University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.

Mr. Sewell's letter ran as follows: —

My Dear Young Friend, — It has always been my
intention when you arrived at years of maturity to acquaint
you with some circumstances which have given me reason
to conjecture your true parentage, and to let you know what
steps I have taken to satisfy my own mind in relation to
these conjectures.

In order to do this, it will be necessary for me to go back
to the earlier years of my life, and give you the history of
some incidents which are known to none of my most intimate
friends. I trust I may rely on your honor that they will
ever remain as secrets with you.

I graduated from Harvard University in —. At the
time I was suffering somewhat from an affection of the
lungs, which occasioned great alarm to my mother, many of
whose family had died of consumption.

In order to allay her uneasiness, and also for the purpose
of raising funds for the pursuit of my professional studies, I
accepted a position as tutor in the family of a wealthy gentleman
at St. Augustine, in Florida.

I cannot do justice to myself, — to the motives which
actuated me in the events which took place in this family,
without speaking with the most undisguised freedom of the
character of all the parties with whom I was connected.

Don Jose Mendoza was a Spanish gentleman of large

property, who had emigrated from the Spanish West Indies
to Florida, bringing with him an only daughter, who had
been left an orphan by the death of her mother at a very
early age.

He brought to this country a large number of slaves; —
and shortly after his arrival, married an American lady: a
widow with three children. By her he had four other children.
And thus it will appear that the family was made up
of such a variety of elements as only the most judicious care
could harmonize.

But the character of the father and mother was such that
judicious care was a thing not to be expected of either.

Don Jose was extremely ignorant and proud, and had lived
a life of the grossest dissipation. Habits of absolute authority
in the midst of a community of a very low moral standard,
had produced in him all the worst vices of despots. He
was cruel, overbearing, and dreadfully passionate. His wife
was a woman who had pretensions to beauty, and at times
could make herself agreeable, and even fascinating, but
she was possessed of a temper quite as violent and ungoverned
as his own.

Imagine now two classes of slaves, the one belonging to
the mistress, and the other brought into the country by the
master, and each animated by a party spirit and jealousy;
— imagine children of different marriages, inheriting from
their parents violent tempers and stubborn wills, flattered
and fawned on by slaves, and alternately petted or stormed
at, now by this parent and now by that, and you will have
some idea of the task which I undertook in being tutor in
this family.

I was young and fearless in those days, as you are now;
and the difficulties of the position, instead of exciting apprehension,

only awakened the spirit of enterprise and adventure.

The whole arrangements of the household, to me fresh
from the simplicity and order of New England, had a singular
and wild sort of novelty which was attractive rather than
otherwise. I was well recommended in the family by an
influential and wealthy gentleman of Boston, who represented
my family, as indeed it was, as among the oldest and
most respectable of Boston, and spoke in such terms of me,
personally, as I should not have ventured to use in relation
to myself. When I arrived, I found that two or three tutors,
who had endeavored to bear well in this tempestuous family,
had thrown up the command after a short trial, and that the
parents felt some little apprehension of not being able to
secure the services of another, — a circumstance which I
did not fail to improve in making my preliminary arrangements.
I assumed an air of grave hauteur, was very exacting
in all my requisitions and stipulations, and would give
no promise of doing more than to give the situation a temporary
trial. I put on an air of supreme indifference as to
my continuance, and acted in fact rather on the assumption
that I should confer a favor by remaining.

In this way I succeeded in obtaining at the outset a position
of more respect and deference than had been enjoyed
by any of my predecessors. I had a fine apartment, a servant
exclusively devoted to me, a horse for riding, and saw
myself treated among the servants as a person of consideration
and distinction.

Don Jose and his wife both had in fact a very strong
desire to retain my services, when after the trial of a week
or two, it was found that I really could make their discordant
and turbulent children to some extent obedient and studious

during certain portions of the day; and in fact I soon
acquired in the whole family that ascendency which a well-bred
person who respects himself, and can keep his temper,
must have over passionate and undisciplined natures.

I became the receptacle of the complaints of all, and a sort
of confidential adviser. Don Jose imparted to me with
more frankness than good taste his chagrins with regard to
his wife's indolence, ill-temper, and bad management, and
his wife in turn omitted no opportunity to vent complaints
against her husband for similar reasons. I endeavored, to
the best of my ability, to act a friendly part by both. It
never was in my nature to see anything that needed to be
done without trying to do it, and it was impossible to work
at all without becoming so interested in my work as to do
far more than I had agreed to do. I assisted Don Jose
about many of his affairs; brought his neglected accounts
into order; and suggested from time to time arrangements
which relieved the difficulties which had been brought on
by disorder and neglect. In fact, I became, as he said,
quite a necessary of life to him.

In regard to the children, I had a more difficult task.
The children of Don Jose by his present wife had been
systematically stimulated by the negroes into a chronic habit
of dislike and jealousy toward her children by a former husband.
On the slightest pretext, they were constantly running
to their father with complaints; and as the mother warmly
espoused the cause of her first children, criminations and recriminations
often convulsed the whole family.

In ill-regulated families in that region, the care of the
children is from the first in the hands of half-barbarized
negroes, whose power of moulding and assimilating childish
minds is peculiar, so that the teacher has to contend constantly

with a savage element in the children which seems
to have been drawn in with the mother's milk.

It is, in a modified way, something the same result as if
the child had formed its manners in Dahomey or on the coast
of Guinea.

In the fierce quarrels which were carried on between the
children of this family, I had frequent occasion to observe
this strange, savage element, which sometimes led to expressions
and actions which would seem incredible in civilized
society.

The three children by Madame Mendoza's former husband
were two girls of sixteen and eighteen and a boy of fourteen.

The four children of the second marriage consisted of
three boys and a daughter, — the eldest being not more
than thirteen.

The natural capacity of all the children was good, although,
from self-will and indolence, they had grown up in
a degree of ignorance which could not have been tolerated
except in a family living an isolated plantation life in the
midst of barbarized dependents.

Savage and untaught and passionate as they were, the
work of teaching them was not without its interest to me.
A power of control was with me a natural gift; and then
that command of temper which is the common attribute of
well-trained persons in the Northern states, was something
so singular in this family as to invest its possessor with a
certain awe; and my calm, energetic voice, and determined
manner, often acted as a charm on their stormy natures.

But there was one member of the family of whom I have
not yet spoken, — and yet all this letter is about her, — the
daughter of Don Jose by his first marriage. Poor Dolores!
poor child! God grant she may have entered into his rest!

I need not describe her. You have seen her picture.
And in the wild, rude, discordant family, she always reminded
me of the words, “a lily among thorns.” She was
in her nature unlike all the rest, and, I may say, unlike any
one I ever saw. She seemed to live a lonely kind of life in
this disorderly household, often marked out as the object of
the spites and petty tyrannies of both parties. She was regarded
with bitter hatred and jealousy by Madame Mendoza,
who was sure to visit her with unsparing bitterness and cruelty
after the occasional demonstrations of fondness she received
from her father. Her exquisite beauty and the gentle
softness of her manners, made her such a contrast to her
sisters as constantly excited their ill-will. Unlike them all,
she was fastidiously neat in her personal habits, and orderly
in all the little arrangements of life.

She seemed to me in this family to be like some shy,
beautiful pet creature in the hands of rude, unappreciated
owners, hunted from quarter to quarter, and finding rest only
by stealth. Yet she seemed to have no perception of the
harshness and cruelty with which she was treated. She had
grown up with it; it was the habit of her life to study peaceable
methods of averting or avoiding the various inconveniences
and annoyances of her lot, and secure to herself a
little quiet.

It not unfrequently happened, amid the cabals and storms
which shook the family, that one party or the other took up
and patronized Dolores for a while, more, as it would appear,
out of hatred for the other than any real love to her. At
such times it was really affecting to see with what warmth
the poor child would receive these equivocal demonstrations
of good-will — the nearest approaches to affection
which she had ever known — and the bitterness with which

she would mourn when they were capriciously withdrawn
again.

With a heart full of affection, she reminded me of some
delicate, climbing plant trying vainly to ascend the slippery
side of an inhospitable wall, and throwing its neglected tendrils
around every weed for support.

Her only fast, unfailing friend was her old negro nurse, or
Mammy, as the children called her. This old creature, with
the cunning and subtlety which had grown up from years of
servitude, watched and waited upon the interests of her little
mistress, and contrived to carry many points for her in the
confused household.

Her young mistress was her one thought and purpose in
living. She would have gone through fire and water to
serve her; and this faithful, devoted heart, blind and ignorant
though it were, was the only unfailing refuge and solace
of the poor hunted child.

Dolores, of course, became my pupil among the rest.
Like the others, she had suffered by the neglect and interruptions
in the education of the family, but she was intelligent
and docile, and learned with a surprising rapidity. It
was not astonishing that she should soon have formed an
enthusiastic attachment to me, as I was the only intelligent,
cultivated person she had ever seen, and treated her with
unvarying consideration and delicacy.

The poor thing had been so accustomed to barbarous
words and manners that simple politeness and the usages
of good society seemed to her cause for the most boundless
gratitude.

It is due to myself, in view of what follows, to say that I
was from the first aware of the very obvious danger which
lay in my path in finding myself brought into close and daily
relations with a young creature so confiding, so attractive,

and so singularly circumstanced. I knew that it would be
in the highest degree dishonorable to make the slightest advances
toward gaining from her that kind of affection which
might interfere with her happiness in such future relations
as her father might arrange for her. According to the
European fashion, I knew that Dolores was in her father's
hands, to be disposed of for life according to his pleasure, as
absolutely as if she had been one of his slaves. I had every
reason to think that his plans on this subject were matured,
and only waited for a little more teaching and training on
my part, and her fuller development in womanhood, to be
announced to her.

In looking back over the past, therefore, I have not to
reproach myself with any dishonest and dishonorable breach
of trust; for I was from the first upon my guard, and so
much so that even the jealousy of my other scholars never
accused me of partiality. I was not in the habit of giving
very warm praise, and was in my general management anxious
rather to be just than conciliatory, knowing that with
the kind of spirits I had to deal with, firmness and justice
went farther than anything else. If I approved Dolores
oftener than the rest, it was seen to be because she never
failed in a duty; if I spent more time with her lessons, it
was because her enthusiasm for study led her to learn longer
ones and study more things; but I am sure there was never
a look or a word toward her that went beyond the proprieties
of my position.

But yet I could not so well guard my heart. I was young
and full of feeling. She was beautiful; and more than that,
there was something in her Spanish nature at once so warm
and simple, so artless and yet so unconsciously poetic, that
her presence was a continual charm.

How well I remember her now, — all her little ways, —

the movements of her pretty little hands, — the expression
of her changeful face as she recited to me, — the grave,
rapt earnestness with which she listened to all my instructions!

I had not been with her many weeks before I felt conscious
that it was her presence that charmed the whole house,
and made the otherwise perplexing and distasteful details of
my situation agreeable. I had a dim perception that this
growing passion was a dangerous thing for myself; but was
it a reason, I asked, why I should relinquish a position in
which I felt that I was useful, and when I could do for this
lovely child what no one else could do? I call her a child,
— she always impressed me as such, — though she was in
her sixteenth year and had the early womanly development
of Southern climates. She seemed to me like something
frail and precious, needing to be guarded and cared for; and
when reason told me that I risked my own happiness in
holding my position, love argued on the other hand that I
was her only friend, and that I should be willing to risk
something myself for the sake of protecting and shielding
her.

For there was no doubt that my presence in the family
was a restraint upon the passions which formerly vented
themselves so recklessly on her, and established a sort of
order in which she found more peace than she had ever
known before.

For a long time in our intercourse I was in the habit of
looking on myself as the only party in danger. It did not
occur to me that this heart, so beautiful and so lonely, might,
in the want of all natural and appropriate objects of attachment,
fasten itself on me unsolicited, from the mere necessity
of loving. She seemed to me so much too beautiful, too

perfect, to belong to a lot in life like mine, that I could not
suppose it possible this could occur without the most blameworthy
solicitation on my part; and it is the saddest and
most affecting proof to me how this poor child had been
starved for sympathy and love, that she should have repaid
such cold services as mine with such an entire devotion. At
first her feelings were expressed openly toward me, with the
dutiful air of a good child. She placed flowers on my desk
in the morning, and made quaint little nosegays in the
Spanish fashion, which she gave me, and busied her leisure
with various ingenious little knick-knacks of fancy work,
which she brought me. I treated them all as the offerings
of a child while with her, but I kept them sacredly
in my own room. To tell the truth, I have some of the
poor little things now.

But after a while I could not help seeing how she loved
me; and then I felt as if I ought to go; but how could I?
The pain to myself I could have borne; but how could I
leave her to all the misery of her bleak, ungenial position?
She, poor thing, was so unconscious of what I knew, — for
I was made clear-sighted by love. I tried the more strictly
to keep to the path I had marked out for myself, but I fear
I did not always do it; in fact, many things seemed to conspire
to throw us together. The sisters, who were sometimes
invited out to visit on neighboring estates, were glad
enough to dispense with the presence and attractions of
Dolores, and so she was frequently left at home to study
with me in their absence. As to Don Jose, although he
always treated me with civility, yet he had such an ingrained
and deep-rooted idea of his own superiority of
position, that I suppose he would as soon have imagined
the possibility of his daughter's falling in love with one of

his horses. I was a great convenience to him. I had a
knack of governing and carrying points in his family that
it had always troubled and fatigued him to endeavor to arrange,
— and that was all. So that my intercourse with
Dolores was as free and unwatched, and gave me as many
opportunities of enjoying her undisturbed society, as heart
could desire.

At last came the crisis, however. After breakfast one
morning, Don Jose called Dolores into his library and announced
to her that he had concluded for her a treaty of
marriage, and expected her husband to arrive in a few days.
He expected that this news would be received by her with
the glee with which a young girl hears of a new dress or
of a ball-ticket, and was quite confounded at the grave and
mournful silence in which she received it. She said no
word, made no opposition, but went out from the room and
shut herself up in her own apartment, and spent the day in
tears and sobs.

Don Jose, who had rather a greater regard for Dolores
than for any creature living, and who had confidently expected
to give great delight by the news he had imparted,
was quite confounded by this turn of things. If there had
been one word of either expostulation or argument, he
would have blazed and stormed in a fury of passion; but
as it was, this broken-hearted submission, though vexatious,
was perplexing. He sent for me, and opened his mind,
and begged me to talk with Dolores and show her the advantages
of the alliance, which the poor foolish child, he
said, did not seem to comprehend. The man was immensely
rich, and had a splendid estate in Cuba. It was a most
desirable thing.

I ventured to inquire whether his person and manners

were such as would be pleasing to a young girl, and could
gather only that he was a man of about fifty, who had been
most of his life in the military service, and was now desirous
of making an establishment for the repose of his latter
days, at the head of which he would place a handsome and
tractable woman, and do well by her.

I represented that it would perhaps be safer to say no
more on the subject until Dolores had seen him, and to this
he agreed. Madame Mendoza was very zealous in the
affair, for the sake of getting clear of the presence of Dolores
in the family, and her sisters laughed at her for her
dejected appearance. They only wished, they said, that so
much luck might happen to them. For myself, I endeavored
to take as little notice as possible of the affair, though
what I felt may be conjectured. I knew, — I was perfectly
certain, — that Dolores loved me as I loved her. I knew
that she had one of those simple and unworldly natures
which wealth and splendor could not satisfy, and whose life
would lie entirely in her affections. Sometimes I violently
debated with myself whether honor required me to sacrifice
her happiness as well as my own, and I felt the strongest
temptation to ask her to be my wife and fly with me to the
Northern States, where I did not doubt my ability to make
for her a humble and happy home.

But the sense of honor is often stronger than all reasoning,
and I felt that such a course would be the betrayal of
a trust; and I determined at least to command myself till I
should see the character of the man who was destined to be
her husband.

Meanwhile the whole manner of Dolores was changed.
She maintained a stony, gloomy silence, performed all her
duties in a listless way, and occasionally, when I commented

on anything in her lessons or exercises, would break into
little flashes of petulance, most strange and unnatural in her.
Sometimes I could feel that she was looking at me earnestly,
but if I turned my eyes toward her, hers were instantly
averted; but there was in her eyes a peculiar expression
at times, such as I have seen in the eye of a hunted animal
when it turned at bay, — a sort of desperate resistance, —
which, taken in connection with her fragile form and lovely
face, produced a mournful impression.

One morning I found Dolores sitting alone in the schoolroom,
leaning her head on her arms. She had on her wrist
a bracelet of peculiar workmanship, which she always wore,
— the bracelet which was afterwards the means of confirming
her identity. She sat thus some moments in silence, and
then she raised her head and began turning this bracelet
round and round upon her arm, while she looked fixedly
before her. At last she spoke abruptly, and said, —

“Did I ever tell you that this was my mother's hair? It
is my mother's hair, — and she was the only one that ever
loved me; except poor old Mammy, nobody else loves me,
— nobody ever will.”

“My dear Miss Dolores,” I began.

“Don't call me dear,” she said; “you don't care for me,
— nobody does, — papa does n't, and I always loved him;
everybody in the house wants to get rid of me, whether I
like to go or not. I have always tried to be good and do
all you wanted, and I should think you might care for me
a little, but you don't.”

“Dolores,” I said, “I do care for you more than I do
for any one in the world; I love you more than my own
soul.”

These were the very words I never meant to say, but

somehow they seemed to utter themselves against my will.
She looked at me for a moment as if she could not believe
her hearing, and then the blood flushed her face, and she
laid her head down on her arms.

At this moment Madame Mendoza and the other girls
came into the room in a clamor of admiration about a diamond
bracelet which had just arrived as a present from her
future husband.

It was a splendid thing, and had for its clasp his miniature,
surrounded by the largest brilliants.

The enthusiasm of the party even at this moment could
not say anything in favor of the beauty of this miniature,
which, though painted on ivory, gave the impression of a
coarse-featured man, with a scar across one eye.

“No matter for the beauty,” said one of the girls, “so
long as it is set with such diamonds.”

“Come, Dolores,” said another, giving her the present,
“pull off that old hair bracelet, and try this on.”

Dolores threw the diamond bracelet from her with a
vehemence so unlike her gentle self as to startle every
one.

“I shall not take off my mother's bracelet for a gift from
a man I never knew,” she said. “I hate diamonds. I
wish those who like such things might have them.”

“Was ever anything so odd?” said Madame Mendoza.

“Dolores always was odd,” said another of the girls;
“nobody ever could tell what she would like.”