Chapter XXV: Cashmere

“You were not meant to struggle from your youth,
To skulk, and creep, and in mean pathways range;
Act with stern truth, largo faith, and loving will—
Up and be doing.”—_Lowell._

Four years had passed away since Mark Sutherland and Rosalie had taken up their residence in the village of Shelton. In this space of time many changes had passed over the village community and the individuals that composed it. The Territory had been erected into a state—new towns were incorporated—new cities founded—old ones throve. Shelton itself had more than doubled in population and importance. Where there had been but three or four stores, there were now a dozen; where there had been but two churches, there were now five. A handsome courthouse stood on the site of the old log tenement, whence the law, if not justice, had once issued its decisions; an excellent market-place, well attended, added much to the comfort of the citizens; a lyceum—an incipient library and museum, perhaps—lent its attractions to the town; an elegant and capacious hotel replaced the rude, clap-boarded tavern of Colonel Garner. The country around the village had become thickly settled, and many, many improvements, which it were tedious to enumerate, had added to the importance of the place.

Our friends, Mark and Rosalie, had grown up with the village. Their paper, “_The True Freeman_,” and their school, had both greatly prospered. But no one in the world, except Mark himself, knew how much of this prosperity was owing to the cheerful hope, the firm faith, the warm zeal, the untiring perseverance of Rosalie. And at times he wondered at the power of that pale, fragile creature—for she was still very delicate and frail.

His professional business had increased very rapidly. He could not have specified any day, or any suit, from which his success had taken its impetus—all had been so gradual, so purely the result of application and perseverance, rather than of accident or fortune. He felt that here too there was an outward influence, an external power, to which he owed much, very much, of his persistent energy—a power living by his side, that continually threw itself with all its ardour and force into his purposes—into his soul—warming and strengthening him for effort, for endurance.

His success was wonderful. He was already the most popular, the busiest, as he was also considered the most able lawyer in the West. Though but twenty-five years of age, he was no longer only by courtesy “Judge”—he was the presiding Judge of the court, by the appointment of the Executive. He had been elected to the State Senate; he had been named as a candidate for Governor. And he felt and knew that from the quiet, fair, and fragile being at his side, he drew continual strength, and light, and warmth; that, in addition to his own, he absorbed _her_ life—her life, that she gave freely to her love. Her form was frailer, her face wanner, but more beautiful, more impressive than ever—for her eyes were brilliant and eloquent with enthusiasm, and her lips, “touched with fire.”

“Not only for you—not only for you—but for _humanity_, dearest Mark, I wish you to attain power and place. You will attain them, and——_I shall not die till then_!” she would mentally add.

At the end of the fourth year of their residence in Shelton, Rosalie having attained her majority, it became necessary for Mark Sutherland to go to Mississippi—to Cashmere—on the part of his wife, for the purpose of making a final settlement with her guardian, Clement Sutherland, and taking possession of her splendid fortune. He wished very much that Rosalie should accompany him to the South; but as the necessity of her personal attendance might be dispensed with, and as at home the interests of their household, their school, and the paper, seemed to require the presence of one of them, it was decided that Mark Sutherland should depart on his journey alone.

It was on a cool, pleasant day of September that Judge Sutherland set out on his journey for the South. Rosalie had accompanied him on board the boat, to remain as long as she might before the steamer should leave the wharf. It was their first separation since their marriage, and upon that account alone, perhaps, they felt it the more sensibly; and as the boat was getting up her steam, Mark Sutherland blessed and dismissed his wife. He felt—how wan, how fragile, how spiritual was her appearance; he almost felt that at any moment she might be wafted from his possession, from his sight, for ever. The idea transfixed him with a sharp agony, but only for a little while.

The boat was on her way, and his thoughts turned from her he was leaving behind to those he was hastening to meet. This way, too, was full of anxiety. Nearly a year had passed since he had heard from any of his friends in Mississippi. Although he had written to his mother regularly, he had received no letter from her for several months, and the vague reports from Silentshades were not satisfactory. Six weeks had intervened since his wife had attained her majority, and they had advised Mr. Clement Sutherland to be prepared to give an account of and yield up the property left in his care for so many years; yet no answer had been vouchsafed. Rumour also spoke of Clement Sutherland as a suspected, if not a ruined man. Full of anxiety as to the truth of these injurious rumours and the causes of this ominous silence, Mark Sutherland paced the deck of the steamer as it pursued its course down the river.

It was on the afternoon of the sixth day of his voyage, that the boat stopped at the wharf of the small hamlet of C——, and Mark Sutherland debarked, and hired a horse to take him to Cashmere. He left his portmanteau in the care of the landlord of the little tavern, and set out on his ride. Leaving the low banks of the river to the westward behind him, he rode on towards the interior of the State, ascended a line of hills, and descending the other side, entered once more the “Beautiful Valley of the Pearl.” Here then he stood once more upon the scene of his youth’s tragedy! With the profoundest interest he looked around. But all was, or seemed to be, changed! Had it really ever been so beautiful as it had once seemed to him, and had age and decay passed over it? Or had its beauty been only the glamour thrown over the scene by youth, and love, and hope? It might have been his changed and purified vision; for much of imagination, enthusiasm, ideality, had passed away with the morning of Mark’s life, even as the silvery mist of sunrise passes away before the full, broad day.

It might have been the waning season, for it was now late in a dry and burning September; but the beauty and glory had departed from the vale. The luxuriant green freshness of summer had departed, and the brilliant and gorgeous magnificence of autumn had not come. All the vegetation—forests, and shrubberies, and grasses—was dry and parched in the sun, and the very earth beneath seemed _calcined_ by the dry and burning heat. The springs, ponds, and watercourses were low, muddy, and nearly exhausted; and over all the sun-burned, feverish earth, hung a still, coppery, parching sky. You scarcely could tell which was driest and hottest—the burning sky above, or the burning earth below.

It was, as an old field negro said, “like an oven-lid on an oven.” The Pearl itself was now a narrow, shrunken, sluggish stream, creeping between high banks of red and pulverized earth, that was always sliding in and discolouring and thickening the stream of water.

Mark Sutherland rode down to the edge of the river, to the ferry house—once a neat and well-kept little building, now fallen into neglect and dilapidation.

The white-haired negro ferryman was a servant of Clement Sutherland’s, and an old acquaintance of Mark’s. He met his “young master” with a sort of subdued surprise and pleasure, and to his question as to whether they were all well at Cashmere, answered with a sigh that they were just as well as usual.

Mark asked no other questions, and in perfect silence the old man put his passenger over to the Cashmere side.

Here had once been a well-kept wharf, but now it was much worn and out of repair. Under the shade of a group of elms on the right had once stood a pretty boat-house, in the form of a Chinese Pagoda; it was now a heap of ruins. There had once been a little fleet of boats moored under its shadow; there remained now one large, dirty skiff, half-full of mud and water, and floating idly on the turbid stream; and another smaller skiff, high and dry upon the beach, with its timbers shrunken apart, bleaching in the sun.

As Mark rode on through the grounds towards the house, he noticed further signs of approaching desolation. Fences were broken or down, and out-buildings were dilapidated or unroofed. Passing through the orchard, he saw the trees untrimmed; some broken down with their loads of over-ripe fruit, some blighted—a prey to vermin—and some dying or dead, and wrapped in shrouds of cobwebs. Entering the vineyard, he observed the trellis-work broken and falling, the vines trailing on the ground, and the ripe and luscious fruit rotting on its stems. He paused near the garden on his right, and a glance showed him that favourite resort of his youth, once the perfection of order and beauty, now a wilderness where thousands of the most lovely flowers and most noxious weeds dried and decayed together under the burning sun of September. There the deadly nightshade grew ranker than the rose which it crowded out of life; and the poison oak, whose contact is death, twined in and out among the tendrils of the honeysuckle and the clematis.

Everywhere! everywhere! all things betokened indifference and neglect, and prophesied of ruin and despair. While occupied with wondering what could have been the cause of this great and grievous change, Mark Sutherland perceived the approach of an old negro, who touched his hat in respectful salutation, and followed him to the foot of the Rose Terrace, where he stood in readiness to take the horse. Mark dismounted, and threw the reins to the groom, whom he now recognized for an old acquaintance. He held out his hand and spoke kindly to the old man, inquiring after his wife and children.

“All well as can be ’spected—Marse Mark! Ah, chile! things is changed since you was here—‘deed dey is, honey. Tree year han’ runnin’ ole marse crap fail—‘fore my blessed Hebbenly Master, dey did, honey—tree year han’ runnin’. ‘Deed, den, when we-dem had fuss-rate crap, come de tornado, an’ ruin eberyting; and nothin’ eber been fix up right since. An’ ‘pears like nothin’ eber gone right since. Den ole marse he went to speculatin’, and loss heap o’ money—leastways so dey do say. Den arter a bit come de sheriff, executionizin’ down on top o’ we-dem poor coloured people, as hadden nothin’ ‘tal to do wid it—an’ carries away all de best of us—all my poor dear gals an’ boys, as I hoped to spen’ my ole days wid, an’ good many oders. And since dat, seem like we-dem aint had no heart to tend to nothin’—a-pinin’ arter our poor children—it kinder takes all the strength out’n us.”

With a deep sigh, Mark Sutherland turned from the poor old man, and went up the stone steps that led to the Rose Terrace, that was also a neglected wilderness—but a wilderness of roses, and therefore still beautiful. Unannounced, he went up into the piazza; and before he could retreat, in an instant he saw and heard the following:—A man—or perhaps I should be expected to say, a gentleman—of very bloated and slothful appearance, was lazily reclining upon a bench, with his feet on the top of the balustrades, and with his right arm around the waist of a pretty, frightened quadroon girl, who seemed from the fan she still held, to have been engaged in keeping the flies off from him while he slept. She was now gently and fearfully struggling to free herself from his clasp, and saying, in hushed, frightened tones—

“O! if you please, sir, don’t! Consider. Indeed it isn’t right. What would my dear mistress say?”

“Mistress! my pretty Oriole! I wish she may say anything! Let her! You _shall_ kiss me!”

“O master! O sir!”

At this moment Mark Sutherland had entered, advanced, and bowed very coldly, saying—“Mr. St. Gerald Ashley, if I remember right?”

The ruin of St. Gerald Ashley arose to his feet, and answered, with something of his former ease and self-possession,

“Yes, sir. Mr. Sutherland, you are welcome to Cashmere again. Walk in; or would you prefer to sit down in the cool air here for a few moments? The house is very warm. Girl, go and let you mistress know that Mr. Sutherland has arrived.”

He added this command in a tone of authority, in strong contrast of his tone of wooing of a moment since.

Oriole, with her eyes filled with tears, and her face dyed with blushes, went gladly to obey.

Mr. Ashley then conducted his guest into the house.

In a few minutes Oriole returned. Her mistress was too indisposed to appear; Mr. Sutherland would please to excuse her.

Within half an hour a servant, summoned for the purpose, showed Mr. Sutherland to his room, and supplied him with articles necessary to the bath and toilet.

After refreshing himself, Mark rang the bell, and requested to know if Mr. Clement Sutherland was in the house, and when he could see him.

He was answered, that Mr. Sutherland had ridden to the county town, and would not return before the next morning.

And soon after he was summoned to the supper-table. No one was present at the board beside Mr. Ashley and Mark Sutherland, except Oriole, who stood at the head of the table, and poured out the coffee. With profound and melancholy interest Mark Sutherland watched this girl. She had been a pretty child, and now had ripened into a most beautiful woman. A slight and elegant form, well rounded and tapering, pliant and graceful as a willow, oval face of the purest olive, warming into pomegranate bloom upon the cheeks and lips; large, dark-grey, passionate eyes, fringed with long black lashes, “sweet low brow,” shaded with soft, black, silky ringlets, a countenance full of slumbrous passion and emotion, with little strength of spirit or of intellect. These formed the complete and matchless beauty of the maiden, and Mark Sutherland noticed—he could not help but notice, his interest was so painfully excited—the glances with which Mr. Ashley followed the gracefully-moving form of Oriole.

Mark Sutherland wished to inquire after the health and welfare of his mother, with whom he had made several attempts to open a correspondence, but from whom he had not heard for nearly four years; but an undefinable reluctance withheld him from naming the subject to the degenerate man before him. Mr. Ashley ordered more wine, and pressed it upon his companion; but Mark Sutherland, habitually abstemious, suffered his glass to be filled once, and then excused himself; and Mr. Ashley filled and quaffed glass after glass, momentarily more and more garrulous, noisy, and familiar with Oriole—calling her to his side, drawing her towards him, pinching her cheek and pulling her ears with maudlin freedom; while the poor girl, blushing with shame and confusion, and weeping with grief and terror, sought in vain to escape.

Mark Sutherland, deeply offended with the scene, would gladly have withdrawn, but that he felt his presence to be some protection to the poor girl; he would gladly have interfered for her succour, but that he knew such interference, far from saving her, would hurry on her destruction. It is hard to be wise and prudent when the blood is boiling; and it is uncertain how long he would have remained so, had not a bell sounded in a distant part of the house, and Oriole, taking advantage of the circumstance, exclaimed, “It is my mistress,” and made her escape.

Mr. Ashley poured out and quaffed glass after glass of wine, until his ranting mood was merging into a stupid one; and Mark Sutherland seized the first opportunity to rise and leave the table, and pass into the drawing-room.

That elegant drawing-room which you may recollect communicated with Miss Sutherland’s beautiful boudoir—how changed since he saw it last! Desolation was creeping even into the sanctuary of the house. He had scarcely time to note this by the sickly light of the moon through the open shutters, when a loud, familiar voice in the hall arrested his attention—

“Where is he? In the drawing-room? And no light there? Get a candle, directly, you scoundrel! and light me in there! I shall break my shins over these empty baskets and upset stools—do you hear?”

And soon after entered a slovenly man-servant bringing a guttering tallow candle, stuck in a mildewed silver candlestick, which he sat upon a dusty and spotted marble pier-table. He was followed closely by Mr. Billy Bolling, who, with outstretched arms, and almost shouting his welcome, ran to Mark, and clasped him around the body, exclaiming, sobbingly—

“My dear—dear—bo-oy! I’m so glad to see you! And how are you? And how did you leave little Rose? And when did you get here? And nobody to welcome you, but that brandy-swilling beast in there!——Begone, you black villain, you! Who gave _you_ leave to stand there eavesdropping, eh?——That’s a field nigger, Mark! Every decent house servant, man and maid, that we had in the world, has fallen under the hammer long ago—all, except Oriole, whom that fellow yonder bought in for his own purposes. Ah! Mark, times are changed, my boy, since you were here! Heigh-ho! ‘_Sic transit gloria mundi_,’” said Mr. Bolling, sinking into a threadbare velvet chair, and wiping his rosy face—as fat, fair, and rosy as ever.

“_You_ are not changed, uncle, except that you appear to be in even finer health than ever.”

“_Me!_ Why, I’m dying of mortification and grief! _I am._ I have got an organic disease of the heart. _Yes, of the heart._ The string the most strained the soonest snaps! Heigh-ho!”

“Why, I declare, Uncle Billy, I never in all my life saw a man in such perfect health. You are fatter and rosier than ever!”

“Fatter and rosier! Lord help your perspicasity! It’s—it’s _dropsy_, and—and—_fever!_ That’s what it is—this fat and rosy.”

“Reassure yourself, Uncle Billy, and tell me how it fares with all our friends.”

“All going to the dogs—all going to the dogs—except them that are going to the demon!”

“Nay, Uncle Billy, I hope not—any more than you are going into a consumption. How are they all at Silentshades? How is my dear mother?”

“Silentshades! Mother! Heigh! didn’t you know they had sold Silentshades long ago, and moved to Texas?” exclaimed Uncle Billy, with a look of unbounded astonishment.

“I knew nothing about it. This is the first word I have heard of it! What on earth could have tempted my mother to sell her home and move away from all her friends?”

“What could have tempted her?—what could have tempted her?” repeated Uncle Billy, mockingly, shutting his eyes, pinching his lips, and bobbing up his nose and chin, with petulance and contempt. “What could have tempted her to _marry Doctor Wells, at her age_?—a woman of forty, whose matrimonial feelings should all be quiet? What could have tempted her to do _that_?”

“I suppose my mother was lonesome.”

“Oh! lonesome be hanged! Wasn’t _I_ there—her natural born brother—to keep her company? I don’t brag—but you know what company _I am_, nephew.”

“Yes,” said Mark, suppressing a smile.

“Well, I was there to take care of her, and protect her, and keep her company, and cowhide her niggers—although that last is very laborious exertion, and always put me in a profuse perspiration, and gives me a palpitation of the heart—the thoughtless creatures, to put me to the trouble of fatiguing myself so. And now, if you want to know what _tempted_ your mother to sell her home and leave all her friends, I’ll just tell you—vanity.”

“Vanity!”

“Yes, _vanity_—the wish to be thought generous, and disinterested, and _confiding_,” sneered Uncle Billy.

Mark Sutherland reddened.

“My dearest mother was all that in reality, without wishing to be _thought_ so!”

“I tell you ’twas _vanity_—_vanity_ that tempted her to sell her home—_vanity_ that tempted her to marry—_vanity_ that tempted her first to listen to a suitor—_a woman of her age_! But I do think women are the most incorrigible—the most provoking—the most hopeless—and of all women, middle-aged widows are the most _desperate_ fools!”

“Uncle Billy, I suppose, as an old bachelor, you have a license to rail at women in general, and, as an elder brother, you have liberty to be unjust to your sister. My mother was a handsome woman, in her prime, and it appears to me not unnatural that she should have married. But if you thought otherwise, you should have told her so.”

“For what good? A cat _may_ release a mouse from its claws; a rattle-snake a charmed bird from its jaws; the grave give up its victim; but never cat held mouse, or snake bird, or grave victim with such a death-grip as a middle-aged widow holds her last lover!”

“Just now you told me that Dr. Wells tempted my mother into this marriage—now, you lay the responsibility upon _her_. That is like you, old, impartial justice, Mr. ‘Bothsides.’”

“All true. They tempted each other—she, him, with her handsome property! he, her, with his handsome person! He was bent on having her plantation!—she, on having him. And so they soldered an engagement that Satan himself, with his sledge hammer, could not have shivered. I’ll tell you all about it, Mark! I kept a sharp look-out on that chap when he first came prowling about Silentshades. I was tempted to shoot him by mistake, for a catamount. But _I_ twigged him! Very little of that palavering courtship, that _I_ didn’t hear! Sure as ever they’d be on the piazza, _I’d_ be in the parlour under the window, listening.”

“But what did you think of yourself, Mr. Bolling, for your eavesdropping?”

“Thought I was doing my duty by my sister, to circumvent a gay deceiver!”

Mark frowned.

“Oh, now you don’t know how old pill-box and blister-plaster could court! You should have heard him talk about that ‘regal brow’—‘that, _that_ face!’ (as if there was no word good enough to describe it)—and ‘those holy eyes’—and ‘my darling, _oh_, my darling’—and ‘my lovely Helen’—and ‘it is too much, _too_ much to crave of Heaven’ (her love you know he meant)—and ‘oh, my dearest’—and ‘this little hand’—and all the rest of the lying balderdash, which I suppose was mighty sweet to a woman who had not heard such words for twenty years.”

“And how do you know it was not perfectly sincere?” exclaimed Mark, indignantly rising and walking away.

“What, at forty?” coolly inquired Uncle Billy, getting up and walking about, and fanning himself, and sitting down again.

But Mr. Sutherland was much too deeply interested in his mother’s fate to keep silence. He returned, and resumed his seat, and inquired—

“Has my mother’s marriage turned out happy?”

“Don’t know—can’t say, I’m sure!”

“You have not told me yet why she sold her home.”

“Dr. Wells tempted her to do it for his sake. This was the way of it: Lord bless your soul, he was too old and cunning to stop courting her after the honeymoon, or at least until he had got his hands on the property; on the contrary, they sat on the bench of the piazza against the parlour window blinds, and _courted_ more than ever! And I laid on the lounge under the same window in the parlour, and _listened_ more than ever. And then he cooed to her, and called her ‘My boon,’ ‘My blessing,’ and ‘My bride;’ and told her what a noble woman she was—how full of sensibility, benevolence, and disinterestedness—how full of honour, truth, and courage.”

“Well, sir, it was truth! I can easily understand how much truth should have burst impulsively from the lips of any one intimately associated with my dear mother!” exclaimed Mark, impatiently.

Uncle Billy shut his eyes, and bobbed up his chin contemptuously, and then resumed:

“Truth, was it? Well, you shall hear the rest of the truth. By-and-by he began to take the tone of a wise, affectionate guide and husband—which I have always noticed is very charming to good women, especially when it is mixed up with a little appreciative admiration—and he told her again what a high-principled, noble woman she was, and how she had only to get rid of _one_ foible—_one_ little weakness—and she would be a _glorious_ woman—a perfect woman! And she pressed to know what it was, and she was willing to get rid of _any_ fault he disapproved. ‘Oh,’ he told her, ‘it was a want of _trustfulness_—a want of that _confiding spirit so beautiful in woman_—it was no fault; only but for that one small foible she would be such a glorious woman!’ Well, Mark, to convince him that she could exercise a confiding spirit, and so become ‘a glorious woman’ all out, she gives him the full possession and perfect control of all her property, real and personal; and the upshot of it all is, that Dr. Wells has sold Silentshades, and they have emigrated to Texas!”

“Was my mother willing to go?”

“I don’t know, Mark. After parting with Silentshades, they remained here at Cashmere about three months before getting off to Texas; and I thought in that three months your mother altered more than any one I had ever seen.”

“Poor, dear mother!”

“There was another thing that gave her trouble. The Doctor certainly _did_ neglect her; and then he took a great fancy to purchase a beautiful maid-servant from Clement Sutherland—I dare say you remember the girl—she was Mrs. Ashley’s own maid, Oriole.”

“Yes, I know”—

“Mrs. Ashley—India—wished to part with her, too; and I dare say the sale would have been effected, only there was an execution, and Oriole, with half-a-dozen of the likeliest of the house servants, both men and maids, were seized, and put up at auction. Well, when Oriole was placed upon the block, there was pretty high bidding, I assure you. The three principal bidders were a New Orleans trader—who seemed determined to have the girl at any price—and Dr. Wells, and Mr. Ashley. But Dr. Wells and Mr. Ashley outbid the trader, and had the field all to themselves; and the contest ran very high between them. I wish you could have seen those two men bidding against each other for that girl! They became excited—angry—their eyes grew blood-shot—they glanced at each other like tigers—their glances flashed fire! They ran the price up to a ridiculous pitch. Finally, Dr. Wells, frowning, sat down. Mr. Ashley was the purchaser. ‘Thank Heaven,’ said your mother, when she heard the issue. Mrs. Ashley curled her lip in proud silence!”

Mark Sutherland dropped his head upon his hands, and groaned. A pause ensued, which after some time was broken by Mr. Sutherland.

“You mentioned an execution on the premises—is it possible my uncle was in debt beyond his means of cash payment?”

“Umph! I don’t think any one in the State would consider it worth while to ask the question _now_.”

“I do not understand how his colossal fortune could have so sunken.”

“Ah, well! now I’ll tell you his fortune was not so colossal after all. To be sure, he owned several thousand acres of land; but reflect that nine-tenths of that was pine barrens and cypress swamps, producing nothing and costing considerable in taxes; and he owned several hundred negroes; but remember that one-third of them were old people, and one-third of them children, who had to be supported out of the labour of the others; and he owned this very magnificent seat of Cashmere; but consider how much of his capital was invested in the building, laying out and adorning of this house and grounds, and how much in debt it left him, and you will come to a fairer conclusion in your estimate of your uncle’s fortune. And then this great commercial crash, that has ruined so many people, has affected him deeply. He lost one hundred thousand dollars by the villany of Claxton & Co., manufacturers, and nearly as much more by the failure of Fleece and Brother, importers, Liverpool. And what was worse than all, he made a desperate attempt to retrieve his fortunes by speculation, and failed, with a stupendous loss. It was like a gambler’s last stake, and he lost it—and now he is ready to blow his own brains out! Lord grant that your wife’s fortune may be safe, Mark, which I doubt.”

“Oh! certainly; I have not the slightest misgiving of it. It was real estate, and could not have been staked in any way, you know.”

Mr. Bolling shook his head.

Unheedful of that wise gesture, Mr. Sutherland asked, “And how does my cousin India bear this?”

“I don’t know—I don’t think she cares about it. Mark, perhaps I oughtn’t to tell you, but I don’t think she cares for _anything_, or has ever cared for anything, since you and she broke off, nearly seven years ago. She never cared a cent for the man she married”—

“Hush! you must not say that!”

“But I _will_ say it, because it’s the solemn truth. She never cared a sous, cent, marquee, for him, though he loved the very ground she walked on. If ever you saw a man infatuated with a woman, St. Gerald was with India; his eyes followed her fondly wherever she moved. Yes, a year after they were married, I saw him slily take up a glove of hers, and pet it, and talk to it, and kiss it, and put it in his bosom, as if it had been a live thing—the consummate idiot! And the same day I saw him strike her down before him with a blow!”

Mark Sutherland started to his feet, and gazed wildly at the speaker, who reiterated—

“_Yes_, I _did_; I saw that with my eyes!”

“And stood by, and permitted a man to strike a woman!”

“I never interfere between man and wife. Besides, what business had she to deceive and marry him, while she loved another—and to meet his attentions with aversion—and finally to be found sobbing hysterically over a lock of black hair, when _his_ was brown? No, if he had killed her on the spot, I should have been sorry for—_him_. He loved her truly and well. She loathed him. I have seen her shudder all over, if he did but press her hand, or stroke her dainty curls. He felt her repulsion; it drove him mad! To sum up all, Mark, as I said before, a curse is on the place and on the people; they are all going to the dogs, who are not going to the d——l! But now, tell me something about yourself. You are a Judge of the Court, I hear?”

“I have that honour.”

“Well, I always said you’d turn out well! d——d if I didn’t! I shall live to see you Chief Justice of the Supreme Court yet! And hark you, nephew; _I intend to go home and live with you_. I feel it my duty to encourage you. I’ll stick to you, Mark. I don’t care what Clement Sutherland and the rest say. I’ll stick to you, my boy. You shall never have it to say that your old uncle fell away from you. But now, tell me, how is your little wife? _Well_, I know, else you would not be here, eh?”

“Rosalie is well, but not strong.”

“Never was, poor little thing. And how are the little children, and how many of them are there, and are they girls or boys, or both, and what are their names?”

“We have no children.”

“What! lost them all? Well, poor little things, they are better off.”

“We never had any children.”

“Oh-h-h! Whew-w-w!” whistled Mr. Bolling, rather disconcerted; then resuming, he said—“well, neither have the Ashleys. That’s strange! What the d——l’s that hubbub in the dining-room? Ugh! It’s the niggers toting that animal up to bed! _He_, who seven years ago was called the brightest rising star on the political horizon! Now look at him! That is India’s fault! What tremendous power women have for _evil_!”

“And for _good_!” said Mark Sutherland, as his thoughts flew to his guardian angel, Rosalie.

Wearied with his journey, and longing for the solitude that would leave him free to reflect upon all that he had just heard, Mark Sutherland expressed a wish to retire. Mr. Bolling rang for the night lamps, and they parted for the night.