Part 15 (2/2)

”You annoy me, somehow,” said Mrs. Belmont with much feeling; ”perhaps it is because I do not understand you. I would like to cover your lack of gallantry with a soft cloak of charity you see.”

”It is the war, madam, that had fired his bitter animosities,” suggested a gallant knight near by.

”Have I indeed then been so boorish? I beg your pardon,” and he bowed obsequiously. ”Now for plain dealing, as I feel you will like that better! The young lady to whom we have been so rapturously listening, and who has drawn such a large circle about her yonder,” pointing with his finger towards where she was sitting, ”including your honored son, I perceive, is Miss Anna Pierson--our governess. Look at her now! Her face is like her music, all soul, all feeling. Now clear and smooth with the most exquisite pathos, yet never blank or uninteresting; now brilliant and sparkling, rippling all over with enthusiasm; a face one never tires of watching through all its changes; never growing weary no matter how often the repet.i.tion comes.”

Immediately after supper Mrs. Belmont ordered her carriage. She was anxious to return and bury her chagrin in the privacy of her own chamber. Why was she so wretched? She asked herself over and over again, yet received no definite answer. It might be that a gentleman with whom she had been talking a.s.sured her that the war so much commented upon could not, or would not be averted. ”Even now,” he added, ”extensive preparations are going on in Charleston for its early commencement.” But certainly this could not be the cause of her disquietude, as she scanned over the immensity of southern political power. After all that has been done the fight must be short and the victory speedy and glorious. The pall lifted slowly from about her heart, and before she reached her own door she stigmatized herself as a coward for retiring so soon from the gay scene, appearing, as she imagined, like retreating before a phantom foe. In her own room, however, the fire broke out anew. There was something in the tones of her cousin's voice that angered her. ”What right had he to allude to my words, spoken in private, and display my peculiar views, as he called them, before such a company? But above all, what could have induced Charles to hand that detestable governess to the table and leave Ellen St. Clair to another?” Nothing had gone right, and the indignant woman paced the floor goaded by her agitating thoughts until the footsteps of her offending son were heard entering his room.

How true it is that when the heart opens its ”guest chamber” to evil spirits and gives them welcome, it will wake ere long to find its most sacred place invaded, and its halls of innocence desecrated by the madness of a.s.sociated pa.s.sions that come to take up their abode in it!

Poor heart! What a struggle for purity must follow with opposing foes before it ever again becomes a fit temple for the high dignitaries of a G.o.d-like nature to enter and dwell in! Better far to bar the door at their first approach and set its seal of truth and n.o.bleness upon it which, like the ”blood of sprinkling,” turns away the footsteps of Death with his destructive power. Alas, with Mrs. Belmont it was too late. She had not counted the cost of her misdeeds from the beginning, and now found herself in a labyrinth of difficulties that were thickening about her, and out of which she could see no way of escape.

She was angry, too, for Bertha had said that Ellen was indignant that her name should have been coupled in an outside gossip with that of her son, and had improved every opportunity to contradict the rumor. Here was another disappointment to be thrown into her cherished plans; and the very depths of her soul seemed embittered.

Chafing under the acc.u.mulating power of her goading thoughts, she walked her room with rapid steps, while her angry soul went down among the roaring billows.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER XVII.

A THRILLING REVELATION.

Charles Belmont was twenty-six years of age at the time of our writing, but owing to the indolence of his disposition and the selfishness which had always governed him, he had not as yet stepped into the position as ”master” of the plantation to which he supposed himself heir; nor had he troubled himself regarding his prosperity. It was enough for him to know that a hundred pairs of hands were laboring for his comfort and fully capable of supplying every desired luxury. ”Mother has never failed me yet,” he would say, ”and when she does it will be time enough for me to dabble in business.”

Thus did the years roll by while his manliness became more and more engulfed in the lethargy of indolence until his whole being was enervated and possessed not the power to sever the manacles that were destroying the pure and n.o.ble within, even had he the disposition to do so. How many efficient natures have thus been destroyed! The soul of man is progressive; it is ambitious to go onward and upward; fetter these propensities, press them down, and the whole being becomes groveling, its aspirations dwarfed or twisted in the process. The mind is conscious of an unrest, and with its unsatisfied longings, turns away from the enn.o.bling and fills itself with debasing habits that will certainly prost.i.tute all loftier aspirations. Charles Belmont had not, however, sunk so low as all this. But with his most frivolous wants supplied, and the prospect of a large estate before him, why should he be perplexed about anything? He had gone through college, as thousands of others had done before him, had spent two years in Europe seeing what in his opinion was worth looking at, and now what was left for him to do but to look out for an heiress or some one worthy to share his honors, or wait while he smoked his meerschaum or sipped his wine after the physical part of his nature had been satisfied by the bounties which menial hands had provided?

The next day after the events of our last chapter, the young master of Rosedale learned from his mother that for the first time since his remembrance the slaves were to be disappointed in their Christmas gifts, as the lady declared she ”would not trouble herself about them.”

This piece of information aroused the better feelings of the son, who immediately set about providing himself with the means to carry out in its fullness the long established custom that would make more than three score hearts happy. It was a frail spirit, however, that aroused for the first time the slumbering attributes of his better nature.

”If such is your determination, Mother,” was the quick reply, ”then I shall for once perform your duties for you.” And, true to his resolve, Christmas morning found him standing amid well filled baskets at the end of the long corridor leading to the kitchen, looking upon the happy faces of the merry group as he called their names, and with a cheery word or jest presented their gifts.

”Where is Old Auntie?” he inquired at last, as the sable faces one by one turned away, and he was being left alone. ”And here is a drum for Shady, but he must promise not to make too much noise with it before I shall hand it over to him. Here, Shady, you rascal, where are you?” he continued, holding up the exhilarating toy. Poor Old Auntie came out from the kitchen and walked slowly towards him.

”O Ma.s.sa, Shady am dead--gone--and poor old Vina's heart is done broke.

I don' want nothin', Ma.s.sa, on'y dat what ye got fer him. Let auntie have it--'twon't make no noise.” She reached out her hand for the coveted prize, and again Charles Belmont felt the promptings of the inward n.o.bility that makes the man. Those plaintive words that came sobbing up from the wounded, bleeding heart, all dripping with tears, touched a chord of sympathy in his own, hitherto unknown to its possessor.

”How did this happen?” he asked quickly, ”and why was not my mother informed of an event so important? Something is wrong. How did little Shady die?”

”Don' know, Ma.s.sa. He's done dead. It's night all de time now; dere ain't no more suns.h.i.+ne for poor Old Auntie. Will ye gib me dat, Ma.s.sa? I _couldn't_ hear de chil'ens makin' a noise on it--'twould be like dey was poundin' dis heart, all broke, Ma.s.sa Charles. Couldn't bear it--no how.”

”You shall have it, Auntie,” he said, with much feeling, as he placed the toy drum in the outstretched hands. ”I do not wonder it is dark, and if Ma.s.sa Charles can scatter a few rays of light across your sorrow, be sure he will do it.”

”O thank ye; thank ye, Ma.s.sa Charles. The Lord will bless ye, Vina knows he will,” and the poor old slave returned again to her night of dreary loneliness.

It was a little transient ray that had been sent athwart her darkness, and no one understood its fleetingness better than did she.

The next day Charles Belmont went again to the scenes of pleasure he had so unceremoniously left, but he could not forget the bitter potion the cup of others contained. For a long time ”Poor Old Auntie's” wail of bereavement would dart into his pleasures and leave a touch of sadness upon their brightness.

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