Evenings at Donaldson Manor
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Maria J. McIntosh >> Evenings at Donaldson Manor
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A fortnight was the limit of Philip Oswald's stay in the city. He had
come not for his mother, but for the house in which she was to live, and
he carried it back with him. We do not mean that his house, with all its
conveniences of kitchen and pantry, its elegances of parlor and
drawing-room, and its decorations of pillar and cornice fitly joined
together, travelled off with him to the far West. We do not despair of
seeing such a feat performed some day, but we believe it has not yet
been done, and Philip Oswald, at least, did not attempt it; he took with
him, however, all those useful and ornamental contrivances in their
several parts, accompanied by workmen skilled in putting the whole
together. Again in his western home, for another year, his head and his
hands were fully occupied with building and planting. For the first two
years of his forest life, he had thought only of the substantial produce
of the field--the rye, the barley, the Indian corn, which were to be
exchanged for the "omnipotent dollar"--but woman was coming, and beauty
and grace must be the herald of her steps. For his mother, he planted
fruits and flowers, opened views of the lake, made a gravelled walk to
its shore bordered with flowering shrubs, and wreathed the woodbine, the
honeysuckle, and the multiflora rose around the columns of his piazza.
For his mother this was done, and yet, when the labors of the day were
over, and he looked forth upon them in the cool, still evening hour, it
was not his mother's face, but one younger and fairer which peered out
upon him from the vine-leaves, or with tender smiles wooed him to the
lake. Young, fair, and tender as it was, its wooings generally sent him
in an opposite direction, with a sneer at his own folly, to stifle his
fancies with a book, or to mark out the plan of the morrow's operations.
More than a year had passed away and Philip Oswald was again in
New-York, just as spring was gliding into the ardent embraces of
summer. This time he had come for his mother, and with all the force of
his resolute will, he shut his ears to the flattering suggestions of
fancy, that a dearer pleasure than even that mother's presence might be
won. He had looked steadily upon his lot in life, and he accepted it,
and determined to make the best of it and to be happy in it; yet he felt
that it was after all a rugged lot. Without considering all women as
mercenary as Caroline Danby, which his knowledge of his mother forbade
him to do, even in his most woman-scorning mood, he yet doubted whether
any of those who had been reared amidst the refinements of cultivated
life, could be won to leave them all for love in the western wilds; and
as the unrefined could have no charms for him, he deliberately embraced
_bachelordom_ as a part of his portion, and, not without a sigh, yielded
himself to the conviction that all the wealth of woman's love within his
power to attain, was locked within a mother's heart.
A fortnight was again the allotted time of Philip Oswald's stay; but
when that had expired, he was persuaded to delay his departure for yet
another week. He had been drawn, by accompanying his mother in her
farewell visits, once more within the vortex of society, and his manly
independence and energy, his knowledge of what was to his companions a
new world, and his spirit-stirring descriptions of its varied beauty and
inexhaustible fertility, made him more the fashion than he had ever
been. He had often met Caroline Danby--now Mrs. Randall--and Mary more
than once delicately turned her eyes away from her cousin's face, lest
she should read there somewhat of chagrin as Mr. Randall, with his
meaningless face and dapper-looking form--insignificant in all save the
reputation of being the wealthiest banker in Wall-street, and possessing
the most elegant house and furniture, the best appointed equipage, and
the handsomest wife in the city--stood beside Philip Oswald with
"----a form indeed
Where every god did seem to set his seal,
To give the world assurance of a man,"
and a face radiant with intelligence, while circled by an attentive
auditory of that which was noblest and best in their world, his eloquent
enthusiasm made them hear the rushing waters, see the boundless
prairies, and feel for a time all the wild freedom of the untamed West.
Such enthusiasm was gladly welcomed as a breeze in the still air, a
ruffle in the stagnant waters of fashionable life.
Within two or three days of their intended departure, Mrs. Oswald
proposed to Philip that they should visit a friend residing near Fort
Lee, and invited Mary to accompany them. Among the acquaintances whom
they found on board was an invalid lady, who could not bear the fresh
air upon deck; and Mary, pitying her loneliness and seclusion, remained
for awhile conversing with her in the cabin. Mrs. Oswald and Philip were
on deck, and near them was a young and giddy girl, to whose care a
mother had intrusted a bold, active, joyous infant, seemingly about
eight months old.
"That is a dangerous position for so lively a child," said Philip Oswald
to the young nurse, as he saw her place him on the side of the boat; "he
may spring from your arms overboard."
With that foolish tempting of the danger pointed out by another, which
we sometimes see even in women, the girl removed her arms from around
the child, sustaining only a slight hold of its frock. At this moment
the flag of the boat floated within view of the little fellow, and he
sprang towards it. A splash in the water told the rest--but even before
that was heard, Philip Oswald had dashed off his boots and coat, and
the poor child had scarcely touched the waves when he was beside it, and
held it encircled in his arm.
"Oh, Mary! Mr. Oswald! Mr. Oswald!" cried one of Mary's young
acquaintances, rushing into the cabin with a face blanched with terror.
"What of him?" questioned Mary, starting eagerly forward.
"He is in the water. Oh, Mary! he will be drowned."
Mary did not utter a sound, yet she felt in that moment, for the first
time, how important to her was Philip Oswald's life. Tottering towards
the door, she leaned against it for a moment while all around grew dark,
and strange sounds were buzzing in her ears. The next instant she sank
into a chair and lost her terrors in unconsciousness. The same young
lady who had played the alarmist to her, as she saw the paleness of
death settle on Mary's face and her eyes close, ran again upon the deck,
exclaiming, "Mary Grayson is fainting,--pray come to Mary Grayson."
Philip Oswald was already on deck, dripping indeed, but unharmed and
looking nobler than ever, as he held the recovered child in his arms. As
that cry, "Mary Grayson is fainting," reached his ears, he threw the
infant to a bystander, and hastened to the cabin followed by Mrs.
Oswald.
"What has caused this?" cried Mrs. Oswald, as she saw Mary still
insensible, supported on the bosom of her invalid friend.
"Miss Ladson's precipitation," said the invalid, looking not very
pleasantly on that young lady; "she told her Mr. Oswald was drowning."
"Well, I am sure I thought he was drowning."
"If he had been, it would have been a pity to give such information so
abruptly," said Mrs. Oswald, as she took off Mary's bonnet, and loosened
the scarf which was tied around her neck.
"I am sure," exclaimed Miss Ladson, anxious only to secure herself from
blame,--"I am sure I did not suppose Mary would faint; for when her
uncle's horse threw him, and every body thought he was killed, instead
of fainting she ran out in the street, and did for him more than any
body else could do. I am sure I could not think she would care more for
Mr. Oswald's danger than for her own uncle's."
No one replied to this insinuation; but that Philip Oswald heard it,
might have been surmised from the sudden flush that rose to his temples,
and from his closer clasp of the unconscious form, which at his mother's
desire he was bearing to a settee. Whether it were the water which oozed
from his saturated garments over her face and neck, or some subtle
magnetic fluid conveyed in that tender clasp, that aroused her, we
cannot tell; but a faint tinge of color revisited her cheeks and lips,
and as Philip laid her tenderly down, while his arms were still around
her, and his face was bending over her, she opened her eyes. What there
was in that first look which called such a sudden flash of joy into
Philip Oswald's eyes, we know not; nor what were the whispered words
which, as he bowed his head yet lower, sent a crimson glow into Mary's
pale cheeks. This however we do know, that Mrs. Oswald and her son
delayed their journey for yet another week; and that the day before
their departure Philip Oswald stood with Mary Grayson at his side before
God's holy altar, and there, in the presence of his mother, Mr. Danby,
Mr. and Mrs. Randall, and a few friends, they took those vows which made
them one for ever.
Does some starched prude, or some lady interested in the bride's
_trousseau_, exclaim against such unseemly haste? We have but one excuse
for them. They were so unfashionable as to prefer the gratification of a
true affection to the ceremonies so dear to vanity, and to think more of
the earnest claims of life than of its gilded pomps.
Mr. Danby had been unable to pay down the bride's small dower of 8000
dollars; and when he called on his son-in-law, Mr. Randall, to assist
him, he could only offer to indorse his note to Mr. Oswald for the
amount, acknowledging that it would be perilous at that time to abstract
even half that amount from his business. It probably would have been
perilous indeed, as in little more than a month after he failed for an
enormous amount; but fear not, reader, for the gentle Caroline: she
still retained her elegant house and furniture, her handsome equipage
and splendid jewels. These were only a small part of what the indignant
creditors found had been made over to her by her grateful husband.
Six years have passed away since the occurrence of the events we have
been recording. Caroline Randall, weary of the sameness of splendor in
her home, has been abroad for two years, travelling with a party of
friends. It is said--convenient phrase that--that her husband had
declared she must and shall return, and that to enforce his will he has
resolved to send her no more remittances, to honor no more of her
drafts, as she has already almost beggared him by her extravagance
abroad. Verily, she has her reward!
One farewell glance at our favorite, Mary Grayson, and we have done.
Beside a lovely lake, over whose margin light graceful shrubs are
bending, and on whose transparent waters lie the dense forest shadows,
though here and there the golden rays of the declining sun flash through
the tangled boughs upon its dancing waves, a noble-looking boy of four
years old is sailing his mimic fleet, while a lovely girl, two years
younger, toddles about, picking "pitty flowers," and bringing them to
"papa, mamma, or grandmamma," as her capricious fancy prompts. Near by,
papa, mamma, grandmamma, and one pleased and honored guest, are grouped
beneath the bending boughs of a magnificent black walnut, and around a
table on which strawberries and cream, butter sweet as the breath of the
cows that yielded it, biscuits light and white, and bread as good as
Humbert himself could make, are served in a style of elegant simplicity,
while the silver urn in which the water hisses, and the small china cups
into which the fragrant tea is poured, if they are somewhat antique in
fashion, are none the less beautiful or the less valued by those who
still prize the slightest object associated with the affections beyond
the gratification of the vanity.
The evening meal is over. The shadows grow darker on the lake. Agreeable
conversation has given place to silent enjoyment, which Mrs. Oswald
interrupts to say, "Philip, this is the hour for music; let us have some
before Mary leaves us with the children."
Full, deep-toned was the manly voice that swelled upon that evening air,
and soft and clear its sweet accompaniment, while the words, full of
adoring gratitude and love, seemed incense due to the heaven which had
so blessed them.
The last sweet notes had died away, and Mary, calling the children,
leads them to their quiet repose, after they have bestowed their
good-night kisses. Philip Oswald follows her with his eyes, as, with a
child on each hand, she advances with gentle grace upon the easy slope,
to the house on its summit. She enters the piazza, and is screened from
his view by its lattice-work of vines, but he knows that soon his
children will be lisping their evening prayer at her knee, and the
thought calls a tender expression to his eyes as he turns them away from
his "sweet home."
Contrast this picture with that of Caroline Randall's heartless
splendor, and say whether thou wilt choose for thy portion the
gratification of the true and pure household affections which Heaven has
planted in thy nature, or that of a selfish vanity?
CHAPTER V.
This morning, as I sat in the library writing a letter, Annie came in
and seated herself at a table on the opposite side of the room. Her
unusual stillness caused me to look up after some minutes, and I found
that Mr. Arlington's portfolio having been left upon the table, she had
drawn from it one of his pencilings, and was gazing steadfastly upon it,
as I could not but think, with something troubled in the expression of
her usually open and cheerful face. While I was still observing her, the
door behind her opened, and Mr. Arlington himself entered. A blush arose
to Annie's cheeks as she saw him; a blush which had its origin, I
thought, in some deeper feeling than a mere girlish shame at being found
so engrossed by one of his productions.
"What have you there?" he asked, as seating himself beside her, he took
the paper from what seemed to me her somewhat reluctant hand. No sooner
had he looked on it, than his own bright face became shadowed, as hers
had been, and yet he smiled, too, as he said, "That portfolio is really
an _omnium gatherum_. I had no idea this had found its way there. When I
first read Mrs. Hemans' poem of 'The Bird's Release,' it reminded me of
this scene of my boyhood, though if I have never spoken to you of my
darling Grace, you will not be able to understand why."
"You never have," said Annie, answering his looks rather than his words,
while a slight increase of color was again perceptible in her fair
cheek.
"She was my sister, my only sister; we were but two, the petted darlings
of a widowed mother. I told you, that few could sympathize as I could
with Koerner's memory of Mother-love. I was but six years old, and just
such a chubby, broad-shouldered little varlet, I fancy, as I have
sketched here, when Grace, who was two years older, and the loveliest,
merriest little creature in the world, died. My mother was already
beginning to feel the influence of that disease, which, two years later,
terminated her life, and, I have no doubt, the death of Grace, who was
her idol, increased the rapidity of its progress."
There was silence for some minutes, and then Annie said softly, "But
what of the bird?"
"It was a thrush which had been given to Grace some time before her
death, and which she was trying to tame for me. My mother could not bear
to see it after her death, and with some difficulty persuaded me to give
it its liberty. You will now see why I should have dedicated this sketch
to Grace, and why these lines should have brought the scene to my mind,
and caused me indeed to make this drawing of it."
"Will you read the lines for me?" asked Annie, "I had not finished them
when you took the paper from me."
To tell you a secret, reader, I do not believe she had seen any thing on
the paper except the few words in German text written at its head, "To
my darling Grace."
Mr. Arlington read in a tone of feeling and interest,--
THE BIRD'S RELEASE.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
Go forth, for she is gone!
With the golden light of her wavy hair
She is gone to the fields of the viewless air:
She hath left her dwelling lone!
Her voice hath pass'd away!
It hath passed away like a summer breeze,
When it leaves the hills for the for blue seas,
Where we may not trace its way.
Go forth, and like her be free:
With thy radiant wing, and thy glancing eye,
Thou hast all the range of the sunny sky,
And what is our grief to thee?
Is it aught even to her we mourn?
Doth she look on the tears by her kindred shed?
Doth she rest with the flowers o'er her gentle head?
Or float on the light wind borne?
We know not--but she is gone!
Her step from the dance, her voice from the song,
And the smile of her eye from the festal throng;
She hath loft her dwelling lone!
When the waves at sunset shine,
We may hear thy voice amidst thousands more,
In the scented woods of our glowing shore;
But we shall not know 'tis thine!
Even so with the loved one flown!
Her smile in the starlight may wander by,
Her breath may be near in the wind's low sigh
Around us--but all unknown.
Go forth, we have loosed thy chains!
We may deck thy cage with the richest flowers
Which the bright day rears in our eastern bowers;
But thou wilt not be lured again.
Even thus may the summer pour
All fragrant things on the land's green breast,
And the glorious earth like a bride be dress'd;
But it wins _her_ back no more!
I was doubtful whether either Mr. Arlington or Annie were aware of my
presence, and was just debating with myself whether I should make them
aware of it by addressing them, or quietly steal away, when Col.
Donaldson decided the point by entering the library and speaking to me.
He came to ask that I would come to the parlor and see a boy who had
just been sent from one of our charitable institutions, to which he had
applied for a lad to act as a helper to his old waiter, John, who was
now old enough to require some indulgence, and had always been
trustworthy enough to deserve some. The boy looked intelligent and
honest--he was neat in his person and active in his movements.
"He is an orphan," said Col. Donaldson, "and the managers of the
institution have offered to bind him to me for seven years, or till he
is of age. What do you think of it!"
"If the boy himself be willing, I should be glad to know he was so well
provided for," I replied; "though in general, no abolitionist can be
more vehemently opposed to negro slavery than I am to this
apprenticeship business. What is it but a slavery of the worst
description? The master is endowed with irresponsible power, without the
interest in the well-being of his slave, which the planter, the actual
owner of slaves, ordinarily feels."
"You speak strongly," said Col. Donaldson.
"I feel strongly on this subject," I answered. "I knew one instance of
the effects of this system which I have often thought of publishing to
the world, as speaking more powerfully against it than a thousand
addresses could do."
"Tell it to us, Aunt Nancy," said Robert Dudley.
"It is too long to tell now," said I, as the dinner-bell sounded.
"Then let us have it this evening," urged Col. Donaldson--"for it is a
subject in which I am much interested."
Accordingly, in the evening, I gave them the "o'er true tale" of
THE YOUNG MISANTHROPE.
"In the blue summer ocean, far off and alone," lies a little island,
known to mariners in the Pacific only for the fine water with which it
supplies them, and for the bold shore which makes it possible for ships
of considerable tonnage to lie in quiet near the land. Discovered at
first by accident, it has been long, for these reasons, visited both by
English and American whalers. A few years since, and no trace of man's
presence could be found there beyond the belt of rocks, amidst which
arose the springs that were the chief, and indeed only attraction the
island presented to the rough, hardy men by whom it had been visited.
But within that stony girdle lay a landscape soft and lovely as any that
arose within the tropical seas. There the plantain waved its leafy
crown, the orange shed its rich perfume, and bore its golden fruit aloft
upon the desert air, and the light, feathery foliage of the tamarind
moved gracefully to the touch of the dallying breeze. All was green, and
soft, and fair, for there no winter chills the life of nature, but,
"The bee banquets on through a whole year of flowers."
It was a scene which might have seemed created for the abode of some
being too bright and good for the common earth of common men, or for
some Hinda and Hafed, who, driven from a world all too harsh and evil
for their nobler natures, might have found in it a refuge,
"Where the bright eyes of angels only
Should come around them to behold
A paradise so pure and lonely."
Alas for the dream of the poet! This beautiful island became the refuge,
not of pure and loving hearts, but of one from whose nature cruel
tyranny seemed to have blotted out every feeling and every faculty save
hatred and fear; and he who first introduced into its yet untainted
solitudes the bitter sorrows and dark passions of humanity, was a child,
who, but ten years before, had lain in all the loveliness of sinless
infancy upon a mother's bosom. Of that mother's history he knew
nothing--whether her sin or only her sorrows had thrown him fatherless
upon the world, he was ignorant--he had only a dim memory of gentle
eyes, which had looked on him as no others had ever looked, and of a
low, sweet voice, speak to him such words as he had never heard from any
other. He had been loved, and that love had made his life of penury in
an humble hovel in England, bright and beautiful; but his mother had
passed away from earth, and with her all the light of his existence.
Child as he was, the succeeding darkness preserved long in brightness
the memory of the last look from her fast glazing eyes, the last words
from her dying lips, the last touch of her already death-cold hand. She
died, and the same reluctant charity which consigned her to a pauper's
grave, gave to her boy a dwelling in the parish poor-house. With the
tender mercies of such institutions the author of Oliver Twist has made
the world acquainted. They were such in the present case, that the poor
little Edward Hallett welcomed as the first glad words that had fallen
on his ears for two long, weary years, the news that he was to be bound
apprentice to a captain sailing from Portsmouth in a whaling ship. He
learned rather from what was said _near_ him, than _to_ him, that this
man wanted a cabin boy, but would not have one who was not bound to him,
or to use the more expressive language in which it reached the ears of
his destined victim, "one with whom he could not do as he pleased."
He who had come within the poor-house walls at six years old, a glad,
rosy-cheeked, chubby child, went from them at eight, thin, and pale, and
grave, with a frame broken by want and labor, a mind clouded, and a
heart repressed by unkindness. But, sad as was the history of those
years, the succeeding two taught the poor boy to regard them as the
vanished brightness of a dream. The man--we should more justly say, the
fiend--to whom the next fourteen years of his life were by bond devoted,
was a savage by nature, and had been rendered yet more brutal by habits
of intoxication. In his drunken orgies, his favorite pastime was to
torture the unfortunate being whom the "guardians of the poor" of an
English parish had placed in his power. It would make the heart of the
reader sick, were we to attempt a detail of the many horrible inventions
by which this modern Caligula amused his leisure hours, and made life
hideous to his victim. Nor was it only from this arch-fiend that the
poor boy suffered. Mate, cook, and sailors, soon found in him a butt for
their jokes, an object on which they might safely vent their ill-humor,
and a convenient cover for their own delinquencies.
He was beaten for and by them. The evil qualities which man had himself
elicited from his nature, if not implanted there--the sullenness, and
hardiness, and cunning he evinced, were made an excuse for further
injury. During his first voyage of eighteen months, spite of all this,
hope was not entirely dead in his heart. The ship was to return to
England, and he determined to run away from her, and find his way back
to the poor-house. It was a miserable refuge, but it was his only one.
He escaped--he found his way thither through many dangers--he told his
story. It was heard with incredulity, and he was returned to his
tormentors, to learn that there is even in hell "a deeper hell."
Again he went on a whaling voyage. Day after day the fathomless, the
seemingly illimitable sea, the image of the Infinite was around him--but
his darkened mind saw in it only a prison, which shut him in with his
persecutors. Night after night the stars beamed peacefully above him,
luring his thoughts upward, but he saw in them only the signals of
drunken revelry to others, and of deeper woe to himself. There was but
one wish in his heart--it had almost ceased to be a hope--to escape from
man; to live and die where he should never see his form, never hear his
voice. The ship encountered a severe storm. She was driven from her
course, her voyage lengthened, and some of her water-casks were stove
in. They made for an island, not far distant, by the chart, to take in a
fresh supply of water. Edward Hallett heard the sailors say to each
other that this island was uninhabited, and his wish grew into a
passionate desire--a hope. For the completion of this hope, he had but
one resource--the sword and the shield of the feeble--cunning; and well
he exercised his weapon.
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