Chapter IX: The Fatal Marriage

“_Isabella._—’Tis a babbling world

“_Mr. Graves._—_Oh!_ ’tis an _atrocious_ world!
It will be burnt up one day—that’s a comfort.”—_London Assurance._

Eighteen months have passed since Mark Sutherland left his home. Eighteen months of persevering study, of unsuccessful effort, and of varied wanderings, find him, at the close, in Cincinnati, quite penniless, and nearly hopeless. His efforts to find employment here are unavailing. He has not even the means to pay his board—a situation in which many a worthy and promising young man has found himself, who has afterwards nevertheless risen to fame or fortune. Embarrassing and discouraging enough is the position while occupied, however piquant to look back upon.

In a listless and disappointed mood, Mark Sutherland entered the reading-room of the hotel, and, taking up the daily papers, began to look over their columns, to see if any new want of a clerk or an agent had been advertised, which might hold out the hope of employment to him. At last, in the Intelligencer, his eye lighted upon an advertisement for a classical and mathematical teacher. The candidate was required to produce the highest testimonials of character and competency, and requested to apply through the office of that paper. Mr. Sutherland’s classical and mathematical attainments were far above mediocrity, and the references he could give were unexceptionable. He felt therefore certain of being able to offer more than an equivalent for the salary. He saw, too, that the office of a teacher, by leaving him many hours of the day, and the whole of Saturdays and holidays free, would afford him ample leisure for the pursuit of his legal studies.

He called for writing materials, and immediately wrote and mailed a letter of application. He was scarcely anxious about the result—only a little interested to know whether he should get the situation, and what sort of a one it would be, when it was got; whether it would be the place of assistant in a public academy, or that of tutor in a private family; also, whether his temporary home should be in the cold North or the sunny South, the populous East or the sparsely-settled West, or in the indefinite country between them; lastly, with what sort of people he should find himself.

But, upon the whole, he scarcely hoped to get a response to his application, as the paper containing the advertisement was several days old when he first saw it. Therefore, when days passed into weeks, and weeks became a month, he gave up all hopes of obtaining an answer, without much disappointment.

At length—as generally happens after expectation sickens and dies, and is buried—the unlooked-for letter arrived. It contained a proposition from Colonel Ashley, of Virginia, to engage Mr. Sutherland as private tutor, to prepare his two younger sons for the university, offering, in remuneration, a very liberal salary, and requesting, in the event of Mr. Sutherland’s acceptance, that he would reply promptly, and follow his own letter in person as soon as possible.

Mark sat down and wrote at once, closing the contract, and promising to be at Ashley by the first of March.

It was now near the last of February. He sold his horse, paid his bill at the hotel, and having money enough remaining to take him to Virginia, left the same afternoon by the steamboat up the river, and met the stage at Wheeling. After two or three days’ travelling upon the turnpike road, through the most sublime and beautiful mountain and valley scenery in the world, he arrived, late one evening, at the little hamlet of Ashley, situated in a wild and picturesque gap of the Blue Ridge.

Here, at the little inn, he ordered supper, and purposed to spend the night. But he had scarcely entered the little bed-room allotted to him, with the intention of refreshing himself with ablutions and a change of dress, before the head of the host was put through the door, and the information given that Colonel Ashley’s carriage had come to meet Mr. Sutherland, and was waiting below. He finished his toilet, however, before leaving his room.

He found the parlour occupied by two boys, of about thirteen and fifteen years of age, disputing the possession of a pistol, which, in the wrestle that ensued, went off—harmlessly. And before Mark could reprove them for their imprudence, they came to meet him. The elder lad, cap in hand, inquired, respectfully—

“Are you Mr. Sutherland, sir?”

“Yes, my son; have you business with me?”

“Father has sent the carriage for you, sir—that is all. My name is Henry—he’s Richard. St. Gerald, you know, is in Washington. He is in Congress, you know, and has made a great speech—father says, one of the greatest speeches that has been made since”—

“_Oh, sho!_ He’s a great deal older than we are, Mr. Sutherland; and he’s only our half-brother besides. _You_ don’t know every thing,” said the younger boy Richard, addressing the last phrase, accompanied by a punch in the side, to his brother.

“I am happy to meet you, Henry—how do you do, Richard?” said Mr. Sutherland, giving a hand to each of the boys.

“And so,” he added, smiling to himself, and at them, “this new star of the Capitol—this eloquent and admired St. Gerald Ashley—is a relative of yours?”

“Our brother,” said Henry.

“Our _half_-brother,” amended Richard, favouring his senior with another malicious punch in the ribs.

Hereupon another scuffle ensued, which Mr. Sutherland ended, by saying—

“Come—shall we go on to Ashley Hall, or will you take supper first, here, with me?”

“Take supper first here, with you,” assented the boys, who could have been tempted by nothing but the novelty to forego their father’s sumptuous supper-table for this poor tavern meal.

“It was kind to come and meet me. But how did you guess that I should arrive _this_ evening?”

“Oh, we did not guess. Father thought it about time you should come, and he sent the carriage, and intended to send it every stage-day until you _did_ come, or write, or something. Father would have come himself, only he staid home to read St. Gerald’s great speech.”

“St. Gerald” was evidently the hero of Henry’s worship.

While they supped, their horses were fed and watered. And, half an hour afterwards, Mr. Sutherland and his pupils entered the carriage, and were driven to Ashley Hall. It was quite dark when the carriage drew up before the door of a large, rumbling old building of red sandstone, scarcely to be distinguished from the irregular masses of rock rising behind and around it. A bright light illumined the hall, where the travellers were received by a negro man in waiting, who would have conducted them into a drawing-room on the left, but that Henry and Richard, breaking violently forward, threw open the door upon the right, exclaiming—

“Father is here. He is come, father! We found him at the village.”

A genial wood fire blazed and crackled in the wide, old-fashioned chimney of this room; and near it, in an easy chair, beside a candlestand, sat an old gentleman, engaged in reading a newspaper. No whit disturbed by the boisterous onslaught of the boys, he calmly laid aside his paper and stood up—an undersized, attenuated old man, with a thin, flushed face, and a head of hair as white and soft as cotton wool. He stood, slightly trembling with partial paralysis, but received Mr. Sutherland with the fine courtesy of an old-school gentleman.

The boys hurried about their own business.

The man-servant placed an arm chair for Mr. Sutherland. And when the latter was fairly seated, the old gentleman resumed his own seat, and inquired whether his guest had supped. Being answered in the affirmative, he nevertheless ordered refreshments to be served there.

A stand, with wine, sandwiches, cake, and fruit was placed between them; and while they discussed these, the old gentleman, in an indifferent sort of manner, said—

“By the way, Mr. Sutherland, have you seen Monday’s paper, with the debate on the tariff? Here it is; take it—look over it. Never mind me, I would prefer that you should see it now. If any thing _strikes_ you, just read it aloud, will you?”

Mark took the paper, but found the “debate” to be all on one side, and in the mouth of one individual, to wit—the Hon. St. Gerald Ashley, of Virginia. He ran his eye over it—the old man fingering cheese and crackers, and pretending to eat, not to interrupt him. “Do you wish me to read this _debate_ aloud, sir?” asked Mark, benevolently inclined to indulge the aged father’s pride.

“Yes, yes,” said the old man, smiling, nodding, and crumbling soda crackers; “yes, if it will not tire you.”

“Oh, by no means,” answered Mark; and forthwith began.

The celebrated speech was, indeed, a master-piece of legislative oratory; and Mark Sutherland was an admirable elocutionist. He read, became deeply interested and absorbed, and before long was betrayed, by the old man’s enthusiasm and his sympathy, into declamation, interrupted now and then by Colonel Ashley’s exclaiming, “_That’s_ it! hear, hear. _That must_ have brought down the House! I wonder what the Democrats will find to say to _that_!”

Finally, laughing at the fever into which he had worked himself and his hearer, Mark finished the speech, and laid down the paper. It was time—it was past eleven o’clock—late hours for country people, and far too late for the aged and infirm.

“Thank you, sir. Thank you. You have given me a treat. It was as good as if I had heard it spoken,” said the old man, flushing with pride and pleasure. Soon after, he rang for night lamps, and a servant to show Mr. Sutherland to his room.

Early next morning, Mark Sutherland arose and left his bed-room. The family were not yet stirring; none but the house servants were about. And with the restlessness of a heart ill at ease, he walked out upon the piazza, to find diversion from the bitter retrospections of the past, and gloomy forebodings of the future, in the novel aspect of the country around him.

To one used to the undulating, luxurious beauty of southern scenery, there was something startling and inspiring in the abrupt, stern, rugged, yet vigorous and productive aspect of this mountainous region.

The Ashley plantation filled the whole of a small valley, shut in between two curving spurs of the Alleghanies, and watered by a branch of the Rappahannock. The Ashley house, an irregular but massive building of red sandstone, was situated at the foot of the mountain; behind it arose hoary rocks, intermingled or crowned by dark evergreens of pine and cedar; before it, at some distance, flowed the branch: around on every side within the vale were gardens, shrubberies, orchards, wheat and corn fields; and here and there, picturesquely placed, or half concealed by trees or jutting rocks, were the negro quarters; while more conspicuously, in the midst of the open fields, stood the barns and granaries. Altogether, the plantation, occupying the whole valley, and completely shut in by mountains, was an independent, isolated, little domain in itself.

Now, upon the second day of March, the grass along the margin of the branch was already fresh and verdant, and the wheat fields sprouting greenly. The morning was very bright and fresh, and Mark walked into the garden that lay to the left of the house. There he found three or four negroes, under the direction of the gardener, engaged in clearing up beds, tying vines, trimming trees, and repairing arbours and garden seats.

This place had not the luxurious beauty of the south, nor the fresh and vigorous life of the west; yet there was a solid, jolly, old homeliness about it, very comfortable even in contrast to those other scenes. Mark felt this, while alternately talking with the old gardener or contemplating the old home.

He was interrupted by an irruption of that Goth and Vandal, Henry and Richard Ashley, who, rushing upon him, seized the one his right hand and the other his left, and boisterously informed him that breakfast was ready, and had “been waiting ever so long.”

He returned their vehement greeting good-humouredly, and accompanied them into the house, and to the breakfast table, which was set in the old oak parlour where he had passed the preceding evening.

Two ladies, in simple, graceful, morning dresses of white cambric, sat near the fire, occupied with a little delicate needlework; Colonel Ashley stood with his back to the chimney, with _the_ paper in his hand, and talking to them about _the_ speech.

On seeing Mr. Sutherland, the old gentleman immediately stepped forward, welcomed him, and conducted him to the ladies, saying, “My dears, this is Mr. Sutherland; Mr. Sutherland, my”——

But before another syllable was spoken, the elder lady had lifted her face, started up with a blush of pleasure, and extended her hand, exclaiming—

“Mark Sutherland! Is it possible!”

“Mrs. Vivian! Miss Vivian!” exclaimed Mark, extending a hand to each, impulsively.

“Why, how strange that we should meet here!” said Valeria.

“A most pleasant surprise, indeed!” responded Mark.

“The surprise as well as the pleasure is mutual, I assure you! But how did it happen?”

“I am sure I do not know.”

“Nor I. Can _you_ guess, Rose?” and Mrs. Vivian turned to her step-daughter, who remained silent, with her fingers in the unconscious clasp of Mark Sutherland’s hand.

“I inquired only in jest, but now I really do believe you could tell us something about this,” persisted the lady, looking intently at the maiden.

Rosalie’s pale face slightly flushed; she withdrew her hand, resumed her seat, and took up her work. Colonel Ashley, if he _felt_, certainly _expressed_ no surprise at this re-union; but as, with stately courtesy, he handed his niece to the head of the table, said, “As Mrs. Vivian arrived only yesterday afternoon, and retired at once to rest from the fatigue of her journey, and as Mr. Sutherland reached here last night, there has been no time for conversation about our arrangements.”

“Ah, yes; that’s all very well; but you’ll never make me believe that Rose is not at the bottom of this, somehow,” laughed the widow, shaking her jetty curls as she sat down at the table. Her eyes met those of Rosalie for an instant, and the spirit of mischief was quelled. She became silent on that topic, and soon after changed the subject, entering into gay conversation about St. Gerald Ashley and his sudden fame.

When breakfast was over, Colonel Ashley invited Mr. Sutherland to accompany him to his study, where he began to unfold his plan for the education of his boys. After hearing him through, Mark inquired when he should enter upon his new duties, and requested to defer the commencement until Monday, and to use the intervening time to become acquainted with his home and pupils.

The interview then closed. Both gentlemen descended the stairs. Colonel Ashley told Mr. Sutherland that he would find the ladies in the parlour, and then, excusing himself, bade him good morning, and entered the carriage, which was waiting to take him to the village.

Mark opened the parlour door, advanced into the room, and before he could retreat, saw and heard the fragment of an earnest interview between the mother and daughter. Mrs. Vivian sat upon the sofa, her head bent, her jetty curls drooping, her jetty eyelashes and rosy cheeks sprinkling and sparkling with teardrops, like morning dew upon a fresh flower. She was nimbly and nervously stitching away at a piece of muslin embroidery.

Rosalie sat on a cushion before her, with her hands and her needlework fallen idly on her lap, and her pale hair fallen back from her paler, upturned brow, and earnest eyes, that were fixed upon her mother’s. She was asking in open accents, “Oh, mamma! can this be possible?”

“Not only possible, but true, Rose,” replied the lady, dashing the sparkling tears away.

“Oh, mamma! do not let him meet such a shock; prepare him for it, mamma.”

“I cannot; how could I? Hush—here he is,” said she, perceiving Mark. And in an instant, presto! all was changed.

Smiling out from her tears, like an April sun from a cloud, or a blooming rose scattering its dew in the breeze, she looked up and said, “Come in, Mark; draw that easy chair up here to the sofa, and sit down, for I know by experience that men are lazy as the laziest women.”

Mr. Sutherland took the indicated seat. Miss Vivian started from her lowly position, resuming her place upon the sofa, drawing the foot-cushion under her feet, and arranging her needlework.

“It is really surprising that we should all meet here so unexpectedly in Alleghany county,” said Mrs. Vivian.

“I certainly had not anticipated such a pleasure. I did not know that you were related to Colonel Ashley, or to any one else in this part of the country.”

“Nor am I. Colonel Ashley is Rosalie’s great uncle—her mother’s uncle. Colonel Ashley’s last remaining single daughter was married last year, and Rosalie was invited to take her abdicated place in his household. Physicians recommended the bracing air of the mountains for my delicate girl, and therefore Rosalie has been living here for the last eighteen months—ever since we left Cashmere, in fact. Last winter, I think, was rather too cold for her here on the mountains. I spent the season in Washington, from whence I have just returned; but next winter I intend to take Rose to Louisiana with me, and make an arrangement by which she can spend all her winters in the south.”

“Indeed, mamma, you shall not immolate your happiness upon my ill health. You shall just spend your winters in Washington, where you enjoy life so much, and your summers at the watering-places, where you meet again your gay and brilliant friends. I shall do well enough. You shall visit me in the spring and autumn intervals.”

“Oh, a truce, Rosalie! We shall be set down as a model mother and daughter. _I_ know, for _one_, selfishness is the mainspring of all my acts. I rather think I like you, child, and prefer to see you well. There! I declare there’s Robert with the horses already. Put on your cloth habit, Rosalie; the morning is really cold; and don’t let him take you far, child; these hearty men have very little instinctive mercy for delicate girls, and he would not imagine he had tired you to death till you had dropped from your horse.”

Rosalie arose, rolled up her work, and left the room, nodding and smiling to a young man who entered as she left. “Mr. Bloomfield,” said the lady, presenting him to Mr. Sutherland. Mr. Bloomfield was a sufficiently pleasing specimen of a well-bred, country beau—moderately tall, broad-shouldered, and deep-chested—with regular features—fresh, ruddy complexion—clear, merry blue eyes—and lips, whose every curve expressed the good humour and benevolence of a kind, contented heart.

“You mustn’t take Rose far, Robert.”

“I will take her only to mother’s.”

“And you sha’n’t teaze her with any more nonsense! I can’t put up with that, you know.”

Robert Bloomfield blushed violently, smiled till all his regular white teeth shone, and was stammering out a blundering deprecation, when, to his great relief, Rosalie appeared, attired for the ride. The young man arose, Mrs. Vivian surveyed Rose, to be sure she was well defended from the cold, and finally yielded her in charge of her escort, who bowed and took her out.

Mrs. Vivian and Mark looked at them through the window, saw him place her in the saddle with more than polite attention—with a careful and tender solicitude that made her smile. When they had ridden off she turned to Mark, and said—

“I like that good-humoured, blundering boy. He has been paying court to Rose ever since she has been here. He is a young man of independent fortune, irreproachable character, fair education, and most excellent disposition, and he has loved Rose for more than a year. Yet, with all, he is not worthy of her! he wants polish—the polish that nothing but intercourse with refined society can give him. He came to see me last winter in Washington, got fitted out by a fashionable tailor, and I good-naturedly took him with me to an evening party. If ever I do such a thing again as long as I live may——; but never mind! Just think, when I presented him to a superfine belle, of his holding out his hands to shake hands with her, telling her he was glad to see her, and hoping that if ever she passed through his part of the country, she would pay his mother and sisters a visit, &c. And then, when the elegant Mrs. A. inquired if Mr. Bloomfield waltzed, just fancy him blushing furiously, and saying that he would rather not—that he disapproved of waltzing!”

“Well!” said Mrs. Vivian, looking up, after a pause.

“Yes—well?” inquired her companion, raising his eyebrows.

“You have not made a single comment upon my country beau. I see how it is. You’re thinking of your relatives. Mark, you must question me if you want me to tell you anything.”

“My mother”—began the young man.

“She is living very comfortably with her husband at Cashmere.”

“With her husband!”

“Is it possible you did not know she was married, Mark?”

“I never knew it—I never dreamed it—I never thought it possible.” He looked shocked—he _was_ shocked.

“And why not?” asked the lady, with a little jealous petulance. “Why may not a widow remarry?”

“Nay—I do not know, I’m sure,” said Mr. Sutherland, with his eyebrows still raised, and his eyes fixed upon the floor. “My mother married! Will you please tell me to whom?”

“To whom? Oh, of course you know, Mark. Now, who was it likely to be, but Dr. Wells?”

“Our old family physician!”

“Why of course. You know he had been pleased with her a long time.”

“That my mother should have married!”

“She never would have done so, Mark, had you not left her.”

“And she is happy, you say?”

“Comfortable, Mark. Your mother and Dr. Wells make what Tim Linkenwater calls ‘a comfortable couple.’”

“I am not so much grieved as surprised,” said Mr. Sutherland. And after a short pause he said, “There was another—my cousin.”

The face of the lady grew troubled—she did not speak.

“Is _India_ well?” again spake Mark, in a faltering voice.

“India is well, and beautiful as ever. She was the belle of Washington last winter—her beauty the theme of every tongue—the envy of every woman, the madness of every man. No assembly was complete without ‘the Pearl of Pearl River!’”

Mark Sutherland grew pale, and shivered—saying, “Of course she”——

“Among her own sex there was no rival star. She divided public interest and attention only with St. Gerald Ashley, that great new planet on the political horizon.”

Mark Sutherland’s whole strong frame was convulsed. He started up and paced the floor in extreme agitation—then, seizing his hat, rushed out of the room.

“And _I_ was to prepare him for it, said Rosalie!” exclaimed Mrs. Vivian, looking after him, as the pity of her heart grew strong.