Eventide
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Effie Afton >> Eventide
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Here an exclamation of "Mercy, mercy!" called the esquire's attention,
and he beheld his amiable consort sinking aghast, with uplifted hands on
a sofa in the hall. "Law, Nabby, what's the matter now?" said he, going
toward her leisurely enough, as though he were accustomed to such
scenes.
"O, Adolphus Camford! what wench is that you have been sitting beside on
my embroidered ottoman? Answer me quick, for the love of Heaven! I will
not say for the love you bear me, as it is evident by your conduct that
you have ceased to regard me with a spice of affection," exclaimed the
fair lady, in a tone of trembling excitement.
"Good, now, Nabby, good! A scene enacted on the arrival of our little
up-country cousin, Ally Orville;" and the esquire roared with laughter.
Alice heard all, and wondered what she had come among.
The lady, nothing appeased by this explanation, as soon as she had taken
breath, burst forth again. "And you dared take the girl, in her dirty,
disordered travelling garb, into the drawing-room! Adolphus Camford, I'm
horrified beyond expression! Here, Thisbe, run and bundle the thing off
to her room before any one sees her. And to come just at our fashionable
dinner-hour too!"
"Fuss and feathers, is that the child's fault? She came when the boat
did, of course. I was down there after my freight, and found her; she
seemed a mighty favorite with all on board, I assure you, and a handsome
young fellow rode up in the carriage with us, to mark her residence,
that he might call on her."
"Yes, and our house will be overrun by hoosiers, and all sorts of
gawkins, no doubt. But take this girl out of sight, Thisbe. You can
carry some dinner to her room if she wishes any."
"Thunder and Mars! She is your own brother's child; ain't you going to
let her come to the table with the family?"
"Perhaps so, at a proper time. When I have seen her, and considered
whether she is a suitable personage for my jewel daughters to have for a
companion."
"Why, didn't she come here more by your invitation than mine? for she
was well enough off at home, but, because she was the only child of your
deceased brother, you wanted to do something for her, and so sent for
her to come here, and finish her education at your expense, where she
could receive more fashionable polish than in a country town, away up in
Ohio; and as to her looks, just step into the parlor and see for
yourself."
"O, where is she?" he exclaimed, finding the room vacant in which Alice
had been seated a few moments before.
"I sent Thisbe to take her off," replied Mrs. Camford; "here are the
children; my brilliant son, my jewel daughters. I declare my nerves are
so shaken I feel quite incapacitated to preside at the dinner-table."
"Pshaw, Nabby," said the blunt husband, "come along. I'll risk you to
despatch your usual quantity of lobster salad and roasted steak."
"Adolphus, you shock me," faltered the delicate little lady, of a good
two hundred pounds' weight, as she hung to her lord's stalwart arm and
entered the dining saloon.
"My darling children, assume your seats at table. Billy and Cato, unfold
their napkins. Adolphus, you see we have chops for dinner."
Delivering herself of this flowery speech, the lady sank exhausted into
the high-backed chair that was held in readiness by the officious
waiter, and was shoved up to her proper place, the head of her sumptuous
table.
The meal proceeded in silence, and all, even the delicate lady, did
ample justice to the chops, the entrees, and nicely-prepared side
dishes, as well as to the elegant dessert that followed in course.
CHAPTER III.
"She wound around her fingers
Her locks of jetty hair;
And brought them into graceful curl
About her forehead fair."
Alice remained closeted in her little room, eating but a morsel of the
dinner brought her by Thisbe, till night-fall, when the woman again
appeared, and said,
"Mistress says, if Miss Alice has made herself presentable, she can
attend her in the family sitting-room in half an hour."
Alice bowed to this message, and said she would be pleased to meet her
aunt and cousins at the time specified. The woman paused a moment, and
then asked timidly,
"Would not Miss Alice like a waitin'-maid sent to 'sist her in
dressin'?"
"No, thank you," returned Alice, smiling. "I am accustomed to wait on
myself."
The woman opened wide her shiny eyes, and exclaiming, "Massy! who ever
heard the like?" retired with a courtesy.
Alice laughed quite heartily after she was gone. "The idea of a black
girl to help me put on a plain muslin frock, and twist my ringlets into
a little smoother curl!" said she. "I could array myself to meet a queen
in ten minutes."
Thus speaking, she took from her trunk a snowy India muslin frock. It
fastened low over her finely-formed shoulders, and a chain of red coral
round her neck, with bracelets of the same material on her delicate
wrists, completed her toilet. With her own rare grace of motion, she
glided down the hall stairs, and into the presence of her aunt, who rose
from the soft-cushioned chair in which she had been reclining, with an
expression half terror, half anger, distorting her features.
"Mercy, mercy! Another trial to my weak nerves!" she exclaimed. "Thisbe,
my nerve-reviver instantly!"
The servant flew from the room, and returned with a small, silver-headed
vial, which the lady applied to her nostrils, and soon grew calm.
Alice stood all the while dismayed at the confusion her sudden entrance
had occasioned, and the three cousins, perched on cushioned stools,
gazed on her with curious eyes. The aunt at length got sufficiently
revived to speak.
"Now, Miss Orville, my long-since-departed brother's only child, advance
to embrace your affectionate aunt!"
Alice came forward with a gentle, inimitable grace, and, extending her
hand, said,
"How do you do, aunt? I am sorry to have made you so ill."
"That is right, Miss Orville! you should be so. My nerves are delicate;
the least disturbance sets them all a tremble, and no one understands my
nerves; no one appreciates my nerves. Now I will present you to your
cousins. I call my daughters my three jewels. The eldest, and belle and
beauty, as we call her, is not at home, being in the city of Mobile at
present. Her name is Isadora Gabriella Celestina Camford. You will
behold her in due time, I trust. My second child is a son. I call him my
brilliant among my jewels. Daniel Henry Thomas Lewis John Camford come
forward to greet Miss Alice Orville."
The lad thus called on, rose, stretched himself, and coming up to Alice
said, "How d'ye do, cous.?"
The young girl received his extended hand kindly, and, after gazing for
the space of a full minute straight in her face, he resumed his seat.
"Very well done, my brilliant son!" said the mother. "Next in order
comes my second jewel. Now Dulcinea Ophelia Ambrosia Josephine, my
adored remembrance of Don Quixote, Shakspeare, the Naiads, and the
mighty Napoleon, advance to greet your cousin!"
And this living remembrance of the immortal dead sprang from her stool,
and, running to Alice, threw both arms round her neck, and, kissing her
on either cheek, exclaimed, "O, Cousin Alice! I'm glad you are come, for
now I shall have some one good-natured enough to talk to and go to
school with every day; for, by your pretty, angel-face, I know you are a
sweet-tempered thing."
During this volubly-uttered harangue, the mother was making helpless
gestures to Thisbe for the nerve-reviver; but the graceless wench never
heeded one of them, so intently was she gazing with distended eyes and
gaping mouth on Miss Pheny's somewhat boisterous, but really
warm-hearted greeting of her Cousin Alice. Pheny was a universal
favorite among the servants, "for that she was a smilin', good-natured
young lady, and not a bit nervousy," as they declared.
At length poor Mrs. Camford uttered a faint cry, which called Thisbe's
attention back to the spot from whence it never should have
strayed,--her mistress' cushioned chair,--and she rushed in a sort of
frenzy for the nerve-reviver, and applied it to the trembling lady's
nostrils; whereupon that delicately-constituted specimen of the genus
feminine uttered a stentorian shriek and flounced about the room like an
irate porcupine, greatly to the terror of Alice, who had never witnessed
such a scene before. But neither the brilliant son nor jewel daughters
seemed in the least alarmed, and in a few moments the mother regained
possession of her chair and senses, when her first act of sanity was to
hurl the bottle Thisbe had applied to her nostrils at the poor woman's
head with such force, that, had she not dodged the missile, it must have
inflicted a severe contusion.
"There, you blundering black brute!" she exclaimed, "see if you'll bring
your master's hartshorn headache-dispenser again, when I send for my
nerve-reviver. The idea of a delicate woman like me having a bottle of
hartshorn bobbed under her nose! The wonder is I am not dead; yes, dead
by your hand, you brutal black nigger! But where was I in my
presentation? O, I recollect! That mad-cap girl, my second jewel, so
horrified me. I dare not yet refer to it lest my nerves become spasmodic
again. Pray excuse her, Miss Orville, and I will proceed to my youngest,
my infant-jewel! Eldora Adelaide Maria Suzette, greet your cousin, love,
as you ought."
The child arose, made a stiff bend of her shoulders, and said, "I hope
to see you well, Miss Alice Orville."
Alice returned her salute with a graceful courtesy, and all resumed
their seats.
"Now," said Mrs. Camford, "this dreaded ceremony of presentation is
over, I hope we may get on well together. I'm desirous, Miss Orville,
that you should commence tuition at the seminary immediately. I shall
have no pains spared to afford you a fashionable education. As my
deceased brother's only child, I would have this much done at my own
expense. I always told Ernest, though he married a poor girl from the
north, and went off there to live with her, much against the wishes of
our parents, that I would never see a child of his suffer."
"I have never suffered, madam!" said Alice, quickly.
"For food and clothes I suppose not, Miss Orville," said Mrs. Camford,
loftily; "but my nerves are all shattered by this long confab, and I
will now retire, leaving you young people to cultivate each other's
acquaintance. Thisbe, carry me to my private apartment!"
And Thisbe lifted her delicate mistress in her arms, and tugged her from
the room; an operation that reminded one, not of a "mountain laboring to
bring forth a mouse," but of a mouse laboring to bring forth a mountain.
Days and weeks past by, and Alice was not so unhappy as she feared she
would be from her first experience. The "belle and beauty" returned from
the city of Mobile, under escort of Mr. Gilbert, who proved to be the
fair Celestina's _fiancee_. And Wayland Morris was a frequent visitor.
He often invited Alice to walk over different portions of the city.
There was an old ruinous French chateau to which they were wont to
direct their steps almost every Saturday evening when the weather was
pleasant; and to walk with Morris, gaze into his deep blue eyes, and
listen to his eloquent voice as he recited to her old tales and legends
of long ago from his well-stored, imaginative brain, was becoming more
than life to Alice. Perhaps she did not quite know it then. Whoever
knows the value of a blessing till it is withdrawn? Ah! and when we wake
some morning to find our hearts left desolate, how earnestly and
tearfully do we beg its return, with fervent promises never to drive it
from our bosoms, or scorn and slight it again! But does it ever come?
Alas, no!
CHAPTER IV.
"O, know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in her clime,
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,
Now melts into sorrow, now maddens to crime;
O, know ye the land of the cedar and vine,
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine?"
Bright, balmy, beautiful southern land! Alas, that amid all your
luxuriance of beauty, where the flowering earth smiles up to the far
sparkling azure, and all nature seems chanting delicious harmonies, that
man should here, as elsewhere, make the one discordant note! Frail,
grovelling, passion-blinded man! The noblest imperfection of God! When
will he be elevated to the standard for which the Maker designed him?
It was early spring, and the "floating palace," Eclipse, had made many
pleasant trips between New Orleans and Louisville, since Alice Orville
stood on her guards and feasted her beauty-loving eyes on the delightful
river scenery.
The magnificent boat was now at the levee in New Orleans, advertised to
sail on the morrow. All was a scene of confusion in her vicinity.
Freight and baggage tumbled over the decks, passengers hurrying on
board, carts, hacks and omnibuses rudely jostling one against another,
runners loudly vociferating for their respective boats, etc. At length a
young man made his way through the crowd to the clerk's office, booked
his name, and engaged passage for a small town in Tennessee. The clerk
glanced at the name, and, instantly extending a hand to the passenger,
exclaimed; "Ah, Mr. Morris, happy to meet you! I look in so many
different faces, yours did not strike me as familiar at first. How has
been your health, and how have you prospered since I saw you last? Now I
recollect you were on the boat when we brought the pretty young lady
down; Miss Orville, I think was her name. Is she yet in the city?"
"I believe she is," answered Morris, in a tone meant to be careless.
"Surrounded by enamored admirers, no doubt," remarked the clerk. "So you
are bound up the river, Morris?"
"Yes, to visit my widowed mother in Tennessee; she is failing in health,
and sent for me to come to her."
"Indeed; 'tis like a dutiful son to obey the summons. Will you return to
New Orleans?"
"Such is my intention at present."
"Well, make yourself comfortable here, and the Eclipse will set you off
at your stopping-place in two or three days," said the gentlemanly
clerk, dismissing his friend, as others thronged around for
accommodations.
The sun sank behind the "Father of Waters," as before a small gray
cottage on the eastern shore of the mighty river, a young, fair-haired
girl stood watching its departing light. At length a boat came in view
round a winding curve, and the little maiden leaped up, clapped her
hands gleefully, and disappeared within the cottage. Onward came the
graceful boat, lashing the waters into foam with its swift-revolving
wheels. It neared the shore, made a brief halt, and then glided on its
way again. A young man bounded up the embankment, and the fair girl met
him on the lowly sill with open arms. "Dear sister Winnie, how you are
grown!" exclaimed he; "but lead me to mother quickly."
"I will, I will, brother Wayland. She has talked of you all day long,
and feared you would not arrive in time to see her."
"Ah! is she failing so rapidly, then?" said the young man, while a gloom
stole over his features.
"O, not so very fast!" answered the child; "and now you are come, I dare
say she will soon be well again."
He patted her cheek, and hurriedly entered his mother's apartment. She
was lying on an humble pallet, wan and emaciated to so fearful a degree,
that the son could hardly recognize the parent from whom he had parted
eight months before.
"O, mother!" said he in sorrowful, reproachful accents; "why had you not
sent for me sooner?"
"I have wanted for nothing, my boy," answered the invalid, in a husky
voice. "Your letters spoke of success, and hopes for the future; how
could I be so selfish as to call you away from prospects so fair, to
tend on a sick-bed?"
The son was silent, and after a few moments' pause, she resumed: "Winnie
did all that could be done for me. But for a few weeks I've failed
faster than usual, and I could not bear to die without beholding my
darling boy once more. Besides, what was to become of Winnie, left alone
and unprotected?"
"Do not speak so hopelessly, dear mother," said Wayland, tears gathering
in his eyes; "I trust with the advancing spring your health may
improve."
The poor woman shook her head. Winnie came, and, putting her little arms
round her mother's neck, commenced sobbing bitterly.
"Winnie! Winnie! you worry mother doing so," said Wayland, drawing her
away; "come now with me; I want to see your pretty fawn and pet kids."
"O, brother! the white spots are all gone from Fanny's neck and sides,
and the kiddies' horns are grown so long I'm half afraid of them; but
come, I'll find them for you;" and the child, diverted from her tears,
seized her brother's hand to lead him forth in search of her playmates.
They were soon found, and after admiring and caressing them a few
moments, Wayland left his sister to frolic with them on the lawn, and
returned to his mother's side.
They had a long, confidential conversation, in which the son imparted to
his affectionate parent a brief history of the past eight months. She
listened with eager interest to the rehearsal. When he mentioned Alice
Orville, she regarded his countenance with a fixed, searching
expression, and a faint smile stole over her pale, sad face; but when he
breathed the name of Camford, she started convulsively, and demanded his
Christian name.
"Adolphus," answered Wayland, in amaze at her emotion. "He is Miss
Orville's uncle, and the wealthiest merchant in New Orleans."
"'Tis the same," she murmured; "you were too young, my son, when your
father died, to have any recollection of the events which preceded his
death; but you have heard from me that he was hurried out of the world
by temporal misfortunes too great for his delicate, sensitive
temperament to endure. The sudden descent from affluence to poverty bore
him to the grave. And I have told you, Wayland, that by the hand of one
man, all this woe and suffering was brought upon us."
"And who was that man, dear mother?" asked the youth, in an agitated
voice.
"Adolphus Camford," answered she, trembling as she spoke the fatal name.
"Is it possible?" exclaimed Wayland, starting to his feet. "Then may the
son avenge the father!"
"Stop, my boy," said his mother; "I intended this revelation but as a
caution for you against your father's destroyer. 'Vengeance is mine, I
will repay,' saith the Lord. Promise that you will remember this,
Wayland, or I cannot die in peace."
"I promise, mother," said the young man, bowing at the bed-side, and
leaning his head tenderly on her bosom.
CHAPTER V.
"If there is anything I hate on earth,
It is a ranting, tattling, prattling jade,
Who gossips all day long, and fattens on
Her neighbors' foibles, and at night lies down
To dream some ghostly tale, and rises soon
To bawl it through the town as good and true."
Hast ever attended a Ladies' Sewing Circle, reader, and witnessed the
benevolent proceedings of the matrons, spinsters, and young maidens, for
the poor, benighted heathen on the far-distant shores of Hindostan, or
the benighted millions who sit in the "region and shadow of death" on
the desert plains of Ethiopia? And while thou hast heard the lady
president plead so eloquently for those nations, who, groaning in their
self-forged chains, bow to the great Moloch of superstition and
idolatry, as to "draw tears of blood," as it were, from the eyes of her
rapt and devoted listeners, hast ever marked a pale, trembling child of
want totter to the door, and ask for the "crumbs that fall" from this
humane society's tea-table, and heard the answer, "Begone! this is a
benevolent association for the purpose of evangelizing the heathen, not
to feed lazy beggars at our own doors?"
And has thy lips dared e'en to whisper,
"O for the charity that begins at home!"
Well, the "Ladies' Literary Benevolent Combination for Foreign Aid" was
duly congregated at Mrs. Jane Rockport's, Pleasant-street, in the town
of Bellevue, on the western shore of Lake Erie. It was a rainy day,--as
days for the meeting of sewing circles most always are; though why
Heaven should strive to thwart benevolence is a point upon which we will
not venture an opinion.
About twenty of the most zealous in the course of philanthropy, who no
doubt felt the wrongs of the suffering heathen impelling them to brave
the wind and rain, had assembled in Mrs. Rockport's parlor, and, after
hearing a hymn composed for the occasion by the Misses Gaddies, and
performed by the same interesting young ladies, and an appropriate
prayer by the president, Mrs. Stebbins, the work designed for the
present meeting was laid upon the table, and the several members of the
little company selected articles upon which to display their
benevolence, and scattered off in groups of two and three to different
parts of the room, while a low, incessant hum of voices struck the ear
from all quarters. It appeared the devoted ladies were exerting their
tongues as well as fingers in the good cause.
"Now, do you suppose it is true?" asked Miss Jerusha Sharpwell, at
length, in a raised voice, with horror and amazement depicted on her
sharp-featured face.
"Why, Susan Simpson told me that Dilly Hootaway told her that little
Nanny Dutton told her, 'Pa had got a nice lamb shut up in a pen, and
they were going to have it killed for Christmas,'" said Mrs. Dorothy
Sykes, in reply to her companion's startled exclamation.
"Enough said," returned Miss Jerusha, with a toss of her tall head; "now
such things ought not to pass unnoticed, I say."
This was uttered in so loud a tone that the attention of all in the room
was roused, and several voices demanded what was the matter.
"Matter enough," said Miss Sharpwell; "that thievish Oliver Dutton has
stolen a sheep from the widow Orville."
"La! have you just heard of it, sister Sharpwell?" exclaimed Mrs.
Fleetwood; "I knew it a week ago."
"You did, did you?" said Mrs. Sykes; "why, it was only stolen last
night."
"Perhaps Mr. Dutton has stolen two sheep," suggested Mrs. Aidy.
"No doubt, no doubt," put in Miss Jerusha, much excited.
"Well, ladies," observed Mrs. Milder, "as I am perfectly sure, I may
safely affirm that Mr. Dutton has stolen no sheep from Mrs. Orville."
"How do you know he has not?" demanded Sykes and Sharpwell in a breath.
"Because Mrs. Orville has no sheep," returned Mrs. Milder, quietly.
"Well, now, was there ever such a place as this is coming to be? No one
can believe a thing unless they see it with their own eyes," exclaimed
Mrs. Sykes, in an indignant tone. "I'm sure I heard Dutton had got a
lamb for Christmas; and how could the poor critter come by it unless he
stole it somewhere; and as Mrs. Orville lives alone, I thought likely he
would take advantage of that, and steal it from her, for I didn't know
but what she kept sheep."
"Very natural, Mrs. Sykes, that you should thus suppose," chimed in Miss
Jerusha. "No one questions your honor or veracity. But what were you
saying, Miss Gaddie? I thought you were speaking of Mrs. Orville's
daughter that went off south a year or two ago."
"I was merely remarking that Mrs. Orville received a letter from Alice
last week, and sis, who used to be acquainted with her, called to
inquire after her welfare."
"Well, what did she hear?" asked Miss Sharpwell.
"Not much, did you, sis?" asked the elder Miss Gaddie of her younger
sister.
"No, I didn't _hear_ much, but I _see_ enough," answered that
interesting miss.
"Lord bless us, child!" exclaimed Miss Jerusha. "What did you see?"
"Why, Mrs. Orville was blubbering like a baby when I entered, but she
tried to hush up after a while."
"Mercy to me!" exclaimed Mrs. Sykes; "her daughter must be dead or come
to some awful disgrace away off there."
"No, she is not dead," said Miss Gaddie, "for her mother said she was
well, and spoke of returning home next spring or summer."
"O, dear! these young girls sent off alone in the world most always come
to some harm," said Miss Sharpwell, with a rueful expression of
countenance.
"True, true, sister Jerusha," returned Mrs. Sykes, "what should I think
of sending my Henrietta off so?"
"Sure enough, sister Sykes," said Miss Sharpwell. "We ought not,
however, to forsake our friends in adversity. Let us call on Mrs.
Orville, and sympathize in her affliction."
"With all my heart, sister Jerusha. I am a mother, and can appreciate a
mother's feelings over a beloved child's downfall and disgrace," said
Mrs. Sykes, with a distressful expression of pity distorting her
countenance.
And thus in the mint of the Ladies' Benevolent Society was cast, coined
and made ready for current circulation, the tale of poor Alice Orville's
imaginary shame and ruin. Yet faster flew those Christian ladies'
Christian fingers for the poor heathen, while they thus discussed the
slang and gossip of the village.
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