Eventide

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This is precisely the way she brings her "stories" into existence; but,
lest we write her out of favor too rapidly, we'll leave the subject, and
back to our tale again, recommencing with a new chapter, which is--

CHAPTER IX.

"And there are haunts in that far land--
O, who shall dream or tell
Of all the shaded loveliness
She hides in grot and dell!"

O, often, often, far from this, have we watched the great red sun
sinking behind the vast stretching prairie, while all the broad west
seemed like a surging flood of gold beyond an ocean of green; and often
have we beheld day's glorious orb looming above the soft blue waters of
the placid bay, while the joyous birds soared up the sparkling dome of
heaven, their little throats almost bursting with thrilling melody, and
the balmy south wind came laden with the perfume of ten thousand
ordorous flowers!

O, sweet land upon the tropic's glowing verge, what star-bright memories
we have of thee! How deeply treasured in our heart of hearts are all thy
joys and pleasures,--ay, and griefs and sorrows too! But as the spot
where this long-crushed and drooping spirit heard those first, low,
preluding strains, foretokenings that its long-enfeebled energies were
wakening from their death-like slumber to breathe response to the
thousand tones in sea and air that called so loudly on them to arouse
once more to life and action, it will ever be most truly dear. And when
again life's fetters clog with the ice and snow of those frigid lands,
we'll long to fly again to those climes of song and sunny ray, and
forget earth's cankering cares in the contemplation of Nature's
luxuriant charms. But we grow abstract.

Come with us, reader, if you will, over the prairies of Texas, gorgeous
with their many-colored flowers, dotted with the dark-green live-oaks,
and watered by pellucid rivers. To that log-house, standing under the
boughs of a wide-spreading pecan tree, let us wend our way.

There is a gray-headed man sitting in a deer-skin-bottomed chair, on the
rude gallery, and gazing with weary eye on the lovely scenery around
him. Two young ladies are standing near, their countenances wearing
sullen expressions of discontent and sorrow.

"So this is Texas, father," remarked the elder of the two, at length. "I
wonder how you ever expect to earn a living here, for my part."

"By tilling the soil, my child, and growing cotton and sugar; fine
country for that. Land rich as mud and cheap as dirt. Why, I have
purchased five hundred acres for a mere trifle. Zounds! I feel like
amassing a new fortune here in a few years," said the old man, suddenly
rousing from his stupor.

"Well, I'm perfectly disgusted," said the younger lady, "and wish I had
run off to Australia with brother Jack and Celestina's faithless
husband."

"I wish I was in that convent upon the Mississippi, where poor sister
Celestina is now," sighed the elder.

"Pshaw, girls! you'll both marry wild Texan rangers before two years,"
said the old gentleman, who was no less a personage than Esq. Camford,
formerly the wealthiest merchant in New Orleans, but now a poor Texan
emigrant in his log-cabin on the Cibolo. Well, he was a better man now
than when rolling in the luxury of ill-gotten wealth, for adversity
never fails to teach useful lessons; and it had taught this
world-hardened, conscience-seared man, that "honesty is the best
policy."

A tremulous voice from within attracted the attention of the group on
the gallery. "Mercy, mercy, Thisbe, take that viper away, and let me out
of this bed! it is full of frightful serpents."

"Why, no 'taint neither, Missus," said poor Thisbe, struggling to lift
her mistress from the pillows; "there beant a snake nowheres about, only
a little striped 'izard, and I driv' him away."

The husband now entered.

"O, Adolphus!" exclaimed the nerve-stricken wife, "that you should have
brought me to a death like this! to be shot by Indians, devoured by
bears, and bitten by rattlesnakes!"

"Thunder and Mars! nobody's dead yet, and this is a fine, healthy,
growing country," said the squire, in a loud, good-humored voice.

"Alas! what am I to eat?" continued the nervous lady, "I can have no
claws and crackers in these wilds."

"Let Thisbe catch you a young alligator from the river; that will be
something new for a relish."

"O, Adolphus! how can you mock at the horrors that surround us? My
nerves, my nerves! you will never learn to regard them."

"No, probably not," returned the husband; "but let me tell you, Nabby, I
don't believe nerves are of any available use out here in Texas. They'll
do for effect in the fashionable saloons of a city; but what think a
wild Camanche would say if he chanced some broiling-hot morning to catch
you in dishabille, and you begged him to retreat and spare your nerves?
Why, it would be all gibberish to him."

"O, Adolphus! how can you horrify me thus? And these lovely jewels to be
devoured by hyenas and swallowed by crocodiles! O, my nerves! Thisbe, my
nerve-reviver this moment!"

"There ain't a bit on't left, Missus; 'twas all in the trunk dat tumbled
out o' the cart when we swum through dat ar river," said the poor
servant, in a tone of anxious dismay.

"Heaven save me now!" exclaimed the panic-stricken lady. "Adolphus, you
must go to New Orleans to-morrow and bring me some."

"Thunder and Mars! You forget we are eight hundred miles from there, and
what do you suppose would become of you all before I got back? You would
be mounted on pack-mules, carried off to the Indian frontier, and made
squaws of."

"O, father, don't leave us, I entreat of you!" sobbed Susette, on
hearing these words.

"Why did I not die ere I came to this?" groaned Mrs. Camford. "Why did I
not die when my eldest jewel and brilliant son were torn from my
embrace? Alas! for what awful fate am I reserved?"

"Come, Nabby, this would do on the boards of the St. Charles, but toads
and lizards can't appreciate theatricals. Pheny, can't you manage to get
up some sort of a dinner out of the corn-meal and sweet potatoes I
bought of the old Mynheer this morning; and there's a few eggs and a ham
in the larder too. I declare I relish this new life already;--it is a
change, Pheny, isn't it?" asked the father, looking in his fair
daughter's face.

"Yes," answered she, "and if it wasn't for the snakes and lizards, I
wouldn't complain."

"Never mind them," returned the squire, bravely; "they shan't hurt you.
We'll have a nice, cosey home here a year from to-day."

CHAPTER X.

"It was the calm, moonshiny hour,
And earth was hushed and sleeping;
The hour when faithful love is e'er
Its fondest vigils keeping."

Clear as amber fell the moonlight on the forms of Wayland and Winnie
Morris, as arm in arm they roamed the calm, delightful shores of Lake
Pontchartrain.

"Well, sister," said Wayland, "four weeks have passed since I last saw
you, and how have you sped in your capacity of teacher?"

"O, bravely, Wayland! 'Tis so delightful to feel I am of some importance
in the world, and that I'm laying up money to repay my brother, as far
as I am able, for all he has done for me! You should see me in my little
school-room, with my pupils round me. I fancy no queen e'er felt more
pride and satisfaction in beholding her subjects kneeling before her,
than I do with my infant class leaning their tiny arms on my lap and
looking in my face as they repeat from my lips the evening prayer."

"I am pleased to find you so content and happy," said Wayland.

"O, I am indeed so, and indebted to you for all I enjoy!" returned
Winnie.

"And what of Jack Camford, sis?" asked the brother, with a mischievous
smile.

"O, I have not forgotten him yet, naughty Wayland!" answered she; "I
dream of him most every night."

"Well, I would not seek to control your dreams, sis; but I fancy they'll
occur less and less often, and by and by cease altogether."

"You think I never loved Jack," said Winnie.

"I think you had a girlish fancy for him. As to woman's holy, unchanging
love, you have never yet experienced it, my little sister."

"When shall I, then? I'm sixteen, and a preceptress."

"Yes."

"But don't you think Jack loved me, Wayland?"

"I think he had a boy's fancy for you, which may deepen into love with
time, or may be wholly dissipated from his bosom."

"But why did you object to him so strongly? You well-nigh broke my heart
at one time. It was not like you to hate the son for the parent's
crimes."

"No, it was not for the father's errors that I bade you shun the son;
but because I discovered in him a frivolous, faulty character, that had
no strength of purpose, or fixed principles of action; and I dreaded the
influence such a person might exert over your youthful, pliant mind."

"Now, what if he should return some of these years, and lay his life,
love and fortune at my feet?" suggested Winnie, archly.

"Should he return with the elements that make the man stamped on his
face and conduct, I would never object to his addresses to my sister, if
she favored them," said Wayland.

"How the poor Camfords have suffered!" remarked Winnie, after a pause.

"They have, indeed," returned Wayland; "all our wrongs have been
expiated, and I raised not a finger to avenge them. My mother on her
death-bed bade me remember 'Vengeance was the Lord's,' and, thanks to
her name, I have done so."

"Where are the family?" inquired Winnie.

"Emigrated to Texas; and my brother editor, Mr. Lester, has purchased
their former residence, and I am boarding there at present. He has
extended to you a cordial invitation to pass your next vacation at his
mansion."

"O, he is very kind! I shall be delighted to do so. Do you still like
editing as well as formerly, brother?"

"Yes, it is an occupation suited to my tastes; and some of these years,
when I have sufficient capital, I want to go home to old Tennessee, and
erect a pretty rural cottage on the site of our former abode, and there
pass away life in peace and quietude with you, dear sister, if such a
prospect is pleasing to your mind. Or are you more ambitious?"

"No, brother; ambition is for men, not women," said Winnie.

"Yes, for men who love it," responded Wayland; "but my highest ambition
is to be happy; and I look for happiness alone in rural quiet and
seclusion. Do you accede to my project, sis?"

"With all my heart."

"Then see that you keep that heart free, and not, before I carry my plan
into execution, have given it to the charge of some gallant knight, and
left me desolate in my pretty cottage on the verdant shores of
Tennessee."

"Ay, and see that you don't find some fairer flower to bloom in that
cottage home, and rudely toss me from the window," exclaimed Winnie,
with a merry laugh.

"No fear of that," said Wayland; "now I must leave you. Expect me in a
week again."

And with an affectionate salute the brother and sister parted.

CHAPTER XI.

"Ay, there are memories that will not vanish,
Thoughts of the past we have no power to banish;
To show the heart how powerless mere will;
For we may suffer, and yet struggle still;
It is not at our choice that we forget--
That is a power no science teaches yet,
The heart may be a dark and closed-up tomb,
But memory stands a ghost amid the gloom."

Miss Jerusha Sharpwell and Mrs. Fleetfoot had dropped in to take tea
with Mrs. Sykes on a pleasant September evening. The latter lady, as in
duty bound, was highly pleased to see her dear friends, and forthwith
ordered Hannah, her servant-girl, to make a batch of soda rolls, with a
bit of shortening rubbed in, and just step over to Mrs. Frye's, and ask
that good lady "if she would not be so very kind and obliging as to lend
Mrs. Sykes a plateful of her nice, sweet doughnuts, as she had visitors
come in unexpectedly, and was not quite prepared to entertain them as
she could wish." Thus were the guests provided for.

"How happened it you were absent from the last sewing circle, sister
Sykes?" inquired Miss Sharpwell. "We had an unusually interesting
season. Several new names were added to our list, and sister Fleetfoot,
here, entertained us with a most amusing account of Pamela Gaddie's
marriage with Mr. Smith, the missionary to Bengal."

"Indeed! I regret I was denied the pleasure of listening to the recital;
but company detained me from the circle."

"Ah! who was visiting you?" asked Mrs. Fleetfoot.

"The Churchills, from Cincinnati," answered Mrs. Sykes. "You know they
are particular friends of my husband."

"Yes; is their son married yet?"

"No; and he called on Alice Orville every day while he was here."

"La, do tell me!" said Jerusha. "How long was he with you, Mrs. Sykes?"

"A day and a half," returned that lady. "He came up in the morning-train
and returned next evening."

"Well," said Mrs. Fleetfoot, "they do say Alice Orville is engaged to
Fred. Milder."

"Sakes alive!" exclaimed Miss Jerusha. "I never heard a word about it
before! Well, Mrs. Milder was always standing up for Mrs. Orville. I
thought it meant something. Now I remember, Fred. was at the last sewing
circle and walked home with Alice. I thought strange of it then, for it
was hardly a dozen yards to her house, and some of us young ladies had
to walk five times as far all alone. Who told you of the engagement?"

"La, I can't remember now!" said Mrs. Fleetfoot; "but I've heard of it
ever so many times."

"Well, they'll make a pretty couple enough," observed Mrs. Sykes;
"though I rather fancied Alice was engaged to somebody off south, 'cause
she seems sort of downcast sometimes, and keeps so close since she got
home."

"O, la, that's cause she's got wind of the story that was going about
here before she came back! I wonder if there was any truth in it?" said
Mrs. Fleetfoot.

"I don't know; I never put much confidence in flying stories," remarked
Jerusha.

"Neither do I!" said Mrs. Sykes; "or take the trouble to repeat, if I
chance to hear them."

"Nor I!" chimed in Mrs. Fleetfoot. "If there is anything I mortally
abhor, it is a tattler and busybody."

"Our sentiments, exactly!" exclaimed the other two ladies in concert.

Hannah now entered and announced tea, and the trio of scrupulous,
conscientious ladies repaired to the dining-room to luxuriate on short
rolls and Mrs. Frye's neighborly doughnuts.

Mrs. Orville had a pleasant residence on the lake shore, and everything
wore a brighter aspect in the eyes of the mother, since her beloved
daughter had returned to enliven the old home by her sunshiny presence.
But Alice had passed from the gay-hearted child to the thoughtful woman
in the two years she had been away, and there was a mild, pensive light
in her dark eye that spoke of a chastened spirit within. Still, she was
usually cheerful, and always, even in her most melancholy hours, an
agreeable companion. Beautiful in person, highly educated and
accomplished, her conversation, whether tinged with sadness or enlivened
by wit and humor, exercised a strange, fascinating power over her
listeners.

Alice had left New Orleans with the expectation of having her cousin
Josephine spend the ensuing winter with her at the north; but shortly
after her arrival home a letter from her cousin informed her of their
fallen fortunes, and proposed emigration to Texas. As Alice knew not to
what part of that State to direct a reply, all further correspondence
was broken off between the parties. From Wayland Morris she never heard,
and knew naught concerning him, save by occasional articles from his pen
in southern journals, which were noticed with commendation and applause.
She tried hard to forget him; "for it is not right," she said, "to waste
my life and health on one who never thinks of me. But why did he awaken
a hope in my breast that he loved me, if that hope was to be withdrawn
as soon as it became necessary to my happiness?"

"Alice, Alice!" exclaimed Mrs. Orville, as the fair girl stood in the
recess of a vine-covered window, absorbed in thoughts like these, "Mr.
Milder is coming through the gate; will you go out to receive him?"

Alice roused from her reverie, and saying "Yes, mother," very quietly,
hastened through the hall to meet her visitor.

"Good-evening, Mr. Milder!" said she, with a graceful courtesy. "Come
into the parlor. I have been laying the sin of ungallantry upon you for
the last three days."

"It is the last charge I would have expected preferred against me by
you, Miss Orville!" said he, smiling.

"What other would you sooner have expected?" she inquired, looping up
the snowy muslin curtains to admit the parting sunbeams.

"One I would have dreaded far more to hear,--that of being too assiduous
in my attendance," returned he, in a low tone.

Alice answered by changing the conversation, and, after an hour passed
in pleasant chit-chat, Fred. proposed a stroll on the lake shore. Alice
was soon ready, and they sallied forth. The weather was delightful, and
that walk along Erie's sounding shores was fraught with a life-interest
to one, and regretful sorrow to both.

"I am going to Texas, Alice!" said Milder, as they reaepproached the
mansion of Mrs. Orville.

"O, that you might find my cousin Josephine there, who is so good and
beautiful!" remarked Alice.

"Would I might, if it would afford you a moment's pleasure," he
answered, in a dejected tone.

"If you do, pray give her my love, and entreat her to write and inform
me of her welfare," said Alice, earnestly.

"I shall be highly gratified to execute your commission," he answered;
"and now, good-by, Alice! May you be as happy as you deserve!"

"And may you, also, Fred.!" said Alice, with tears in her eyes. One
lingering pressure of the hand, and he was gone.

"Noble heart!" exclaimed Alice; "why could I not love him? Alas! a
tyrant grasp is on my soul, which, while it delights to hold me in its
toils, and tantalize and torment, will not love me, or let me love
another!"

"Alice!" said a voice within.

"Yes, mother, I'm coming," replied the daughter, entering the hall with
a languid step, and proceeding to divest herself of shawl and bonnet.

"You have had a long stroll and look fatigued," remarked the fond
parent, noticing her daughter's flushed cheeks and hurried respiration,
as she flung herself into a large rocking-chair by the open window.
Where is Fred.?"

"Gone home," said Alice.

"Why did he not come in and rest a while?"

"I forgot to invite him, I believe," returned Alice, briefly.

"And did you not ask him to call at any future time?"

"No, mother; he is going to Texas."

"Indeed! How long has he entertained that idea?" asked Mrs. Orville in a
tone of astonishment.

"Not long, I fancy. I told him to find cousin Josephine and entreat her
to write to me," said Alice, fanning her face with a great, flapping
feather fan.

"I hope he may do so; and much do I wish your cousin might be here to
pass the winter, for I fear you will be lonely without some companion of
your own age," said Mrs. Orville, attentively regarding her daughter.

"O, never fear for me, mother!" returned Alice. "I assure you I have
ample resources for enjoyment in my own breast. They only need occasion
to be called forth and put in exercise."

"I hope it may prove thus," responded the tender mother. "Let us now
retire to our pleasant chamber, and I will do myself the pleasure of
listening to your rich voice, while you read a portion of Scripture, and
sing a sacred hymn."

Thus mother and daughter retired; and while the old heart that had
passed beyond the youth-life of love and passion, rested calmly in its
tranquil sleep, the young heart by its side throbbed wildly, trembled,
wept and sighed; tossing restlessly on its pillow, haunted by ill-omened
dreams and ghastly phantom-shapes too hideous for reality. For there is
no rest, or calm, or quiet, for the passion-haunted breast.

CHAPTER XII.

"'Twas one of love's wild freaks, I do suppose,
And who is there can reason upon those?
I'd like to see the one so bold."

The lively winter season was at its height in New Orleans, and all the
vast city astir with life and gayety. In the former wealthy home of the
Camfords, her wrought slippers resting on the polished grate in the
elegant parlor, sat a prim maiden lady, arrayed in steel-colored satin.
An embroidered muslin morning-cap was placed with an air of much
precision over her glossy brown _imported_ locks, and the pointed collar
around her neck was secured by a plain bow of fawn-colored ribbon.

Suddenly the door opened, and a gentleman, of fine personal appearance,
and elegantly attired, entered the apartment, with hat and gloves in
hand.

"Where is Winnie?" was the hasty inquiry.

"I left her in her room half an hour ago," was the reply.

"It is quite time we should go;--the theatre will be filled to
overflowing at Miss Julia's benefit," remarked the gentleman. "I wish
you would go with us, sister."

"Theatres will do for girls and _fops_," said the lady; "_my_ mind
requires something solid and weighty to satisfy it."

"Then I suppose Col. Edmunds suits you exactly," observed the gentleman,
laughing; "he is a real Sir John Falstaff in proportions."

"I'm in no mood for your frivolous jests. If you were in a rational
temper I would like to ask you a question."

"Well, out with it. I'm as rational at thirty as I ever will be,
probably."

"You were becoming quite a decent man before this fly-a-way girl came
among us. Now I wish to know when she is going away?"

"Heavens! I don't know; not at present, I hope," said the gentleman,
quickly.

"Well, either she or I will leave pretty soon," returned the lady,
pursing up her lips with a stiff, determined expression; "she is such
a self-willed, obstinate little thing, and turns the house all
topsy-turvy, and makes such a racket and confusion, that I cannot and
_will_ not endure it longer. My mind requires quiet for contemplation."

"Why, she seems to me like a sunbeam; like a canary-bird in the house,
sister; warming, and filling it with music."

"She seems to me more like a hurricane, or wild-cat," remarked the lady,
spitefully.

The gentleman laughed, and, at this juncture, in bounded the subject of
the discourse, arrayed in azure silk, a wreath of white flowers on her
head, and a wrought fan swinging by a ribbon at her delicate wrist.

"Well, I've been waiting for you these ten minutes," said the gentleman,
gazing with admiration on the lovely being before him; "let us go now,
or I fear some impertinent person may intrude upon our reserved seats.
The carriage is at the door."

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Lester," said Winnie.

"O, no apology, Miss Morris!" returned he, gayly; "gentlemen always
expect to wait for ladies; it is their privilege."

"Miss Mary," said Winnie, advancing toward the prim lady by the grate,
"I fear I have misplaced some of your toilet articles, for I could not
find one half of mine. The chamber-maid had given them new places, and I
took the liberty to apply to yours, but I'll put them all right in the
morning."

"O, it is very well, of course," returned the lady, sharply; "plain
enough who is mistress here."

Winnie stood irresolute, gazing with astonishment on Miss Mary's angry,
flushed countenance, and at length turned her blue eyes toward the
gentleman, who was attentively regarding her features.

"Come, Winnie," said he, opening the hall-door, "we shall be very late."

The young girl quickly followed his direction. "Is brother Wayland to be
there?" she inquired, as the carriage rolled away.

"I urged his attendance, and he half promised to go," answered the
gentleman; "but, if he fails, cannot you be contented with me alone for
one brief evening?"

"O, yes, many!" returned Winnie. "I only wished he would go and not
confine himself to business so closely."

"I wish he would relax his editorial labors, for his health demands it,
I think," said Mr. Lester. "We must induce him to quit the chair of
office, and take a trip up the river this spring."

"I wish he would leave that dull, tedious printing-office a few weeks,"
exclaimed Winnie. "He has long entertained a project of erecting a
little cottage on the shore of Tennessee, where we used to live, for
himself and me, and I think he has sufficient money now to carry his
plan into effect; don't you, Mr. Lester?"

"Undoubtedly he has; but such a proceeding would not please me at all,"
answered the gentleman.

"Why not?" asked Winnie, turning her eyes quickly toward her companion.

He smiled to meet her startled glance, and said, "I will explain my
reasons at some future time, Winnie. We are now at the theatre."

Mr. Lester handed the fair girl from the carriage, and they made their
way through the crowd. Wayland met them on the steps, and accompanied
them home after the play.

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