, and we can set forth on ours, at an earlier period. It is
time, indeed, that we should be on the road, relieving this excellent
Mrs. Avinger of the pressure which we have put upon
her. I hear of no troops at present in the neighborhood, and the
probabilities now, are in favor of our crossing the Santee in
safety. Once on the other side, we are under Marion's protection.”

The old lady meditated all these suggestions, weighed them
deliberately, and yielded.

“You are right in all, my daughter. Let it be as you say.
Reveal yourself to Carrie, and, doing right — amending the
error we have committed, whether slight or serious, we shall, at
all events, have nothing with which to reproach ourselves, whatever
the reproaches we may have to endure from the lips, or in
the thoughts of others.”

“Mother, there is something more. It will be only a half

correction of the error, to confine its revelation to Carrie. I
could wish that you would do the rest. Let us quietly prepare
to depart. We may surely do so within the next three days.
When ready, seize an opportunity of a conference with Colonel
Sinclair, and tell him the truth also. You can do this in a way
to prevent him from supposing that you regard the revelation
as necessary or any way important. The disguise was put on,
because of a temporary exigency. That has passed. You see
no reason for keeping up an unnecessary mystery, particularly
with regard to one from whom you have nothing to apprehend.
You called yourself Smith, when upon the highway. Your true
name is Travis, and you speak it as if it were just as insignificant
in his ears as that of Smith. This is all that need be said;
and, saying this to him, we are relieved from every imputation
of management and falsehood.”

“Not so easily said; but, as you feel the matter so deeply,
and as it is not impossible that the old man may, in truth, he
quite reconciled to the idea of Willie's choosing for himself, I
prefer, indeed, to take this course. You can give our first confidence
to Carrie. I will take care that the colonel shall have
a full explanation before we depart.”

It was with lightened heart, that Bertha said her prayers
that night, and yielded herself to slumber. Was it in reward
for her proper decisions, that she dreamed of Willie Sinclair —
of standing up with him before the altar, while the old baron
himself, with hands extended, pronounced the benediction of a
happy father upon the pair?

The day dawned brightly, and passed away pleasantly enough
in our widow's household; for, though there was some constraint
in the manner equally of Bertha and her mother, which the
keen and delicately appreciative sense of Carrie Sinclair did
not fail to detect, still, this reserve was not so prononcé as to
chill the circle, or affect it in any way. After dinner our baron
prepared himself for his siesta — “as was his custom of the afternoon”—
and the ladies retired to their rooms. In the cool of
the eventide, Bertha whispered to Carrie to steal forth with her;
and the two went together under the grateful shadow of pines,
which all day, spite of the sun, had been harboring cool

breezes as securely as ever did the grand avenues of a Grecian
colonnade.

The two girls we need hardly mention at this late period —
had become singularly communicative and affectionate. In young
hearts, which have been kept from the eager strifes of the world,
confidence is a creature born at a bound — in a smile, a look, a
tone — any brief sentence of thought, or expression of feature,
which seems to show that there is no fraud in the soul that
speaks or looks; or where the sentiment or expression itself,
compels instant sympathy for itself. It was not hard, accordingly,
for Bertha Travis to begin the work of confession.

“Carrie,” said she, “I have something to say to you, which
you should have heard before, and which it has been rising in
my heart to tell you, from the first moment when we met.”

“Is it so serious a burden, my dear, that you begin with such
a grave visage? Now, do smooth your brow, and give forth
your thought, as if it were a song of joy that you could not keep
your tongue from singing, even if all the larks of Heaven had
bribed you to withhold the dangerous rivalry.”

“It is neither thought nor song, dear Carrie, but a simple
truth which has been suppressed; nay, something more — it is
the correction of a fib which has been told you, and, I am sorry
to confess, with my sanction, about which my conscience has
been uneasy from the first moment of its utterance. I do not
like concealments of any kind, but this is something worse than
a concealment. We have made your acquaintance — may I
say, your friendship—”

“Oh, yes! it is friendship, true, loving friendship between
us. You—”

“Thanks! thanks! It is what I hoped for, Carrie, for several
reasons, all of which you will see as I proceed, without
making it necessary that I should name them. Know then,
Carrie, that I am Bertha Travis!”

“Bertha Travis! oh, how did I dream it!” cried Carrie Sinclair,
embracing her. “Oh, my prophetic soul! my sister!”

“Dream it! Did you suspect?”

“No, no! I must not say that! But, from the very moment
when you came up to the barony, I felt that you were dear to
me — that I had a peculiar interest in you; and never since

have I looked into your face, or heard your words, that the
sight and sound have not brought up the image of our dear
Willie; and, so constant was this association that I found myself
perpetually asking the question of my thought — `Why is
this?' and the only answer I could get to the question, was in
the conviction that you seemed made for each other; and oh!
how often have I wished that the unknown Bertha Travis
would prove like you; and I sometimes sighed to think that
such might not be the case — in spite of all Willie's assurances
that you were certainly perfect.”

“Oh! you must not repeat such nonsense!” answered Bertha,
blushing. “But, in truth, dear Carrie, nothing has more distressed
me, apart from the feeling of shame, at wearing a disguise,
than the necessity of keeping myself hid from you. I
longed, a thousand times, to throw myself into your arms, and
say, `I am the simple rustic whom the simpler Willie Sinclair
has preferred among women as his wife.'”

“It is a joy delayed, not lost! It is enough that we have it
now, my own Bertha, and that your avowal leaves me nothing
to regret. I forgive you the deception, if you will so dignify
your assumption of the name of Smith — which so distresses
my father — in consideration of the dear delightful surprise
which the truth occasions. And you have won papa's heart,
even under the odious name of Smith! He spoke so gratefully
of you, and you so completely satisfied all his tastes, that he
said to me, he should be quite pleased if you were Willie's choice,
in spite of your vulgar name.”

“He said the same thing to me!”

“Ah! did he?”

“Yes, when I held his head upon the sofa.”

“That was a scene! And how you must have been distressed
by his free talking! I can guess what it must have been, knowing
him so well; and it worried him not a little, afterward, to
think how he might have spoken. What he did say, he could
not easily recall; but he remembers something of a disquisition
upon the name of Smith, which he fears must have made you
very uncomfortable. Ha! ha! It must have been very amusing
in spite of its annoyances.”

“You may readily suppose, now, that the freedom he took

with the name of Smith gave me no annoyance at all. But he
said many things which fully aroused me to the necessity of
this explanation; which, you will believe me, to have meditated
before. Ah! Carrie, I need not say, that it was a rare pleasure
to hear such words of affection and kindness as he uttered then,
to the unknown damsel, from the lips of one whom I should be
so anxious to please. But I can not describe the distress which
I feel, lest he should suppose that we had practised a deliberate
trick upon him, by which to steal into his confidence.”

“Oh! don't let that worry you at all! How should he think
such a thing? You've rather avoided us. You fled from our
hospitality — rejected all our entreaties — would take neither
rest nor refuge with us — gave no name — sought no communion
with us — were cold of manner, if not repulsive; and we should
never have known what you are, felt your worth, or learned to
love you for yourselves, had you not happened upon us, in our
hour of trouble, when, so far from disguising, you threw off all
disguises, and suffered your heart to speak out, and to act,
without regard to self at all. No! no! dear Bertha, my father,
with all his prejudices and passions, seeks honestly to be just.
His pride, as a gentleman, requires this. His justice, in his
calmer moments, is perpetually busied in repairing the faults
done by his more passionate impulses. Oh! be sure, it will all
come right now. It is a most fortunate providence which has
brought us together. It is a providence. We know you now
personally. He has been enabled to know you under circumstances
which will compel his justice, and favor the overthrow
of all those mistaken notions which at first resolved him against
your claims.”

It was grateful to Bertha to think as Carrie counselled. She
did not dispute the probabilities, though she still sighed with a
doubt. Hearts that truly love are rarely very sanguine of their
objects. They are modest of their claims on Fortune in degree
as they put a high value on the prize which they have in view.
And Bertha spoke her misgivings as well as sighed them; but
Carrie wrapped her arms about her, and laughed merrily, and
spoke assuringly, saying:—

“Nay, no doubts now of the future! Take the hope, bright-winged
as it is, and gayly crowned, to your bosom, even as you

would shelter the bird that, of itself, flies to the same refuge as
in search of home. And so, you are Bertha Travis — Willie's
Bertha — our own Bertha! And you are beautiful! I thought
so, would you believe it, Bertha, even when I was forced to
consider you as Miss Smith — was it Araminta or Amina Smith?
— or merely poor little humdrum Annie Smith, one simply of
a very numerous family?”

And Carrie laughed as she had not done for a long time
before.

“It is one of the happiest moments of my life. Oh! how
Willie will rejoice to hear. Now, don't think me ridiculous,
Bertha, but I feel like leaping, dancing, singing, whirling you
about in the bushes — romping like mad, in short, even as the
little girl in possession of her first alabaster doll.

“Oh! you don't surely rank me in the doll-catalogue. Is it
that which you mean when you tell me of my beauty.”

“Hush up, Miss Pert, or I shall suspect you of vanity. Now,
let us laugh a little and sing. We can romp here in safety.
Nobody to see our antics or frown upon our fun. I do feel,
Bertha, like wrestling with you out of pure love and joy, and
a delight that has hardly any measure!”

The merriment of Carrie was contagious. Soon the girls were
laughing merrily and romping together, Bertha's heart as light
now as if it had not come forth heavy — nay, not light, only
gay, for she had many unquiet cares, and apprehensions that no
momentary gleam of joy could make her forget. On a sudden,
she stopped short in her laughter — stopped in the lively action
which the arms of Carrie, flung around her, had induced, and
burst into a passion of tears.

Carrie was shocked.

“Bertha, dear Bertha, why is this?” And she tenderly drew
her to her bosom, kissed her, and wept too, from sympathy.

“Oh, Carrie! my father — my brother!”

Then followed the whole sad story.

The girls wept together. For this grief Carrie could suggest
no remedy.

“But,” she said, “they can be in no danger. Their captor
can have no motive to do them harm.”

“Ah, Carrie! that captor is no doubt Richard Inglehardt”

“I have heard of him. But Willie is in search of them,
Bertha, my love, and if you knew him as you must, you need
not be told that he will never forego the pursuit while there is
hope, and be discouraged from no effort by any fear of toil or
danger.”

“I know it! I know it! My hope is in him. May God
smile upon his efforts.”

What a close kin to joy is grief. Slowly the two girls, the
arms of Carrie about the neck of Bertha, went toward the
dwelling — not happy — but meeker and fonder of heart — and
with a hope! — a hope, such as is ever born in tears!

They had talked and prattled freely — said together a thousand
things which we have not thought proper to report — unveiled
a thousand clues to their mutual histories and affections,
which it must suffice for us to conjecture; and speaking for the
first time together, without the smallest reserve, laid open not a
few of those mysterious, yet thinly-clad secrets of the maiden
heart, which love to be found out in their hiding-place by the
proper seeker — never thinking of other ears than their own.
How would they have been shocked and troubled, had they
fancied that there was a witness present all the while — who
had seen all and heard much! One, not only uncongenial, but
hostile. A shadow on the sunlight — a reptile among the flowers,
a hideous, inhuman aspect, such as the malicious elf appears,
when he breaks in upon the fairy circle, and puts to flight the
gay, bright, fantastic legions of the courtly Oberon!

An evil eye was upon the maidens while they opened their
mutual souls together in the forest. When they had gone, the
uncouth and unsightly form of Dick of Tophet rose from the
concealing shrubbery in which he had enveloped his hostile
aspect, and grinned and laughed in the triumph of a savage
purpose.