Chapter IV

"O, know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in her clime,
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,
Now melts into sorrow, now maddens to crime;
O, know ye the land of the cedar and vine,
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine?"

Bright, balmy, beautiful southern land! Alas, that amid all your luxuriance of beauty, where the flowering earth smiles up to the far sparkling azure, and all nature seems chanting delicious harmonies, that man should here, as elsewhere, make the one discordant note! Frail, grovelling, passion-blinded man! The noblest imperfection of God! When will he be elevated to the standard for which the Maker designed him?

It was early spring, and the "floating palace," Eclipse, had made many pleasant trips between New Orleans and Louisville, since Alice Orville stood on her guards and feasted her beauty-loving eyes on the delightful river scenery.

The magnificent boat was now at the levee in New Orleans, advertised to sail on the morrow. All was a scene of confusion in her vicinity. Freight and baggage tumbled over the decks, passengers hurrying on board, carts, hacks and omnibuses rudely jostling one against another, runners loudly vociferating for their respective boats, etc. At length a young man made his way through the crowd to the clerk's office, booked his name, and engaged passage for a small town in Tennessee. The clerk glanced at the name, and, instantly extending a hand to the passenger, exclaimed; "Ah, Mr. Morris, happy to meet you! I look in so many different faces, yours did not strike me as familiar at first. How has been your health, and how have you prospered since I saw you last? Now I recollect you were on the boat when we brought the pretty young lady down; Miss Orville, I think was her name. Is she yet in the city?"

"I believe she is," answered Morris, in a tone meant to be careless.

"Surrounded by enamored admirers, no doubt," remarked the clerk. "So you are bound up the river, Morris?"

"Yes, to visit my widowed mother in Tennessee; she is failing in health, and sent for me to come to her."

"Indeed; 'tis like a dutiful son to obey the summons. Will you return to New Orleans?"

"Such is my intention at present."

"Well, make yourself comfortable here, and the Eclipse will set you off at your stopping-place in two or three days," said the gentlemanly clerk, dismissing his friend, as others thronged around for accommodations.

The sun sank behind the "Father of Waters," as before a small gray cottage on the eastern shore of the mighty river, a young, fair-haired girl stood watching its departing light. At length a boat came in view round a winding curve, and the little maiden leaped up, clapped her hands gleefully, and disappeared within the cottage. Onward came the graceful boat, lashing the waters into foam with its swift-revolving wheels. It neared the shore, made a brief halt, and then glided on its way again. A young man bounded up the embankment, and the fair girl met him on the lowly sill with open arms. "Dear sister Winnie, how you are grown!" exclaimed he; "but lead me to mother quickly."

"I will, I will, brother Wayland. She has talked of you all day long, and feared you would not arrive in time to see her."

"Ah! is she failing so rapidly, then?" said the young man, while a gloom stole over his features.

"O, not so very fast!" answered the child; "and now you are come, I dare say she will soon be well again."

He patted her cheek, and hurriedly entered his mother's apartment. She was lying on an humble pallet, wan and emaciated to so fearful a degree, that the son could hardly recognize the parent from whom he had parted eight months before.

"O, mother!" said he in sorrowful, reproachful accents; "why had you not sent for me sooner?"

"I have wanted for nothing, my boy," answered the invalid, in a husky voice. "Your letters spoke of success, and hopes for the future; how could I be so selfish as to call you away from prospects so fair, to tend on a sick-bed?"

The son was silent, and after a few moments' pause, she resumed: "Winnie did all that could be done for me. But for a few weeks I've failed faster than usual, and I could not bear to die without beholding my darling boy once more. Besides, what was to become of Winnie, left alone and unprotected?"

"Do not speak so hopelessly, dear mother," said Wayland, tears gathering in his eyes; "I trust with the advancing spring your health may improve."

The poor woman shook her head. Winnie came, and, putting her little arms round her mother's neck, commenced sobbing bitterly.

"Winnie! Winnie! you worry mother doing so," said Wayland, drawing her away; "come now with me; I want to see your pretty fawn and pet kids."

"O, brother! the white spots are all gone from Fanny's neck and sides, and the kiddies' horns are grown so long I'm half afraid of them; but come, I'll find them for you;" and the child, diverted from her tears, seized her brother's hand to lead him forth in search of her playmates. They were soon found, and after admiring and caressing them a few moments, Wayland left his sister to frolic with them on the lawn, and returned to his mother's side.

They had a long, confidential conversation, in which the son imparted to his affectionate parent a brief history of the past eight months. She listened with eager interest to the rehearsal. When he mentioned Alice Orville, she regarded his countenance with a fixed, searching expression, and a faint smile stole over her pale, sad face; but when he breathed the name of Camford, she started convulsively, and demanded his Christian name.

"Adolphus," answered Wayland, in amaze at her emotion. "He is Miss Orville's uncle, and the wealthiest merchant in New Orleans."

"'Tis the same," she murmured; "you were too young, my son, when your father died, to have any recollection of the events which preceded his death; but you have heard from me that he was hurried out of the world by temporal misfortunes too great for his delicate, sensitive temperament to endure. The sudden descent from affluence to poverty bore him to the grave. And I have told you, Wayland, that by the hand of one man, all this woe and suffering was brought upon us."

"And who was that man, dear mother?" asked the youth, in an agitated voice.

"Adolphus Camford," answered she, trembling as she spoke the fatal name.

"Is it possible?" exclaimed Wayland, starting to his feet. "Then may the son avenge the father!"

"Stop, my boy," said his mother; "I intended this revelation but as a caution for you against your father's destroyer. 'Vengeance is mine, I will repay,' saith the Lord. Promise that you will remember this, Wayland, or I cannot die in peace."

"I promise, mother," said the young man, bowing at the bed-side, and leaning his head tenderly on her bosom.