Chapter IV: Mrs. Sutherland

On her cheek the autumn flush
Deeply ripens; such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.
Round her eyes her tresses lay—
Which are blackest, none can say;
But long lashes veil a light
That had else been all too bright.—_Hood._

On the opposite side of the Pearl from Cashmere, and a little further down the river, and back from its banks, in a small vale embosomed in hills, was Silentshades, the home of Mark Sutherland. The homestead was the same that had been built by his father, upon first laying out the plantation. The house was very modest and unpretending—a moderate-sized, oblong building of two stories, painted light brown, with green shutters, and with piazzas surrounding both floors. The house was shaded and darkened by catalpa trees clustering thick about it and overhanging the roof. The pillars of the piazzas were thickly twined with running vines, that, branching and interlacing, formed a beautiful _treillage_ of foliage and flowers. Doors from this piazza admitted directly into the rooms upon the first floor. In the right-hand front room, opening upon two sides into the piazza, upon the next evening after the events related in the last chapter, sat Mrs. Sutherland. She was a medium-sized, full-formed brunette, of perhaps forty years of age; yet so perfect was her physical organization, and so well regulated her moral nature, so even, calm, and blameless had been the tenor of her life, that now, she was a specimen—not, certainly, of youthful beauty—but of a rarer kind of matured and perfected matronly beauty. Her style was noble and simple. Her rich, abundant hair of glossy black, with purplish light, was plainly divided above a broad forehead, and laying down upon the temples in heavy looped bands, was carried behind and twisted into a thick, rich coil, and wound round and round into a large knot fastened with pins; there were no combs, curls, ribbons, or fripperies of any sort, to mar the simple, grand beauty of the head. The eyebrows were black and lightly arched; the eyes large, dark, and very quiet, under their curtain of long black lashes; the nose perfectly straight; and the cheeks, lips, and chin, perfectly beautiful in contour. Her complexion was of that mellow, Italian brown, flushing and deepening in the cheeks to a carnation richness. (Uncle Billy, who sincerely admired his sister, always said that her complexion ever reminded him of the bloom on a ripe, luscious peach.) Her dress was very simple—a black silk with a delicate lace collar pinned with a small diamond brooch. She sat in an easy chair, reading a letter; and as she read and turned the leaves a quiet smile would just dawn and play on her lips. By her side was a stand with an open book, a workbox, and a little silver hand-bell. At last, without removing her eyes from the letter, she smilingly extended her hand, and rang the little bell. A servant entered, and still without withdrawing her eyes from the fascinating letter, she said:

“Send Mrs. Jolly to me, William.”

The man withdrew with a bow, and the housekeeper entered, and awaited the commands of the lady.

Slowly and smilingly folding up the letter, she said, “Mr. Sutherland is coming home this evening. He brings a friend, a young gentleman, with him. I wish you to have their chambers prepared; and do remember to close the wire-gauze blinds, and burn catalpa leaves in the rooms, to destroy any mosquitoes that may remain.”

“And at what time shall I order supper, madam?”

“Ah, yes—it will be necessary to put it back two or three hours. You must judge of that. Mr. Sutherland may arrive at any time between this and ten o’clock.”

The housekeeper left the room, and the lady sank into her chair again, to re-peruse her letter, smiling and murmuring to herself, half aloud—“Dear boy! dearest Mark! Sure no mother ever had a son like mine. Comes to _me_ first—comes to _me_ before hastening to see his lady-love—his adored India. Dearest Mark—but his devotion shall be rewarded. He shall find his India here.” And she went to a writing-desk, took paper, and pen, and ink, and wrote the following note:

SILENTSHADES, _June_, 184–.

DEAR INDIA: My dear niece, but dearer daughter, just get into your
carriage, and come to me, and do not pause to wonder why I ask you. It
is late, I know, but the moon shines brightly, and the roads are
good—your driver is careful, and the distance is short. More than all,
dear daughter, I consider your coming very important. So hasten,
darling, to

Your affectionate aunt and mother,
HELEN B. SUTHERLAND.

Having sealed this letter, the lady rang the bell and gave it in charge of a footman, urging dispatch.

Soon a waiter entered, and lighted up the rooms; and he had scarcely closed the blinds and withdrawn, before the sound of carriage-wheels was heard approaching, and the lady hastened out into the hall. The carriage paused before the door, and in an instant after, Mark Sutherland had alighted, and was clasped to the bosom of his mother.

“Oh, my dear Mark! I am so overjoyed to have you again!”

“Dear mother, I am so proud and happy to find you looking so well! Permit me to present my friend—Mr. Lincoln Lauderdale—Mrs. Sutherland.”

A low bow from the gentleman, and a deep courtesy from the lady, and then smilingly throwing off her habitual reserve, Mrs. Sutherland offered her hand, saying—

“I am very glad to see you, Mr. Lauderdale. You are not a stranger, I assure you. My son has taught me to esteem you, and desire your friendship. Will you enter now?”

And with another smile she gave her hand to her guest, and permitted him to lead her into the drawing-room.

Mr. Sutherland remained in the hall to give some directions to the grooms, and to order the baggage of his guest to be taken up to his chamber. After which he entered the parlour, and laying his hand affectionately upon his friend’s shoulder, said—

“My dear Lauderdale, when you feel disposed—or, rather, _if_ you feel disposed—to change your dress—Flamingo will show you your apartment. Supper will be ready—Madame, when will supper be ready?”

“My dear Mark, any time—in an hour—an hour and a half”——

“In an hour, Lincoln; that will give you ample time. Flame! lights here. Show Mr. Lauderdale to his room, and consider yourself in his exclusive service while he honours us with his company. I presume you will prefer Flame, my dear Lincoln, because you already know the fellow.”

“Thank you, but really I do not need”——

“Oh, say not a word, my dear boy! When you have been subjected to the enervating influence of this climate for a week, you will better know what you need.”

By this time Flamingo made his appearance with chamber lamps. Lauderdale arose to follow him. Sutherland accompanied him into the hall.

“My dear Mark,” said the former, “did I understand you to say that Mrs. Sutherland was your _own_ mother?”

“Undoubtedly my own mother! What a question! Besides, my friend, pardon me! but really, where are your eyes? We are said to be the image of each other!”

“Well, now, although both of you are dark, with high complexions, I cannot see the likeness, to save my soul,” said Lauderdale, mischievously; then adding, “she is very handsome.”

“_Is she not!_” echoed Sutherland, with enthusiasm, and accompanying Lauderdale up stairs—“the handsomest woman in the world? oh, except _one_. You should see India. And, more than that, she—my mother, I mean—is the most excellent, except—_none_.”

“I cannot think that she was so handsome in early youth as she is now.”

“Oh, I suppose her youth to her maturity was as the budding to the blooming rose—that is all. Here is your room. Make Flame supply you with anything you may need, that is not at hand; and for your life—nay, _more_, for your good looks, worth more than life—do not open the wire shutters; if you do, you may look in the glass in ten minutes after, and fancy yourself ill with the erysipelas. _Au revoir!_ When you are ready, come down.”

Mark Sutherland left the room, and instead of seeking his own chamber, to refresh himself with a change of raiment, he hastened down the stairs, entered the parlour, and once more clasped his mother fervently in his arms, and—

“My dearest mother,” and “My dearest Mark,” were the words exchanged between them. “But, oh, Mark! how haggard you look, my love! You have been ill, and never let me know it.”

“No, upon my honour, mother!”

“Ah, but you are so pale and thin, and your expression is so anxious—what is it? What can it be, Mark?”

“My own dear mother, it is nothing that should give you any uneasiness. I have had a long, fatiguing ride, and—I have not heard from India for more than a week. How is my Pearl?”

“Ah, rogue! a lover’s anxiety. Is that the cause of those haggard looks? And yet, to come to me first! Dear Mark! But I have anticipated all your wishes. Your India will be here to meet you—I am expecting her every moment. Hark! there are her carriage-wheels!” said the lady, going to the window; then hurrying back, she exclaimed, “_Peste!_ she has some one with her—that lively little Mrs. Vivian, I suppose. Listen, Mark! I will carry her off to a dressing-room, and leave you to meet India. She does not know that you are here.”

And Mrs. Sutherland went to the hall door, which she reached just as Mrs. Vivian, who was the first to alight, entered.

“Ah, how do you do, Mrs. Vivian? I am very glad to see you! Come, come into my room.”

“Oh, but stop—let us wait for India!”

“By no means, my dear. _Mark_ will wait for her.”

“_A-h-h-h!_ _He_ has come!”

“Certainly,” said the lady, carrying off her captive.

India sauntered languidly up the door-stairs. Mark sprang forward to meet her. She started—paled—reeled—might have fallen, but he caught her to his bosom, murmuring deeply, earnestly, “_India! my India!_”

For a moment she had nearly swooned with surprise and joy, but in the next instant she recovered, and deeply blushing, withdrew herself from him, saying, “I did not know that you were here.”

“I have only this instant arrived,” he replied. “My dear, beautiful India! to see you, it is unspeakable happiness.”

And he would have clasped her form again, but with flushed cheek she glided out of his arms and entered the parlour. He followed her, placed an easy chair, seated her on it, rolled a cushion to her feet, untied and removed her bonnet, lifted the mass of shining amber ringlets and pressed them to his face, and then would have sunk down upon the cushion at her feet—there to sit and worship with his eyes her peerless beauty, only the sound of light footsteps and silvery laughter arrested the folly.

It was Valeria, who, chatting and laughing with her usual gaiety, entered, accompanied by Mrs. Sutherland. Their entrance was soon followed by that of Mr. Lauderdale, who was immediately presented to Mrs. Vivian and Miss Sutherland.

Supper was next announced, and the party left the drawing-room. After supper, the evening was spent in music, conversation, and cards. A storm arising, detained the ladies all night. After the party had separated, each to seek his or her own apartment, Sutherland stopped for an instant in Lauderdale’s room to ask, “Well, what do you think of her, Lincoln?”

“She is perfectly beautiful.”

“Is she not?”

“There is positively nothing possible to be added to her beauty!”

“Ah, did I not tell you so?”

“She has taken me completely captive.”

“The deuce! I did not require you to be taken captive.”

“If I were only in a condition to seek the lady’s love—”

“Humph! What would you do, then?”

“Lose no time in suing for it.”

“The demon you wouldn’t! That is extremely cool, upon my sacred word and honour!”

“Such glorious black eyes!”

“They are not black, mine honest friend, but blue—celestial blue.”

“Blue, are they? I thought they were black; but, in truth, one cannot follow their quickly-changing light and shade to find the hue, they scintillate and flash so.”

“Scintillate and flash! Why, they are calm and steady as stars. What the deuce are her eyes to you?”

“And then her magnificent black hair!”

“Black! you are mad! Hers is bronze in the shade, and golden in the sunlight. D——l fly away with you!” the latter clause under his breath.

“I swear her hair is superb black!”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Who—who but charming Mrs. Vivian!”

“Cousin Valeria! Oh-h-h-h! ha! ha! ha! And _I_ was speaking of India! So you think Mrs. Vivian good-looking?”

“Good-looking—divine.”

“I thought no one in his senses could apply that term to any woman but Miss Sutherland.”

“Who—the red-haired young lady?”

“_Red-haired!_” burst out the voice of Sutherland, in indignant astonishment; then reining in his anger with a strong hand, he added, “Lincoln, you are my friend, but there are some provocations”—

“Miss Sutherland is _graceful_,” said Lauderdale, with a quiet smile.

“Tah-tah-tah, with your faint praises; good night.”

“Now, here is a reasonable man! When he thought me praising his love with great fervour, he was so jealous as to feel like running me through the heart; and now that he finds me very moderate in my admiration of his idol, he is angry enough to sweep my head off at a blow,” said Lauderdale, laughing.

“Good night!” said Sutherland, to cover his confusion.

“Stay, I can’t let you go so; your lady-love is _really_ lovely enough to turn all the heads and break all the hearts that approach her. But she has not disturbed the healthful action of mine—will that content you?”

“Yes, because I know it is true—especially the first part of it. Good night.”

“Good night.”

And the friends separated.

“And is this _all_ you have to say in support of your project, Mark?”

“Not all, my dear mother.”

The lady applied her handkerchief to her eyes quietly, almost stealthily; her face was pale and sorrowful; she seemed to restrain herself steadily, as though she thought the betrayal of strong emotion unbecoming to a woman of her age and station. Her son had just revealed to her his purpose of emancipating all the negroes upon his plantation and sending them to Liberia, with his reasons for so doing. The scene took place very early in the morning after his arrival. It was in her dressing-room. Before any of their guests had arisen, they were up, and she had called him, as he passed her door. They sat now at the open window that looked out upon the beautiful valley of the Pearl, with its groves and fields and streams all fresh and resplendent in the light of the newly-risen sun. The mother sighed deeply as she withdrew her glance from the gladdening scene, and fixed it upon the face of her son.

“And so, Mark, this is the cause of your ill and anxious looks?”

“Yes, mother; I will not deny to you that it has cost me a very severe struggle; and perhaps you see some of its effects.”

“Yes, _some_ of them, Mark—alas! not _all_,” said the lady, in a low, faint voice.

If a little while before she had restrained unmeet energy of expression in the strong emotion she had felt, now all power as well as all will seemed to forsake her. She sat silent, with her hands folded and her eyes fixed upon them. Mr. Sutherland watched her anxiously.

“My dear madam, I have pained you.”

“I am a widow, Mark, and have no child but you”—

“_Mother_”——

“It is a sorrowful time for the mother, Mark, when the boy she has nursed and brought up to man’s estate turns upon her in her weakness, arrayed in all the strength and power of manhood.”

“My dearest _mother_”——

“Your father, Mark, never caused me a tear or a sigh in his life.”

“God bless his memory for that.”

“He trusted so in your affection for me, Mark—_and so did I_—that he left me totally dependent upon you”——

“My dearest mother, your comfort and convenience shall be my first object in life. Not even India, my loved India, shall cause me to forget all I owe to you.”

“Words, Mark! words! This project of yours will reduce me to beggary!”

“No, dear madam, it shall not. Me it will reduce to—my own exertions for a livelihood, but not you. When all my slaves are freed, and on their way to Africa at my cost, there will still remain, from the sale of the land, some thirty thousand dollars. That money, mother, with the homestead here, I intend to settle upon yourself”——

“Oh, my son! you break my heart. Do you think, then, that I will suffer you to beggar yourself to enrich me? No, dear Mark; no! Since you do not forget me—since you remember me with affectionate interest, it is sufficient. If I reproached you just now, it was only because I felt as if you did not care for me; and that is a sorrowful feeling in a parent, Mark.”

“I never for one instant forgot your interests, dear mother. How could I? I had settled the plan I have named to you, in my mind, before I left the North.”

“I cannot bear the name of that quarter of our country! the word strikes like a bullet, Mark!” exclaimed the lady, with an impulsive start, and shrunk as if indeed she were shot.

Mr. Sutherland looked down, mortified and troubled.

“And as for this plan, Mark,” proceeded the lady, “it must not be carried out. Under no circumstances can I consent that you beggar yourself for me.”

“Dearest mother, I do not think it possible for mere loss of fortune to beggar a man of good health and good morals. I shall go to the West. It is a broad field for enterprise. I studied law for my amusement, having had a strong natural attraction for it. I shall commence the practice of that profession in some western village, and grow up with the town. I shall succeed. Indeed, methinks new life and energy runs through my veins and fires my heart at the very thought of difficulties to meet and overcome!” said Mr. Sutherland, smiling gaily, stretching his arms and rubbing his hands together.

“Alas! you do not know what you are talking about, Mark! What a project! And your approaching marriage with India—is it possible in this connexion that you do not think of that?”

“Not think of that!” echoed Mr. Sutherland, as a strange, beautiful smile flitted over his face. “Mother, I dreaded this interview with you; but I looked forward to an explanation with my loved India as the first reward of right-doing—if what I have done is right—a foretaste of what the rewards of Heaven will be! My India! I know her generosity, her magnanimity, her high-souled enthusiasm! How many times I have experienced it! How many times, when reading with her of some high heroism of the olden time, when there were heroes, have I seen her pause, her bosom heave, her cheek flush, her eye kindle and gaze upon me, expressing unspeakable admiration of those lofty deeds! And now, when in her own life an opportunity occurs of practising those very same great virtues—when she has the power, by sacrificing wealth and luxury, to bless hundreds of her fellow-beings, and not them only, but their children and children’s children—do I not know that high-souled girl will aspire to do it! Madam, it is a majestic, a godlike power, to be able to confer the blessing of liberty and education upon hundreds of beings and their descendants to numberless generations—a power I would not _now_ exchange for a small limited monarchy. And, oh! do I not know that my India—soul of my soul!—will think as I do—will feel as I do? Nay, do I not know that she will go beyond me? Mother, when I have doubted, or struggled against my better feelings, I have seen as in a vision, her eyes suffused with generous tears, her cheek kindle, and felt the warm pressure of her hand encouraging, inspiring me!”

“Oh, Mark! Mark! romance! nothing more. And even should India approve your project, which I think quite impossible, what is your further purpose? To leave her here, bound by an engagement, to wear out her youth in expectation of your making a fortune and coming back to claim her hand?”

“No, dearest mother, that were too hard a trial to both of us. No, I mean to take her with me to the West, to encourage and assist me while I make her as happy as I possibly can!”

Here, again, the lady’s feelings arose to so high a pitch of excitement that she had to put a violent constraint upon herself, while she answered quietly, “And how do you think Miss Sutherland will like to lay aside all the prestige of her rank, and wealth, and bridehood, and, instead of a splendid wedding, and a bridal tour, and a voyage to Europe, take an ignominious departure from her father’s house, for a life of poverty and privation in the West?”

“I told you, dearest mother, that my India was of a highly heroic nature. That does not mean wedded to ease and worldly honour; indeed, it more frequently means the loss of both.”

“And so you deliberately mean to take that girl—if she will go with you—to some miserable western village, to endure all the miseries of poverty?”

“What miseries of poverty, dearest mother? If you were a European talking of Europeans, I could understand your prudence; but you are an American matron talking to an American youth, and advising him not to marry the girl he loves if he has not a fortune to support her. It seems to me, mother, that in _our_ country the man or woman who refuses to marry for such a reason, wants faith, love, hope, enterprise, energy, and every thing they ought to have; and under such circumstances, it seems but right, indeed, that they should stay single.”

“You do not know what you are talking about. But should India be so imprudent, do you think her father will consent to such a mad project?”

“His consent to our union was long ago obtained; and if, under present circumstances, he should withdraw it—India is of age, you know!”

“Mark, tell me if you have ever had any experimental knowledge of _want_?” The young man looked up with a questioning glance. “Because if you do not know, I can tell you, Mark. I know how young people think of poverty, and talk of poverty, when any strong motive like love, or any other passion, urges them to embrace it; and people who are older, and should know better, talk pretty much in the same way. They will tell you that poverty deprives you of none of the real essential blessings of life; that the riches of nature and of nature’s God are free alike to the rich and the poor; that the blessings of health, of well-doing, of sunshine, and the face of nature, are open alike to both. It is so with the rich, doubtless, and it may be so with the poor who were born in this poverty; but to the well-born and well-educated, to the refined and intellectual, poverty is a dreadful, dreadful thing. It is not only to suffer the privation of proper and sufficient food, and comfortable clothing, and dwelling—it is to be shut out of all enjoyment of the blessings of nature and of society, and at the same time be exposed to all the evils that nature and society can inflict upon you. You have no leisure, or if you have, you have no respectable clothing, in which to go out and take the air, and enjoy the genial sunshine of pleasant days, on the one hand; and on the other, no adequate protection against the freezing cold of winter, and no escape from the burning heat of summer. And for society, pride will not permit you to seek the company of your sometime peers, and delicacy restrains you from the coarse association around you. To us, Mark, poverty would be the privation of every enjoyment. To be poor, were to be maimed, blind, ill, and imprisoned, at once!”

“Dear mother, _you_ are a lady—_I_, a man! And loss of fortune has now no terrors for me; and birth and education, so far from rendering me more helpless, shall make me stronger to conquer my difficulties. I have no fear of wanting any of the comforts of life from the very onset. And as for being shut out, or rather shut _in_, from nature—mother, do you think I shall be? Do you think I shall keep away from nature because I cannot call on her in a coach, with a groom on horseback to take in my card? No, indeed. On the contrary, I purpose to live with nature. She’s an old intimate friend of mine, and no summer friend either—nor shall I be a summer friend of hers, and shrink from her boisterous winds and rattling sleet. And as for society, mother—oh, let me quote to you the words of Dr. Channing, whose lips, indeed, seemed touched with fire: ‘No matter though the prosperous of my own time will not enter my obscure dwelling. If the Sacred Writers will enter and take up their abode under my roof, if Milton will cross my threshold to sing to me of paradise, and Shakspeare to open to me the worlds of imagination and the workings of the human heart, and Franklin to enrich me with his practical wisdom, I shall not pine for want of intellectual companionship.’ So, dearest mother, with industry that will procure me all the necessaries of life, health that will enable me to enjoy or endure nature in all her moods, and a mind dependent on itself for its enjoyment, what have I to dread from loss of fortune?”

“It may be very well for _you_, at least tolerable; but for _India_! You would not bring Miss Sutherland down to such a state?”

Mark paused, and then answered—

“Yes, mother, yes; if the only other alternative is to be a separation of many years, I would bring India down to this state.”

“Oh, Mark! that is very, very selfish!”

“I do not think so, madam.”

“Mark! Just now, when I told you of the nameless miseries of the well-born poor, you did not deny them, but said, ‘Mother, _you_ are a lady—_I_, a man.’ Mark! out of your own mouth I will condemn you. India—Miss Sutherland—‘is a _lady_,’ Mark! Are you not selfish?”

“No, mother! not if India feels as I do—as I know she does; not if our separation would be to her, as it would be to me, a greater evil than all the early struggles our union may bring upon us.”

“My dear son, your sanguine confidence gives me deep pain. Dear Mark, be not too sure! Not for worlds would I speak a word against your India. Nor do I know that, under her circumstances, I speak much evil of her when I say that she is haughty, self-willed, indolent, and fastidious! But are those the elements of self-sacrifice?”

“Mother, I would not hear another soul breathe aught against India but you; but to answer your question—and granting, what I am unwilling to grant, that these faults of her station may be also hers—affection will conquer them! My _life_ upon India’s magnanimity!”

Yet, even while he spoke, he became suddenly pale and aghast, as if, for the first time, the possibility that it might be otherwise had struck him.

The lady had been pale and disturbed throughout the interview; and now she rose, and taking his hand, said—

“Mark, they have gone down to breakfast; we must go too. We will speak of this again. Mark, I should be in despair, if I did not hope that circumstances will compel you to abandon this insane purpose. When do you break it to India?”

“This day, mother! You have conjured up a phantom whose presence I would not endure for many hours. It must be exorcised by dear India forthwith.”

Mrs. Sutherland had two grounds of hope. The first was, that her son, restored to home associations and influences, might change his views and purposes before they should become known to his uncle. Upon this first hope she founded her purpose of preventing, as long as possible, Mark’s intended communication to India. The second ground of hope was, that in the event of Mr. Sutherland’s intentions becoming known, the powerful motives that would be brought to bear upon him—the threatened loss of his uncle’s favour, and of his promised bride’s hand—might irresistibly impel him to renounce his project.

But her present wish was to arrest the disclosure of her son’s resolution until she could gain time to use her influence upon him to induce him to abandon them. These thoughts did not arise in her mind during her interview with Mark, nor until she sat reflecting upon it, after breakfast, in the back parlour. Her visitors, on leaving the table, had retired into the front room.

Her fit of deep thought was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Vivian from that front parlour. The “lady gay” came in, trilling a lively opera air. Mrs. Sutherland arose, and took her hand with a very serious manner, saying—

“My dear Valeria, who have you left in the other room?”

“Mark and India,” answered the little widow, raising her eyebrows with slight surprise.

“No one else?”

“No—yes—I do not know; I believe there is a waiter, or”—

“My dearest Valeria,” said Mrs. Sutherland, drawing her to the opposite extremity of the room, “do me a favour; return to the room, and, not only while you remain here, but after you go back to Cashmere, prevent as long as possible any private conversation between those two young people; interrupt them; follow them; stay with them: circumvent them in every way.”

“Helen, you astonish me! _Me_ play Madame Detrop, not ‘for one night only,’ but for a whole season! You positively shock me!” exclaimed Mrs. Vivian, and her _eyes_ asked, what _can_ you mean?

Mrs. Sutherland answered both words and looks at the same time, by saying, very gravely,—

“Valeria, I ask a very strange favour, and impose upon your friendship the unpleasant alternative of refusing me point blank, or taking upon yourself a most ungracious duty; but, dear Valeria, in this at least the end will justify the means. I do not wish to separate my son and niece, as your eyes seem to say, but _au contraire_, to prevent their separation.”

“I do not comprehend.”

“I wish to prevent a quarrel. Young people will not quarrel before others, any more than they will make love before them. There is a point of controversy between Mark and India, and I do not wish them to have an opportunity of discussing it until both their heads are cool.”

“Ah, I think I know the point of contention,” said Valeria, with a bright look of sudden intelligence.

“You?”

“Yes.”

And the thoughtless little lady, totally forgetful that the communication had been confidential, imparted to her the contents of Mark’s letter to India, and the indignation she had expressed at its contents, and the fear she had betrayed lest her father and uncle should discover her lover’s change of sentiments.

Mrs. Sutherland heard the story with a thoughtful brow, and at its close, said—

“And do you not think, Valeria, that the discussion of this subject between them at present would end fatally for our hopes?”

“I do not know, indeed. I cannot estimate the strength of Mr. Sutherland’s convictions and purposes.”

“But you think that India will never yield to them?”

“Never!”

“And so think I. Yet Mark, dear, deluded child, would stake his soul on what he calls her heroism. Well, Valeria, now will you promise me to prevent an interview as long as you can, to give me an opportunity of trying to bring that poor boy to reason?”

“Ha! ha! ha! It is a thankless task, but I will undertake it. But you must give me an assistant, to relieve me sometimes, and to better insure the success of your enterprise. Confide in Uncle Billy, and let him be on duty while I am off.”

“I intend to have a talk with my brother upon the subject, but in the mean time I rely mainly upon you. Promise me again that you will be vigilant.”

“As vigilant as I can, Helen; but you know my first duty is to Rosalie, dear child! I reproach myself for having left her last night, but the housekeeper promised that she would sleep in the adjoining room, and watch over her.”

“Do you not think that you watch over her too much? Do you not see that she is made too much of a hothouse plant?”

“Rosalie? What! when even a slight change in the weather, or a draught of air, or a piece of fruit not ripe, or a little too ripe, or some such trifle, is sufficient to make her ill for a week, and to bring her to the brink of the grave? I would give half my fortune to any physician who would”—

The little lady’s voice broke down, and her sparkling eyes melted into tears; then she said, in a faltering tone—

“Do you think she will die? or do you think there is a blessed possibility of her health being restored?”

“That which she never possessed, and therefore never lost, cannot, of course, be _restored_. But I think a different manner of treatment would strengthen the child; for how can you expect her to be strong, confined to hot rooms, and idleness, and super-dainty diet?”

“I am sure I do the very best I can for the dear girl; I take her out twice a day in the carriage; I never suffer her to go alone; she never has a bath until I dip the thermometer into it with my own hands, to regulate the temperature; she never puts on an article of clothing until I have ascertained it to be well aired; and she never even eats an orange until it has first passed through my fingers; and yet, with all my care, she droops and droops”—

“Like an over-nursed exotic. But, dear Valeria, there! There goes Thomas, with a vase of yesterday’s flowers, to change them. Hasten in there, dear Valeria, and prevent an eclaircissement, while I speak to my brother.”

“Why, is _he_ here?”

“Certainly; he came while we were at breakfast, and went up stairs to change his dress. That is the reason I remained in this room, to give him his breakfast.”

The flighty little lady, already oblivious of her causes for distress, went singing into the room, just in time to overhear, with her quick ears, Mr. Sutherland say to his betrothed—

“Dear India—(Oh, heavens! here comes that widow again!)—but I _must_ have an uninterrupted talk with you; when and where shall it be?”

“In the library, at twelve. Hush! She’s here”——

“So,” thought Mrs. Vivian, “I have just got in time enough to hear for myself that my efforts to be useful and impertinent will be totally fruitless.”

* * * * *

In the meanwhile Uncle Billy had changed his dress, and had come down in a jacket and trousers of linen, white as “driven snow,” and took his seat at the breakfast table. While she waited upon him, Mrs. Sutherland cautiously communicated the news that so burdened her mind. Gradually, as she proceeded, the truth burst with the suddenness of a thunderbolt upon Uncle Billy, who dropped his roll and cup of coffee, turned pale, fell back in his chair, and gasped—“Good gracious!”

“Don’t make a noise, brother, if you please. See, James is coming with your eggs; wait until he has withdrawn,” said the self-possessed Mrs. Sutherland; and then she directed the servant who came in to set down his salver, and leave the room. When he had gone, she turned again to her brother, and said—

“Yes, this is true, and nothing remains now but to try to overrule his purpose, or at least to gain time.”

“I—I am overwhelmed, prostrated, stunned with astonishment; though, to be sure, at my time of life, I am never the least surprised by any thing that happens. They are fools who at fifty wonder at any thing.”

Mrs. Sutherland then expressed a wish that her brother would aid her designs, both by delaying the opportunity of an explanation between the young people, and also by using all his logical powers upon her son, to convert him from his purpose; for, strange as it may seem, Mrs. Sutherland had unbounded faith in Mr. Bolling’s polemic abilities. His _soi-disant_ impartiality, coolness, and precision of judgment, had really imposed upon her.

Uncle Billy dug both his hands in his pockets, and dropped his rosy chin upon his chest with an attitude and expression of deep cogitation, and his face quite flushed with the heat and burden of his thoughts. At last he said, with an air of great deliberation—

“Hem! In the first place, we must essay every possible means of persuasion and coercion, to move him from his purpose. Yes, persuasion and coercion of every possible kind and degree; for in this case the end justifies the means.”

“Yes, my dear brother, I agree with you perfectly; it is just what I said.”

“Yes, but at the same time,” said Billy Bothsides, shaking his head, and glancing keenly at his sister, with the astute air of one making a very fine distinction—“_at the same time_, we are not to use any undue or unfair influence over the young man.”

“Oh, certainly not,” said Mrs. Sutherland.

“No, no, I never could consent to _that_, although I would go to any justifiable or even unjustifiable lengths, to cure the boy of his folly. You understand me? You follow out my line of reasoning?”

“Well, no, brother William, I do not, clearly.”

“Women seldom do! women seldom do! But never mind! Trust to me! _I’ll_ bring him round _I_—though I confess I do not believe it will be in the power of mortal man to do it,” said Mr. Bolling, rising from the table, and sauntering into the front parlour.

He found Mrs. Vivian monopolising the attention of Mr. Sutherland, by making him translate for her a sonnet of Petrarch. As soon as Uncle Billy appeared, to relieve guard, Mrs. Vivian suddenly lost all interest in Italian, dropped her book, and left the room, passing Mrs. Sutherland on her way, to whom she said, laughingly—

“A pretty commencement I have made of it! First, heard myself anathematised for a ‘pestilent widow’—next made myself and three other people wretched for an hour—those were, Sutherland, who was dying to speak to India—Lauderdale, who was longing to talk to me—India, who wishes to listen to Sutherland—and last, not least, myself, who was quite willing to hear what Lauderdale had to say.”

“Mr. Lauderdale seemed quite—_pleased_ with you last night.”

“Pleased? Well, I should not be surprised. Perhaps he means to make love to me this morning. If he does not, perhaps—he’s only a college boy—I mean to make love to him, _pour se disennuyée_;” and waving her fan playfully, and half curtseying, the trifler glided off.

And soon after she was seen promenading on the piazza with young Lauderdale.

_Ennuyée_ with the _dolce far niente_ of the morning, Miss Sutherland ordered her carriage to return home. Uncle Billy begged a seat inside, and Mr. Sutherland and (at the invitation of the latter) Mr. Lauderdale mounted horses to attend the party.

Their way lay through a beautiful piece of woods, that covered the hill, just rising, and then gradually declining to the river. They crossed by a ferry.

This part of the river, being the head of the bend, resembled a beautiful woodland lake, lying embosomed among its green hills and groves, which were all distinctly reflected in the water, that was flushed with a pale purple light, changing ever into azure or crimson, or fading off into faint beautiful hues of pink or saffron.

“Oh! it is well named the Pearl—this lovely river—though it might as well be called the Opal,” said Billy Bolling, who had a taste for natural beauty.

They were but few minutes in reaching the other bank of the river, and landing at Cashmere.

Arrived at Cashmere, the party passed up the winding road leading through the groves and shrubberies of the lawn, to the foot of the marble steps leading to the rose terrace, and there alighting, passed through the verandah into the house.

Laughingly Mrs. Vivian took immediate possession of Miss Sutherland, and carried her off to seek Rosalie.

Mr. Sutherland, senior, happened to be in the house, and Mark immediately introduced his friend Lauderdale. The old gentleman welcomed the stranger with the stately suavity habitual to men of his day and station; but he received his nephew with an earnestness of affection scarcely restrained by the presence of a third party—pressing his hand with much warmth, and detaining it lingeringly in his clasp.

Mark Sutherland could hardly repress a groan, to think how soon all this must be changed. Nay, more: he even felt a species of compunction for receiving his uncle’s kindness under what he felt to be false colours; and he determined, if possible, not to let an hour pass before having a full explanation with him. And so, after the first compliments were over, and when the planter arose and politely excused himself, saying that important business called him over to his new plantation, and expressing a hope that Mr. Lauderdale would consider his house, servants, and stables, entirely at his commands, Mark Sutherland laid his hand solemnly upon his arm, and said—

“My dear uncle, I must have a conversation with you this morning.”

“My dear Mark,” said the old man, smiling—if it could be called a smile—“I know what you are about to ask, and I answer beforehand, _just as soon as India pleases_. The sooner the better. I speak freely before your friend”—bowing to the latter—“whom, I presume, you have persuaded to do you the honour of attending you upon the occasion. Consult my daughter! You know her will is law in this affair.”

“My dear sir, it is upon another subject that I really _must_ consult you, at your very earliest convenience,” said Mr. Sutherland, with such earnestness of manner as to enforce serious attention.

“Well, sir,” said the planter, “to-day you must really excuse me. I have to go over to the new plantation. Stoke, my manager there, thinks that the cotton crop is not in a vigorous state; he fears that it is taking the rot. But, excuse me—young men know little and care less for the anxieties that make their elders slaves.” And, smiling and bowing, the old gentleman withdrew.

And Mark Sutherland, seeing no opportunity of breaking his mind to either father or daughter for the present, invited Lauderdale for a ride over the plantation.

Mr. Sutherland rang, and ordered horses, which were at the door in fifteen minutes, and he and his friend mounted and commenced their ride.

First winding round the shaded path at the foot of the rose terrace, they turned to the left, and entered the grove which surrounded three sides of the back of the house. Half a mile’s ride through a narrow, tangled pathway, up which they were obliged to proceed in Indian file, led them to an elevated clearing of about a hundred acres, on which was situated the negro village, called, in plantation parlance, “The Quarters.”

“There! what do you think of that?” asked Mark Sutherland, with a slight dash of triumph in his tone, as they drew rein and paused under the shade of the trees at the edge of the grove.

Lauderdale’s eyes were roving leisurely and attentively over the woodland village. It was certainly a most lovely scene. The sky above was of the brilliant, intense blue of southern climes; the foliage of the woods around was of the vivid green of early summer. A few large trees were left standing at intervals in the clearing; and under these, and scattered at irregular distances through the area, were the neat white cottages with their red-painted doors. Each cottage had its small vegetable garden, and some few of the better-kept houses had their fruit trees, and even flower yards. The village was deserted now, except by the children playing at the doors, and the old people left to take care of them. Of these latter, some were seated upon the door-steps, and some were standing leaning over the fence-rails; some were occupied with knitting coarse stockings; and some, mostly men, were smoking their pipes. All the able-bodied men and women were out in the fields.

Lauderdale looked on, first with an expression of surprise and pleasure, but afterwards with a countenance full of thought.

“Well, my friend, how do you like that?” repeated Mr. Sutherland.

“I will give you my opinion more at large, later in the day, my dear Mark,” replied Lauderdale; and then he added, “I have been told that you have the best stud and best stables in Mississippi; will you favour me with the sight of those also?”

Mr. Sutherland immediately assented. They turned their horses’ heads, and taking another path, rode in a circuit around to the site of the stables, which lay at some distance to the right of the mansion house, and were concealed from the latter by an intervening arm of the grove. The stables were built in the most approved modern style, with much architectural beauty, and possessed every requisite for the health and comfort of the noble animals for whose accommodation they were designed. Here again Lauderdale expressed no opinion, but asked to see—don’t start, super-refined reader—the pig pens. Mark, with a queer smile, conducted his guest to the desired premises; and also, without waiting to be solicited, introduced him to the cow pens, the hen house, etc. All these buildings had been constructed under the direction of a celebrated English rural architect, and of course were fitted with every modern improvement for the well-being of the stock. Still Lauderdale as yet reserved his judgment, while he expressed his thanks to his host for the privilege he had enjoyed. Sutherland mischievously asked him whether he would not also like to see the pigeon boxes before dinner. Lauderdale smilingly declined, and they returned to the house. They alighted from their saddles and threw the reins to the groom, entered the hall, and separated to dress for dinner.

Half an hour after, when they met in the drawing-room, Lauderdale advanced to his host, and said,—

“Sutherland, I must thank you again for the sight of your plantation arrangements! and I must say that _all_ your stock—horses, cows, and pigs, and slaves—are probably the best accommodated of any in the state!”

Mark Sutherland, with a flushed brow, turned away. But in an instant, Lauderdale laid his hand upon his arm, and said, with a voice and manner full of affectionate earnestness—

“I mean to say just _this_, dear Mark—that your negro village is comfortable, and even exceedingly beautiful, but that no amount of physical comfort can or _ought_ to compensate an immortal being for the loss of liberty!”

The entrance of other members of the family and the speedy announcement of dinner ended this conversation for the present.

Haggard, careworn, anxious, as he was, the deep, ever-springing fountain of gladness in Mark Sutherland’s heart dispersed all his gloom; and, during dinner, when the jest and laugh went round, _he_ was as usual the spring of wit and humour to the party.

After dinner, when he was about to seek an interview with his betrothed, Mrs. Vivian forestalled him, by carrying off Miss Sutherland to examine a box of goods, lately arrived from New Orleans for the bride elect. And Mr. Bolling, leaving Sutherland, senior, to entertain the guest, ran his arm through that of Mark, and marched him off in triumph.

“Well, Mark,” he said, as soon as he had got him on to the lawn, “I cannot understand it! how a young man of your strength of character, of your firmness—nay, obstinacy; stubbornness—should permit yourself to fall a prey to these adventurers.”

“I really do not see how I am their prey, Uncle Billy, or why they should be adventurers.”

“Oh, Mark, you are—I mean, dear Mark, you want experience of the world; and no amount of moral or intellectual excellence will stand you in stead for that. Nay, indeed, goodness will only make you the easier victim, and talent the more useful tool to these speculators.”

“Uncle, you wrong them! By the honour of my soul, you do! You have never seen or heard but one side of the question, and therefore you are bitterly prejudiced.”

“Prejudiced! _Me_ prejudiced! when everybody knows that I am the most impartial person in the world! But ‘moderation has its martyrs also.’”

“You certainly are prejudiced in this matter; yet how shall I set you right? And why should I be surprised? Once, there was never such a scoffer as I was.”

“Yes, and _that’s_ just what raises the hair of my head with wonder! Your good-humoured satire and gay indulgence used to please me so much more than your uncle’s haughty, scornful, persecuting resentment of these people’s affronts. You used to laugh, and say to your uncles, ‘Your anger is inadequate to the offence; it is ungenerous. These objects of your displeasure are very harmless enthusiasts.’ _And now!_ Ah, Mark, I call to mind the poet’s line—

‘First endure, then pity, then embrace.’

You began by enduring, and you end by embracing their doctrines. Ah, Mark! Mark! Mark! how came it so?”

“Uncle, did you never hear of a gay man or woman of the world—well enough in their way—not sinners above all sinners, but with a certain light, satirical way of treating serious subjects, and a certain good-humoured contempt for those that entertained them—did you never hear an instance of such a man or woman going into a religious meeting to scoff, _but returning home to pray_? Well, very much akin to that was my experience. I went to the convention in New York, just to fulfil a promise made to my friend Lauderdale, and next to have a laugh at them! At the first meeting—well; I am not going to give you a report of it—sufficient is it to tell you that the subject was presented to my mind in a new and startling aspect. I laughed, or rather _tried_ to laugh, it off.”

“I wish to goodness you had taken it more earnestly than to begin with laughing, to end with imitating.”

“At the second meeting, there were some still higher, purer souls, and more eloquent and commanding tongues; lips touched with fire, whose words were flame consuming the wrong principle, that shrivelled up before it. But I do not mean to become eloquent myself. This is not the time or place, nor are you the audience. It is enough to say that the speakers in that meeting gave me the heartache and the headache, and I wished in my soul I had never entered their hall. Yet nevertheless a fascination drew me there the third evening. And then, whether ‘the master minds’ of the cause had said all they had to say for the time, or whether they had not yet arrived upon the scene of action, I really cannot say—(for the room was crowded, and not by friends of the cause, as you will hear, but by conspirators, who had come there to break the meeting up)—but certainly, after one short address of thrilling eloquence and power—during the progress of which I felt myself to be a participant in an injustice, and at the close of which I was ready to make an irrevocable oath to clear my life from the sin—up jumps a fellow, with more zeal than knowledge, and more deviltry, I perfectly believe, than either, and so defames me and my fellow-citizens of the South, and so caricatures us as monsters of atrocity, and so whirrs and rattles whips and chains and gyves about my ears and eyes, that it was the cast of a die whether I should laugh or swear. But before it was decided, a resolution was put and an amendment offered, and two or three people rose, and half a dozen began to speak, and everybody wanted to talk, and nobody—but me—wanted to hear, and there was a confusion inside and a gathering mob outside, and in an incredibly short time there was a hailstorm of stones, and battered walls, and smashed windows, and the meeting was broken up in a row; and my Celtic blood boiled up and boiled over; and while laying about me valiantly in defence of freedom of speech, _I lost myself_. And when I found myself, I was lying with a broken arm and broken head in the watchhouse!”

“Good gracious, Mark! what a dishonour! What would my sister, what would my niece, say to that?”

“They do not know it, and they need not.”

“Well, really, one would have thought that would have cured you!”

“My good uncle, it did—of _indecision_. One is very apt to be confirmed to a cause in which they have suffered somewhat. I lay very ill for two weeks. During that time I was ministered to by some excellent men, and _women_ also—persons whose disinterestedness, benevolence, gentleness, and perfect sincerity, gave me such a deep and beautiful impression of the Christian character as I had never received from book or pulpit—persons who had sacrificed fortune, position, friendships—_all_, to a pure but despised cause. It was the silent influence, even more than the spoken words of these, which fixed me forever in my good purpose.”

“It may be true, Mark, that there are such, or it may only have seemed so to you. What I know is, that if there are such disinterested souls in the cause, they are, at best, only the instruments with which the party leaders work for their own individual ends and selfish purposes.”

“No, it is not so, nor could it be so; wisdom and goodness could not become the tools of selfishness and worldliness.”

“Now, Mark, don’t stand there and try to dazzle your old uncle’s intellect, by a fine-sounding Joseph Surface sentiment! You must either be a blockhead, or take me for one, when you pretend to tell me that the teachers of that party are not a set of self-seeking agitators, whose motives range from the mere getting of daily bread, up to the getting of political power; and who, if it fell easily in their way, would as willingly reach their ends by entering into the slave trade, as by agitating the question of emancipation.”

The hot blood crimsoned Mark Sutherland’s brow, and he answered indignantly—

“You speak of that of which you know nothing. You speak of those whose”——

“Ah! _don’t_ I know nothing?” interrupted Mr. Bolling. “Where is that Mr. Grab, who came down here as a travelling preacher, and took that opportunity (or perhaps he was sent on purpose, and paid to do it) to preach abolition to the poor whites and the blacks, and to do Satan knows what other mischief; and the Lord knows what judgment would have fallen on him from our incensed planters, if he had not been offered an asylum in the house of your cousin, Mrs. Tilden, who, being a sentimental, compassionate young woman, and finding herself the protectress of a pale, persecuted young preacher, began to court him, as widows _will_ court; and so, when all her brothers and brothers-in-law came in force to turn him out and lynch him, they met the pair coming home from the minister’s—_married_! The pretty widow, the plantation, and the negroes, had proved most convincing arguments, and had converted him. And now, when he feels it necessary to defend himself from the charge of treachery to his party, he says, ‘Oh, the erroneous sentiments of his youth were the effects of ignorance and enthusiasm!’ Umph, humph! we all understand that—in his case second thoughts _paid better_.”

During this speech, Mark had put down his anger, and now replied, gravely and earnestly—

“Uncle, it is a point that I must meet—this of yours. It has given _me_ much, deep pain. But why should it make you scornful and incredulous of the disinterestedness of these reformers, or why should it give me sorrow? We must separate a high and pure cause, and its devoted self-sacrificing supporters, from its few unworthy advocates. Why, uncle, do we reject Christianity because among the Saviour’s chosen twelve there was one Judas, who was covetous, and whose covetousness made him sell his master? Or because among His many disciples there were some who followed Him, hoping for high places in the kingdom they supposed Him about to establish on earth? Or, even now, do we all refuse to hear the Gospel preached, because there have been some Averys and Onderdonks in the pulpits? And shall we stop our ears, and close our eyes, and fold our hands before the cause of reform, for the reason that there are some Grabs in the party? Nay, God forbid!”

Mark Sutherland paused as in painful thought some time, and then, with more than usual emotion, he exclaimed—

“I would to God there were _no_ Achans in the camp! For this work, that at the best is apt to arouse so much evil passion—for this work, requiring so much wisdom and goodness to carry it on aright—for this work, more than for all others, should the labourers have clear heads, and clean hands, and pure motives.”

Then, after a short pause, addressing his uncle again, and taking his hand, he said—

“Uncle, _I_ am about to sacrifice all I have in the world, to principles I have but so lately embraced. Well, sir, believe me, for it is God’s holy truth—notwithstanding these Grabs who bring dishonour on their cause, there are hundreds of philanthropists who have sacrificed as much as _I_.”

“Indeed, _indeed_, Mark, you are very wrong and foolish to do this thing! Very, _very_ foolish and wrong, indeed. _Nevertheless_, I am constrained to say that you are perfectly wise and right in persevering in your duty! _Yes, sir!_” said Mr. Bothsides, wiping his face furiously, and stuffing his white handkerchief back in his pocket. “And now, what do you mean to do further?” he asked.

“I shall go to the West.”

“Yes—yes—yes—yes,” said Uncle Billy, meditatively; “do so. Go to the West—go to some new place, and grow up with it. It will be the easiest thing on earth for you to rise in the world there, and success in the end is almost certain—_though_—confound it! you will find you’ll have to struggle very hard, and be very apt to be disappointed at last. You have no reason in the world to be the least bit discouraged—_but_—you must not be sanguine—that I can tell you! I make it a rule, without an exception never to give advice, Mark—_notwithstanding_—if you are ever at a loss how to act in an emergency, consult me, Mark—my best counsel is at your service. And I really think that with it you could not possibly go wrong,” said Mr. Bolling, drawing his handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his forehead, and replacing it with a look of great self-complacency.

“My dear Uncle Billy,” said Mark, with a quiet smile, “believe me, I know how to appreciate your fine, impartial judgment, and feel convinced that I never should come to harm in following your advice.”

With this proof of his high-minded nephew’s affection and confidence, Mr. Bolling’s blue eyes filled with tears, and he seized Mark’s hand, and squeezed it, and shook it, crying—

“Deuce fly away with you, Mark! I feel a perfect contempt for your folly and wrong-headedness in this matter—_nevertheless_—I am compelled to admit that I am filled with unmingled admiration for the wisdom and rectitude of your character and conduct! _Yes, sir!_”

This was said with great emphasis, and once more the cambric handkerchief was brought into violent requisition.

An hour after the end of this conversation, Mark Sutherland was seated in the library, impatiently waiting the entrance of his uncle, with whom he had at last succeeded in appointing an interview. He was anxious, restless, and unable to occupy himself with anything, during the few moments which seemed ages before the planter should enter. He tumbled over the books, rumpled the papers, shifted his position many times, started up and paced the floor, looked out of all the windows in turn, and finally went to the door to listen, and reached it just as it was swung open in his face, and old Clement Sutherland entered. The planter walked to the centre of the room, and threw himself into his leather-covered chair at his writing-table, saying, in a curt voice—

“Well, sir, what is your business with me?”

Startled by the unusual sternness of his manner, Mark Sutherland turned and looked at him inquiringly. The planter’s countenance wore an aspect of severity that at once told his nephew that from some cause or by some means he had been led to suspect the nature of the communication the latter was about to make him.

“Will you oblige me, sir, by opening your business at once, as my time is somewhat valuable?” said Clement Sutherland, looking at his watch.

The young man bowed, drew a chair to the opposite side of the table, took a seat, excused himself, and deprecated his uncle’s displeasure for the painful subject he was about to introduce.

Here Clement Sutherland waved his hand impatiently, begging that he would cut his introduction as short as possible.

Then the young man commenced to relate the history of his life and experiences for the last preceding three months; he told how he had been induced to attend the colonization meetings, first merely in the spirit of bravado; how, in hearing the subject freely and ably discussed, the conviction had forced an entrance into his soul.

Here Clement Sutherland wheeled his chair around, so that his back was presented to the light, and his face cast into deep shadow, and from this instant to the end of the conversation, Mark Sutherland could not watch the expression of his countenance to judge his mental comments.

But he went on to relate how long and stoutly he had struggled against this conviction; how at last it had overcome him; how his pride, his selfishness, his interests, his passions, and affections—all had yielded, or must yield in any conflict between them and his sense of duty.

“_Facts, sir! facts!_ Let us have no sentiments, no moral or metaphysical disquisitions, but actual facts! What do you intend to do?”

Mark Sutherland answered, calmly—

“To free every negro on my plantation, and at my own expense to send every one, who is willing to go, to Liberia.”

A scornful, most insulting laugh, was the only comment of the planter.

“And after freeing them, I must do all in my power to place them in a situation of happier circumstances for their present, and more hopeful probabilities for their future, lives.”

The young man here paused, and as the planter did not answer, silence ensued between them for several minutes, during which the latter passed his hand slowly back and forth over his bearded chin. At length Mark Sutherland said, in a troubled voice—

“I do not wish to conceal from you, sir, the fact that my greatest trial in this affair has been connected with the thought of India.”

Again he paused for a reply or comment. But the planter only caressed his bristling chin, while his countenance was inscrutable in the deep shadow.

The youth spoke again:

“It has been a subject of deep regret and anxiety to me, to feel that I can no longer hope to offer India a fortune or a position equal to her just expectations. For myself, I have no doubts or fears for the future. I feel within me a power to struggle and to conquer. I feel assured that within a very few years my position will be a higher one than it is now, or than it would be were I to retain my present wealth. I believe that my India will have no cause to blush for her husband, or you for your son-in-law.”

Still the old man did not make a single remark, and so deep remained his face in the shadow, that the youth could not read his thoughts. It was rather trying to continue speaking under these circumstances; but there was no alternative. He concluded by saying—

“Although I have long enjoyed the pleasure of your approbation in my addresses to your daughter, I thought it proper to take the very earliest opportunity of informing you of my purposes, and the consequent change they must make in my fortune and circumstances. And now, sir, I have told you all, and I wait in much anxiety to hear what you have to say.”—

“What do you _wish_ me to say?” dryly inquired the planter.

“Just what is on your mind, my uncle.”

“Humph! this is rather sudden, sir. It is true that a few words dropped by Mr. Bolling, and unexpectedly overheard by myself, in some degree prepared me for the strange communication you have just made. Still, it is sudden, sir! It is sudden! What, may I inquire, did you _expect_ me to say? How did you anticipate that I should meet this?”

Mark Sutherland hesitated to reply, but got up and walked the floor in an exceedingly troubled manner.

A strange smile sat upon the face of the planter. At last he said—

“You doubtless, and with much justice, expected me to withdraw my consent to the marriage of yourself and my daughter. Did you not? Reply, if you please.”

“Sir—my dear uncle!” said Mark, coming forward again, “I had my doubts and misgivings about that. It would have been unjust to you to have seriously _entertained_ them; and it would be unjust to myself to say that I did so.”

“You were right, sir!” said the planter, with the same inscrutable smile; “you were right—I shall not interfere. Having once sanctioned your addresses to my daughter, I shall not now oppose them. Miss Sutherland is of age. I refer you solely to her. If, under the new aspect of affairs, she is willing that this engagement between you and herself shall stand, and that the preparations for marriage proceed, I shall throw no obstacles in your way. Nay, further, sir, that in that case, the marriage shall be conducted precisely as, under other circumstances, it was planned—that is, in all things befitting the social position of myself and my sole daughter. Our interview is at an end, I believe?”

The _words_ of Clement Sutherland would have called forth from his nephew the warmest emotions and expressions of gratitude, but that the tone and the smile that accompanied them, more than neutralised their good effect, and sent a pang of terrible foreboding through the heart of the young man.

“Pardon me, sir,” he said, laying his hand gently and respectfully upon the arm of his uncle, as the latter was rising to leave the library. “Do I understand you to say that you approve”——

“You will please to understand me to say, sir, that I refer you to my daughter, Miss Sutherland, and that I shall endorse her decision, whatever that may be. Excuse me, sir—good afternoon.”

And Clement Sutherland, coldly bowing, left the library.

Mark Sutherland walked up and down the floor in great disturbance of mind, and then at last he seized his hat and hurried from the room, to seek the presence of India.