Embed Size (px)
Citation preview
<TEI.2> <teiHeader>[Source and processing information goes here]</teiHeader><text id=SteACharl><front>[preface, etc goes here]</front><body>
<page n=3>A CHARLESTON
LOVE STORY;
OR,
HORTENSE VANROSS,
BYT. G. STEWARD.
F. TENNYSON NEELY,PUBLISHER,
LONDON. NEW YORK.
<page n=4>
Copyright, 1899.by
F. TENNYSON NEELYin
United Statesand
Great Britain.
All Rights Reserved.
<page n=5>A CHARLESTON LOVE STORY.
<div0><HEAD>CHAPTER I.</HEAD>
<P> "I don't think our Len will ever amount to much," said Leonard Howell, senior, one day to his wife as he entered the house.</P>
<P> "Why not, father?" anxiously inquired Aunt Milly. </P>
<P> "Oh! well, he's too careless and too trifling. He's smart enough, got wit enough, but it all runs the wrong way. I've about gi'n him up." </P>
<P> "Oh, no, father, don't say that; don't get discouraged. Let's wait awhile longer. You and I and Bernice here ought to be able to bring up one boy, even if we are getting old. I shall not give him up yet.
<page n=6>He may come out a good man, after all," said Mrs. Howell kindly. </P>
<P> "Ah, mother, what is bred in the bone can't be got out through the flesh. The boy is his mother right over‐‐‐&hyphen" </P>
<P> "There, father, don't let us talk about than7period; You know we agreed years ago to bury that matter forever." </P>
<P> This dialogue occurred in an old‐fashioned country house in a settlement not far from Philadelphia, over fifty years ago. The house was built wholly of wood, and consisted of two parts‐‐an old and a new‐although the new part gave evidence of having seen many summers. The old part was only one story high, but the long rafters and consequently high peaked roof gave room for a large attic. It had its heavy, projecting eaves; its oaken door, which had one day been red; its genuine leather latchstring hanging outside, and its
<page n=7>heavy oaken latch within. There were also the large open fireplace, the swinging crane with its pothooks of various lengths, and the heavy wrought andirons. The furniture of this part of the house consisted of a solid table; several chairs, some with splint bottoms and others with bottoms of untanned skin; a carved corner cupboard; and a rude settee which served often as a bed. </P>
<P> The new part of the house was of two stories, although the ceilings were low; and the furniture of the <emph rend="italics">room</emph>, as it was called, differed from that in the older part of the house. Indeed, two generations were represented in the furniture of this humble dwelling. In the "room" were a ten‐stove; a wooden clock, with its picture of two brothers clasped in loving embrace on its front, and its pecularly musical stroke; a black walnut table, with
<page n=8>its feet of dragon claws, then more than a half‐century old; and a well‐worn rocking chair. </P>
<P> The house within and the yard around were generally kept scrupulously neat and orderly; and the small farm on which it stood showed signs of industry and thrift in all its details. The fences were clean and in good repair; the wagons, plows, and barrows, as well as the live stock, all showed the effects of intelligent care. </P>
<P> Leonard Howell was no idler, nor did he tolerate idleness in those around him. Brusque in manner, diligent in business, of good health and with good appetite, endowed with energy and a constant flow of good spirit, he was a thorough master of his work and the strength and support of the home. Or, at least, he had been so for many yhears; now, however, he was rapidly advancing toward old age. The estate
<page n=9>upon which he lived had been left him by his father, and he was at this time possessed of sufficient means to afford a plain but comfortable living, and was free from debt. In his earlier days he had been successful both as a small farmer and as a dealer in cordwood and hoop‐poles; and many of his ventures in this line had sailed out of the tortuous rivers of South Jersey to Philadelphia, where the wood and the poles then found ready sale. </P>
<P> Leonard Howell was fairly shrewd at driving a bargain, and was possessed of an exterior which on first sight would indicate rather a hard nature; but those who knew him well could bear testimony to his benevolence of heart,l and also to a keen sense of humor which he at times manifested. Like most men of his time and vicinity, he occasionally drank apple whiskey, or apple "Jack," as it was called;
<page n=10>but he was never known to become the worse for liquor. He was a member of the church, and was thoroughly sound in the faith, and a good contributor; but religious matters with him were to a large extent turned over to his brother, who was a deacon in the church, and to his wife, who was better read than himself, and who was thoughtful and pious. Leonard Howell, evidently, leaned more upon his wife's prayers and his brother's counsels than upon any devotions of his own. He had his "principles," and was ever ready to do what he called "the right thing," but as for services of devotion and the like‐‐well‐‐he submitted to them but never gave evidence that he enjoyed them. </P>
<P> Aunt Milly Howell was in many respects the very opposite of her husband both in outward and inward character. She was spare and delicate of form, and quite gen‐
<page n=11>erally in poor health. Her manners were soft and refined, and she was far above the average woman of her neighborhood in point of intelligence. She had read much, considering her opportunities, and her memory was well stored with Bible facts and texts and with many gems of old English literature. </P>
<P> Although usually unwell herself, she was nevertheless filled with the tenderest sympathy for others, and was the special friend of the children of the community. Her resignation and patience, and here quiet, pleasant manner filled the old home with a soothing influence, making all who dwelt there happier, if not indeed better because of it. The restraint which her presence imposed upon the boisterous was by no means burdensome, because it was always accompanied by her own subdued example, and by her instructive and elevat‐
<page n=12>ing conversation. I can see here now as I write, sitting in her high‐backed chair, with her neat‐fitting house dress on, the clean handkerchief folded over her shoulders with its lower ends concealed beneath her apron, her spectacles, her white cap with its frills, her gray hair and smooth brow, her softly treading slippers. Yes, I see her now in that old homestead, with the light of heaven falling in its gentle fullness upon her paid‐worn face, and my soul warms with the vision. She was one of God's angels sent to bless the earth. </P>
<P> In this quiet home lived also the maiden daughter, Bernice, the youngest of a family of seven sons and daughters who had passed their childhood there. She was, at the time of the dialogue above mentioned, about twenty‐five years of age; rather large and stalwart in form, inheriting her father's energy and self‐reliance, coupled
<page n=13>with much of her mother's reserve and kindness. She had the will, the nerve, and the cool courage fitting her to fill a more important sphere. Her dignity of manner was sublime, here scorn terrible. She could freeze or flay with less than a word. Her look was enough. She lived long beyong the time of my story, but she never married. Her's was the helping hand of the community ever ready to do good. </P>
<P> No home is complete without the boy. Leonard C. Howell, junior, was a grandson, and was at this time about thirteen years old. He was
bright, but it could not be said that he was industrious; and he seemed to have imbibed a dislike to everything about the farm except the fruit that grew on the trees and the food that came to his place at table. The fowls, calves, colts, horses, and dogs‐‐all seemed to hate or fear him. He was inclined to be
<page n=14>cruel as well as "careless." His chief pastime was to blow outlandish airs upon a small fife, the notes of which were as much out of place in that orderly home as were his manners and temper. </P>
<P> Leonard, however, always had a faithful and powerful friend and apologist in his Aunt Bernice; and hence when Grandfather Howell expressed himself as being about worn out with little "Len," Bernice waited until her mother had finished, and then with her black eyes fairly snapping fire, she added: </P>
<P> "Len is not so bad. He is mischievour, and careless and troublesome; but he is only a boy yet. He'll be all right when he gets older." </P>
<P> This was said with an emphasis that meant much more than the words themselves expressed; and as Bernice wielded great influence over her father, and as she
<page n=15>was pleading for his namesake and grandson, the case was soon won, and the old gentleman dismissed the matter by saying: "God grant he may&pereiod;" </P>
<P> The father of young Leonard, the oldest son of Leonard Howell, senior, had married greatly against the judgment of his parents; and although the aged couple had long ago forgiven him and had freely received his wife as their daughter‐in‐law, yet they had never really changed their opinion. It was to this wife, of course, and not to his own son, that Grandpa Howell referred when he said, "What is bred in the bone, can't be got out through the flesh." He may have been right, but it is just as probable that he was wrong. He believed he was right, however, and his beliefs were always quite positive. Bernice shared none of this feeling, and to her Leonard was simply a nephew to be warmly loved and kindly treated. </P>
<page n=16>
<P> Leonard did not stay long on the farm after this conversation; although the treatment he continued to receive was kind even to indulgence. He became more and more discontented, and, early one bright morning in May, was missing. A brief search revealed the fact that he had run away. He took the natural course of runaway boys, which was to the city; and thence made his way by sailing vessel to Boston. He had hired himself to the shipmaster as cabin boy, but Leonard grew heartily tired of the sea and of the discipline on shipboard long before he reached Boston; and as soon as the vessel was snugly at her wharf, he slipped away from her, forfeiting what little pay was due him. </P>
<P> Out in the streets of this strange city, with scarcely a penny in his pocket, without a friend or acquaintance to whom he could look, and altogether unacquainted
<page n=17>with city life, Leonard for the first time repented his rashness. The seat of his repentance was, however, rather in his stomach than in his heart; and his feelings came and went according as he happened to be hungry or fed. When want pinched him, his thoughts would turn toward the smoking dinners of coarse but wholesome food that he had so often sat down to in the old home, and he would then reproach himself for running away; but when chance threw a good meal in his way, all these reflections departed and his evil courage returned. </P>
<P> Thus he wandered up and down the crooked streets of Boston for a number of days, catching odd jobs, and living around the markets; until one day it was his good fortune to meet with a farmer who was needing help and who offered him a temporary home. </P>
<page n=18>
<P> A bargain was soon made, and it was with a glad heart that Leonard leaped into the farmer's wagon to enter upon the same sort of life as that from which he had run away. His short experience however had taught him the importance of having a home, and he entered upon his contract with a full resolution to fulfill it, by staying until the haying season was over. With such feelings he began his work on the Kingsley farm. </P>
<P> Although he had been bred to farm work in South Jeresey, he soon found that being a hired boy on a farm in Massachusetts, differed very much from the life he had lived upon his grandfather's farm in New Jersey. The land was rough and stony; the hills quite steep and high, and the people were accustomed to long days and hard work. Up in the morning by the time it was light, they did half a Jersey
<page n=19>day's work before breakfast, and supplemented the day with the other half after supper. Poor Leonard had indeed fallen into a trying situation. He was earning his bread by the sweat of his brow, and was becoming so lean and hollow‐eyed that it did not seem that even the poor privilege of sweating would be long allowed him. His voice became thin and piping, and his spirits sank within him. He was tired every moment, and saw no prospect of relief until the end of the terrible haying season. This came at last, and with it the promised lull in the incessant rage of labor that for weeks had been sweeping over the sultry hills and valleys of the commonwealth. </P>
<P> Leonard had succeeded so well during the few weeks that Farmer Kingsley now offered him a permanent home, agreeing to pay him regular wages until the autumn's
<page n=20>work should be over, and to board him during the winter, he doing the chores, and in the meantime going to school. This was accepted, and by the latter part of November the work was well over and Leonard ready to enter the district school. </P>
<P> Dressed in thick, comfortable clothes, with stout boots, and large for his age, muscular and well formed, he was a noticeable accession, but when he came in contact with the other boys he soon found that he was far behind them in his studies. He was awkwardly out of place and entirely too large for his grade. This, however, instead of paralyzing his energies tended to greatly stimulate them, and he resolved to catch up with those more advanced. </P>
<P> The teacher was a young man who had completed a sub‐academic course, and was now preparing himself for college by private study, and at the same time trying
<page n=21>to earn the money necessary for college expenses by teaching the district school. He was earnest and efficient as a teacher and kind to his pupils; but being somewhat absorbed in his own studies, and ambitious to enter college with a good record, he was rather too much preoccupied to be a good disciplinarian. He enjoyed the work of teaching, but disliked the drudgery of enforcing order. </P>
<P> In keeping with the inborn principles of his nature, Leonard soon formed the acquaintance of the more disorderly boys, and became in some respects their ring‐leader. Being
entirely away from parental restraint, he was more reckless in his manner than most of the other boys, and they soon accorded him the bad eminence of leadership. Although not orderly, he was naturally apt, and was rapidly advancing to a position in school more in accord with his size. </P>
<page n=22>
<P> As Grandfather Howell had said, he had "wit" enough, and could acquire knowledge readily when he chose to do so; and just now he was bent on his books. But his mischievous, malevolent disposition had not been at all modified by his hard experience. On the contrary, it had grown apace, and had hardened in form during these months; and he had become more habitually surly in his nature and more liable to fits of unreasonable passion. It was evident almost from the day of his entrance to the school that Leonard's presence was not to be a blessing to it; and as soon as he had acquired the (quasi) leadership the audacity of the turbulent element increased, and the principles of order and respect were trampled underfoot. The condition soon became so bad that the attention of the trustees was called to it; but they were in favor of mild measures,
<page n=23>and accordingly induced the superintendent, a kind and elderly gentleman, to give the boys a lecture on their behavior. This, instead of correcting the evil, rather emboldened the offenders; and Leonard, who now rejoiced in being the bully of the school, began openly to annoy the teacher, as if purposing to bring on a conflict. </P>
<P> "He'll not attempt to flog any of us," shouted Bill Woodford, as he ran from the schoolhouse door to join the group of turbulents that stood in a distant part of the yard. </P>
<P> "Hum! I'd look to see him try it, wouldn't you, Len?" squeaked little Dave Claypole, looking up in Leonard's face. </P>
<P> "Say, fellers, I tell you what let's do," said Sam Duncan. "When he calls us out in class this afternoon let'sall stand with our feet wide apart‐‐so, and our hands in our pockets, and our heads way back, like
<page n=24>that," striking the attitude, at which all the boys laughed heartily. </P>
<P> "That's the very thing," piped out little Dave. "That will make him mad; he hates anything like that." </P>
<P> All were soon agreed, and mutual pledges were passed with considerable formality. They were to stand by one another in the fight, and were never to tell anything about their part of the mattere afterward. Thus filled with evil purposes, the little band of juvenile covenanters entered the schoolroom. </P>
<P> Leonard had said but little, but he had agreed to the proposal, not having the moral courage to oppose, although he knew that, being at the head of the class, he would be the first one to meet the issue, the probable consequences of which had now begun to swim before his mind. </P>
<P> During all these days of semi‐defiance
<page n=25>
the teacher had not been unobservant nor idle. He had studied the situation thoroughly and had reached his own conclusion. He kneew that a crisis must soon come, and had braced himself for it. Flogging had not gone out of practice in the schoolroom, nor was there any law or sentiment that interfered with the teacher's free use of the birch. </P>
<P> When the boys were to take their places in class, true to their agreement, they ambled out slowly and noisily, pounding the floor and the desks with their big boots as they went along, and finally all stood in a line with their legs well straddled out, their hands in their pockets, and their chins well up in the air. Stripped from its intention, it was altogether a comic sight, and it is not at all unlikely that Mr. Boyne saw something funny in the froglike attitude which the boys assumed. It
<page n=26>was grotesque, and was not lost on the rest of the school. The teacher had ignored many breaches of order, but he determined not to ignore this. </P>
<P> Calling on Leonard to recite, he said calmly: </P>
<P> "Take your hands out of your pockets and stand as you ought to." <P/>
<P> Leonard did not move, but began to recite, his face wearing an air of defiance and contempt. </P>
<P> "Leonard, I say, take your hands out of your pockets and stand as you ought to," repeated Mr. Boyne. </P>
<P> Leonard smiled but did not move. The teacher turned quietly around and drew from behind his desk a seasoned rod that the boys had never seen before; and the next instand this rod was wrapping itself around Leonard's straddled legs with amazing vigor. The teacher struck only two
<page n=27>blows, but these stung as though a red‐hot wire had been coiled around his bare skin. Leonard sprang forward and caught the teacher by the throat clutching it with all the strength of his hardy nature, his whole being inflamed with wild passion. He drew back his right hand with his fist clinched to strike. He never delivered the blow, however, for Mr. Boyne, quick as lightning, threw out his left hand, seized Leonard's right wrist, and the next instand, by a trip and a twirl, threw him full length to the floor, falling upon him. In his descent Leonard's head had struck heavily against a desk, and he was partially stunned; nevertheless, he still clung to the teacher's throat, and for a few moments the struggle was fierce. All this time Mr. Boyne had refrained from blows; and when at length he freed himself and arose to his feet he was still quite cool and col‐
<page n=28>lected. Leonard arose, but the fall and the flow he had received from the desk had unnerved him; and dazed, humbled, and bleeding, he went away to his seat, and sank down into a half‐unconscious condition. </P>
<P> The boys who had done so much in planning the affair, and who had pledged themselves so solemnly&conmma; had been very careful to take no part in the fight, and were now quite backward in showing their sympathy toward Leonard. As they looked upon the late bully, exhausted and cowed, with clothes torn, hair disheveled, face besmeared, and head bruised and bleeding, they may have inwardly charged him with folly, and chuckled over their own good sense; but it would have been impossible to have defended themselves from the charge of meanness. After a painful waiting, one or two of them finally ventured to
<page n=29>assist him in getting himself fixed up, and Leonard, crestfallen and disgusted, set out for home. </P>
<P> To Leonard's everlasting credit be it said he had not acquired the habit of lying; and on arriving home he gave Farmer Kingsley a truthful account of the affair, no doubt suppressing the circumstances which told most against himself. Farmer Kingsley listened patiently, and although he had no sympathy whatever with Leonard's conduct, he did not hastily decide against him. He had seen Leonard's ambition to learn, and knew that he was apt; and he was not convinced that the recent experience had made upon him a good impression. This was true. Leonard was not only thoroughly humiliated, but was also greatly enlightened, and had firmly resolved to alter his ways. </P>
<P> His work done and supper eaten, he
<page n=30>went early to bed, but slept little during the night. His head pained him seriously, but the reflections which came to his mind were much more painful. He saw that he had made a fool of himself, even if he did not clearly see the wrong he had been guilty of. And then, the recollections of his earlier wrong steps, and the dark pictures of the immediate future, which his lively imagination painted‐‐for as yet he kneew nothing of Farmer Kingsley's intentions‐‐pursued each other back and forth across his mind like the wavese of a squall‐tossed sea. This severe agitation served to confirm within him the resolution he had formed; and the next morning, when Mr. Kingsley proposed that he should return to school, he felt greatly relieved, although as yet he did not know how the matter could be settled. </P>
<P> Farmer Kingsley was a man of great
<page n=31>energy and probity of character, and was well known. His influence was almost without limit in the community; and convinced of Leonard's sincerity, he now took his cause, and by much persuasion finally had him restored to the school. </P>
<P> Leonard's change of conduct was apparent to all, and becoming more diligent than ever, he fairly bounded along in his studies. Had his reformation been more thorough, and had he gone back to the rpinciples he had been taught by precept and by loving example in his New Jersey home; had his change been deeply moral, and led him to retrace his runaway steps and ask forgiveness of the tender relatives he had wronged, his whole life would doubtless have been brighter. As it was, the change was great, and his resolution noble; but it had respect only to prudence, and rested upon a merely utilitarian morality. It was a half‐measure
<page n=32>and a compromise; and it was upon such a basis that Leonard set out to erect that character upon which as a monument he should at last inscribe his name and the record of his life. </P>
<P> His schooldays were finished without further event; and in the spring he returned to work with increased energy and fidelity, saving his earnings with scrupulous care. He soon won the reward due his upright and manly bearing in the confidence and good will of the community; and the unpleasant school episode faded from public memory. It was a boyish freak that should not be charged to the disadvantage of the enterprising young man, who had not only repudiated it, but who had done all in his power to atone for it. Leonard Howell was forgiven. </P></div0><div0><page n=33>
<HEAD>CHAPTER II.</HEAD>
<P> The city of Charleston, in South Carolina, is often spoken of as the hotbed in which the rebellion of the South was sprouted. Before the war Charleston was a delightful city, especially for persons whose temperament fitted them to enjoy its semi‐tropical climate and customs. Socially it was extremely staid and conservative; and the various classes of which its population was composed moved along their allotted planes with but little apparent friction, each individual family seeming content with its social lot. Charleston was the Philadelphia of the South, with increased emphasis. </P>
<P> In situation, it enjoyed the advantages
<page n=34>of which New York may boast, without having the obstruction of Long Island. From the Battery, which beautifully matched New York's Castle Garden, the eye uninterrupted might sweep out over a harbor of quiet beauty and drop its exhausted vision to rest in the distant haze of the open sea. The low, green‐crested islands which marked the lines of the opening perspective, served as a delicate border, connecting the picture with ourselves; while bold Sumter challenged our gaze for a moment as she reared her grim form against the eastern sky as the faithful gatekeeper of the "City by the Sea." </P>
<P> The view presented by the city itself to the traveler approaching it from the sea was also one of rare beauty. Its shipping, spires, and abundant shrubbery and shade trees combined to enlist the lively sympathy of the visitor; while its background
<page n=35>of forest and its surrounding meads of luxuriant green enwrapped it in a setting as delightful as ever greeted the eye. </P>
<P> East and west of the city flowed the Ashly and Cooper rivers, quite similar to the East and North rivers of New York; and on their waters floated the tiny boats of the scores of fishermen who daily supplied the markets with the best fish in the world. Within the city were fine old residences reflecting the wealth and magnificent tastes of their occupants; but the visitor would be more deeply impressed by the public buildings. There was the old Saint Michael's Church, with its magnificent chimes‐‐Saint Michael's, once saved by the heroism of a negro slave, upon whom the rich sentiment of Charleston bestowed, as a wreath of honor, the boon of freedom. There stood the old French Church, telling its story of the Huguenots;
<page n=36>there the citadel, filled with aristocratic cadets; there the theater, coming down from colonial times; the arsenal, asylums, hotels, and school buildings. Churches were numerous and the population decidedly church‐going. </P>
<P> The clearly‐defined classes in Charleston society were nearly as follows: On the one extreme were the old families who enjoyed a distinction founded upon blood, and who were generally accorded the first place in everything. The other extreme was occupied by the fewe white laborers and mechanics, to whom was permitted no social standing whatever. They existed and looked on; they did not live and partake. Among the aristocrats were to be found the merchants of the best class;the planters who maintained city residences, or who were frequent visitors to the city; the lawyers, and, above all, the leaders in
<page n=37>politics. As a rule, they were gentlemen of leisure, with fair education, and had sometimes traveled extensively; dignified and infolent of manner, and splendid talkers. Their pronunciation of English was old‐fashioned, but uniform and fixed; as one pronounced, they all pronounced; their tones were musical and their
inflections indicative of taste. They were not without virtue, although the South Carolina aristocracy was really an item brought forward from a closed accounht, and was both out of date and away from home in the American republic; nevertheless, it had its era and some virtue. Of its vices it is not necessary to speak; all who knew it will admit that it was more admirable at a distance than at close view. The lowest class of whites need not be specially noted. Many of them were upright and respectable, and under freer conditions would have reached
<page n=38>the higher ranks of society. The "poor white trash" of the Carolinas generally were not always the worst people. They were uniformly sinned against by the lordly class, and were very much what their condition made them; but among them were many who were far from being despicable. </P>
<P> Between the two extremes already mentioned were several strata of the middle class, comprising superior mechanics, merchants of secondary grade, school teachers, clerks, bookkeepers, and the like. Among these were to be found the usual proportion of good and bad, no doubt; but it was also among them that some of the best people that the city every produced were to be found. The virtues somewhat spurned by the upper classes, and rendered impossible to the lowest class by reason of their social surroundings, seemed to find con‐
<page n=39>genial homes among many of those who were niehter high nor low in the social scale. Here alone the domestic virtues especially received their warmest support and brought forth their best fruit. </P>
<P> Charleston was also the center and marked representative of a slaveholding section, and had a very large slave population. Here the Denmark Vesey insurrection was planned, and here too it came to grief, when twenty‐two resolute negroes, who had been willing to risk something for freedom, met their death in silence on the scaffold. Here also was the whipping‐house, known among negroes ironically as the "sugar house," to which genteel slaveholders sent their slaves to be whipped at so much per lash. Yes, Charleston had her slaves, her free negroes, her free browns, and her mixed‐blooded colored people, seemingly without number. The
<page n=40>
colored people, too, free and slave, were also divided into several classes, the most noted of which were the "free browns," the center of which was the "Brown Fellowship Society," representing persons of mixed blood who were freeborn; and the "Compact," a society of blacks that admitted none to membership saving blacks who had been born in wedlock. </P>
<P> The ante&hyphens;bellum Charleston, however, is passed away, leaving behind it only memories. For anything like a correct description of it we are dependent upon the fast‐fading recollections of the few survivors who knew it as it was. Its picture, beautiful as it was in many respects, is not to be found in its own current literature, not that artists were wanting, but rather because the leaders of thought carried public attention into other fields. The ambitions of politics utterly despoiled the provinces of literature. </P>
<page n=41><P> The Vanross family belonged to the middle and non‐slaveholding class; and it may be well to observe that this class of Southerners, so generally kept in the background, was very largely in the majority. Reduced to the very minimum in social influences by the slaveholding policy of the South, they have seldom appeared in Southern literature except at great disadvantage. Nor indeed have they received from the North that share of public attention in any form to which their character and their numbers entitle them. The slaveholder, actual or ex, has always managed to set himself up as the exclusive representative of the South; and he has been too often admitted as such, without a thought concerning the great majority of good people whom he did not represent. The Vanross family were not slaveholders, but were, nevertheless, intense Southern‐
<page n=42>ers. They were plain, practical, and industrious, considered in the light of the habits and custom of their community. In another place they would have reached high rank in society. As it was, they enjoyed a large share of respect. </P>
<P> The discussion going on in the country foreboding actual war, reached the quiet home of Mrs. Vanross, and greatly agitated the little domestic circle. They loved Charleston as only Charlestonians can; and from this standpoint, in widening circles but with diminishing degrees, they loved the whole South. The soft skies, the balmy climate, the richly‐scented flowers, the song‐birds, the delicious fruits, their own loved home, the band of cherished friends‐‐these were their South, rather than the hideous machine of human slavery, rolling out its bales of cotton on one side and oozing out its stream of blood and death on the other. </P>
<page n=43>
<P> True to the political and religious teachings they had received from infancy, the whole family went with their State. The two older sons knew that if the war came it would be "a rich man's war and a poor man's fight;" but they also knew the intolerant spirit by which they were surrounded, and for the sake of their mother and sisters they saw that they should be compelled to shoulder muskets. The family consisted of a widowed mother, two daughters, and three sons, two of whom, William and Charles, were well grown. The father had not been long dead, and the house in which they lived was their own, and Mrs. Vanross had a small income besides. </P>
<P> The boys had been early taught to lend a hand in their own support, and the girls had been carefully trained by their mother in all household duties, they and their
<page n=44>mother usually doing all the work of the family. When help was necessary they usually employed free colored people. This, however, occasioned no remark, for slaveholders sometimes did the same. As a matter of fact, the members of the Vanross family were all opposed to slavery; but they were very careful never to give expression to their views. With the same hearts, had they lived in Boston rather than in Charleston, they would have been earnest abolitionists. As it was, they were noted for their kindness to colored people, both free and slave. </P>
<P> May, 1865. The Charleston of the past was gone. Great fires had swept over it. Shot and shell had pierced and racked its buildings. Pinching want had reigned within it. All was over now&period War had spent its fury and peace had returned.
<page n=45>The flag of our Union once more floated from the flagstaff of the Citadel. Soldiers, soldiers, soldiers were marching everywhere. Socially Charleston now was chaos and coma. The cornerstone of its fabric, slavery, had been plucked out of the building, and a general collapse had followed. Paralyzed and confused, at this hour, it had not taken its first steps toward social reconstruction. The city was not without population, however, for besides the soldiers, from forty‐five to fifty thousand civilians were moving to and fro amid its ruins. </P>
<P> The ruling class that had given<emph rend="italics">tone</emph> to its society had practically disappeared; and the others, entirely unaccustomed to lead, were existing in a state of apparent bewilderment. Negro soldiers were there, some fresh from the island plantations, others from the free North and West. They had
<page n=46>entered the city triumphantly singing "John Brown," and thousands of freedmen had caught the stirring chorus. The streets were daily crowded; old faces were slowly disappearing, and new ones arriving with every steamer. </P>
<P> Two colored soldiers of the Fifty‐fourth Massachusetts were making their way rather carelessly along Vanderhost Street, in front of the market. Both sides of the walk were lined with rude market stands, and the narrow passageway was thronged with people. The soldiers stopped before an old colored lady's stand and asked for glasses of "root beer." They were chatting, and stepping backward rather carelessly, quite rudely jostled two typical Southern white ladies. The ladies, being naturally in a sensitive state of mind, felt themselves insulted. The soldiers, quickly observing their fault, immediately straight‐
<page n=47>ened themselves up, and raising their caps, politely offered their apologies. </P>
<P> "We are not accustomed to that sort of treatment from negroes," said the elder lady. </P>
<P> "Oh! ma, 'tis no use to talk; the negroes have got the city now," said the younger lady. I hope the Yankees are satisfied now; they have put us under our own negroes." </P>
<P> This was a little more than the soldiers could bear cheerfully. Whether a thought of Butler's famous New Orleans order came into their minds or not it would be impossible to say; but they at once changed their attitude, and taking up the glasses of root beer which
they had ordered, they tendered them in a brusque manner to the ladies, and with the freedom of thorough familiarity commanded them to drink to the old flag. </P>
<page n=48>
<P> The ladies, embarrassed and frightened, saw now their mistake, and fancied themselves in danger. Their eyes filled with tears, and they were now ready to apologize in their turn. The soldiers did no more than press the glasses upon them, but this to them was a terrible humiliation. As they stood hemmed in by the crowd, and suffering from their rude stare, suddenly a young officer dashed up, and comprehending to some extent the situation, addressed the soldiers loudly: </P>
<P> "What in thunder are you boys doing?" </P>
<P> "Nothing, sir," was the quick response. </P><P> "Well, then, move on," said Lieutenant
Howell. </P>
<P> The soldiers drank their beer and at once complied with the order, although a glance passing from the officer to the men covertly assured them that they had nothing to fear from him. </P>
<page n=49>
<P> Lieutenant Howell then advanced directly to the ladies, proffering his assistance and escort, at the same time handing to the elder lady his card. His offer was kindly accepted, and in the short walk from the market to their home his manners and conversation so pleased the ladies that he not only received their thanks, but also an invitation to call on them at his convenience. </P>
<P> When the war broke out Leonard, who had just reached manhood, and still possessed that martial spirit which had manifested itself in the shrill notes of his boyish fife, enlisted at the first call. Entering the ranks as a private soldier, he carried within him a spirit of frankness and fidelity which had been growing in his character since the memorable schoolroom battle; and being blessed with that enthusiasm which naturally springs from good health, it was
<page n=50>not long before he became favorably known to both officers and men. He possessed also a fair degree of patriotism, and distinguished himself early by a close attention to duty and by a careful and intelligent execution of orders. </P>
<P> But, like hundreds of other privates who remained in the ranks all through the war, although more worthy to command than scores of others, who through political influence secured shoulder‐straps, Leonard seemed destined never to hold a commission. Advanced to the position of sergeant, his course of promotion stopped, and in all probability he would have reached no higher military plane had not the government been compelled about this time to accept the services of colored soldiers. The black regiments that were forming needed officers, and it was the policy of the government to put only white men in
<page n=51>command. This opened before the white non‐commissioned officers a prospect of promotion toward which they could regard themselves as in direct line. Faithfulness to duty, efficiency in drill, gallantry in the field, all led to promotion as
commissioned officers to these newly‐forming colored regiments. Here was a chance for merit to make its way; and it has been claimed that these white officers, placed in charge of colored troops, were among the best found in the service. </P>
<P> Hence, when Sergeant Howell received a commission as a second lieutenant in the Fifty‐fourth Massachusetts regiment, composed of colored soldiers, it was not only a partial surprise to him, but a compliment to his fidelity and skill. </P>
<P> Entering upon his new duties, his bearing and manners were such that he soon won the respect of the men of his company
<page n=52>and the confidence of his superior officers. He was at the storming of Wagner, and at the fearful and disastrous battle of Olustee, when it was evident that "some one had blundered." At Honey Hill he participated in that bloody bayonet duel between his own regiment and a crack regiment from Georgia, the "Savannah Grays," in which the Southern regiment was literally cut to pieces; in a word, he was with his regiment constantly, from the time that he joined it with his new commission until it practically ended the war with the last fight against rebellion at Boynton's Mill. Singular enough it is, that the black man should open the war by becoming its first victim in Baltimore, on April 18, 1861, and should close it in the last victory won over armed treason in 1865. </P>
<P> But the fighting was now over; Jefferson
<page n=53>Davis was in hiding probably somewhere in Georgia, carrying the Executive Department of the gasping Confederacy in his trunk; his cabinet and other high officials were seeking rest for their weary feet in the glades and forests, and awaiting opportunities to escape to foreign lands. The whole South was under military rule; and the provost marshal was the most important dignitary in every town. The condsition of things under the military was bad enough, but it was immeasurably better than it had been under the declining days of the Confederacy, and better in many respects than that rule which followed it under the guise of reconstruction. </P>
<P> When the two black privates stopped Mrs. Vanross and her daughter and were insisting upon their drinking to the old flag in a glass of common root beer, they had not the fear of so‐called Southern chivalry,
<page n=54>or Southern law before their eyes. They knew that Southern chivalry had been unhorsed by Federal bayonets, and that Southern law had been declared inoperative by the Department Commander. The glance that passed between Lieutenant Howell and the men was not entirely soldierly; it was rather patriotic and fraternal, and the men moved cheerfully on as bid, deporting themselves as though nothing unusual had occurred. </P>
<P> Lieutenant Howell bowed his thanks on leaving the ladies, for their kind invitation to call, and turned away with as much dignity as he could command. He was greatly elated over the whole affair and felt very much more like complimenting the soldiers who had brought it about than like reporting them for breach of discipline. His accidental meeting with the two modest ladies had made him quite a hero, and
<page n=55>had set his mind running in a new direction. </P>
<P> Returning to his quarters, occupied with his own bright thoughts, his life began to assume a romantic cast, and he began to paint himself as the leading character of a drama already well on its course. The pleasant words and sweet smiles of Mrs. Vanross and her daughter had been accepted by him very much above their real value. So long deprived of female society, and knowing but little of the ways of the world, Lieutenant Howell was not prepared to interpret the language and manners of Charleston politeness. He had been decidedly embarrassed while in the presence of the ladies, and had barely borne himself above the gauge of awkwardness; but now that he was at home he saw himself only as a victor. He was not familiar with the fact that Charleston had learned
<page n=56>her English greatly through the French; and that words uttered by her fair daughters, especially in their own home, as far as they are employed as vehicles of sentiment, needed to be greatly modified as they are translated into the received currency of New England life. Hence our lieutenant had taken the words and manners of the ladies to signify a great deal more than was intended; and yet the ladies were not insincere, nor had they been extravagant. On the contrary they were both reserved and sincere, according to their standard, notwithstanding they appeared so cordial. </P>
<P> It was with difficulty that Leonard restrained himself until a seasonable time for the promised call should arrive. It came however at length, and most carefully attired, Leonard set out for the visit. His reception was all that he could have
<page n=57>wished; and he was delighted with the quiet grace of the mother, and with the beauty of Miss Hortense. To tell the whole truth, Leonard had never before enjoyed the companionship or even the anxiety, of such thoroughly refined people‐‐excepting of course their antipathy to negro soldiers, which to them at that time was quite excusable. </P>
<P> Leonard's visits to the Vanross residence became afterward quite frequent, and as the days and weeks rolled on, the intimacy between himself and the family grew into friendship; and when in midsummer, his regiment was ordered North to be mustered out of service, Miss Hortense had exacted from him the promise to write to her. The whole family also joined in inviting him to pay them a visit during the coming winter. </P></div0><div0><page n=58>
<HEAD>CHAPTER III.</HEAD>
<P> Scarcely had the frost painted the leaves of the New England forests their many colors before Lieutenant Howell, with his trunk packed, was on his way to New York, there to take the first outgoing steamer for Charleston. A delightful passage of three days brought him to the city, and as soon as propriety would permit he was striking the knocker of the high gate of the Vanross residence. His reception was an overflow of genuine cordiality. </P>
<P> "I am so glad to see you," exclaimed Mrs. Vanross, her deep black eyes still sparkling with a luster that seemed to contradict the testimony of her gray hairs. </P>
<P> "You are looking so well," said Hor‐
<page n=59>tense, and Leonard fairly blushed with pride and confusion. </P>
<P> "We are all glad to welcome you back to Charleston," said Lavinia, disclosing to the full a set of pearly teeth, her arched eyebrows and long drooping eyelashes resting upon a complexion of richest brunette, possessed of a figure most delicately molded, and crowned with a luxuriant mass of black and glossy hair, which had just enough of curl in it to give it a look of life. </P>
<P> Lavinia was in fact bewitchingly beautiful; and as she advanced toward Mr. Howell, clad in snowy evening dress, extending her faultlessly shaped hand to clasp his, that seemed so large and ill‐made in comparison, he experienced a degree of embarrassment hard to define. In a few moments, however, he was at his ease. Seated on the piazza, with a sister on
<page n=60>either side, and the mothere in front, he told in his best style, which was indeed poor enough, his experiences during the passage northward, and of the great "muster out," not omitting to mention the greetings he had received among his friends at his home. </P>
<P> Led on by their interested attention and artless questions, he spoke quite freely of his plans for the future, continually circling around the one point more important to him than all others, and yet keeping it well in the distance. Much of what he said was intended especially for Hortense; and Leonard hoped that she would see that she made the greater part of that really practical future which he enthusiastically painted, although he carefully avoided any self‐committing expressions. Like the ship‐of‐war seeking to draw the fire of some concealed battery, he hoped by his honest
<page n=61>description, his bits of romance, and his occasional jets of wit to bring some response from the well‐guarded fort within. But all in vain. Hortense listened with Desdemona‐like sympathy and talked with the ulmost freedom, but she more than puzzled him by giving out no sign that she was reading the ardent story of his heart, that was fairly living and breathing between the lines of his sprightly conversation. </P>
<P> Lavinia fluttered around him, almost as gay in manner as the little humming‐bird, which at that moment was flitting among the flowers that scented the piazza. She was unquestionably superior to her sister in beauty, and was also her junior in years. Leonard greatly admired her‐‐indeed, he was bewildered by her beauty‐‐and if pressed for a reason for not preferring her to her sister would probably have answered in a tone subdued almost to reverence: "She is too handsome for me." </P>
<page n=62>
<P> Leonard C. Howell admired the beauty of Lavinia, but he was of too coarse a cast to hope to bring to his side a creataure so fine of fiber and so spiritual as Lavinia; and he had the supreme manliness not to seek to possess and despoil a soul for whose intimate companionship he was in no sense fitted. He admired Lavinia, but she was above his love. </P>
<P> The love which he felt for Hortense had in a measure created his world anew; for although it was ardent and romantic enough, it was at the same time accompanied by the fond hope that at an early day the noble object would be his. And it was this hope which inspired him in his practical planning for the future, and which bore him up in his present sacrifices of pleasure and often of comfort. </P>
<P> The course of true love was never smooth. If for a time Leonard's way
<page n=63>seemed so clear and the goal so near at hand, it was only to entice him to surrender himself more completely to its gentle but imperious sway. He is honest and earnest, and the love which he brings to Hortense is the full offering of his ripening manhood; and there seems nothing to prevent its being kindly accepted. The differences in manner, in taste, expression, and experience between them only serve to make them more interesting to each other; and although on different sides during the war, that does not now interfere with their friendship. </P>
<P> The evening's conversation terminataed very pleasantly, after an engagement on Leonard's part to join the Vanross family in a little social gathering at their home a week later, on which occasion he would be regarded as the guest of the family generally and the especial escort of Hortense. </P>
<page n=64>
<P> Up to this time there was nothing like a betrothal between the two young people; that is, there had been no formal proposal, nor indeed any set courtship or lovemaking. The feeling between them had come up <emph rend="italics">Topsy</emph>‐like, without any making; it had grown secretly but irresistibly, and although neither had confessed it in words, yet both knew and felt its presence, and had manifested it to others in a thousand ways, even when trying most to hide it. </P>
<P> The long week ended at last, and Leonard found himself the center of a very quiet evening party at the Vanross residence. It was a gathering of the relatives and very intimate friends; for even the middle circle in which the Vanross ladies moved was not generally prepared to entertain an ex‐"Yankee" officer. Great care had been exercised in sending out the invitations that no inharmonious guest should be present. </P>
<page n=65>
<P> The party therefore was small but congenial, and the time passed in easy conversation, Lieutenant Howell receiving marked attention. He noticed, however, that the guests on retiring were more ceremonious, and that they were generally richer in their expressions than those he had been accustomed to meet in his Northern experience. </P>
<P> As the party had been in his honor, he was of course the last to leave; and during the brief after‐conversation the first straw to cross his pathwayu fell. It was but a straw, but it came, and it stayed. </P>
<P> Seated alone with the family, by the merest accident the subject of religion came up in some form, and the fact was disclosed that Mrs. Vanross and her daughters were Christians of the old‐fashioned, orthodox type. The Bible was to them the supreme rule of life, and Hortense an earnest defender of its teachings. </P>
<page n=66>
<P> Leonard had imbibed somewhat of the so‐called liberal ideas of New England; and although he had no definite creed of his own, he had learned, perhaps, to doubt orthodoxy, as he called it, but of which he had no precise ideas, and certainly to complain of the restraints of religion. Hence, when he saw his adored Hortense appear as the champion of a subject and a cause which he inwardly hated, there arose within him a warfare which for the time compelled him to maintain
silence. It was now the turn of Hortense to play the part of the tantalizing corvette, and despite Leonard's caution he soon found himself reduced to the necessity of exposing his opinions. </P>
<P> Hortense, observing his uneasiness during the conversation and the maladroitness of some of his responses, said with kindness: </P>
<page n=67>
<P> "I fear, Mr. Howell, that the conversation is hardly agreeable to you. Perhaps we had better turn our thoughts into another channel." </P>
<P> "By no means," replied Mr. Howell, "if you are willing to allow a difference of opinion. Who knows but we may hit upon some undiscovered truth? At least it will be a pleasure to hear Hypatia discourse, even upon that driest and most threadbare of all subjects‐‐creeds and confessions," said he, with an air of compliment to Hortense, and of ill‐concealed contempt for religion. </P>
<P> "Oh, Mr. Howell, the subject does not seem dry at all to me; you must come and hear our minister‐‐Dr. Caulfield. He makes it interesting enough." </P>
<P> "Oh, yes; I have heard many fine preachers, and have heard many good things from the pulpit; and I have noth‐
<page n=68>ing to say against the many hard‐working men in that calling who honestly believe what they say; I only feel sorry for them; but for those who do not believe, and who yet go on and preach, I have no feeling but one of contempt. I admit all the morality claimed and taught by the most ardent religionists, but I am not willing to enslave myself to their creeds." </P>
<P> "Well," replied Hortense laughingly, "perhaps it is because you do not have the time to think of religion as we do, or are so strong that you do not feel the need of something to lean upon. Gentlemen do not seem naturally so religious as women. I and sister Lavinia have been so accustomed all our lives to lean upon either papa, while he lived, or upon William since papa's death, that we have been molded for religion. We could not live without it. And, then, ma‐‐she has just
<page n=69>led us to God by her own faith and life." </P>
<P> Leonard was a little disturbed by the reply of Hortense. Her earnestness and sincerity greatly heightened his admiration, but at the same time he saw enough to convince him that she would not readily surrender her faith. Unwilling to appear as a direct opponent of religion, and desiring to avoid being pushed further into a discussion which had suddenly assumed so serious a form, he turned the admirable plea aside with a pleasantry, remarking that one so strong in character and so rich in endowments as herself had much more to give than to receive. He doubted not that the favored brothers could see something of divinity in their sister. </P>
<P> Hortense, though earnest and pious, was not beyond the effects of a compliment, especially from Leonard; and she knew
<page n=70> that the compliment was sincere, if not indeed deserved. Her dark cheek crimsoned slightly, and betraying a little confusion she said: </P>
<P> "Oh, Mr. Howell, you do not mean me; you mean sister Lavinia. She is the boys' idol. Sister Lavinia, in their eyes, is the incomparable one." </P>
<P> This was said with no tone of sisterly jealousy. Hortense knew that Lavinia was more richly endowed than herself in point of beauty; but far from envying her on this account, she rather took pleasure in it, as so much the more added to the common stock of the household. Besides, Hortense heerself was by no means devoid of beauty. She was of the same type as her sister; had the same black eyes; the same glossy hair, pearly teeth, ruby lips, and rich, dark complexion; but therer was more of the robust, the positive, the mate‐
<page n=71>rial in Hortense. She was rather grand and stately, while her sister was more fairy‐like and captivating. The beauty of Lavinia was of that type that brings its worshipper to her feet bewildered and almost bereft of his mind; the beauty of Hortense bids him rise to his greatest altitude and gird himself with his noblest thought. </P>
<P> Lavinia, who was not far away, having heard her name mentioned, was soon standing by the side of Hortense, her face beaming with sisterly affection, and her bewitching eyes sending their gleaming arrows right through Leonard Howell's heart. An entrancing picture she presented as she poised herself gracefully a moment and said: </P>
<P> "What is it, sister? May I not have a share in this deeply interesting conversation? You have complimented me by mentioning my name, and‐‐you know a
<page n=72>woman's curiosity‐‐so you must tell me what you are talking about." </P>
<P> Explanations were made and the conversation lightened up, and as it was growing late, Mr. Howell soon after sought his hat and light overcoat and withdrew, the ladies accompanying him to the piazza, and following him with their gaze until he had descended the high steps and passed down the shrub‐lined white walk to the high street gate. Opening this, he paused and bowed his final good‐night, and then started briskly down Rutledge Street to return to his hotel. </P>
<P> The streets were badly lighted, the sidewalks uneven, and, except on the best business streets, unpaved. A large part of the city through which he passed was familiarly known as the "burnt district," in which stood numerous chimneys rearing their heads sullenly in the darkness as so
<page n=73>many tombstones marking the graves of departed homes. On every hand was also to be seen the ruinous work of shot and shell. The scene altogether, as it was revealed by the dim lamplight, was well fitted to awaken in the mind of the solitary walker serious if not somber reflection. </P>
<P> Mr. Howell had left the Vanross residence in no gay mood. He felt somewhat dissatisfied with himself and with the part he had played in the later conversation of the evening. Nor was he well pleased as he thought over the entire evening. The party had been very agreeable, and he had been the center of attention; still he was not satisfied. But little accustomed to fashionable life, and altogether a stranger to the social manners of Charleston, he felt that he had not been able to deport himself with becoming grace; and he was specially mortified that he had disclosed
<page n=74>his religious views to the Vanross family. The more he thought over the matter the greater became his uneasiness, and the more intense his disgust with himself. </P>
<P> "The whole family will turn against me, sure," said he half aloud; "and as to Hortense‐‐ah, well! it is fortunate that I have said no more to her. She shall never know what I intended; I will quietly withdraw, and she will be none the wiser for my experience. It is clear she will never love me, and why should I waste my love further upon her? The affair must drop right where it is, and we will remain only friends." </P>
<P> Soliloquizing thus, Leonard drew himself up to his full height, and with the firm step that the drill had taught him flattered himself that he had reached a conclusion and had dismissed a new‐born love. Calling up the gayety of his spirits, he entered
<page n=75>the hotel and hastened to his room. His sleep, however, was not refreshing, and when morning at last came he found himself as firmly bound in the toils of unpleasant thought as when he paced the dark streets on the night before. The party, the conversation, and Hortense were still with him, and it seemed as difficult to get away from them as to get away from himself. </P></div0><div0>
<page n=76><HEAD>CHAPTER IV.</HEAD>
<P> Leonard continued sadly confused in mind all that day, and it was several days before he regained his wonted composure. He was not an insincere coxcomb, and had never indulged in the ghastly pastime of playing at chess with women's hearts. On the contrary, he had a heart of his own, and at present he seemed pretty much all heart. A hundred times in a day did he resolve to untwine the silken cords that bound him to Hortense; and a hundred times in a day, at the conclusion of each series of efforts, would he find himself more firmly bound than before. Her face, her form, her eyes, her teeth, her hair, her sweet, musical voice, her refined, silvery
<page n=77>Charleston laugh, her graceful though rather stately carriage, her artless and becoming manners‐‐each charm in detail had its hold upon him, and when each was loosened, as he fancies, he soon found that the <emph rend="italics">tout ensemble</emph> had entirely restored its hold. Ah, love! love! Who can measure thy power or weigh thy force! Less ponderous than sunlight, thou art heavier than the universe! </P>
<P> But it was not only Leonard's heart that caused to rremain in Charleston, and that would send him in a few days back to the Vanross gate, but his pride was also divided in its forces. A goodly part of his pride acted as ally with his heart; for, had not
his flowing tongue and pen got the better of him at times among his old army associates, as well as among the companions of his early youth? And was it not an open secret among his acquaintances that
<page n=78>he had gone South on an errand of love? Brave as Leonard was before his heart, he found it hard to bear up against the assaults of his pride. He had faced bullets on the field, but he fairly cowed now at the thought of facing ridicule; and so, yielding to the power of love, he nevertheless took some comfort in the unmanly thought that he surrendered rather to his pride. </P>
<P> It was but a few days indeed before Leonard again found himself at Mrs&period Vandross', but these had been long days to him. The welcome proved that no ill effect from his previous conversation had lingered in the hearts of the ladies. It was quite early in the afternoon of a beautiful November day, and Mr. Howell came to invite the young ladies to take a drive. The invitation was accepted, and in a few minutes all were seated in the best conveyance to be
<page n=79>had, himself and Hortense on the back seat and Lavinia directly in front. </P>
<P> The drive included a short trip up the road to the Half‐Moon Battery, and through the lanes of live‐oaks that then lined the plank roadway extending for some miles north of the city; thence somewhat retracing their course, they ended their drive with a tour through the city to the famous "Battery," arriving home just about dark. </P>
<P> The conversation during all the way had been cheerful and free; but still Leonard was not fully relieved from the unpleasant recollections of the brief discussion on the night of the party. It was his purpose to recur to the topic at the first convenient opportunity, in order that he might clear away any unfavorable impression which he feared his remarks had made. But the scenes of the drive had so occupied the attention of the entire party that he was
<page n=80>kept busy in observing, especially as on their return, the whole beautiful harbor came into view. </P>
<P> Arriving and alighting from the carriage, which was then dismissed, Leonard accompanied the ladies into the house, and was soon seated alone with Hortense in the parlor, while Lavinia busied herself in preparing a simple repast. Notwithstanding the heroic efforts he had made to free himself from the peculiar bonds which seemed to link his fate to the chariot wheels of Hortense Vanross, Leonard never before felt as completely under her sway; and although he had longed for the moment to come when he might be alone with her, now that it had come he was confused and almost paralyzed in his efforts to talk or even to think. However, moving over and taking a seat on the large old‐fashioned sofa on which Hortense was already seated,
<page n=81>he made an effort to reintroduce the subject that had caused him so much uneasiness, at the same time desiring to offer some apologies for his manner and to modify the remarks he had made. </P>
<P> "I fear, Miss Hortense," said he, "that you were not pleased with what I said the other evening when we were talking on the subject of religion." </P>
<P> "Perhaps I did not altogether agree with you, Mr&period Howell, and perhaps I spoke too warmly. I beg pardon for anything in my tone or manner which may have led you to think that I was displeased; I assure you I was not at all displeased," replied Hortense seriously. </P>
<P> "I surely did not mean to be impolite or in any way lacking in courtesy; I accidentally got into the subject, and I have felt ever since that I expressed myself quite improperly. I am certainly not a
<page n=82>heathen, nor do I claim to be an infidel, although I admit that I am not orthodox on all religious topics. But I wished to call up the matter only to apologize for my manner on that evening; and after this, with your consent, we will taboo the subject altogether." </P>
<P> "Oh, no, Mr. Howell, you do not need to apologize, I am sure. No one was the least offended, and it has not been talked of at all. The subject is not at all disagreeable to me, and I shall be glad to resume it at any time whenever it may please you." </P>
<P> Leonard's confusion and embarrassment rather increased as the conversation went on, and he felt himself far away from the subject at that time dearest to his heart. How should he ever unfold to the honored creature at his side the love that was consuming his life? A few weeks ago he
<page n=83>flattered himself that she knew his interest in her and more than reciprocated it; and he imagined then that he could go through the form of proposal without a ruffle of spirit or quake of heart, and would carry off in triumph the rich evidence of his conquest. How tall and proud he appeared then in his own eyes as he surveyed himself in the flattering mirror of his own fancy. With what excusable assurance did he speak of his "Southern belle" and his "Southern beauty," the "Charleston rebel" that he had captured. </P>
<P> Thus talked Lieutenant Howell to his army associates when miles away; but where now is that volubility, adroitness, and courage, as he sits on this old‐fashioned sofa, not far from the side of his adored Hortense? What has become of the freedom of tongue he possessed, even on the occasion of his first visit to the Vanross
<page n=84>house after his return to the city as a civilian? </P>
<P> Lieutenant Howell was in a new rôle, and his situation could have been described as one of painful deliciousness. He suffered, but he enjoyed his own sufferings. </P>
<P> "My dear Hortense, I am always ready to converese <emph rend="italics">with you</emph> upon this subject or about anything. Whatever pleases you delights me. It is such a rich privilege to be in your society that the sort of conversation is not of much importance. It is a pleasure to me to look at you and to listen." And Leonard moved a little nearer to her, but still the distance between them on that long sofa was very respectable. </P>
<P> Hortense replied with thanks for the compliment, and suggested pantomime, but Leonard was not equal to the demands of such a performance and begged to be excused. Miss Hortense then returned to
<page n=85>the earlier conversation about where they had left off. </P>
<P> "No, Mr. Howell, you cannot be a heathen; and you say you are not an infidel, which I must also accept; but then at the same time you tell us that you do not believe in creeds and confessions; and you do not believe in Christians and in churches. Of course this is all strange to us, who have alwayus believed in such things. Pardon me, but I am curious to know just what you do believe on these subjects." </P>
<P> Although Lieutenant Howell would have much preferred to have passed from the subject by an easier route, now that he had done his best to remove the previous unpleasantness, yet he saw no way to avoid the open door into which Hortense almost commandingly invited him to enter. In his own mind and heart a question was
<page n=86>struggling for utterance, which at that time was vastly more important to him than the questions of his faith. His hobby of irreligion had now lost all its charms. However, he made some efforts to avow his beliefs, but found the task very difficult. It had been an easy matter to talk with men of his own way of thinking about superstitious and creeds and churches and preachers; but when he was called upon to make a confession of his faith to that earnest, Christian woman, who was already the sovereign of his heart, his tongue was singularly tame. </P>
<P> Again the honest demand of Hortense had somewhat nonplussed him. He had been in the habit of asserting only his disbeliefs and ridiculing the beliefs of others; now he was asked for his own belief; and to ridicule the belief of Hortense did not enter his thought. Leonard found himself
<page n=87>reduced within very narrow limits, and for the nonce was compelled to cast the lead into the depths of his own soul. He was unable to command art enough to deceive even had he been so inclined. Hortense had brought him abruptly <emph rend="italics">vis‐àvis</emph> with himself, and transfixed him, as it were, before his own soul with mesmeric power, and he must stay until the answer was given. Leonard, thou art now at the command of the empress of thy heart, looking in upon thy soul, and thou must answer her question. Thou art unable to deceive; thou durst not disobey. What does thou believe? Negatives and ridicule will not avail thee in the presence of this spotless woman, who awes thee by the very divinity of her character. </P>
<P> "Well, it would be much easier, Miss Hortense," said Leonard, "to tell what I do not believe than to tell just what I do
<page n=88>believe. But I say this; I do believe in God, and I believe him to be a being of wisdom and love, but I do not hold the usual orthodox opinions about religion either as a theory or as an experience. I believe all things are under invariable law," thus sliding into a familiar retreat and hoping the discussion would soon terminate. </P>
<P> "Well," replied Hortense; "Perhaps we do not differ so widely in our opinions. You believe in a God of goodness and love; and in law, which to me is nothing more than God's unchangeable ways. This is a part of religion, to believe in God as good and loving." </P>
<P> "Yes; but somehow I cannot bring myself to think of the great God as taking any personal interest in us individually, or as having anything to do with our petty affairs. I look upon it that all things are placed under law and left to work out
<page n=89>their destiny. I believe the law the best that could be for the whole but not the best for each individual; I will even grant it to be a law of bvenevolence, but I think it is fixed; and so I cannot see the value of prayer; nor can I recognize any personal communication with the Divine Being. I lack all that element which is called faith. I am not spiritual; perhaps if I had your gifts I should have also your faith." </P>
<P> "But Mr. Howell," replied Hortense, now turning her gaze full upon him, and appearing grander in his eyes than ever before, as her whole face kindled with an earnestness that heightened every line of beauty in her form and features, "I am sure you do not lack sympathy even if you do lack faith. I noticed to‐day how easily you were interested in everything along the drive; and how you were fairly enraptured with our beautiful harbor and
<page n=90>Battery. Myself and sister were delightfully entertained by your enlivening remarks. You wrong yourself, Mr. Howell. You have a soul to see the beautiful and admire it, and to see suffering, and you have a heart to feel with the sufferer and to relieve his sufferings if possible. Your soldier training may have deceived you; but I know that you have sentiment enough, spiritual life enough. Do not say you are not spiritual; you wrong yourself." </P>
<P> Lieutenant Howell had never listened to such flattering remarks concerning himself before in all his life, and he was greatly affected. He would have been pleased had the words been spoken by only a friend; but to hear them spoken by the one person above all otheers whose good opinion he desired, transported him beyond himself. He saw earnestness and interest in the
<page n=91>tone, look and attitude of Hortense, all so chaste, and he drew in at once the most exhilarating draught of hope. The old anticipation that had been a little blurred by rercent circumstances, now came back increased a thousandfold. He felt that he not only enjoyed the good opinion of Hortense as expressed by her kind words and kinder tones; but what was so much more previous to him, he read in the sign‐language, known only to reral lovers, that her heart was not locked against him. He permitted himself to believe that he had at length secured a recognition in her heart as something morer than a friend. </P>
<P> Before he could press the advantage which came to him through the kind words of Hortense, Lavinia entered the room and invited them to tea, and the remainder of the evening was passed in the presence of the family. The conversation became
<page n=92>quite general, although it was unavoidably colored from the effects of the previous brief discussion, and the whole family recognized Lieutenant Howell's opposition to Christianity as professed and practiced in their household. There was no real discussion‐‐certainly nothing like debate‐‐but the general conversation tended to show that Lavinia greeted the views of Leonard with more tolerance than did the others. Hortense appeared as one pained at the position in which she saw her friend placed, but in the midst of her manifest solicitude she never allowed herself to indorse any expression of doubt or disbelief. </P>
<P> The evening ended, and Lieutenant Howell wwent to his hotel feeling very bright, and congratulated himself that the day of betrothal was near. The hope had now returned to him that he should secure
<page n=93>the much‐coveted promise ere he should be compelled to leave the city. He fancies the barriers were well out of the way; the manners of Hortense during the drive and all the evening had been most gracious, and the good‐night she gave Leonard at parting was accompanied with a cordial invitation to come again. Bright visions arose before him as he fell asleep that night under the transforming influences of the lover's hope. </P></div0><div0>
<page n=94><HEAD>CHAPTER V.</HEAD>
<P> Let us pass over the minor incidents of a few days as they occur in the lives of these two lovers‐‐for at last Hortense is to be regarded as really, deeply, and ardently in love with the young lieutenant. Her love has kindled slowly and its flame has grown amid difficulties; but it is now burning with all the ardor of her nature‐‐such a love as only a heart ripened beneath a Southern sky can produce. Now begins the real struggle. Love is blind, it is said; but Hortense was not blind to the fact that her lover was not a Christian. She saw that he was practically a disbeliever in the religion which her mother professed and which she had been taught to love and honor. Should she accept him as a lover?
<page n=95>Would not this be indorsing his irreligion? Could she love him without herself being led into sin? Dear reader, do not, I beg you, yield to the silly notion that woman does not reason. Never was there uttered a more unworthy libel upon our mothers, wives, sisters, and daughters. How often is the wife and mother the only reasoning and reasonable one of the entire household? Hortense reasoned and debated earnestly with herself her great questions in all possible forms, and generally ended with the resolve to dismiss the interloper from her heart; the reasoning was all right, and the conclusion came forth with syllogistic precision; but the gates of the citadel were commanded by love, against whose authority the assaults of reason have but little significance. Hortense would have been happier if she had been less disposed to reason. </P> <page n=96>
<P> The lover soon became a family topic, and mother, sister, and brother discussed the affair in all its bearings; all generally expressing themselves against the lieutenant's views, and yet at the same time all willingly granted that he was possessed of many estimable qualities. His manner was frank and open; he was fairly intelligent; his morals were above question; he appeared well related and had fair prospects; but he was an infidel ‐; this was the barrier between them and him. </P>
<P> "Oh, don't say his infidelity," said Lavinia, with some sign of impatience, as they were one day discussing the ever‐present topic. "I am sure Mr. Howell is not an infidel; and it is not fair to speak of him as such." </P>
<P> "No, sister," said William; "he may not be an infidel in the sense that he denies the Bible as in some way a book of history,
<page n=97>and even of morals; but he does not recognize it as the authority in the matter of faith; nor does he believe in Christ. He cannot be called a Christian in any just sense." </P>
<P> "He confesses to a belief in God; and he believes that people ought to do right," replied Lavinia; "and he is himself perfectly correct, kind, and courteous. I don't know but I would rather have the '<emph rend="italics">works'</emph> any time than the '<emph rend="italics">profession.'</emph> I know many people professing to be Christians who are not so good as Mr. Howell is. I don't find any fault with him; I<emph rend="italics">know</emph> he loves sister Hortense here; and I <emph rend="italics">believe</emph> sister loves him," said she teasingly, "and when he comes to ask for her I am going to ask him to take me too;" and her silvery laugh rang out in sincere merriment. </P>
<P> Hortense blushed in reply and said,
<page n=98>"Yes, you may do so when he asks for me. Don't you think so, ma?" </P>
<P> Mrs. Vanross was too close an observer not to know that Leonard was in love with Hortense, and that her daughter was returning his love; and was too good a mother not to be deeply concerned in her heart about it. She had watched the growth of their affection with real solicitude, but had guarded so perfect a silence respecting it that when Hortense appealed to her as above, she little suspected that her mother already shared the supposed secret. Love can never be hid, and is never lost. The heart may be double‐locked and double‐barred, but speak it will. </P>
<P> When Hortense, then, looked up into her mother's face with an attempt at gayety, and queried, "Don't you think so, ma?" Mrs. Vanross saw not the mock gayety that,
<page n=99>spread itself as the very thinnest veil over her countenance and attitude, but she saw the wounded, struggling heart of her daughter that was crying for sympathy and help which her tongue dared not ask. However, she replied pleasantly: </P>
<P> "Suppose he should ask for the mother, and have both daughters thrown in for good measure. How would that do?" </P>
<P> At this little sally all laughed heartily; and the conversation continued in that tone and was reaching a high degree of merriment, when
it was suddenly interrupted by a loud knock at the gate. It was Leonard. He had not overheard the conversation; for although the windows were open, and the house stood high enough from the ground to allow the sound to pass out to the street over the high, tight fence, and the ladies&apos; voices had become quite animated, yet, thanks to the distance ‐ as the
<page n=100>house sat well back ‐‐ and the unearthly noises made by the venders with their cries of "Sweet taters," "Fresh," and "E‐oisters," Lieutenant Howell had heard from the house only some confused sounds, merry voices, and laughter. </P>
<P> I do not know by what occult force the mind and heart of one person, especially where love is concerned, seem to be able imperceptibly to throw their emanations in advance and set other persons to thinking and talkintg toward the very subject that occupies his own thoughts. Perhaps some day we shall know more about this mystery. How often do we open the door to greet loved ones to say to them truthfully,"Well I have been looking for you all day;" or, "we were just at this moment talking of you." </P>
<P> The thoughts which had been revolving in Lieutenant Howells' mind as he had
<page n=101>slowly and silently walked from his hotel to the Vanross residence had already gone ahead of him, and had already made their impression upon the dwellers within. The first to respond to their train was the highly spiritual Lavinia. She had been the fairy forerunner preparing the way for him without herslef being aware of it. </P>
<P> Leonard's errand on this early evening was the most serious of all his life. His heart quaked less when detailed with a picket guard to watch some dangerous post than it did on that night as he awaired admission to this plain residence on Rutledge Street. He was to leave Charelston soon and this was to be his last visit to the family for the present. He came not to make a formal proposal to Hortense, for somehow he had begun to feel that he had already won her regard; but he came
<page n=102>to comply with an honorable custom to which takes rank among the highest of social laws in Charleston, as indeed it should everywhere. He came to ask the consent of Mrs. Vanross to sue for the hand of her daughter. He flattered himself that the heart of Hortense was already on his side, but he desired to obtain the mother's consent and blessing. </P>
<P> Lieutenant Howell entered, recieving the usual cordial greetings, notwithstanding there was a blushing undertone which said as plainly as quiet actions could ‐ "we have been thinking of you." It was understood by the family that his stay in the city was well nigh over and they were expecting his leave‐taking at any time. Soon after his arrival, therefore, the whole family with a few
nearby friends assembled in the parlor and on the piazza to do special honor to his visit. The young ladies and their
<page n=104>brothers were more or less occupied during the early evening in giving attention to callers and to the special friends who had come to join the family in saying goodbye, which circumstance afforded a favorable opportunity for Leonard to engage the attention of Mrs. Vanross. It may be that Mrs. Vanross herself successfully planned the affair so that the desired interview might come as though by the ordinary turn of events. Whether such was the case or not, as soon as Leonard found himself alone with Mrs. Vanross, he summoned up his courage and began: </P>
<P> "Mrs. Vanross will you permit me to speak with you freely for a moment about a matter of the very highest importance to myself?" </P>
<P> Despite his efforst to be dignified, there were evident signs of embarassment in his
<page n=104>manner, which Mrs. Vanross perceiving relieved at once with that tact that can only spring from pure ladylike instinct. Turning to him her full view she answered with the utmost assuring cheerfulness: </P>
<P> "Certainly, Mr. Howell; I should only be too glad to have you do so." </P>
<P> Leonard, knowing that the moments were precious, went quite rapidly over the story of his love for Hortense, speaking in low tones, lest other ears might be aroused to listen, and ended it by saying: </P>
<P> "And now, Mrs. Vanross, I have made a clean breast of it, and I thank you for permitting me to say all to you. I love your daughter; I have no titles, honors, or riches; but I offer an honest heart and a true love; and I think enough of this world's goods to insure her a comfortable home; and I pledge upon my honor as a man, that I will do all in my power
<page n=105>render her happy. I await your approval of my suit; may I hope to have it?" </P>
<P> Mrs. Vanross listened to his story with serious attention, and was fully satisfied as to the frankness and good faith of her would‐be son‐in‐law. In her eyes, he was not at all unworthy as to cultivation and morals; and she was satisfied with his business prospects, and yet she hesitated. She did not wish to oppose, and she was unwilling to favor. On the one side of the problem was a genuine affection which she could not disrespect; on the other an irreligious character which she feared. If she gave her approval she would be encouraging a union between her daughter and a person whose religious views she could not sanction, perhaps to bring great future sorrow to the entire
family; if she declined the union nevertheless take place, or the life of her daughter nbe blasted <page n=106>
by being denied the love of her heart. Mrs. Vanross, therefore, hesitated and begged for further time, intending to converse more pointedly with Hortense before giving her final answer. </P>
<P> "I must keep my dear girls with me as long as I can," she said. "I suppose I shall never part with them cheerfully; although, I know, I must do so at some time. And William, I do not know what he would do without 'Tonsy'. as he calls her." </P>
<P> "Oh, she will not be far away, and can come home often, and all can see her frequently. It is my purpose to make my home somewhere in this section, quite probably in Georgia," replied Leonard. </P>
<P> "Well, I must withold my answer for the present, at the same time I beg to assure you of my sincere esteem;" and as the young people were now disengaged no
<page n=107>further opportunity was offered to continue the conversation. </P>
<P> Mrs. Vanross, although a most thorough Southerner, was not afflicted with any prejudices against "Yankees,"’ or Northerners, and was in no sense a narrow‐minded woamn. She thoroughly respected honsest affection&comma, as something almost divine; and she already believed the attachment between Lieutenant Howell and her daughter to be one of genuine love; hence, although she was not a little pained&comma, and would have wished it otherwise, she felt that she had neither the authority nor the power to command love; and she feared to throw herself against it lest she might be fighting against God. </P>
<P> As all present were fully aware of the tender attachment existing between Leonard and Hortense, they with very polite consideration allowed the two to share
<page n=108>each other' society undisturbed during the greater part of the remainder of the evening. I do not think we ought to pry too curiously into what was either said or done by these two young people on that to them most memorable autumnal evening. Love casts over them its spotless darpery and very properly creates for them its world of<emph rend="italics">two.</I> Happy with each other let us not dare intrude. </P>
<P> Suffice it that although no formal engagement, such as it might serve as the basis of a breach‐of‐suit, was entered into, yet when the visit closed Leonard C. Howell knew that he was the accepted lover of Hortense Vanross; and she was both proud and happy to feel herself loved by him, and in her heart admitted an engagement from which there was no retreat. There had indeed been a heart engagement between them for a long time;
<page n=109>but it had grown up so imperceptibly from beginnings impossible to date, that it had stolen upon them unawares ‐ especially in the case of Hortense. With her the feeling had never been confessed nor fairly recognized hiterto; but on this night it had reached that degree of vigor and maturity that compelled its expression. It asserted itself in such looks, tones, gestures and words, that when these two young people ended their conversation they were more than friends. </P>
<P> When the time for leave‐taking arrived all gave the parting hand except Hortense. All manifested interest and regard, but Hortense accompanied him to the gate. Standing by that gate as he was about to open it to be absent for months, perhaps for years, partly covered by the darkness of the evening, and protected from view by the shrubbery which lined the walks, holding her
<page n=110>right hand in his, almost without thought his left sought her waist, and she was drawn to him in a loving clasp, her face twoards his, their lips met, and the opening kiss of a new love was born into the world. </P>
<P> Hortense re‐entered the old‐fashioned homestead no longer possessed of a whole heart. One half of her heart had gone with her lover; but more than half of his remained with her. Lieutenant Leonard C. Howell and Hortense Vanross were <emph rend="italics">engaged.</I></P></div0><div0><page n=111><HEAD>CHAPTER VI.</HEAD>
<P> It was a cool, clear, bracing December Sabbath. One of those rare winter days in Charleston, neither warm nor wet. As a rule the winter days there are either: if clear, unpleasantly warm, or if cloudy, most disagreeably cold and wet. But on this day the weather was at its best&perios; A cool north wind was blowing and the sun was shining brightly. </P>
<P> As usual with the Vanross family when the weather was favorable, all set out at the appointed hour for church. There was some special interest in the service to&hypen;day, growing out of the fact that the church building which had been occupied under military authority by missionaries<page n=112>who had come down from the North in the wake of the Union Army, was now turned over to the original congregation; and Dr. Caulfield, the former pastor, would preach his first sermon in it since the surrender. As this was the case generally with the churches of the city, there was a rallying of the local congregations. </P>
<P> Most of the churches were well filled, and the services were quite earnest generally, and in some instances, touchingly pathetic. Empty seats, veiled widows, weeping
mothers, and sisters, and sweethearts, with thoughtful and pensive looks, told the sad story of the war. Husbands, brothers, and lovers had gone forth in support of a cause by them held dear, but had not returned. These weeping wives and mothers ‐&hypen; these thoughtful and pensive sweethearts and sisters <emph rend="italics">who could not weep</emph> ‐‐ had lost their cause, and lost their loved ones with it.
<page n=113>The ministers, who knew the people, and who had passed through the entire experience of the war, both at home and in camp, preached to them the best consolation they could. They held up to them the rich promises of the Divine word, and bade them hope in God, and in the world of deathless love and joy already won by their husbands, fathers and sons, who had gone on before them. They bade them to rejoice in peace, even though it came as the peace of defeat, and to look for the land wherein wars never arise, and over which the great Prince of Peace saways his gentle scepter. </P>
<P> Dr. Caulfield preached earnestly and eloquently that clear Sabbath morning. The sun was bright, the atmosphere invigorating and the church well ventilated. He preached, as I say, in an earnest, enlivening manner, fully justifying what
<page n=114>Hortense had said of him to Lieutenant Howell but a few weeks before. Neither his subject nor his manner was in any respect dull, and audible responses came from many parts of the crowded building; while tears were drawn from nearly every eye. </P>
<P> In all that congregation, there was no listener more sympathetic&comma, no worshipper more devout, than Hortense. Doubtless there was some hero worship in her devotion, but she was altogether unconscious of it. She admired and loved Dr.. Caulfield, as who did not? And a share of her worship was received by the instrument which should have gone past him to fall at the shrine of the Infinite One. But none are perfect, and Hortense worshipped with sincerity, and listened with childlike docility, and to her the service was truly exhilarating. </P>
<page n=115><P> Lavinia was more spiritual but less constant than her sister;
capable of soaring to greater heights, but unable to sustain, for any lengthy period, either intense emotion or exalted vision; hence, she was not so wrapt as to overlook several material accessories of the service. She saw and felt the heavenly, it is true, for she was by no means irreverent; but she saw also, to a very reasonable extent, the men and women who made up the congregation. </P>
<P> Seated in the pulpit with Dr. Caulfield was a young minister with yellow, curling hair, florid face and of robust build, smoothly shaven and neatly dressed. He was not specially clerical‐looking. His appearance was rather boyish, and if a good&hyphensized frame had been put about him as he sat there, he
might have suggested a picture to advertise the fountain of youth. Evidently he was not a dyspeptic. His
<page n=116>clear lips, clean teeth, smooth skin, bright eyes, strong step and firm, positive movements, all told of a mighty digestion, of a stomach like the "mills of the gods." He was a joy and inspriration to look T. He was full of life to overflowing. </P>
<P> He was a stranger to the entire congregation, and when Dr. Caulfield invited him to take part in the services all eyes were fixed upon him. His voice was in full harmony with his general appearance ‐ ‐ full, round, sympathetic, and musical; and his manner free from belittling affectation. </P>
<P> The service closed, and after greeting the pastor, the Vanross ladies immediately started for their home. On the way the sisters walked side by side, while Mrs. Vanross proudly leaned on the arm of her eldest son. Of course the sermon and the service were remarked upon by all; but we must pardon them if their thoughts quickly turned to their many friends who had returned from their weary misfortunes, to once more worship in their dear old church. While it had been an occasion of worship it had been also, in a quiet and restricted sense, a real social reunion of friends and families long separated. The services, therefore, taking in this wide view, furnished much food for conversation. </P>
<P> But the strange young minister was not overlooked nor forgotten. His name had been announced in the church, and he had been presented to a few of the leading male members, and also to a few matronly dames; but a devout respect for the occasion and the place, as well as the general haste, prevented any larger number of personal introductions. Consequently as the Vanross sisters walked home from the church that beautiful Sabbath morning they were ignorant even of the stranger's
<page n=118>name, for they had not been fortunate enough to hear it distinctly as it was announced. Lavinia was the first to speak of him to her sister on the way home. </P>
<P> "Sister," said she, "what was that young minister's name that was in the pulpit this morning?" </P>
<P> "I don't know, I could not hear what Dr. Caulfield called him," replied Hortense. Calling to her brother, who was a few steps ahead, she said, in a low voice: "William, oh, William, what did Dr. Caulfield say that young minister's name was? Sister Veeny, here, is dying to know." </P>
<P> "'Tis no such thing," replied Lavinia, "Tonsy wants to know just as badly as I do." </P>
<P> "Ah!" said William tantalizingly, "the young preacher seems to be all of the text or the sermon that you remember. Delightful subject, I know. A good full sermon for
<page n=119>all the young ladies; and you each seem to have received your portion." </P>
<P> "Oh, William, tell us," said both at once, "we know you know, because we saw you shake hands with him." </P>
<P> "Don't you wish you had had that privilege?" replied William, still teasing them , and then he ended the conversation by saying: "Oh, sisters, you will have to wait until we get home and have had dinner." </P>
<P> Dr. Caulfield was a fair Southerner, but was not so bitter toward the Unionists and Northerners as were some of his clerical bretheren; and hence, when the young stranger approached him presenting first‐class testimonials, and manifesting a spirit so guileless and brimming with love and hope, and wearing a manner so entirely free from conceit, his respect and confidence were soon won. And, some time before the Sabbath morning in which we
<page n=120>have seen the two sitting side by side in the pulpit, his whole natre had been somewhat warmed and cheered by the intercourse already had with his new acquaintance. Between them was already that attraction which springs up so readily between the phlegmatic and the sanguine, between ripened age and budding youth; between the languid luxuriant South, and the energetic North; and although so unlike in appearance and manners, the two seemed to be born to be friends.</P>
<P>The yound minister was the Rev. Thomas Gordon. He had been a country boy in New York, and had passed through academy, college, and seminary, without becoming either dyspeptic, effeminate or conceited; and was now prepared to do the work of pastor and teacher among the Freedmen in the South. Here, by his own choice, he fancied he was to do his
<page n=121>Master's work, and acquire that experience and insight into human natire which would serve him so well in the future years in other fields. </P>
<P> Is it strange that one filled with such purposes and such spirit should form the acquaintance and friendship of Dr. Caulfield, and should be found worshiping in this "rebel" church on this bright Sabbath morning? Mr. Gordon was not born to hate. Rich and poor, Northerners and Southerners, black and white, were all very much alike to him. His heart was an overflowing fountain that only sent out sweet waters, and sent them out with such volume and force as to bear down all petty prejudices with their current. His religion was one of love; and so it was with his usual warmth and joy that he took part in the services of this Southern church; and the pearls of earnest sympathy
<page n=122>which his manner and voice scattered were not trampled underfoot by the congregation. <P>
<P> Toward the close of the week following, Dr. Caulfield, knowing of the liberal sentiments, or at least tolerance, of the Vanross family, decided to invite the young minister to call upon them in company with himself. It is needless to say that the family, especially the female members, stood very high in the confidence and respect of the church generally; and that they were favorites of the pastor, so far as his position allowed him to have any favorites. He had not failed to speak of them to Mr. Gordon with just enough of twinkle in his eye to show that the "old Adam" in him was not entirely dead. Like the serpent that has done his duty so long, it had been effectually "scotched" but it still breathed; and Dr.Caulfield felt a little of the
<p age n=123>gallantry that once possessed his soul as he walked toward the Vanross residence accompanied by his young friend. He was dignified almost to courtliness, generally; but on this occasion there seemed to be a bending on his part toward the manners of his friend. Indeed there was a tendency, unconscious, no doubt, on the part of each gentlemen to incline toward each other in spirit and manner. Dr. Caulfield became less stiff and reserved. Mr. Gordon rather more restrained and grave. Thus impressed, the one by the other, the two clergymen entered the gate, walked up the steps and stood upon the piazza of the Vanross residence. They were admitted by a servant and given seats in the parlor, before any family were aware of their presence. </P>
<P> Rosa, the maid, came into the sitting room where Mrs. Vanross and her daughters
<page n=124>were seated, and announced that Dr. Caulfield and a young gentleman were in the parlor, and then sidling up to Lavinia, with whom she was especially familiar, she said slyly, "Deed, Miss Veeny, him de pootiest young gentleman I eber see." </P>
<P> Hortense said, with some excitement, "It is that young minister." </P>
<P> Mrs. Vanross arose at once, and going into the parlor greeted her pastor with cordiality, and turning at once to the stranger awaited a formal introduction. </P>
<P> "Rev. Thomas Gordon, Mrs. Vanross; I take the liberty of presenting him to you," said Dr. Caulfield with his usual grace. </P>
<P> "Mr. Gordon," replied Mrs. Vanross, extending her hand, "I am glad to see you.
Be seated, gentlemen. The girls will be in in a moment." </P>
<P> All were soon seated and engaged in conversation, which consisted chiefly of
<page n=125>anxious inquiries about neighbors and friends. and in expressions of sympathy concerning those whose sufferings were mentioned. Mr. Gordon was touched by the little disclosures made, and his sympathetic attention soon induced them to take him into their confidence, and his presence ceased to be any embarrassment. </P>
<P> In a few moments the twp daughters entered the room together. How like, and yet how different they were in appearance and manner, as viewed together by the young stranger. Hortense approached first and received Mr. Gordon graciously and quite cordially. Lavinia blushed, and for once was somewhat embarrassed, as she extended her faultless hand to the stranger. </P>
<P> Mr. Gordon's manner so far had been frank and apparently somewhat perfunctory. He was certainly not indifferent to
<page n=126>the refinement and beauty of the Vanross ladies, but as yet he had exhibited no signs of special interest. He took the hand of Mrs. Vanross and of Hortense, bowing his acknowledgments of their favors and expressing himself with elegance and ease, but that was all. But as he stood before Lavinia and took her hand in his, their eyes met, and his whole manner underwent a change. For a moment his eyes lingered upon the dark beauty that stood before him, and he seemed almost transfixed by the bright scintillations that shot forth from her wondrous eyes like illumined rays from the matchless Koh‐i‐noor. Their hands had clasped, their eyes had met, and Thomas Gordon and Lavinia Vanross were in <emph rend="italics">love.</I> She might have said then, what she long afterward said in the ardor of one of her delicious love epistles, after the engagement had been made; "An unseen hand prepared strong links to bind our hearts." Or long afterward when, transformed almost into another being, she said, "I received my inspiration when our eyes first met in Charleston; you may locate and date it when you choose." He might have said that very evening, what he afterward declared amid many elegant sentences: "Since I met you on that memorable afternoon in your lovley home I have been simply yours to command." </P>
<P> The love between two such natures soon leaped to maturity. Thomas Gordon was generous and spontaneous; and although well educated and comparatively well experienced for his age, he had not become distrustful of either man or woman in a general way. He was not devoid of proper caution, and was not a man to be easily duped; but he was not afraid to trust his own love, his own judgement, and the
<page n=128>
concurrent testimony surrounding the beautiful Lavinia. He loved her at sight and he knew it. He came, he saw, and he <emph rend="italics">had been,</I> of not conquered, certainly captivated; and he did not try to conceal the fact either from himself or from others. Lavinia, for the first time in her life, felt her powers succumb; and although granted the dominion she felt herself rather than the subject. The fact of drawing so great and noble a soul to herself seemed to throw a feeling of awe over her, and she grew less frivolous and more sedate and thoughtful every day. The love between them grew apace; and before the coming spring Lavinia wore on her finger a plain gold ring which had been placed there by another hand. </P>
<P> Mr. Gordon entered upon his work in Savannah with all the zeal and earnestness of his robust and hearty nature; while Lavinia began preparations for the
<page n=129>marriage which had been set for the coming autumn. How bright were the visions that rose up before her as she contemplated union with the generous, noble being who had already won her heart! She became less gay in manner, but a deep, sweet happiness filled her whole soul and diffused itself about her in such a manner as to affect the entire household. Mother, sister, and brother were quite happy in the good fortune of the pet of the family; although all sorrowed at the thought of the disruption of their little domestic kingdom. Already they saw it invaded and partitioned off among other powers. With Hortense as the wife of Lieutenant Howell, and Lavinia married to Mr. Gordon, the family would be practically be broken up. The nest might remain, but the birds of song would have carried their music to other bowers. </P></div0><div0><page n=130>
<HEAD>CHAPTER VII.</HEAD>
<P> Rev. Thomas Gordon, vigorous and robust, unaccustomed to pain and sickness of any sort, committed the error so often committed by persons in perfect health. He worked hard, ate heartily, and scarcely ever gave a thought to himself. Toiling on, head, hand and heart, through the winter, which to him indeed was little different than summer, spring came, and found him not a little relaxed in constitution. His eye had lost some of its accustomed brightness, his step was less brisk, his complexion less rosy and healthful‐looking; still he was not sick, and thought nothing of giving up his work. It was his intention to go north in July or August,
<page n=131>returning thence in the fall to resume his work and prepare for the wedding. </P>
<P> A tacit agreement existed between himself and the Vanross family, as well as with his relatives and friends in the North, that he should give up his work among the freedmen, after the marriage, and enter a Northern field. </P>
<P> He was now happy in hope, and although he loved his work among the lowly, his heart was so full of braod sympathy that no special conditions were needed to call it forth. He was fitted to be an apostle of love to all men. While others required sad conditions to awaken their sympathies and set them to work, Thomas Gordon saw in every man something to arouse kindly interest and call forth the look, the word, or the hand, of sympathy, encouragement or help. </P>
<P> The summer came on, and while his
<page n=132>work became more absorbing, he at the same time became less fitted for it. The work, which ordinarily seemed to go itself, needed now to be pushed; and his labor began to tell on him. His rest was not so sweet and refreshing as formerly; and there was a strange, confused feeling in his head at times; and now and then tell‐tale pains would dart through his limbs. </P>
<P> These with other symptoms were telling the story of Savannah's fearful malaria. Secretly the poison had distributed throughout his system with all the strategy of a relentless foe preparing for a general attack; and it seemed to have proportioned its forces to the robustness of his physique. The attack came with its inevitable chill and its burning fever which rapidly gallopped from intermittent to remittent and finally assumed the dangerous typhoid form. </P>
<page n=133><P> Mr. Gordon's home was in the household of an elderly
widow, whither he had been advised to go for the twofold purpose of securing quiet for himself, and that the pay might be some help to her. The first part of this purpose was hardly accomplished, for Mrs. Chamomile was a tireless talker, and her conversation was not always satisfying or soothing. </P>
<P> When she saw her boarder becoming sick, she was secretly pleased with the thought that it would bring her into graeter prominence, especially as she prided herself upon her skill as a nurse. </P>
<P> After Mr. had been compeeled to take to his bed, and before the fever had assumed a malignant form, the doctor, who was experienced in such diseases, saw reason to apprehend a serious attack and counseled particular care and quiet. He, however, never lost hope of his patient's ultimate recovery. </P>
<page n=134><P> The deacons from the church, calling, were comfortably
assured by the physician that the sick man's chances for getting well were good; and although he was very sick he believed he would survive the run of the fever and would then recuperatr perhaps quite rapidly ‐‐ owing, of course, to his splendid constitution&perio/d;
<P> After departure of the doctor Mrs. Chamomile said: </P>
<P> "Ah, my brothers; you can’t place too much confidence in what the doctor says. Doctors alwasy say their patients are going to get well. I tell you I have been nursing sick people for a good many years, and you can’t fool me. I tell you Brother Gordon is a mighty sick man, and if he ever gets out of that bed alive it will be a miracle. No, indeed, he is not likely to get well; and yet I shall do all I can, and if he can be saved anywhere he can be
<page n=135>saved here; for you know he can't get any better nursing in Savannah than I can give him." </P>
<P> The deacons took Mrs. Chamomile's account of the sick man's condition with some allowance, but nevertheless thet thought it best to write to his family in the North that Mr. Gordon was seriously and dangerously ill, at the same time putting in their letter all the comforting assurances that the doctor had given them. </P>
<P> In reply to their letter, Mrs. Wilson, a devoted sister of the minister, was at his bedside just as soon as traveling conveniences could bring her there. Mrs. Chamomile did not look with pleasure upon this movement, regarding it as in a measure intruding upon her special prerogative as a nurse. And then, also, Mrs. Chamomile was a Southern woman, and although she could conquer her prejudices
<page n=136>in the presence of the affable Mr. Gordon, she could not always succeed so well when talking with his siter. She regarded Mrs. Wilson with stories of her own great deeds and descriptions of her own great virtues and high standing as a nurse and a lady ‐‐ always ending with a long dissertation upon the sacrifices she had made on behalf of "Brother Gordon," and how she had now brought him out of danger, rescuing him from an almost certain death, and finally saying: "If it hadn't been for me, you would never have seen your brother alive when you got here. No, indeed, you might never have been here time enough to have seen him in his coffin; but you might never seen him alive. When you got here the trouble was all over; he had passed the crisis. He has got nothing to do now but to get well." </P>
<P> Mrs. Wilson received all this meekly,
<page n=137>and watched her brother day by day until the fever left and convalescence fairly set in. Poor Mrs. Chamomile saw her monopoly broken abd her manners daily became more contemptuous toward Mrs. Wilson and less gracious even toward Mr. Gordon. </P>
<P> The climax was reached one bright morning when a carriage containing two ladies of dignified and refined appearance drove up to the gate. They alighted ‐‐ the one elderly but so thoroughly bred that her presence was sufficient to command the highest respect, the other young and beautiful. Their countenance showed the serious character of their mission. </P>
<P> Mrs. Vanross and her daughter had arrived in answer to a note addressed them by Mrs. Wilson. The good sister had decided to take her brother home by steamer from Savannah to New York; and
<page n=138>having learned from him the full story of his love, she had dared address a note to Mrs. Vanross, informing her of the condition of Mr. Gordon, and of her intention of taking him North, quite possibly not to retirn soon if at all. </P>
<P> The note was carefully worded, and as Mrs. Vanross received it and read it she called Lavinia and said very quietly: </P>
<P> "Veeny, here is some news for you." </P>
<P> "What is it, ma? Who is the letter from?" betraying a deeper interest than she intended. </P>
<P> "It is a letter from Mr. Gordon's sister," replied her mother with forced calmness. "It seems that he is sick in Savannah, and his sister has come to take him home." </P>
<P> Mrs. Vanroos then partly read the letter aloud and finally handed it to her daughter. It did not invite the ladies to come and see the sick man, but it opened the way
<page n=139>for a volunteer visit; and Lavinia saw enough in the letter to lead her to the feeling that her sick lover desired to see her. True to her real nature she arose to a sublime womanhood. </P>
<P> "I shall go to him to‐night. The boat sails at four o'clock." </P>
<P> Mrs. Vanross remonstrated for a moment; but Lavinia's dark eyes were already overflowing, and looking her mother full in the face she said with all the sad emphasis of her soul: </P>
<P>"Oh, mamma, I must go or die; I cannot help how it looks, or what people say; I must go." </P>
<P>It was this sincere assertion&cmma; disclosing the thoroughly concentrated devotion of her tropical nature that led to the series of events which terminated as we have seen with the arrival of the two ladies at Mrs. Chamomile's residence. </P>
<page n=140><P> The meeting between the ladies and Mrs. Wilson was
cordial; and although there were no formal introductions they all recognized one another and were soon at ease together. Mrs. Wilson was a most devoted sister, and thoroughly admired her manly brother; and she was most agreeably impressed by the appearance and kind and polished manners of the visitors, contrasting as they did with the disagreeable and almost repulsive manners of Mrs. Chamomile. </P>
<P> It was hard for Mrs. Wilson to decide which one of the strange ladies delighted her the more ‐‐ the mother with her quiet dignity and grace of manner, or the daughter with her astonishing beauty. She read at once in the eyes and the tender expression of countenance of Lavinia, the story of a love that dared assert itself, and to which she seemed entirely subject. In a moment
<page n=141>their hearts beat as one, for they both loved the same hero and were so related to him that they could not become rivals. Already they were sisters. The salutations being over and a few words of explanation interchanged, Mrs. Wilson tripped lightly upstairs and in a cheerful manner told the sick man of the arrival of the ladies, arranging at the same time that they should follow almost immediately so there should be no suspense. As Mrs. Vanross entered the room and looked upon the face of the sick man, so altered and so thin, she with difficulty restrained herself from betraying surprise in her coutenance; but Lavinia, who came in a step behind her, hastened directly to the bedside, happy only to see and be near her lover. The sunken eyes, hollow cheeks and parched lips were not noticed ‐‐ it was enough that she saw him and that he was still alive. Her thought, her purpose and
<page n=142>her prayers were that he should get well. Her intense spirit seemed to take hold of him and bid him to look out upon life and upward to health through her strong faith and hope. Her visit was indeed an angel visit. </P>
<P> So far everything had progressed smoothly. Mrs. Chamomile was out and at this very moment was relating with contemptuous laughter all that had passed between the sick man and his sister since the latter had arrived, adding to her story from her evil imagination whatever she thought would heighten the effect or further elevate herself in the estimation of her listeners. She was now playing the role of martyr‐general of the community, who had been burdened by the sick man and his sister as no lone woman had ever been nurdened before. </P>
<P> During her absence the doctor had also
<page n=143>called, and finding the ladies so agreeable had tarried perhaps longer than his professional duties strictly required, and when Mrs. Chamomile returned well laden with food for talk, she was not a little confused to find her parlor open and Mrs. Wilson with the two strange ladies and the doctor all seated within, engaged in earnest conversation. She was not pleased. Ever since Mrs. Wilson's arrival she had been careful to have her feel that she was an alien and a stranger; and to emphasize this impression she had been very careful not to offer her anything that could be construed as an invitation to the freedom of her house. Mrs. Wilson saw this and had thoroughly respected the landlady's wishes; but this morning she thought it absolutely necessary to assume something like the authority of the mistress of the house and had so acted. Consequently she had in‐
<page n=144>
vited the ladies to seats in the parlor, and had presented the doctor to them, and all were in pleasant mood as Mrs. Chamomile entered. </P>
<P> Mrs. Wilson intriduced the ladies pleasantly, and Mrs. Chamomile did her best to make a favorable impression upon her visitors, but could not hide her aversion toward Mrs. Wilson. The doctor was remarking: "I am sure the disease is thoroughly over now; and all that he needs is to regain his strength. I do not apprehend any relapse, although no one can speak with certainty in such matters. It will be necessary to be very careful of his diet for some time. But I think the change of air will do him good. The northern air is so much more bracing than ours that I shall expect to hear that he is building up rapidly." </P>
<P> "Why doctor," broke in Mrs. Chamo‐
<page n=145>mile, "are they going to take Mr. Gordon away?" </P>
<P> Mrs. Wilson did not wait for the doctor to reply but answered at once pleasantly: "Yes, Mrs. Chamomile; I am going to take him home with me." </P>
<P> "When?" almost shrieked Mrs. Chamomile her eyeballs glaring like those of an enraged tigress. The Vanross ladies observed her attitude and were almost frightened; but they managed to preserve their composure. Mrs. Wilson understood it all, and answered quietly: </P>
<P> "Tomorrow morning at 9 o'clock." </P>
<P> "Humph," replied Mrs.Chamomile; "Does the doctor say he may go? Does he know how bad he was last night? Why, doctor, he did not sleep a bit hardly all night; and he had quite a fever this morning." </P>
<P> "Ah," said the doctor, "he does not
<page n=146>appear to have any fever now, and he seems to be slowly but surely mending. While he is still very weak, yet I think it better for him to go North at once." </P>
<P> Mrs. Chamomile had a kind of superstitious reverence for the doctor, and in his presence she managed to subside promptly, but it was with a clearly defined mental reservation. As soon as the doctor had taken his departure, her tone was immediately reversed. </P>
<P> Mr. Gordon had been snatched from the grave through her great skill and care, and now he and his ungrateful sister were leaving her with scant pay and no thanks. </P>
<P> This was about the feeling she entertained and she was not at all careful to conceal it. </P>
<P> Her manner toward Mrs. Wilson became so offensive that the visitors were pained, and took their departure at their earliest
<page n=147>convenience, and when the carriage came to take the sick man to the steamer it was a welcome relief. </P>
<P> Embarking upon the steamer they breathed a sigh of relief and after a plesant passage of little over three days landed in New York City, and were rapidly transferred to their home up the State. Despite the favorable predictions of the doctor, and the excellent care received, Mr. Gordon continued in a low state of health all summer, and it was quite late in the fall before he began to manifest his usual vigor. </P>
<P> Meantime, Mrs. Chamomile continued to tell the story of his sickness and of her nursing, generally delivering herself about as follows: </P>
<P> "Now there was Mr. Gordon ‐‐ he would have been dead, sure, if it hadn’t been for me. I tell you it's all in the nursin' ‐‐ I always bring my patients through. Mr.
<p age n=148>Gordon had first‐class treatment, if I so say it myself. Thwy may well thank me for having him alive now. I done that much good anyhow; I saved his life. The nursin' is everything." </P></div0><div0><page n=149>
<HEAD>CHAPTER VIII.</HEAD>
<P> The winter approached, and as the cool and bracing breezes began to come in from the north, Mr. Gordon's health commenced rapidly to regain its wonted state. His step daily became more buoyant, his countenance wore a more radiant and cheerful look, his eye was clear, and he was increasing in strength and weight. His food was relished as never before and his sleep was quiet and refreshing. </P>
<P> The physician who had atteneded him during the crisis of his illness in Savannah had intimated that his temperament was hardly suited to a Southern climate, and had advised him for his health's sake to seek a field of labor in a higher latitude.
<page n=150>With this view the doctor who had watched his convalescence in the North fully concurred; while his friends and relatives were only too happy to lend their counsel and support in the same direction. Already half‐persuaded in his own mind, Mr. Gordon found it hard,
nevertheless, to give up all thought of returning to his field of virgin labor in Georgia. As his health improved his soul longed anew for the work in which he had already begun to win success; but the wishes of his friends and the counsel of his physicians, as well as his own sober judgement, finally overruled his generous zeal, and he decided to accept a call which had recently reached him from a church in Brooklyn. </P>
<P> The church was a small one and regarded as rather unimportant and unpromising, and the salary offered was not tempting. He was known to be a single
<page n=151>man of striking appearance, and these facts may have had something to do with securing him the church. The trustees probably thought that these attributes would add to his drawing power; but if so they were doomed to an early disappointment. </P>
<P> Mr. Gordon was typically brave, generous and honest; and it was not long after his settlement that he informed the officers of the church that he contemplated early marriage. Of course such a fact could not be kept in official hands only, and within a very few days the entire congregation and many others knew of the pastor's engagement. It was soon known among the ladies of the church that the wedding would take place in early January, and that the newly married couple would soon thereafter occupy the parsonage. The usual interest was awakened, and as the
<page n=152>the time drew nigh for Mr. Gordon to start south for his bride, plans were set on foot to thoroughly renovate the modest church building, and refurnish the parsonage, during his absence. Mr. Gordon was to know nothing of this, as it was the intention of the congregation to make the affair an agreeable surprise to him on his return. The furniture and carpets were already purchased and all things were in readiness for the work of transformation, which was to begin as soon as Mr. Gordon should be out of the way. It was known that he intended to leave so as to arrive in Charleston on the last day of December, and that the wedding was to take place on the evening of January 1st. The event had been postponed from a date in autumn on account of Mr. Gordon's illness; and the arrangements were now presumably complete. </P>
<page n=153><P> On the evening of December 30th Mr. Gordon arrived in
Charleston, and as soon as convenient called upon his affianced, by whom he was received with every token of affection. His stay, however, was short. All was bustle and confusion even in that sedate and well ordered household. The first bride was being "adorned for her husband," and besides, it was in the midst of the holiday season, which nowhere else brings more of social and domestic movement than in Charleston. The whole family were interested in the marriage, of course, and so was quite a large circle of firneds who kept themselves busy coming and going, bringing presents, volunteering little services, and above all ‐‐ talking. The wedding must be in all respects comformable to the canons of
social taste, and must not only be a Southern but a Charleston function; and so it came to be. </P>
<page n=154><P> Mr. Gordon took up his abode with his old friend the Reverend
Doctor Caulfield, who, as the friend of both bride and groom, could heartily rejoice with both. </P>
<P> January the first came, a dull, misty day, cold and disagreeable; and as the day advanced the fog became so thick as to differ little from rain. Mr. Gordon had risen early, and breakfast being over, was seated near the front window, looking over the morning papers and talking with members of the family as they came into the room. Thus passed away the greater portion of the forenoon. Suddenly the dull sound of a drum was heard, accompanied by other sounds of inferior martial music. The children, both within the house and on the street in front, announced the coming of a procession, and in a few minutes the head of the column appeared. It was a great motley procession of freedmen, numbering,
<page n=155>with its followers, not less than five thousand persons, probably many more. They were celebrating the anniversary of emancipation for the first time; and in the long line could be seen many banners with varying symbols and mottoes, and every now and then quite respectable portraits of the great Lincoln. </P>
<P> The young ladies of the Caulfield family expressed their disgust at the procession, and were sorry that Mr. Gordon must witness a scene so shocking. No doubt they painted their disgust in overdrawn terms, and did it for the special benefit of their Northern visitor; for all their lives they had been accustomed to look upon scenes much more revolting. </P>
<P> Their sympathy was lost, however, upon Mr. Gordon. He saw in this black procession men, women, and children; and his soul at once thrilled with enthusiasm as he
<page n=156>looked upon these new‐born sons and daughters of freedom. Far from being disgusted or offended at the rude pageant, it was for him the most interesting and affecting spectacle upon which he had ever gazed. He was so attracted by it that, as soon as convenient, he went out into the street to learn its destination. On hearing that it was on its way to the famous racecourse, where a monster meeting was to be held, he at once made his way thither. Arriving on the grounds, he beheld the largest body of colored people he had ever seen, and quite probably the largest that had ever been assembled in the country. Surely there were not less than ten thousand assembled in the open air, with faces all turned toward a large high platform standing in the midst of the expectant throng. </P>
<P> The speeches that were delivered by the white and colored orators were of small
<page n=157>consequence and were heard by but few; but what impressed Mr. Gordon most was the quiet, earnest, and even intense, demeanor of the vast multitude. Again came the yearning in his heart to go among that people and take an earnest part in giving to them right guidance. He saw in that vast throng so much promise and hope, if properly guided, and felt that there was so much of danger to themselves and to the State, if they should fall into the hands of selfish and unprinicpled men. But his own course had been settled, and it was now too late to reconsider. </P>
<P> In the Vanross residence the preparations were still going on, and as evening came the family experienced that feeling of relief which comes when all things are about ready. Twilight approached, and, for a marvel, everything was indeed in readiness for the final act, to wit: that of
<page n=158>dressing the bride, and even this was well under way. The house was illuminated and the guests were beginning to assemble. The night without was dark and disagreeable ‐‐ finale of a disagreeable day ‐‐ but all was brightness within. </P>
<P> Dr. Caulfield had arrived, and at the appointed moment the bridal party entered the room and the ceremony began. Lavinia was at the very climax of her beauty, as she stood in the full light of the chandelier, and her dress reflected the perfect taste of the family. Rev. Thomas Gordon appeared noble and grand indeed, standing there as the support of his peerless bride. </P>
<P> It was the union of the full, rosy‐hued masculine blonde of Teutonic type with gray‐blue eyes and curling yellow hair on the one side, with a genuine brunette, or rather Spanish creole type, on the other. The contrast was beautiful, and suggestive
<page n=159>of the heights and depths of sweetest pleasure. How sincere were the responses to the solemn questions. With what real affection were their hands clasped as the minister repeated: "Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asumner." If ever a couple were joined together by the hand of God, Thomas Gordon and Lavinia Vanross were. Admirably fitted to each other by nature, each answering to the other by a most happy opposite, there was before them a most charming prospect. </P>
<P> The ceremony ended, wine was served; but neither groom nor bride tasted it. Mr. Gordon was a strict teetotaler, and did not depart from his pronciples even on this occasion; and Lavinia joined with him in polite refusal. </P>
<P> The bride's outfit had been carefullu packed in huge trunks which had already been sent to the depot; the last of
<page n=160>the gifts had come in, that last congratulations had been received, and the newly married couple were soon on their way to take a midnight train for the North. </P>
<P> Reader, have you ever seen a newly married couple on the train? Perhaps you have at some time overheard their delightful talk. Their conversation and actions are always very interesting to others, and it is usually not very long before they secure a monopoly of attention. Well, Dominie Gordon and his bride were an emphatically newly married couple, and everybody on the train soon found it out. They were happy, and could not help showing it. Let us excuse them; they were walking in the way the Divine Creator marked out for man. </P>
<P> In due time they arrived in New York and were soon at their new home, astonished and delighted to find the parsonage
<page n=161>most thoroughly renovated and refurnished, the church brightened up by a general cleansing, and a committee of ladies on hand to welcome the new bride. After having done all that was necessary for the comfort of the new family, the committee had the good sense to retire promptly, and the minister and his new wife for the first time sat down to a meal together in their home, and began to feast freely upon that perpetual banquet of love which their own hearts hourly furnished. </P>
<P> Happy in the confidence and love of a growing church, their lives were truly blessed. Dr. Gordon &Lpar;as he soon came to be), made happy and strong by the undying love and sympathy of the wife whom he had received from the Lord, and righ himself in the possession of a loving and hopeful nature, was not long in finding himself crowded with work and blessed with every form of propserity. </P>
<page n=162><P> They are doing well, and the somewhat gay and very beautiful
and very loving Lavinia Vanroos has grown into the hopeful and helpful Mrs. Gordon‐‐ ready to put her hand to every good work. She has accepted much of her husband's radiant nature, while he has deepened and softened through hers. He improved in judgement; she has been strengthened in purpose; and both are admirably suited to the large work providentially opening before them. </P>
<P> We will for awhile leave them undisturbed, feeling assured that sunshine smiles upon them, and that peace, as gentle and as sweet as ever came to the lot of man, abides in their modest dwelling. </P></div0><div0><page n=163>
<HEAD>CHAPTER IX.</HEAD?
<P> Leonard C. Howell, after leaving Charleston and making a brief stay in the North, left again for the South, and when Mr. Gordon and his bride were fairly settled in their work in
Brooklyn, he was preparing to enter into business in middle Georgia, as the representative of an extensive banking house in New York. </P>
<P> As the industries of the South were just beginning to revive, and as there was great demand for fabrics and provisions all through the land in consequence of the destruction and exhaustion of the war, the opportunities for trading were great. The cotton fields were again bringing forth their snowy harvests, and as the price of
<page n=164> the staple was high, there was a large amount of money coming into the South, although its stay in that section was necessarily brief. It came from New York and the East in return for cotton, and went almost immediately to the West for bacon, corn, and mules. Still the merchants, warehousemen, and brokers managed to draw off from the general current, as it swept by them, important side streams which left their valuable deposits of cash in the coffers. While the poor planter came out at the end of the year with barely enough to pay the taxes above his necessary expenses for corn, bacon, mules, and labor, and was compelled to get advances at killing rates to enable him "to pitch his crop" for the coming year, the merchants, warehousemen and brokers had fared so well generally that they were able to accommodate the farmer to all the money
<page n=165>that he might need at two and a half per cent a month, and good security. Delightful conditions indeed ! When the men who owned the land and made the crops were thus bound like groveling captives to the chariot wheels of their financiers. The overthrow of their armies in the field had left them free, but they had fallen into an economic serfdom from which there seemed but little hope of early escape. </P>
<P> Into this volume of trade, with plenty of capital, and endowed with natural shrewdness, Leonard C. Howell entered. He had received a good practical business education and his experience among men had taught him how to succedd. He was neither sensitive nor sentimental. He had been given a liberal opportunity, and it was his intention, while serving his employers faithfully, also to make something for himself. Wjat little money he had
<page n=166>was invested along with that of the firm; and all was invested in such a way as to wring from its producers the lion's share of Georgia's one great crop. Of course he prospered. He was strictly sober, honest, and industrious, and was bending all his energies to the one end. He was a good citizen, however, and was not devoid of benevolence and good feeling. </P>
<P> As the time wore on and wealth and influence came, he became not only more indifferent upon the subject of religion, but actually more hostile to the church and more uncharitable in his thoughts towards Chrsitians generally; yet all the while cherishing the love of Hortense, and now confidently expecting to have her as his wife. Does he anticipate the
destruction of her happiness in the consummation of his own? Does he think to win her from her religion? or is it his purpose to be tol‐
<page n=167>erant and charitable toward her? Well, we shall see. Leonard believed in morality and in benevolence; became a friend of the people, an ardent advocate of popular liberty and popular education; but he was drifting in sentiment far away from orthodox views. Even upon the subject of marriage he was becoming radical. The vision of Hortense Vanross still lived in his mind and heart, and for his love for her had not abated; but he had begun to question the propriety of a marriage for life. The bond of love he would place above the bond of matrimony; and decieved by such reasoning, his mind had started toward those shoals of idealism upon which many precious lives have been wrecked. </P>
<P> Although he had not received the cordial approval of the family as the suitor of Hortense, yet the engagement between the two was a living fact, and he was now
<page n=168>demanding the fixing of the day. Lavinia was already happily married and settled; a daughter‐in‐law had taken her place in the household, and another son had set up a home for himself in another part of the city. Only Hortense, the eldest, and John C., the youngest of the family, remained unmarried; and Hortense was engaged ‐‐ engaged, although a dread apprehension seemed to cast its depressing shade over the thought of the prospective marriage. The matter still lingered before her somewhat in the form of a question, and was still debated within with great earnestness. </P>
<P> True, her heart had once and again decided, but doubt and even fears beset her. Mrs. Vanross counseled delay, and hoped for the best; but nevertheless she saw that the issue was closing. She must yield and adapt herself to the situation, and she prepared in all sincerity to do so. She with‐
<page n=169>drew all objections which had never really been expressed, and the day of the marriage was finally settled. She still continued to look forward to the event with a sad heart, however, not only because sge was so reluctant to part with her companion‐daughter, as Hortense had long been, but because she feared for her daughter's future. She had not thought it wise to interpose authority in the matter, and now, as she regarded her own life‐day as well‐nigh spent, she quietly bowed to what seeme dinevitable. She had no fault to find with the manners, morals, or prospects of Mr. Howell. He was a gentleman, and he had already provided a comfortable home for her daughter in the South; but she feared his religious indifference would develop into hostility, and that his prejudices would render him blind even to the sincere piety of Hortense. </P>
<page n=170><P> The day arrived and the wedding took place. It was entirely
business‐like on Mr. Howell's part, and he was soon
away with his bride. There was love, real genuine love, in the marriage. Hortense had loved deeply and long, and her love had grown with each succeeding month, despite the dark clouds taht had gathered around it. It was a pure, sweet, undying affection, which the "many waters" yet to come would not be able to quench. Leonard had loved ardently, until the question of acceptance had been settled; that the ardor of that affection somewhat abated, and he earnestly addressed himself to the practical requirements of the situation. He love Hortense as he received ger as his bride, but he looked upon her now too much as his acquisition. She was now his companion to comfort and de‐
<page n=171>light him, rather than that he should be hers to comfort abd delight her. He had made all the preparations for her happiness, but the end in view seemed to be that thereby<emph rend="italics">he</emph> might be the more happy. The fact was , that Leonard in pursuing his course of money‐making had developed out of proportion his selfish instincts; and these were already beginning to poison that rich and pure love which once drew him so sweetly towards the noble woman who now stood by his side as his wife. </P>
<P> The leave‐taking was not pleasant. The mother lingered long in tears over her departing daughter, and only surrendered her at the call of stern necessity, giving her all counsel and encouragement. Noble, pious Hortense ! Thou art entering the deep valley of trial concerning which all these sad oncidents are so prognostications, and thy course henceforth is to
<page n=172>be one of increasing cloudiness; thy pathway is to be bestrewn with thorns, and thou shalt walk alone for years through tribulations deep, until the light streaming from the Golden Gate shall fall upon thee, and thou shalt hear the heavenly "We‐ </P>
<P> The corn of wheat fell into the ground and perished; but the stalk that sprang from it bore its seven full ears to the harvest. The Great Day will tell thee that thy suffering was not in vain! </P></div0><div0>
<page n=173><HEAD>CHAPTER X.</HEAD>
<P> Mrs. Howell found herself quite elegantly situated in her new home in the charming inland city of Macon. The city itself, with its broad streets and many spacious and beautiful residences, all untouched by the ravages of the war, presented a contrast to the siege‐worn Charleston; while its grand embankment of surrounding hills covered with grass and timber stood out in sharper contract to the low and marshy surroundings of the latter city. Hortense was delightfully impressed with her new home, and with the cordial manners of the people. Decidely less sentimental, and perhaps less cultured than the folks of Charleston,
<page n=174>they were nevertheless none the less agreeable. There was a heartiness, a robustness in their manners, appearing at times a little aburpt, but all was tempered with a genuine friendliness of feeling and a reigning desire to make the starnger at home. </P>
<P> The social position into which Mrs. Howell was welcomed was all that she could desire. Not only was she accorded her proper place and sphere, but she won to herself friends whose hearts joined with hers in loving sympathy, and with whom she was solicited to co‐operate in the many womanly undertakings of the community. Mr. Howell was delighted with the success of his wife from a social standpoint, and so far peace reigned over their lives, and love dwelt in their elegant abode. The threatening clouds seemed to have passed away, and the clear sunlight of happiness within, and prosperity without, shone upon
<page n=175>them. Occasional visits were interchanged between them and the family at Charleston, and the mistrust seemed gradually wearing away; yet all this time Hortense could not freely give herself up to be happy. She always feared that the happiness of their home was somewhat insecure, and there was always a corner of unrest in her heart, no matter how bright the day. </P>
<P> The years rolled on and a daughter and a son were added to the household, and with their advent came the increasing burden of concern to the mother. These little ones opened the way for the first approach of the portentous cloud that had so long forced its somber shade across the soft spirit of the gentle Hortense. It was with respect to them that the father's indifference to religion began to manifest itself in a threatening way. He not only spoke
<page n=176>lightly of having them baptized in the Christian faith, but finally refused to take part in the ceremony. He did not positively object to the mother's having them christened in the church of which she was a member, but he onjected quite positively to being a party to the transaction. He who had stood by the side of his wife before the Christian minister when their lives were to be finally united, ungallantly declined to do more than accompany his wife on the occasion of presenting their children to God by baptism. Here was the Christian wife and mother's first great cross. How should she act? Should she hold back from what she regarded as a Christian duty, or should she present herself apart from her husband, and thus take the first step which looked like putting asunder what God had joined together? The matter was finally compromised by Mr.
<page n=177>Howell's consenting to accompany her to the church and stand with her in the ceremony, but to take no part by word or act which could be construed into an acquiescence in his wife's belief. </P>
<P> Mr. Howell had become a converst to the water‐cure; had progressed quite rapidly toward the doctrine of free love, and was beginning to adopt a kind of substitute for religion.
He still maintained the confidence of his wife, who firmly believed hime pure and honest, and who was disposed to yield to his views to some extent. He began to talk more of love as the controlling principle of life, and to draw sharp distinctions between the freedom of love and the bondage of society. "If," said he, "mankind could lift their eyes and look upon love and its relations to life as the child of God, instead of only seing lust, which, with the majority, now crowds love aside,
<page n=178>then would they be able to consider this matter in its true light. Love needs no bonds, It will take care of itself." </P>
<P> These views, so lofty, for a time, completely captivated Hortense, who saw only the outside, and she too began to imbibe somewhat liberal (?) sentiments, crediting her improved views to the teaching of Leonard, whom she said she knew "to be one of the purest men living." She did not see the inside movement of the enemy as he was gradually undermining the foundations of their home and opening the way to irretrievable disaster. Befoee the flood tide of evil came upon this young and happy household, however, another sade event swept over the Vanross family and left its weight of woe upon the weakening faith and hope of Hortense. It will make this part of my story entirely too sad to do little more than mention it. </P>
<page n=179><P> Mrs. Vanross, the mother of this interesting
family, and the center of unity of the pious household, the priestess and exemplar at the altar of their devotion, sickened and died. Sons and daughters, sons‐in‐law and daughters‐in‐law, with grandsons and granddaughters, and scores of relatives and friends, felt the loss caused by her departure. The lovely wife and ideal mother, beautiful even in old age, when gray hairs and wrinkles and feebleness had marked her for the tomb; beautiful, ay, sacredly beautiful when dying, while the light of the world to come seemed to bathe her countenance with a balm of glory. Indeed it might almost be said of her that she did not die at all, but having finished her work, she fell asleep, lulled to her final rest by angelic songs and enveloped with the curtains of eternal peace. </P>
<P> Tears ! Tears ! measureless tears !
<page n=180>Grief ! Grief ! inconsolable grief ! Such was the outburst that followed this incomparable loss. Satlwart sons and matronly daughters follow her ascending spirit as did the eyes of Elisha the ascending form of his master Elijah; and they all involuntarily express the sense of their loss in a sentence of childhood that formed itself in their hearts and threw itself out in tones of deepest grief: </P>
<P> "Mother is gone !" </P>
<P> Yes, it was too true! The charmed, central figure that had so long held all the separate parts of that happy circle in place was
gone. The sadness that followed was not unmixed with comfort and even joy. Glorious had been the life, and triumphant the death of the woman unknown to fame or story, but of whom the world below was no longer worthy. The family circle that had been kept in form because
<page n=181>of her influence, could not subsist materially upon her memory. It was broken never to be reunited. Other circles were forming from other centers, to take the place of the superior circle which had transferred its center from the material to the spiritual world. A sweet and happy home had faded; for what of home is left when mother is gone ! Well, a mother's work was done, and a home had departed, but all was not gone. The old building was there with its precious memories, and the inspirations of a holy life remain. When the queenly spirit that once presdied in that modest residence passed away, there was no more earthly home for living sons and daughters. Their home ascended on high with their model mother. But then, these sons and daughters had become also home‐makers, and the one Christian home had multiplied itself into five. The char‐
<page n=182>acter and heart of this good woman have since exerted their influence in five houses, upon five groups of interesting children, some of whom have already grown up, we trust, to give these chaste amd holy principles, and that rich and refining Christian influence, a still wider place in the generations to come. </P></div0><div0><page n=183>
<HEAD>CHAPTER XI.</HEAD>
<page n=183><P> Mrs. Vanross had passed to her rest; Reverend Thomas
Gordon with his affectionate wife and interesting family had long been living in Brooklyn; Mr. Howell had prospered fairly in Macon and was now enjoying leisure. No pen can paint the loss which Hortense experienced in the death of the mother who had been her exemplar, companion and confidant; her life was henceforth to be a rapid course along the declivity leading toward a darker vale. Leonard maintained for some time a merely negative position upon the subject of Christianity, regarding its doctrines as devoid of importance and its rules of conduct as of no authority. But from the
<page n=184>date of the christening of the children, on which occasion a temporary compromise had been made, a spirit of hostility had manifested itself in his conduct; and he had entered upon a course which ultimately banished the sunchine of peace from his home. </P>
<P> To understand the aspect which the positive character of Leonard assumed as leisure came to him, it will be necessary to recall our earlier acquaintance with him, and take a secondlook upon him as a young man. We must not forget the emotion, the enthusiasm, the ardor, that we saw in him as a youth and a lover. He had a buoyant
and hopeful nature, full of the rich<emph rend="italics">elan </I>which belongs to good blood fostered by plenty of outdoor exercise. When he entered upon his business life he simply put this part of his nature under bonds, as it were, and developed the prac‐
<page n=185>tical, and withal, selfish principles of his constitution somewhat to excess. It was this unequal and very rapid development of the underworld of his being that corrupted the stream of his love for Hortense even before their marriage, and that subsequently robbed their home of the pure fountain of happiness which it should have possessed. </P>
<P> Now that the struggle for wealth, or at least for competency, was over, and his business so arranged that his wants were amply supplied, and he began to free his hands and his thoughts from the hitherto tireless pursuit of fortune, his original nature once more asserted itself, and all his sentimentalism returned. His soul now reached out to grasp something positive. The question that Hortense had put to him years ago had returned and demanded an answer. Denying the religion of his wife,
<page n=186>he had now come to the necessity of substituting some form of belief of his own. It was incumbent upon him to give a positive answer to himself and to the world; he could no longer live on negatives. </P>
<P> When this emotional and sentimental nature put forth its second manifestation at this matured period of his life Leonard was a different man from what he had been in his early days. He had seen much and experienced much; and his mind had become unconsciously warped. A frank and generous nature under the domination of the single desire to gain in business, had become sordid and selfish, and when these best elements, fettered by ironclad habits of thought, attempted to reassert themselves the success was but meager. Chafing within their limits like caged eagles they grew to be shockingly sensual. A brilliant intellect became at first the seducer, and
<page n=187>later the slave of a debased and corrupt heart. </P>
<P> Let us return to the dwelling of Mr. Howell in Macon, Georgia. It was the early part of October, 18‐‐, the most delightful month of the whole year in that vicinity. The day was done; and Mr. Howell was seated with his wife and one visitor in their spacious parlor. The planting season was also ended, and a good crop of cotton was maturing in the fields, bringing to Mr. Howell's coffers its annual returns of substantial profits. With condition easy and good health, it was an apt time for the very brightest angel of the inner courts of his nature to appear. </P>
<P> The visitor also was the right person to invite forth his best and pureset thoughts; for the gentleman who joined their circle was the Reverend Dr. Dnaforth, the pastor of his wife's church; a man of most agree‐
<page n=188>able manners, and unlike many other ministers neither pugnacious nor affected; neither fond of controversy for its own sake nor for the bootless victory it might afford. He was devoted to his one work, was companionable ans natural. Mr. Howell had grown to respect him not only upon Hortense's account, but because of what he had discovered in the man. We may say that Mr. Howell and Mr. Danforth were real friends. Hence in this circle, on this queit and peaceful evening, in the presence of his wife and his friend, the minister, Mr. Howell could hardly avoid the subject upon which the two others would naturally converse in some form. Without any premeditation he found himself drawn into a religious discussion and was soon defining and defending his position. </P>
<P> "Some people," said he, "even think me
<page n=189>an infidel, and call me one. But they are much mistaken. I was out viewing the heavens only a short while ago, and I could not help saying: What a beautiful night! And I reflected upon the grandeur and mysteriousness of the works which prove the existence of God. But the stronger the proofs I receive of his greatness, the more strongly do I feel how vain we are to dare to believe that he has a personal superintendence over our affairs. And yet, if I could believe that I was even of some use to the Creator, it would be a great comfort to me." </P>
<P> Mr. Danforth knew how to answer this readily, so far as the logic of his friend's position was concerned; but he cared much more for his friend's feelings than for any temporary success to be won in dispute. He wished to win Mr. Howell to the side of truth, and in his reply was
<page n=190>cautious lest any word he should utter should drive him further away. He believed the expressions to which he had listened had been uttered in all sincerity. So even Leonard's wife believed at the time; but it is doubtful if Leonard was more than half sincere ‐‐ in his last remark especially, and if he desired, even at that time, to have anything whatever to do with a God whose character was against sin and uncleanness. </P>
<P> After a moment's reflection Mr. Danforth replied: </P>
<P> "There is much in nature, viewed either by night or by day, to tell us of God; I don't know but the beautiful night scenes are more impressive. One of David's sweetest Psalms describes a night scene, and its effects upon him, in words which exactly comport meaning with what you have just said: 'When I consider thy
<page n=191>
heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and stars which thou hast ordained, what is man that thou art mindful of him? And the son of man that thou visitest him?'" </P>
<P> "Yes," replied Mr. Howell, "that is the way I look at it. To my mind it is exalting man beyond his true sphere, and belittling God to represent him as taking interest in all our petty affairs. He has placed all things under wise, just and good laws, and leaves them to work out the destinies." </P>
<P> "I think so, too; I think the laws under which all things are placed are the best possible, if you please; and that their tendency os to produce the greatest good to the greatest number. These laws do credit to the wisdom, justice and love of the lawgiver" </P>
<P> Mrs. Howell, who had thus far been a listener only, and was not a little puzzled
<page n=192>at the drift the argument seemed to be taking, now spoke up with considerable earnestness: </P>
<P> "Indeed, it often seems to me, that so many things happen for which I can see no reason, that I am sometimes inclined to think that the laws forget their duty. I find more comfort, I believe, in thinking of God as our father, who is ready to come to our aid despite the laws, than I do in the cold aspect of law. I do not care to see God only as a lawgiver." </P>
<P> "Well, we are permitted to look upon the Divine Being both as a wise lawgiver and as a tender and loving father," replied Mr. Danforth. "He is a God of love, indeed He <emph rend="italics">is </I>Love; so that we may feel sure that His laws are perfect." </P>
<P> "Ay," echoed Mr. Howell, "you have struck the point now exactly. God is Love, and Love is God. Wherever love is, there
<page n=193>is God. Everywhere, I regard love as the gift of God, at least ‐‐ a child of God. It is divine. I mean real love, noth anything less. It is that which unites all other feelings into one grand passion; it is a harmony from God Himself." </P>
<P> It was evident from the readiness with which Leonard uttered these words, as well as from the warmth with which he spoke, that he was entirely upon familiar ground, and upon a phase of the subject that was specially inviting to him. Already he was constructing a religious, social, and moral creed, to suit his rapidly deteriorating nature. Already the power of Hortenseto hold him up to his highest and best standard had been partially subverted. Already, others were beginning to occupy the throne with her, and he was worshipping at more than one altar. Who that has ready the story of Henry VIII., trimming his creed
<page n=194>and training his conscience to favor his infatuation with Anne Boleyn, could not see that Leonard C. Howell's enthusiasm for his creed did not spring entirely from abstract or spiritual consideration? He had carefully concealed from Hortense every unsightly feature of his professed belief, and had so covered it with the flowing robes of well‐chosen words, that it appeared to her somewhat as an "angel of light"; and she was confused if not deceived. Her love for and fidelity to her husband made her wish to believe as he did; and sge was half‐inclined to accept his creed as an advance from, what she had begun to allow herself to feel, were the unnecessarily narrow views of the past days. Hence, when she listened to his smooth and familiar utterances, and she saw the fire of his nature kindle as he spoke, she was half‐pleased, and waited anxiously for her minister' reply.
<page n=195>Said Mr. Danforth: </P>
<P> "Love has no independent existence; it is an intensely personal attribute, and takes its character from the being whence it emanates. It is like a stream, unable to rise above its fountain; and like it also is unable to be better than its fountain. Love, too, is also under the law. Some things a man may love and be happy; other things he may love and be miserable. There is a love tha ennobles, purifies and elevates; and there is a love that degrades and destroys. Chastened love, love subject to reason and conscience, is the proudest ornament of human character, the only foundation for that purest and happiest place on earth ‐‐ home. I agree with you in your eulogium of love; but I must be allowed to add, the love must be of the right kind and between the proper persons." </P>
<page n=196><P> "Ay, there it is," replied Mr. Howell
somewhat petulantly. "We do not tie or bind our benevolence, our chrity, our philanthropy, our friendship, or any other of our attributes; but love, the highest of them all, must be fettered. Why so? Permit me to ask." </P>
<P> "You do not lock up the newspaper you received yesterday; nor your kitchen furniture; nor even the costly carpet and furniture of this beutiful room. They are all valuable. Why do you lock up your gold, the most valuable of all? Is it not that thieves and robbers may not get to it? For reasons somewhat similar but a thousandfold higher and stronger, the love that comes to us, and the love that goes out from us, should be guarded. The man who emplys his money without care or control may come to penury and want; the man who thus employs what you are
<page n=197>pleased to call the 'highest and holiest attribute of his soul,' will come to ruin. </P>
<P> "I am of the opinion," replied Leonard, now fairly disclosing his veiws to the minister, "that it is not love which darkens homes; it is rather our selfish and monopolizing spirit, which claims more than its due. Love is one gift of God which always brightens; if, as I said, we could regard love rightly, then there would be great rejoicing by onlookers at every new birth of love, as there really is in our hearts, until we feel the shadow of jealousy darkening its brightness." </P>
<P> Happily for Hortense she saw nothing of the purport of this argument; nor of the real struggle, which was going on in her husband's mind, and which was rapidly hastening to a settlement against God, and right, and her. There was on her part confusion and foreboding; but her purity, her loyalty
<page n=198>and love, had thoroughly guarded her from the awful truth which was one day to break upon her. Nor did Mr. Danforth read all that was going on within that rapidly blackening heart. Mr. Howell's life thus far appeared, in fact, like some fruit which only ripens to rot. Had the theory produced the man? Or had the man produced the theory? Both. They were acting and reacting, the one upon the other. </P>
<P> "Let us once more return to our starting point, to God and his relation to us. Evidently you grant that He is entitled to our homage," replied Mr. Danforth, "and that the best love of our hearts is due Him, and that in cultivating respect for His laws, and reverence for His character, we are pursuing our highest good. We cannot go wrong in lovng God, and loving our nighbor. Love is the fulfilling of the
<page n=199>law; and all the commandments are summed up in loving God to the extent of our ability, and in loving our neighbor as we love ourselves." </P>
<P> "I accept that as a general principle. We should have respect for the divine laws and reverence for the divine character, as we see it exhibited in the work of creation around us; and we should be governed by kind, even brotherly feeling generally; but this does not touch the main question or questions upon which, I presure, we differ," replied Mr. Howell. "You, of course, look upon the Bible and Christianity in one light and I in quite another. You regard the Bible as inspired and Christianiyu as the only true religion. I do not. I believe the Bible inspired in the same sense that Shakespeare's and Emerson' and scores of other men's writings were inspired. It is a great book, containing
<page n=200>much that is beautiful and much that is valuable; and when it shall become freed from the chains of orthodoxy men will learn to prize it much more that they do now. The Christian religion I believe to be true, true in aprt, as a form and expression. Religion is the essence of our
nature and its real seat is in the heart. Its best exponents are the influences of nature and the responding impulses arising within." </P>
<P> To this still bolder exhibition of his views Mr. Danforth thought it proper to make an earnest reply. He did not for a moment attempt to defend the inspiration of the Bible, for he at once saw that this would give his friendly opponent the opprtunity to drift further from the core of the subject, and also to emply an array of arguments already prepared, the answering of which would result in mere waste
<page n=201>of time. He chose to challenge the two points upon which Mr. Howell placed the entire support of his whole fabric of religion,to wit: the voice, light, or influence of nature, and the light within, whether called reason, conscience, or heart. </P>
<P> Mr. Howell had flettered himself that these were new ideas ti the minister, when, as a matter of fact, Mr. Danforth had studied them in all possoble forms, and given due consideration to every vestige of their importance in his seminary days, while studying his "Hooker," and following his "syllabus." With ease, he showed the insufficiency of these lights, either singly or jointly, to support an active religion, but between revealed religion, and <emph rend="italics">no</emph> religion. Such it was in the nature of the case, amd such it was in the history of the world. </P>
<page n=202><P> So clear, so earnest, and loving, were his
method and manner, that Mr. was manifestly impressed, and saw no way of escaping to his favorite branch of the subject by anything like direct movement. He therefore proposed to yield in some measure the points he had maintained, thus granting the importance of the religious writings, and admitting the superiority of the Christian Scriptures. </P>
<P> Mr. Howell's real position was about this: The Scriptures and the churches stand in the way of what I conceive to be the plan of life which will afford me the most pleasure, the plan of life to which I am attracted by uncontrollable desire; if they are right I am worng, fatally wrong. </P>
<P> When at an earlier period of his life he discussed the subject with the Vanross family, he had only a transient interest in the matter. He had imbibed the views of
<page n=203>others, but they rested quite lightly upon his manly and generous nature. He lived more in the hopes of securing the bride of his choice than in the realms of religious controversy. He was not then, and indeed never was afterward, at all fitted for abstract thinking or reasoning. He dwelt always in the actual, concrete world. His mind was practical and acute, and was kept always in close contact with living realities. Hence the first religious discussion upon which we saw him enter
was in the presence of and full appreciation of his intended bride, and in the light of a happy and wordly future in which there was no thought of sin. All the surroundings at that time were such as almost to drive him to that form of religion whose home is always with the pure in heart. </P>
<P> The interregnum came, and Leonard became a whole man in business, living only
<page n=204>in that hard and narrow world, scarcely allowing his mind to arise above it or wander from it. He permitted occasional sallies into the field of popular benevolence, so far as to give his support to public education and other public meausres; but these subjects were generally contemplated by him through the fieldglasses of business. </P>
<P> When the interregnum had passed and the question of religion had recurred, it was now his own question. It was within his heart, his mind, amd his conscience. It was a concrete question. It was to be settled in the presence of wife and children, who had upon him claims which he could not ignore; and in the presence of a future filled with Sin. The differences in mental and moral state, and above all the differences in purpose and heart, had much more to do with Mr. Howell's changed
<page n=205>manner in discussing this subject than any abstract consideration of the question itself. He had not learned more, but he had sunk lower. He preached purity and love; he advocated freedom of intercourse among friends; he extolled virtue; he condemned the tyranny of custom and conventionalism; he expatiated on a higher form of friendly attraction which should exist between persons of the opposite sex, a feeling so far above the cirrupt and debased feeling which usually prevailed that impurity could not exist in its presence; he described a state of personal purity in which persons might mix in delightful; freedom, enjoying and expressing by word and caress the sincerest affection, and yet there would be no evil; he was a dreamer of Eden delights between men, women, and children, surrounded by love, purity, and peace. This he preached to Hortense;
<page n=206>this he preached to his household, and this he claimed to practice himself, and urged upon his wife to practice. This was the angel of light into which the filthiest doctrine ever invented by man was transformed, and which came so near deceiving one of God's "elect," the pious and ever faithful Hortense. </P>
<P> How nearly she was deceived is shown by one of her confidential letters written to her sister Lavinia about this period. She says in defense of her husband, and in explanation of her views, a subject upon which both Mr. Gordon and Lavinia were at this time especially exercised: </P>
<P> "Leonard fully and earnestly believes, and practices upon that belief, that quite free exchange of relations between two congenial
persons of opposite sex is extremely beneficial, mentally and physically to both; that the soft, quiet, harmless and
<page n=207>warmth and delight of a pure affection will spring up, in which love becomes the master passion, and bids all others to stand at bay. He believes that in all mankind those are the highest who have met with temptation and conquered. He has not much respect for innocence, but the highest veneration for virtue." </P>
<P> This was Leonard C. Howell's picture as painted by his wife in strictest confidence to her own sister. Up to this hour he enjoyed the fullest faith and love of that Christian woman whose mind and heart he was seeking ti corrupt by most pernicious theories, and whose jealousy he was laboring to prevent and disarm by a skill that seemed alomost dialbolical. Leonard C. Howell was not sincere. His theory was a mere ruse, a systematic work of, strategy, by which he proposed to hedge
<page n=208>himself in from the gaze of mankind to some extent, and from the eyes of his noble wife in particular. Leonard feared that pure woman. He could brave the scorn or sneers of the world if he had to; but he could not endure the soft, tender, loving eyes of her who had given herself to him for life, coming to him pure as she xame from the infant cradle, and having no thought but to be true to the spirit of the words "until death do us part." Corrupt her soul he could not; blindfold and deceive her he must. To this double purpose of corruption and deception he consecrated the astonishing energy of his fertile intellect. </P></div0><div0>
<page n=209><HEAD>CHAPTER XII.</HEAD>
<P> The winter passed awat with no marked change in the Howell family, so well was Leonard acting his part. Neautiful spring arrived, and Mrs. Howell and the children went once more in peace to attend the Easter services. Ere another came the cloud had burst and the torrents of woe were pouring in upon them. As a momento of this Easter, on returning from the service Hortense wrote the following spiritual lines:
<VERSE STARTS HERE> 'Tis Easter morn : and tender eyes, Bedewed with tears of love and deepest sympathy, Are raised in praise to our dear Lord; While Trust, and Faith, and Hope profound, Beam forth on this sweet morn
<page n=210> To testify, though the ages pass, His work still doth go on.
The fond heart thrills, as with an agony of pain His sufferings are recalled;
And, once again, the faithful soul asserts Its fealty to its risen Lord. Thus, flowers, and songs, and tuneful bells, Are made to evidence our thought Of what this morn has been to us, Of what Christ's death hath wrought.
Yet, can we serve alone With all this passion of an eartly adoration? These symbols are but vain and mocking to this worth, If in our daily lives, we fail to imitate his work. Then, let our hands stretch forth to lift The erring soul, whose path Beset by dire temptation, trips his feet; Let tender words of confidence and hope, Heal up the wound inflicted by the world's cold scorn ! Let the sweet smiles of charity and love,<page n=211> Beam for our eyes, o'er all Who, trembling, fail to walk the narrow path ! Thus, shall we praise our risen Lord.
<VERSE STOPS HERE>
<P> In this highly spiritual poem, unchained by style or rule, there breathes a fervent devotion to Christ and His cause, which up to this hour had not been overthrown by the most subtle and dangerous assaults. The spirit of a braod charity for the erring, sympathy for those who are suffering from the worl's cold scorn, and love and tenderness for those who fail to walk in the narrow way ‐‐ not who have strayed from, but who fail to walk in the narrow way ‐‐ also manifests itself freely. The poem tells of a Christian faith and Christian love; and shows a pure soul drawing supplies of strength from contact with the al‐loving, all‐saving Christ. </P>
<P> Had Leonard been able to walk with
<page n=212>his wife on the same highway of faith, their happiness would have been complete. Unfortunately, bad books and worse companions, uniting in his own unevenly developed moral nature, had driven him from the path of peace. He wandered in a philosophy which he had accepted as religion, and which had driven all love for the church and all regard for the Sabbath, from his breast. While Hortense was delighting and strengthening her soul with the rich thoughts of Easter, he was exciting and stimulating thoughts of an opposite character, as he met with other wild spirits in discussion upon such delectable themes as freedom, radicalism, and progress. </P>
<P> Aside from what went on away from home under the guise of friendship, Leonard's associations brought to the house and into the presence of Hortense, persons
<page n=213>
whose manner and spirit became objectionable to her chaste and sensitive nature. The freedom which she saw on occassions existing between her husband and some of the female visitors, was to her decidedly irritatins; and although she tried hard to conceal from her self the approaching revelation, and sought to take refuge in self‐accusations of narrowness and jealousy; yet gradually and relentlessly, and at length overpoweringly, came the conviction that he husband's heart was no longer hers. The angel of light which she had forced herself to see in Leonard's philosophy was now unrobed, amd she saw a form that was of the earth, earthy. She was supplanted. </P>
<P> Once we saw Leonard thoguhtfully looking upon Hortense, as her inward pious charcater shone out to his view, almost startled, and asking himself, Could he love
<page n=214>her in spite of her religion? His indecision, however, lasted scarcely long enough for him to formulate the question in his own mind. Her rich womanhood quenched the thought as soon as its truant scintillations told of its existence. But now the drama presents a reverse, and Hortensestands swayed between a love that knows not its own depths and the possibilities of a hatred as deadly as the possibilities of her nature. </P>
<P> Her black hair and flashing eyes, her whole form and manner told of her power to hate and avenge; but happily for her, for her children, and for Leonard, the panther within had been long locked in chains, and the keys were with the angels. True to that charity which sang itself in that Easter poem, she continued to love and pity the one being who had wronged her most. She sacredly guarded his good
<page n=215> name and shielded his children from the knowledge of his ways. It was a prodigious work ‐‐ too great for any woman. Hortense was manifesting a greatness that eclipsed to darkness that of the crowned Isabella and Elizabeths of fame and story. She was burning at the stake, not with outward and material fire, but with the exquisite torture of secret, spritual agony. </P>
<P> Two years went on Leonard in sinning. Two years ‐‐ long, dreadful horrible years ‐‐ went on Hortense in dying. Jealousy, says Solomon, is the rage of a man. Jealousy is devouring flames to a woman. Slowly but steadily burning by night and by day, this inextinguishable fore, fed by the sins of an erring husband, continue to engulf in its pitiless flames the body and soul of the helpless victim who was passing through it, bound as with cords of iron to this altar of sacrifice. </P>
<page n=216>
<P> The atmosphere around Leonard may have had something to do with awakening the beast that was within him; still it must be said he never became a Southerner; but confined himself quite closely to the New England colony dwelling in the neighborhood and to the few Southerners of kindred sentiments who associated with them. </P>
<P> Among these were found the few spirits who had advanced beyond all forms of orthodoxy, and who spent their time seeking after the Truth (?). In this circle he fed his soul with all the untried vagaries that active brains could bring forth, and pushed to excess his theories respecting marriage and the relations of the sexes, supporting his views by the declaration that to the pure all things are pure. He constantly pleaded for an enlarged ‐‐ a more developed love, claiming that the more
<page n=217>the more that is given out, the happier will be the giver, amd the richer the world in receiving. "No great nature," said he, "should be expected tp confine itself to one small love." This theory he held for both sexes, proclaiming that all persons, even in wedded life, should be prefectly free to give and receive love, taking care all the time to guard his theory from the least suspicion of physical impropriety. </P>
<P> Hortense, who had been partly charmed with the beautiful idealistic pictures of a love‐charmed world which Leonard drew, in which people of both sexes and all ages, who would come up to the doctrine, should be bound together in happy concord through the commerce of pure affection, at length saw the sham dissipated, and was now realizing the sad truth that, as two kinds cannot reign on one throne, so two somen cannot reign in one heart.
<page n=218>The heart that had professed itself large enough for the many, was fast becoming too small for her to find in it a lodging‐place of any sort. She felt herself banished from it as the dove from the ark, and as she wandered about in thought over the wide earth, finding no resting‐ place for the sole of her foot, bruised in spirit and bleeding at heart, she threw her weary wings at Leonard's breats only to find it closed. There was not room for two, and the usurper was within. After a few vain efforts Hortense turned away and abandoned herself to her living death. Chastened, gentle and sweet of spirit, she had always given out much of her heart to her children, but was also much dependent upon her husband's favor. His confidence, respect, and love had been her life in a large degree. As she turned from this support to confront the fires in which
<page n=219>she read her fate, she said: "The caresses of love have been my life frim infancy. By my mother, my sister, and my brothers I have been nourished on tenderness. Since my marriage my husband had yileded me his love. Now all is gone. I cannot unburden my heart to any one; I cannot live without my husband's love. No longer loved by him for whom I have given all. Oh, God, let me die !" </P>
<P> Mrs. Howell, however, concealed her grief, locking the fire within her bosom, only now and then allowing it to break forth in her hours of solitude. Her two children, now in their teens, Willie and Mary, became her constant and only
companions; while Leonard, happy in his new love for which he had prepared his heart by tracherous philosophy, seemed not to
<page n=220>know of his poor wife's pain. Had his doctrine then succeeded? thought he, as he passed on from day to day receiving no word of reproach from the saint by his side who was preparing for heaven. He knew nothing of "the powers of the world to come," which had descended and clothed the woman with inevitable patience, and which were supporting her faith even amid the cruel fires which he kept so fiercely burning all around her. </P>
<P> But my pen refuses to follow either the wicked steps of Leonard, or the thorny path trodden by poor Mrs. Howell. Let us pass by the greater part of these two years of sinning by the one and of suffering by the other, and take up the story nearer its crisis. </P>
<P> Flesh and bood, although divinely supported, cannot endure everything. The months of sorrow told upon Hortense.
<page n=221>Her flesh departed, her strength failed; her shoulders were stooped, her hair turned gray, her steps began to falter, her eyes became too brilliant for continued stay, and her whole face and manners indicated that the end was coming. Leonard had at length begun to notice it; and day by day the dark fact came nearer to him and confronted and reproached him; but he resisted it with the firmness of desperation. </P>
<P> Ah ! Leonard, thou hast sown to the wind; ay, worse than that, thou hast sown to the wind and flesh; of the one thou shalt reap corruption, and of the other death. The tables are turning. </P>
<P> Poor Hortense suffered in quiet. Nature was long and stubborn in dying; but nature is dead with her now; her sufferings are all over and her soul is peaceful. The long, weary battle is fought and
<page n=222>the victory won. The flesh, the world, Satan and self, with her are dead, and she is resting, ay, hiding now in the secret of His presence, who keeps, we know not how. Ah, Leonard, she in not thine now! Once she was, but when she came to thy heart, so sad, so weary, after her long flight in quest of an earthly lodging, dost thou remember, Leonard, how her tired, dew‐dripped wings rapped against the casements of the windows of thy breast, and thou, betwitched by sinful delights, didst thou not admit her? Dost thou remember it, Leonard? Then it was thou that sentest her away. She is not thine now. She has passed through the fires and is purified. She is God's, and awaits only the robe and the crown. She is waiting, Leonard, waiting for thee. Fear her not, Leonard; though her form is holiness in the fear of the Lord, her heart is filled with that love
<page n=223>which thou hast sought to counterfeit by a love that was earthly, sensual, devilish, Hortense is no longer thine." </P>
<P> Thus spoke a voice to Leonard's conscience one morning as he lay in bed half‐awake, startling him to the very core of his being. The voice seemed familiar, and notwithstanding the solemn and somewhat strange form of expression, the impression, at first vague, became more distinct as he fully awoke. The message that had come through to him was so clear, so thrilling, that the whole world was transformed to him in an instant. The voice, the solemn manner, the form that dimly outlined itself to his vision ‐‐ all bespoke the preernatural appearance of the departed Mrs. Vanross, the mother of his dying wife. </P>
<P> Oh, the harrowing thoughts that rushed in upon his soul ! The levees were overthrown and the whole plain of his sinful
<page n=224>heart was inundated with grief and remorse. </P>
<P> As the morning advanced he went into his wife's room, for she was now bed‐fast, and having calmed himself, greeted her with his usual: ,Good morning, Tonsy; how are you this morning?" </P>
<P> But he was not prepared for the answer that came from the sick woman. </P>
<P> "Oh, Leonard," she said quite vivaciously, "I am well, well this morning. Mamma came to see me last night in my dreams; and, oh, Leonard, she looked so sweet, so angelic, and so heavenly; and kissed me so lovingly, that I am well this morning. I have not an ache nor a pain, a grief nor a sorrow; all, all are gone. Yes; I am well this morning." </P>
<P> Leonard could stand no more. Attempting to reply, he could only say : </P>
<page n=225><P> "Ma came to see me also," and sank into a chair by his wife's bedside, and there burying his face in the bedclothes near his wife's pillow wept aloud. Oh, how he lashed himself, and how his awakened conscience stripped his heart bare to the blows. He had partially tired of his newfound idol, and she had departed. The hour of reaction, or for a deeper plunge into sin, was at hand. Had the all‐merciful God in his providence crossed his path at this opportune moment to save him? Or was the accumulation of outward and inward sorrows that were beginning to pour their flood into his soul destined to bury his in irretrievable ruin? </P>
<P> As soon as Leonard could command words he attenpted to make a full confession of his wrongs ‐‐ painting himself in true colors.
He told the story of his duplicity, and of his treachery; of his
<page n=226>deceitful philosophy, and of his wicked sinning; but ere he had more than outlined it, Hortense replied : </P>
<P> "My dear husband, you need not tell me; I know it all, and have known it all along. The pain has ceased now, the iron doesn't hurt my heart any more; all that could feel the smart of your action was causing has passed away. My Saviour has kept me, and I am at peace. My work is done and my sufferings are ended. This was God's way. It seemed strange and hard to me months ago; but I see it was all right. The journey is over now, and I am only waiting." </P>
<P> Leonard had never heard his wife talk in that strain before, and the beautiful light that seemed to shine from her countenance, as well as the calm confidence of her tones, alarmed him. He was awed by what he saw and heard. Once more the
<page n=227>inner, spiritual charcater of his wife, of whom he saw he had never been worthy, shone out with superior effulgence. Again he saw her as she stood in her youth and beauty before him, holding up, as he attempted to reason or ridicule, the standard of sublime devotion to the faith which saves. Now, lying upon her back, with bodily strength all gone, he sees that triumphant faith bearing her up. He is awed and he is alarmed. He feels that the sad crisis is hurrying on. </P>
<P> Hortense is dying, Leonard. She has been dying nearly two years. Art thou her murderer? </P>
<P> As soon as possible Leonard made his way to the telegraph station, and soon thereafter ,essages were hurrying to the relatives in Charleston, and to Lavinia in Brooklyn. Hortense sick, very sick, was the burden of all the communi‐
<page n=228>cations that went forth. As Leonard went from duty to duty in the early morning, this thought was tearing his soul in shreds: "I have killed her ! I have killed her!" And then, half‐crazy with remorse and grief, he would exclaim : " Oh, that some one would avenge her death upon me ! Oh, that some one would kill me !" </P>
<P> Now fully awake to all his past misdoings, and to the horrible fact of his wife's serious situation, Leonard, hastening back to her bedside, broke out with the suppressed lamentation : "Oh, Hortense, you must not die ! I cannot endure the loss of you. You must get well; try to, won’t you?" His face was bathed in tears, and there rested upon it also the conflicting expressions of tenderness and of love, of sorrow and of guilt. As he ceased speaking there was a most pitiful, beseeching look in his eyes as he gazed fully into the face of his sick wife. </P>
<page n=229><P> The reply of Hortense was calm and sweet :
"Leonrad, do not grieve. The storms are all over with me. There is no hope of return. I shall never retrace my steps. I am nearing the banks of the Jordon. 'I hear the noise of wings,'" said she, quoting from a familiar hymm.</P>
<P> Then it was that Leonard poured out his soul in confession, in grief, and in remorse, as he paced back and forth in the room alone with his wife. And at last turning to her, he said : </P>
<P> "Hortense, will you forgive me for my great sin against God, myself, and you?" He stopped and waited for her reply. </P>
<P> Hortense with fervor answered : "I forgive, even as I am forgiven. As I stand before my God fully absolved, so have I released every living person. Yes, Leonard, all is forgiven." </P>
<P> Let me pass over what immediately
<page n=230>followed, only to record this lastr solemn conversation of the dying wife and mother with her erring but now repentant husband. </P>
<P> "Leonard," said she, "our children are baptized in the Christian faith. I solemnly promised to rear them in accordance with the beliefs and practices of the church. I have done the best I could thus far, Leonard, to bring them up as Christians; and I feel sure my work has not been unsuccessful. They are Christian children to some extent, but the work of training is not done yet. I can no longer be with them to carry out the obligations I assumed for them before the Lord in His church. Who, Leonard, will finish my work?" As she said thus she fixed on Leonard a look of earnest entreaty, and awaited his answer. </P>
<P> Leonard continued to pace the floor in silence for some time. A deep and fierce struggle was going on within between his
<page n=231>prode, his love, and his moral sense. Should he throw overbaord all that cargo if theories he had so long been carrying and admit himself to have been deceived by his own subtle reasonings ? He had given up his sins; why not jettison the cargo of pestiferous theories which had nourished and defended them in part ? His theories never had been sufficient to entirely cover his conduct. Stretch the covering as he would, it was not sufficient to cloak all his misdoings. His theory stopped short at a line drawn between love and lust; but his practice confounded these two passions and ignored the limitation of his philosophy. Why not discard the theory as being sufficient neither to produce a good life nor to defend a bad one ? Somewhat in this line ran Leonard's thoughts as he walked up and down his sick wife's bedroom. </P>
<P> At length he stopped. His face showed
<page n=232>great agitation and his whole frame shook, and in a voice hushed and choked he said : </P>
<P> "My dear wife, I will, God helping me, take hold of the work where you lay it down, and to the best of the ability will carry out the obligations made in the church and which I now assume; I will try to walk before our children in your spirit, that they may be saved from such a life as mine has been. If God will forgive the unchangeable past, I will from this hour, dear Hortense, consecrate myself to the carrying out of your life. You shall live, Hortense." Then with tears streaming down his cheeks he groaned, "God be merciful to me a sinner." </P>
<P> The pledge was made and peace came to the struggling soul of Leonard, but the thorn of regret for those years of sin never passed completely away. The mind of Hortense was now thoroughlyat rest.
<page n=233>Leonard had awakened from his dream, and had laid hold upon God. He was no longer weak, but strong enough through divine aid. She knew that all was well and her pious heart sang: </P>
<P> <emph rend="bold"> "I have anchored my soul in the haven of rest." </emph></P>
<P> Leonard was not happy; how could he be happy in such surroundings ? But he was saved from evil, and his work was before him. His one thought was to live for his son and his daughter, Never before had they appeared as precious in his sight; never before had life seemed so awful to him : "I must put on the garment of the pure Christian mother of my children, and train them for God and heaven. This is my vow before God; this my pledge to me dying wife ‐‐ my martyr wife ‐‐ <emph rend="italics">I must do it!</emph>" </P>
<P> This was his purpose as defined within himself by himself. </P></div0><div0><page n=234>
<HEAD>XIII.</HEAD>
<P> The crisis soon came, and Mrs. Howell passed quietly away, not, however, until after the arrival of relatives from Charleston and New York. Complying with her own request, as well as with the wishes of the family at large, her form was carried to Charleston and laid to rest by the side of the remains of her departed mother in the old cemetery. Peacefully she sleeps there now, and the secret of her life's sorrow sleeps with her. No member of the family, much less any one outside, had been permitted to share her
confidence. By no word of hers had the good name of Leonard C. Howell received the slightest tarnish. With all his sinning he
<page n=235>was still her husband in the eyes of the world, and was the father of her children ; and with a loyalty that ended only in death she had guarded her family's honor even against her own relatives. Gossipping neighbors had had their say ; but fortunately their talk had not spread beyond their own locality ; and the relatives of Hortense, as they assembled around her open grave to witness the last sad rites, had nothing in their hearts to the prejudice of Mr. Howell. </P>
<P> After the funeral, Mr. Howell returned to Macon and as soon as possible put his business in such position that he could safely leave it, and then prepared to give his home up in the South. The beautiful house in which he had lived with his family, and all its surroundings were as so many faithful witnesses against him, and he could no longer bear to be
<page n=236>near them. Acting on the suggestion of his brother‐in‐law, he decided to remove to Brooklyn, because of the superior educational advantages to be found in that city. The duty of caring for his children appeared to him now as it had never before ; and when Mr. Gordon offered to take them into his home as a part of his own family, Mr. Howell's feelings were so intense that he felt compelled to decline the brotherly offer. He shrank from the thought of turning over the care of these more than half‐ to any one, or of even dividing it with others. He feared to place so near himself a temptation which might cause him to turn aside from the duty he had imposed uopn himself by the most solemn sacrament. </P>
<P> Under this impulse he established himself a quiet home in the outskirts of the city, furnishing it just as he thought
<page n=237>the taste of his wife would have dictated had she been alive ; and into it with his two children he entered with the resolution to lead a life that should be the just sequel of the life of his departed companion. </P>
<P> How weak, how awkward, how unworthy he felt, as he he now practically contemplated his work ; a feeling of inability, of shame and of reluctance crept over him. It was evening, in full view over the mantle hung the portrait of Hortense. Leonard was seated by the table musing, Willie and Mary had said their evening prayers and, woth the hush of sadness that had not left their souls since "Mamma went away," as they always expressed it, had gone to their beds. The gas was burning brightly and Leonard was wrapped in thought. The whole past came up before him, from the days of his childhood on his
<page n=238>grandfather's farm, to the stirring scenes and the dangers of war ‐‐ his meeting with Hortense, his marriage, His life, her suffering, her death, and again his
obligation. Raising his eyes he gazed upon her picture as it looked down upon him. Her looks seemed to purify and strengthen him : in that life, in that form, Leonard sees again that power, before which his reason and his heart had bowed down in reverence. Like Jacob of old awaking from his vision he could say, "Surely God has been in my dwelling all these days and I, poor blind foolish man, knew it not !" Again he solemnly repeated his vow ; again he declared with great, internal emphasis, he tones half‐aloud : "Hortense, you shall live ! I will accept your work, I will carry out your purpose, oh, that I might receive your spirit." </P>
<P> Leonard had began life anew, and sweet
<page n=239>and pleasant were the exchanges of thought and feeling between father and children. Their abode became more and more like an ideal home, despite the absence of the mother. Leonard's heart was now indeed opening and was giving out real love, and receiving love in return. His love was now taking its place in obedience to reason and conscience, and was enjoying ots freedom under law. He untied with his brother‐in‐law's church, and was daily becoming more active in good works ; but his life was not yet free from sad regrets. </P>
<P> . . . . . . . </P>
<P> Years have passed by, and William and Mary are grown. Young people they are, of refined and pleasant manners, of pure and lofty character, of gentle and pious spirit ; both active members of their uncle's church, both active supporters of the pastor's wife, their tender‐hearted aunt
<page n=240>Lavinia, in her many enterprises for goos. Early every spring Leonard goes to Charleston, and spends day after day on the cemetery, looking after the grave of his wife ; and from this mecca he derives renewed inspiration. Already his heart, his love, and his work have widened. Active in Sunday school, his attention has been drawn to the fatherless and motherless little ones in the city, Rapidly he is becoming on heart the father of the orphan ; and there is beginning to form in his mind the picture and the purpose of an asylum for those unfortunate ones. Leonard's life is one of work, and it has now entered that domain where "Love in the mainspring of duty., He found his ideal of love, not in the fleshy, sensual world, which entrapped his feet through a pernicious philosophy, but in that quiet life, which was with Christ in God, having been led there
<page n=241>at great cost and within whose sacred precincts he had been trying for years to dwell. As yet he daw it and felt its power, but had not tasted its thoroughly satisfying joys. </P>
<P> It was Easter. Mr. Howell was seated in his brother‐in‐law' church, His daughter, whose voice had received most careful training, was in the choir, which occupied a smally gallery in the rear of the pulpit and in full view of the whole congregation, This morning she was to sing her first solo in church. The church was handsomely decorated with flowers, and entirely filled with worshippers. Mr. Gordon was all aglow with his theme and the occasion. Mr. Howell occupied a seat in the pastor's pew by the side of Mrs. Gordon. The years that had passed had left their marks on all these faces. Mrs. Gordon was still beautiful, but she had long ceased to be the
<page n=242>Lavinia that bewildered Leonard Howell by her sprightly loveliness in the long ago. She was now the soft and gentle wife and mother ; the kind and gentle helpmeet of a broad and energetic pastor. Leonard had become a practical philanthropist and Christian. His face showed benevolence and earnestness ; but it bore upon it, also, the unmistakable signs of sadness and regret. The service began, and every step of its progress was marked with fitness and reality. It was no mere performance. The sermon was full of thought and feeling, and was received by sympathetic hearers. At its conclusion there was a slight rustle and then the organ gave forth a few preliminary notes, and Mary Howell arose to sing. </P>
<P> Soon her rich, clear voice, came out, rather softly, in the opening phrases of a song of Christian triumph. </P>
<page n=243><P> "Who are these in bright array?" She sang with a
sweetness that riveted the attention of every one in the house; and when after a brief interlude she poured forth her voice the fullness of its stregnth to render the rapturous answer : "These are they which came out of great tribulation and have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb," all were moved by the sweet tones and by the correct interpretation of the opening scenes in the transforming drama which was, by her matchless power of song, enacting itself in full view. Then dropping into the purest recitative, she went on : </P>
<P> "Therefore are they before the throne of God and serve Him day and night in his temple. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst no more. For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed
<page n=244>them, and shall lead them into living fountains of waters and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes," as she sang this her eyes wandered away from the people in front and in the galleries, and her gaze seemed to seek a resting place near the ceiling. Her eyes were glistening; her voice was superlatively rich, but it did not tremble ; and she appeared like one completely absorbed. She was but a medium through whom the glories of Heaven were being revealed to an almost startled audience. As she ceased to sing she sank back in her chair, and covering her face with her hankerchief softly murmured, "Mamma ‐‐ <emph rend="italics">through tribulations deep!</emph> God shall wipe away all tears ! " </P>
<P> Leonard C. Howell had heard the song and had seen the vision. He saw the throng in white robes and golden crowns before the throne of God ; he read their
<page n=245>history : " <emph rend="italics">Through tribulations deep ;</emph>" he recognized among them the wife whose name he honored. The sorrow and sadness were lifted from his soul, for a moment as he saw "God himself wiping the tears from her eyes," and felt that her work was still going on. </P>
<P> <emph rend="bold">THE END.</emph> </P>
</body><back>[appendices, etc goes here]</back></text></TEI.2>
