The Project Gutenberg eBook, Hatchie, the Guardian Slave; or, The Heiress of Bellevue, by Warren T. Ashton

HATCHIE

THE GUARDIAN SLAVE;

OR

THE HEIRESS OF BELLEVUE.

A Tale of the Mississippi and the South-west

BY WARREN T. ASHTON.

"Here is a man, setting his fate aside, Of comely virtues."
SHAKSPEARE

Boston:
B. B. Mussey and Company,
and
R. B. Fitts and Company.

1853

CONTENTS

Reprinted 1972 from a copy in the
Fisk University Library Negro Collection
New World Book Manufacturing Co., Inc.
Hallandale, Florida 33009

INTRODUCTION.

In the summer of 1848 the author of the following tale was a passenger on board a steamboat from New Orleans to Cincinnati. During the passage—one of the most prolonged and uncomfortable in the annals of western river navigation—the plot of this story was arranged. Many of its incidents, and all its descriptions of steamboat life, will be recognized by the voyager of the Mississippi.

The tale was written before the appearance of "Uncle Tom's Cabin,"—before negro literature had become a mania in the community. It was not designed to illustrate the evils or the blessings of slavery. It is, as its title-page imports, a tale; and the author has not stepped out of his path to moralize upon Southern institutions, or any other extraneous topic. But, as its locale is the South, and its principal character a slave, the story incidentally portrays some features of slavery.

With these explanations, the author submits the tale to the public, hoping the reader will derive some portion of the pleasure from its perusal which he experienced in its preparation.

BOSTON, November 18, 1852.

HATCHIE:

THE GUARDIAN SLAVE.

CHAPTER I.

"Antony. You grow presumptuous.
Ventidius. I take the privilege of plain love to speak.
Antony. Plain love!—Plain arrogance! plain insolence!"
DRYDEN.

On the second floor of a lofty building in —— street, New Orleans, was situated the office of Anthony Maxwell, Esq., Attorney and Counsellor at Law, Commissioner for Georgia, Alabama, and a dozen other states. His office had not the usual dusty, business-like aspect of such places, but presented more the appearance of a gentleman's drawing-room; and, but for the ponderous cases of books bound in law-sheep, and a table covered with tin boxes and bundles of papers secured with red tape, the visitor would easily have mistaken it for such. The space on the walls not occupied by book-cases was hung with rich paintings, whose artistic beauty and elevated themes betokened a refined taste. The floor of the room was covered by a magnificent tapestry carpet. The chairs, lounges and tables, were of the most costly and elegant description. The windows were hung with graceful and brilliant draperies. Every arrangement of the office betokened luxury and indolence, rather than the severe toil and privation to which the aspirant for legal honors must so often submit. The costly appurtenances of the apartment seemed to indicate that the young lawyer's path to fame was over a velvet lawn, bedecked with beautiful flowers, rather than the rough road, steep and crooked, over which the greatest statesmen and most eminent jurists have trodden.

The occupant of this chamber was stretched at full length upon one of the luxurious lounges, puffing, with an abstracted air, a fragrant regalia. He was a young man, not more than five-and-twenty years of age, and what ladies of taste would have styled decidedly handsome. His face was pale, with a certain haggard appearance, which indicates the earlier stages of dissipation. His complexion was of a delicate white, unbrowned by the southern sun, and the skin was so transparent that the roots of his black beard were visible beneath its surface. His jet-black hair hung in rich, wavy curls, which seemed to be the especial care of some renowned tonsorial artist, so gracefully and accurately were they arranged. His black eye was sharp and expressive when his mind was excited in manly thought; but now it was a little unsteady,—disposed to droop, and wander, as though ashamed to express the emotions which agitated his soul. Altogether, his features were classic; but there was something about them which the moralist would not like—a sort of lascivious softness mingling with the nobler intellectual expression, that warned him to beware of the Siren, while he admired the Apollo.

The marks of vice were visible in his countenance. They had not yet become canker-spots on the surface, but they rankled and festered beneath that fair field of physical and intellectual grandeur.

The young attorney was dressed in the extreme of fashion, yet in good taste. Though he wore all the fashion demanded, he did not court ridicule by overstepping its flickering lines. He was not the over-dressed dandy, but the full-dressed gentleman of refined taste, in his external appearance.

Anthony Maxwell had been educated at a northern institution. A year before his introduction to the reader, he had entered his father's office in the capacity of a partner, where, by an assumed devotion to business, he had effectually deceived his father and his clients into the belief that he was a steady, industrious young man. His talents were of a very respectable order, which, superadded to a native eloquence and an engaging demeanor, had enabled him to acquit himself with much credit in the cases intrusted to his management. A few months after his professional début, his father's decease had placed him in possession of a very lucrative practice and a moderate fortune, thus enabling him in some degree to follow the bent of his own inclinations. To those whose habits and desires were similar to his own, he was not long in unfolding his true character, though not to a sufficient extent to destroy at once his professional prospects. The irresponsible life of the man of leisure had more charms to him than an honorable distinction in his profession. To labor in any form he had an intolerable repugnance. His fortune was not sufficient to allow an entire neglect of business; therefore he determined to practise law in an easy manner, until a rich wife, or the "tricks" of his craft, would permit an entire devotion to the pleasures of affluence.

In accordance with this idea, his first step, after the death of his father, had been to locate himself in the magnificent apartments we have described. He gave up the house in which his father had dwelt, and, fitting up a sleeping-room in the rear of the office with oriental splendor, his life and habits were free from the scrutinizing gaze of friend and foe, and he found himself situated as nearly to his mind as his income would permit. These indications of a dissolute life were viewed with distrust by the more respectable of his clients. His subsequent actions were not calculated to increase their confidence; yet, for the respect they bore to the father's memory, they were slow in casting off the son.

Mr. Maxwell smoked his cigar, and occasionally uttered an impatient exclamation, as though some scheme he was turning in his mind refused to accommodate itself to his means. He was evidently engaged in the consideration of some complicated affair; and the more he thought, the more impatient he grew. He finished his cigar, and lit another; still the knotty point was not conquered. His haggard countenance at one moment was lighted up, as though success had dawned upon his mental contest; but at the next moment it darkened into disappointment, which he vented in an audible oath.

While thus laboring in his perplexity, the door communicating with the ante-chamber was opened, and the boy in attendance very formally announced "Miss Dumont."

This announcement seemed to dissipate the vexatious clouds which had environed the attorney, and a light and cheerful smile came, as if by magic, upon his care-worn features, as he apologized to the lady for the smoky atmosphere of the room.

"I trust your honored father is well," said he, after disposing of the usual commonplace introductions of conversation.

"I regret to say that his failing health is the occasion of this visit," replied the lady, in a cold and even serious tone. "I have called to request your immediate attendance at Bellevue. My father has some business matters upon which he requires your professional advice."

"Col. Dumout, I trust, is not seriously ill," returned Maxwell, with an appearance of sympathy.

"He is confined to his room, but not entirely to his bed. When shall I say you will come?" said the lady.

"I will be there within an hour after your own arrival, if you go direct."

"Very well, sir;" and she turned to depart.

This intention on the part of the lady did not seem to meet the approbation of the attorney.

"Stay a moment, Miss Dumont," said he, in an embarrassed manner; "pray, honor me with a moment's conversation."

"Nay, sir. I know too well your object in this request, and cannot accede to it," replied the lady, in a firm and dignified manner, while a rich crimson shade suffused her beautiful countenance.

"Be not so unkind,—a moment is all I ask," said Maxwell, with pleading earnestness.

"No, sir; not a moment. Your unopened letter, which I yesterday returned, should be enough to convince you that my mind is not changed," replied she, moving to the door.

The lawyer was vexed. The letter alluded to by the lady he had received, and it had troubled him exceedingly. He had a great purpose in view,—a purpose which, accomplished, would enable him to realize the cherished object of his life,—would enable him to revel in the ease and affluence he so much coveted. Something must be done. Here was an opportunity afforded by the providential visit of Miss Dumont which might never occur again, and he resolved to improve it. Determined to detain her, he adopted the first expedient which presented itself.

"Pardon me," said he, "I have not received the letter, and was not aware that you intended to return it."

"Indeed!" replied the lady, with evident astonishment, as she relinquished her hold of the door-handle, and returned to the table by the side of which the attorney stood.

"I regret that I did not, as it would have saved you from further annoyance, and me from a few of the hours of anguish with which I have awaited your reply," returned the lawyer, in accents of humility, which were too well feigned to permit the lady to suspect them. "The bitterness of a blighted hope were better than the agony of suspense."

A smile of pity and contempt rested upon the fair face of the lady, as she turned her glance from him to the papers on the table. There lay Maxwell's letter, with the envelope in which she had returned it! She only pointed to it, and looked into his face to read the shame and confusion her discovery must create.

Maxwell's pallid cheek reddened, as he perceived that his deceit was exposed; but he instantly recovered his self-possession, and said,

"Pardon this little subterfuge. I permitted myself to descend to it, that I might gain a moment's time to plead with you for the heart which is wasting away beneath your coldness. You do not, you cannot, know the misery I have endured in possessing the love upon which you so cruelly frown."

The passionate eloquence of Maxwell might have melted a heart less firm than that of Emily Dumont. As it was, the cold expression of contempt left her features, and, if not disposed to listen with favor to his suit, she was softened into pity for his assumed misery. Under any other circumstances, the lie he had a moment before uttered would have forever condemned him in her sight. But her charitable disposition compelled her to believe that it was the last resort of a mind on the verge of despair.

"Mr. Maxwell," said she, "I am deeply grieved that you should have suffered any unhappiness on my account."

"I will bless you for even those words," returned Maxwell, hastily, feeling that he had gained the first point.

"But I do not intend to encourage your suit," promptly returned the lady.

"Be not again unkind! Veil not that heavenly sympathy in the coldness of indifference again!"

"I wish not to be harsh, or unkind. You have before given me an index of your sentiments, and I have endeavored, by all courteous means, to discountenance them."

"Yet I have always found something upon which to base a flickering hope."

"If you have, I regret it all the more."

"Do not say so! Changed as has been your demeanor towards me, I have dared to fan the flame in my heart, till now it is a raging fire, and beyond my control."

"I cannot give my hand where my heart is uninterested," replied the lady, feelingly. "I love you not. I am candid, and plain, and I trust this unequivocal declaration will forever terminate any hope you have cherished in relation to this matter. Painful as I now feel it must be for you to hear, and painful as it is to me, on that account, to declare it, I repeat—I can never reciprocate the affection you profess. And now let this interview terminate. It is too painful to be prolonged;"—and she again moved towards the door.

"Do not leave me to despair!" pleaded Maxwell, earnestly, as he followed her toward the door. "At least, bid me wait, bid me prove myself worthy,—anything, but do not forever extinguish the little star I have permitted to blaze in the firmament of my heart—the star I have dared to worship. Do not veil me in utter darkness!"

"I can offer no hope—not the slightest, even to rid myself of an annoyance," replied Miss Dumont, with the return of some portion of her former dignity; for the perseverance of the attorney perplexed and troubled her exceedingly.

"You know not to what a fate you doom me," said Maxwell, heedless of the lady's rebuke.

"There is no remedy;" and Miss Dumont grasped the door-knob.

"There is a remedy. Bid me wait a month, a year, any time, till you examine more closely your own heart. Give me any respite from hopeless misery."

"You have my answer; and now I trust to your honor as a gentleman to save me from further annoyance," said Miss Dumont, with spirit, for her patience was fast ebbing out.

"I will not annoy you," replied Maxwell, with emphasis, as he assumed an air of more self-possession. "I have been pleading for exemption from the direst of human miseries. But I will not annoy you, even to save myself from endless woe."

"Forget this misplaced affection; for he assured my sentiments will continue unchanged."

"I can never forget it; but I will strive to endure it with resignation. I feel that I must still cherish the presumptuous hope that you will yet relent."

"Destroy not your own peace; for the hope must be a vain one. Good-afternoon;" and the lady departed before the attorney had time to add another hyperbolical profession of a passion which, however well acted, was not half so deeply grounded as he had led the unsuspecting object of it to believe. That he really loved her was to some extent true. That his love was earnest and pure, such as the blight of coldness and inconstancy would render painful, was not true,—far from it. He had sought her hand, not to lay at her feet the offering of a hallowed affection, but to realize the object we have before mentioned,—to enable him, by the possession of her vast wealth, to live a life of ease and pleasure.

He had commenced his attack upon her affections with some prospect of success. To the occasional professional visit he paid her father he had added frequent social calls, in which he had used all his eloquence to enlist the sympathies of the fair daughter. She had regarded him as an agreeable visitor; and, indeed, his natural abilities, the unceasing wit and liveliness of his conversation, had well earned him this distinction. Flattering himself that he should be able to win her affections, he had gradually emerged from the indifference of the mere formalist to the incipient attentions of the devoted lover. These overtures were not well received, and, if she had before treated him with the favor which the agreeable visitor always receives, she now extended to him only the stately courtesy of entire indifference. The visible change in the cordiality of her receptions had opened his eyes, and revealed the nature of his unpromising position. But his disposition was too buoyant, his character too energetic, to allow him to despair.

Latterly, however, a new obstacle to his suit had presented itself, in the person of a rival, upon whom the object of his ambitious wishes appeared to bestow unusual favor. This individual was a young officer in the army, a sort of protegé of the lady's father, who had been spending a furlough at Bellevue. In the matter of fortune Maxwell's rival was not to be dreaded, for he knew the lady was not mercenary in her views. The young captain was penniless; but his family was good, and he had the advantage of being a favorite with the father. He had won for himself a name on the fields of Mexico, which went far to enlist a lady's favor. He was a universal favorite both with the public and in the private circle.

Maxwell considered this young officer a formidable rival, and he resolved to retrieve himself at once. Upon his personal attractions he relied to overcome the lady's disfavor; and, notwithstanding the unequivocal intention of discountenancing his suit she had manifested, he resolved to open his campaign by addressing her, eloquently and tenderly, through the medium of a letter. He felt that he could in this manner gain her attention to his suit,—a point which his vanity assured him was equivalent to a victory. But his philosophy and his vanity were both sorely tried by the return of the letter unopened. His point was lost, and he was harassing his fertile brain with vain attempts to suggest any scheme short of honest, straight-forward wooing,—which the circumstances seemed to interdict,—when the visit of the lady herself rendered further efforts useless.

His position, resting, as it did, on the purpose of marrying the heiress,—a purpose too deeply incorporated with his future prospects to be resigned,—was now a desperate one. Through the long vista of struggles and difficulties he saw his end, and the fact that he had to some extent compromised his heart stimulated him still more to meet and overcome the barriers that environed him.

For an hour after the lady's departure the young lawyer pondered the obstacles which beset him. With the aspect of an angry rather than a disappointed man, he paced the office with rapid and irregular strides. He could devise no expedient. A lady's will is absolute, and he must bend in submission. He blamed his own tardiness one moment, and his precipitancy the next; then he cursed his ill luck, and vented his anger and disappointment in a volley of oaths.

His meditations were again interrupted, by his attendant's announcement of "Mr. Dumont."

"Ah, good-morning, sir! I was just on the point of going to Bellevue. Nothing serious has happened, I trust," said Maxwell, laying aside, with no apparent effort, his troubled visage, and assuming his usual bland demeanor.

"Nothing," replied the visitor, gruffly.

"Your niece left the office an hour since," continued Maxwell. "She requested me immediately to visit your brother."

"Which you have not done," returned the visitor, whom we will style Jaspar, to distinguish him from his brother, Colonel Dumont.

"But which I intend to do at once, a little matter having detained me longer than I supposed it would."

"I will save you the trouble. The business upon which my brother wished to see you was concerning his will."

"Indeed, sir! I hope he is not dangerously ill," said Maxwell, in apparent alarm.

"Not at all. The doctor says he will be out in a week; but he thinks otherwise, and is now engaged in putting his house in order," replied Jaspar, with a sickly smile.

"I am glad he is no worse, though it is better at all times to be prepared for the final event."

"Perhaps it is," said Jaspar, coldly. "Here is a rough draught of the will, which he wishes reduced to the usual form with all possible haste. Will it take you long?"

"An hour or two."

"I will wait, then, as he requested me to bring you with me on my return."

"It shall be done with all possible haste. There are cigars, and the morning papers. Pray make yourself comfortable."

Jaspar seated himself, and lit a cigar, without acknowledging his host's courtesy, while Maxwell applied himself to the task before him. The first part of the will was speedily written; but those parts which alluded to the testator's daughter, foreshadowing the opulence that awaited her, he could not so easily pass over. They were so strongly suggestive of the fortunate lot of him who should wed her, that he could scarcely proceed with the work. An hour before, she had veiled his prospects in darkness; now he was preparing a will which would, at no distant day, place her in possession of a princely fortune. His mind was so firmly fixed upon the attainment of this treasure that it refused to bend itself to the task before him.

Jaspar had finished his cigar, and began to be a little impatient. Thrice he rose from his chair, and looked over the lawyer's shoulder.

"This is an important paper," said Maxwell, noticing Jaspar's impatience, "and must be executed with great care."

"So it is; but the colonel may die before you get it done," observed Jaspar, coarsely, and with a crafty smile, which was not unnoticed by the attorney.

"O, no! I hope not," replied Maxwell, exhibiting the prototype of Jaspar's smile.

A smile! What is it? What volumes are conveyed in a single smile! It is the magnetic telegraph by which sympathetic hearts convey their untold and unmentionable purposes. To the anxious lover it is the bearer of the first tidings of joy. Long before the heart dare resort to coarse, material words, the smile carries the messages of affection. To the villain it reveals the sympathetic purposes of his according fiend. What the lead and line are to the pilot, the smile, the cunning, dissembling smile, is to the base mind. By means of it he feels his way into the heart and soul of his supposed prototype.

Maxwell knew enough of human character to read correctly the meaning of Jaspar's crafty smile. The attorney had long known that he was cold and unfeeling, a bear in his deportment, and sadly lacking in common integrity; but that he was capable of bold and daring villany he had had no occasion to suspect. As he turned to the document again, the base character of the uncle came up for consideration in connection with his suit to the niece. Might not this circumstance open the way to the attainment of his grand purpose?

But, while he considers, let us turn our attention to the development of the history and circumstances of the Dumont family.

CHAPTER II.

"Lorenzo. You loved, and he did love!
Mariana. To say he did
Were to affirm what oft his eyes avouched,
What many an action testified—and yet,
What wanted confirmation of his tongue."
KNOWLES.

On the right bank of the Mississippi river, a few miles above New Orleans, was situated the plantation of Colonel Dumont, which he had chosen to designate by the expressive appellation of "Bellevue;" though, it would seem, from the level nature of the country, it could not have been chosen on account of any fitness in the term.

In territorial extent, in the number of slaves employed, and in the quantity of sugar annually produced, the plantation of Colonel Dumont was one of the most important on the river. This fact, added to the possession of immense estates in the city, rendered its owner a man of no small consequence in the vicinity. But, more than this, Colonel Dumont was beloved and respected for his many good qualities of mind and heart. In the late war with England he had served in the army, and as an officer had won an enviable distinction by his courage and his talents. Coming unexpectedly into the possession of this estate by the death of an uncle, he retired, at the close of the war, from a profession to which a genuine patriotism alone had invited him, and devoted himself entirely to the improvement of his lands.

Colonel Dumont had been married; but, after a single year of happiness in the conjugal state, his wife died, leaving him an only daughter in remembrance of her. This child, at the opening of the tale, was within a few years of maturity,—the image of her father's only love,—not less fair, not less pure and good.

Emily Dumont was a beautiful girl, fair as the lily, gentle as the dove. She was of a medium height, and of slender and graceful form. Her step was light and elastic, and, if there was any poetry in her light, elegant form, there was more in her easy, fairy-like motion. Her features were as daintily moulded as her form. Her eye was light blue, soft, and beautifully expressive of a pure heart. She was a little paler than the connoisseur in female loveliness would demand in his ideal, and her expression was a little inclined to sadness; but it was a sadness—or rather a sweet dignity—more winning than repulsive to the gazer.

Emily Dumont, highly as fortune had favored her in the bestowal of worldly goods and personal beauty, was still more blessed in the gifts of an expansive mind and a gentle heart; and mind and heart had both been faithfully cultivated by the assiduous care of her devoted father. She was a true woman,—not a mere plaything to while away a dandy's idle hours, not a piece of tinsel to adorn the parlor of a nabob, but a true woman,—one fitted by nature and education to adorn all the varied scenes of life. Although brought up in unclouded prosperity, amid luxury and affluence, she was still prepared for the day of adversity, if it should ever come.

As the heiress of immense wealth, her hand was eagerly sought in the aristocratic circle around her; but thus far she had resisted all these attacks upon her heart, and upon her prospective riches. In the crowd of suitors who gathered around her was Anthony Maxwell. In the item of wealth his fortune was comparatively small; and in that of a noble character, smaller still. Emily could have forgiven him the want of the former, but the latter was imperatively demanded. At the young lawyer's return from the North, and on his first appearance at the bar, Emily had regarded him with more than ordinary attention. But, after the death of his father, the reports which reached her ears of his dissolute habits and inclinations caused her to regard him with distrust. His wit, accomplishments and native suavity, had procured him admission into the circle of her more favored friends. But the report of his vices had as promptly produced his expulsion.

The return of the army from Mexico brought with it the young officer whom we have before mentioned. The father of this young man had been a companion-in-arms of Colonel Dumont, and a strong friendship had grown up between the veterans. The tie was severed only by the death of the former, after a life of mercantile misfortunes, and finally of utter ruin. At the period of the father's insolvency and death, Henry Carroll, the son, was a cadet at West Point, and was about abandoning his chosen profession, for the want of means, when Colonel Dumont wrote him an affectionate letter, offering all that he required to complete his studies. This offer, coming from one who had been a heavy loser by his father's bankruptcy, was highly appreciated, and the young student had allowed no false delicacy to prevent his acceptance of the generous proposal, though with a stipulation to repay all sums, with interest. Colonel Dumont, in his regular summer tour to the North, never failed to visit his young friend, whose noble bearing and lofty principle entirely won his heart, and he charged himself with a father's duty towards him. A regular correspondence was kept up between the self-constituted guardian and his protegé; and the more the former read the heart of the young man, the more did he rejoice that he had befriended him. He read with mingled pride and affection the repeated instances of his daring courage and matchless skill which found their way into the newspapers; while the record of his humanity to a fallen foe contributed to swell the tide of the old gentleman's affection.

On his return from Mexico, Henry's first care was to see his devoted friend and guardian, and he accepted his pressing invitation to spend a month at Bellevue.

As an inmate of her father's family, he was, of course, a constant companion of Emily. Her radiant beauty had captivated his heart long ere the month had expired; and he saw, or thought he saw, in the heart of the fair girl, indications of a sympathetic sentiment. In the rashness of his warm blood he had allowed himself to cherish a lively hope that his dawning love was not entirely unrequited. He had seen that his bouquet was more fondly cherished than the offerings of others; that his hand, as she alighted from the carriage, was more gladly received than any other; that his conversation never wearied her; in short, there was in all their intercourse an unmistakable exponent of feelings deeper than those of common friendship.

In the midst of this delighted existence,—while yet he revelled in the pleasure of loving and being loved,—there came to him, like a dark cloud over a clear sky, the unwelcome thought that it was wrong for him to entangle the affections of his benefactor's daughter. He was a beggar,—the object of her father's charity. Her prospects were brilliant and certain, and he felt that he had no right to mar or destroy them. He knew that she would love him none the less for his poverty; but, probably, her father had already anticipated something better than a beggar for his future son-in-law.

Poor Captain Carroll! The modesty of true greatness of soul had left unconsidered the genuine nobility of the man. He thought not of the name he had won on the field of battle,—of the honorable wounds he bore as testimonials of his devotion to his country. He was poor, and, in the despondency which his position induced, he attributed to wealth a value which to the truly good it never possesses.

He loved Emily, and his poverty seemed to shut him out from the hallowed field to which his heart fondly sought admission.

Henry Carroll was a high-minded man; he felt that to love the daughter while the father's views were unknown to him would be rank ingratitude; and ingratitude towards so good a man, so kind a benefactor, was repugnant to every principle of his nature. There was but one path open to him. If he could not help loving her, he could strive to prevent the loved one from squandering her affections where pain and sorrow might ensue. They had often met; but he strove to believe, in his unwilling zeal, that their intimacy had not yet resulted in an incurable passion. She had as yet shown nothing that could not have resulted from simple friendship. And yet she had,—the warm glow that adorned her cheek when she received his flower, the expressive glance of her soft eye as he assisted her to the carriage, the sweet smile with which she had always greeted him,—ah, no, these were not friendship! I He could not believe that his affection was unreturned; it was too precious to remain unacknowledged. The will and the heart would not conform to each other. But his duty seemed plain, and he did not hesitate to obey its call, though it demanded a great sacrifice.

The month to which he had limited his visit at Bellevue expired about the period at which our tale begins. Inclination prompted him to accept the pressing invitation of Colonel Dumont to prolong his stay; but, bitter as was the thought of parting from her he loved, his nice sense of honor compelled him to be firm in his purpose.

The announcement of his intended departure to Emily, as they were seated in the drawing-room on the designated day, afforded him another evidence that her heart was not untouched. Her pale cheek grew paler, and the playful smile was instantly dismissed.

"So soon?" said she, scarcely able to conceal the tremulous emotion which agitated her.

"So soon! I have finished the month allotted to me," replied Henry Carroll, with a weak effort to appear gayer than he felt.

"Allotted to you! And pray are you stinted in the length of your visit?"

"My orders will not permit a longer stay, happy as I should be to remain; and I have already trespassed long on your hospitality."

"Indeed, Henry, you have grown sensitive! You were not wont to consider your visits a trespass. Pray, have you not been regarded as one of the family?"

"True, I have. I can never repay the debt of gratitude for the many kindnesses I have received at your good father's hands."

"He has been a thousand times repaid by the honorable life you have led,—by feeling that the talents he has encouraged you to foster are now blessing the world," replied Emily, warmly; "so no more of your gratitude, if you please."

"However lightly you, or your father, may regard my obligations to him, I cannot view them coldly."

"Well, then, your presence here will give him more pleasure than any other token of respect you can bestow; and, I am sure, I should be rejoiced—that is to say—that is—I should be glad to have you stay longer, if you can be contented," stammered Emily, as her mantling blushes betrayed her confusion. Deception was not in her nature, and, strive as hard as she might, she must reveal her feelings.

"I should be happier than it is possible for me to express in remaining at Bellevue. My month has passed away like a dream of pleasure,—so short it seemed that time had staid his wheels,—so joyous that earth seemed shorn of sorrow. You know not how much I have enjoyed the society of your father, and, pardon me, of yourself," returned Henry, scarcely less confused than Emily.

"I am glad to hear you say so," she replied, with some hesitation, and fearful of exposing the sentiment she was conscious of cherishing. "I have thought that, accustomed as you are to the stirring life of the camp, you had grown tired of our quiet home."

"You wrong me, Emily, I should never weary here; but I was fearful that I had already staid too long," said Henry, in a sad tone, for he felt it most deeply, though not in the sense that Emily understood him.

"Too long! Then you are weary of us, and I will not chide you forbidding us adieu," said Emily, with a glance of anxiety at Henry.

"Nay, Miss Dumont, do not misinterpret my words. I am not weary, I cannot be weary, of Bellevue and its fair and good inmates."

"Then what mean you by saying you have staid too long?"

"Pardon me, I cannot tell why I said it; but I feel that I should do wrong to prolong my stay, however congenial to my feelings to do so," replied Henry, with the most evident embarrassment.

"How strange you talk, Henry! What mystery is this?" said Emily, to whom prudential motives were unknown.

"If it be a mystery, pray do not press me to unravel it, for I cannot."

His resolution was fast giving way before the strength of his love. He was sorely tempted to throw himself at her feet and pour forth the acknowledgment of his affection, which, he felt, would be kindly received. It was a difficult position for a man of sensitive feelings to be placed in, and he felt it keenly. But the duty he owed to his benefactor seemed imperative.

Emily, on her part, was sadly bewildered by the strangeness of Henry's words; but she had no suspicion of the truth. If she had, perhaps, with a woman's ingenuity, she had devised some plan to extricate him from the dilemma. She was conscious of the strong interest she felt in the man before her; but the fact that she loved him was yet unrecognized. How should it be? She was unskilled in the subtleties even of her own heart. She know not the meaning of love yet. She was conscious of a grateful sensation in her heart; but she had yet to learn that this sensation was that called love in the great world. She began to fear, in her inability to account for Henry's strangeness in any other way, that some secret sorrow weighed heavily upon him.

"I will not press you," said she, in a tone of affectionate sympathy; "but, if you have any sorrow which oppresses you, reveal it to my father, and take counsel against it. My father's house is your home,—at least, we have always endeavored to make it so. Father has always regarded you with the affection of a parent, and taught me to consider you as a brother—"

"A brother!" interrupted Henry, feeling that the relation of brother and sister was too cold for the warmth of his affection; but, instantly banishing the unworthy thought, he continued,

"And so, my pretty sister, you are for the first time entering upon your sisterly relations?"

"The first time! Have I not always given you evidence of a sister's esteem?"

"Pardon me. I only jested," said Henry, as the playful smile left his countenance.

"Do not jest upon serious things, Henry," replied Emily. "But, brother, something troubles you. You cannot deny it. You look so gloomy and sad, and must leave us so suddenly."

"Nay, my sweet sister,—since sister I am permitted to call you,—you must forgive me if I am obstinate just this once."

"I will forgive your obstinacy because you desire it, and not because I am satisfied. Do you know, brother," said she, with a playful smile, "that I suspect you are in love?"

This raillery was intended to have been uttered with a pert archness; but the crimson cheek and tremulous lips entirely defeated the intention.

"Fie, sister! You are jesting now, yourself," replied Henry, with what was intended for a smile, but which, like his assailant's archness, was a signal failure.

Both parties were now in the most unfortunate position imaginable. Neither dared to speak, for fear of disclosing their emotions. Both felt the awkwardness of the silence, and both felt the danger of breaking it. Henry twirled the tassel of the window drapery, and Emily twisted her pocket-handkerchief into every conceivable shape. Henry was the first to gather fortitude enough to venture a remark.

"I must leave you, sister, now that, for the first time, the relation is acknowledged. I assure you, however, that I appreciate the sisterly kindness you have always lavished upon me. And I shall always remember this visit as the happiest period of my life."

"Then I may hope you will often repeat it," replied Emily, sadly.

"However pleasant it would be for me to do so, I fear my duty will be a barrier to my inclination. My future post, you are aware, is Newport."

"And you depart so suddenly, and then seem inclined to make your absence perpetual! But we shall see you where-ever you are. We go to Newport this season, if father's health will permit," returned Emily, with a playful pout.

"I would stay by you,—that is, I would stay at Bellevue forever,—if my duty to your father—I mean to my country—would permit," stammered Henry, much agitated, as he rose to depart.

"I must go and bid farewell to your father," continued he, taking her hand, which he perceived trembled violently, in his own; "and I trust you will remember your absent brother—" kindly, he was about to say, but Emily, attempting to rise, was overpowered by the emotions which she had vainly striven to suppress, and sunk back in a swoon.

Henry summoned assistance, and applied the usual restoratives, but he did not again venture to address her; and, as her pale features exhibited signs of returning consciousness, he hurried from the room.

As the hour of his departure drew near, he bade an affectionate farewell to Colonel Dumont, who was confined to his room by illness. His kind friend used many entreaties for him to prolong his stay, but Henry pleaded his duty, and that the dying request of a brother officer required him to take a journey into Georgia, which would consume some three or four weeks' time. He intended to go to his future station by the way of the Mississippi, and promised that, if any time were left him on his return, he would again visit Bellevue. This, however, he thought was improbable.

Colonel Dumont gave his protegé much good advice, and, as his failing health had infected his usually cheerful spirits, he said that they would probably meet no more in this world. He frankly told him that he should remember him in his will, and wished him ever to regard Emily in the relation of a sister.

This last wish seemed like a positive prohibition of the fond hope he had cherished, of regarding her in a nearer and more tender relation. He congratulated himself on the decision with which he had resisted the temptation to avow his love.

This injunction of Emily's father could be interpreted in two ways,—as a requirement to preserve the present friendly relations, or as a prohibition against his ever making her his wife. The latter method of rendering his meaning seemed to him the most in accordance with their relative positions, and he was compelled to adopt it.

After renewing his thanks to his benefactor, he took his leave with a sad heart, and departed from the mansion which contained his newly-found yet now rejected love.

CHAPTER III.

"Macbeth.—What is 't ye do?
Witches.—A deed without a name."
Shakespeare.

In the management of his estates, Colonel Dumont had, for many years, been assisted by an only brother. This brother was directly the opposite of himself in character, in aims, in everything. Even in his childhood this brother had displayed a waywardness of disposition which gave the promise of much evil in his future years. As the seed sown so was the harvest. Parental instruction, counsel and rebuke, were alike unavailing, and he attained the years of manhood morose and unsympathizing in his disposition, avaricious and hard with his equals, and cruel and unjust towards his inferiors. His selfish mind, his low aims, and his tyrannical character, had long been preparing him for deeds of villany and injustice.

In the earlier years of his life he had been a merchant in New Orleans; but, being universally detested for his meanness and duplicity, in a season of general panic in the financial world he was completely ruined, by the want of those kind offices which are so freely interchanged in the mercantile community. In this dilemma, he asked his brother's assistance. Colonel Dumont examined his affairs, and, considering his position in the community, with the almost hopeless embarrassment of his concerns, concluded that success under these circumstances was impossible. He frankly and kindly informed his brother of his conclusion, and offered him a share in his planting operations. His brother—Jaspar—was sorely wounded in his pride by this reply. It generated in him a sentiment, if not of malignity, at least of hatred, and from that day he was his brother's enemy. Jaspar's business was gone, and he never allowed his spirit of revenge even to interfere with his interest; so he availed himself of his brother's offer.

Colonel Dumont trusted much to the gentle influence of his family circle to soften Jaspar's moroseness, and infuse some principle of charity and love. But these anticipations proved vain. He was cold and taciturn. Business alone could call forth the display of his energy, of which he was possessed of a liberal share. The society of Emily and other ladies he seemed to shun. The gentle influence of domestic life seemed entirely wasted upon him. Colonel Dumont was forced to believe his brother a misanthrope, and no longer strove to soften his character. Emily regarded his coldness as his natural manner, and left him to the full enjoyment of his eccentricity. Between persons of such opposite dispositions there could be, of course, but little sympathy, and that little was entirely upon one side.

The demon of Jaspar's nature displayed itself in the cane-field and in the sugar-house, which Colonel Dumont rarely visited, having intrusted the entire management of the estate to him, his own attention being occupied by the exterior business of the plantation, and by his city possessions. The poor negro, who was compelled to submit to cruel usage and short fare, knew Jaspar's nature better than uncle or niece. His advent among them had been the era from which they dated the life of misery they led—a life so different from that they had been accustomed to under the superintendence of the more Christian brother.

Jaspar Dumont managed the "negro stock" in the true spirit of a demon, and as such the "hands" learned to regard him. Runaways, which, under the mild management of his brother, were rarely known, were common now; and almost the only amusement Jaspar knew was to hunt them down with rifle and bloodhound.

This state of things Colonel Dumont saw, but he did not appreciate the reason of it. Himself a rigid disciplinarian, he wished not to interfere, though the cruelty of Jaspar pained his heart. His failing health had latterly withdrawn his attention still more from the plantation, and Jaspar drew the reins the tighter when he saw that the humane eye was removed from him.

Such was Jaspar Dumont, whom we left in Maxwell's office at the close of our first chapter.

On the day succeeding the departure of Henry Carroll, Colonel Dumont felt himself much weaker in body, and was fully impressed with the conviction that his final sickness had laid its hand upon him. To Emily he had not communicated these gloomy forebodings, and she had discovered no alarming symptoms in his illness. She had no suspicion of the nature of her father's business with Maxwell, and had borne his message to the attorney, as she had often done before, in her frequent visits to New Orleans, though on this occasion, as may be supposed, she felt much delicacy in doing so.

In her absence Colonel Dumont had become more and more impressed with the omens of a speedy dissolution, and in his uneasiness had despatched Jaspar with a draft of his intentions, wishing the attorney to write the will in his office (where he could have his authorities at hand), and return with his brother.

Maxwell considered the will and his own position, while Jaspar lit another cigar. Each was striving to penetrate the thoughts of the other, but neither had the boldness to enter upon the subject which occupied his mind. The lawyer wanted the lady and the fortune, and he had an undefined purpose of obtaining them through the agency of Jaspar, who wanted only the fortune, and had a decided anticipation of being able to retain the attorney in his service. Neither knew the purposes of the other; but each wanted the assistance of the other.

Maxwell, with an absent mind, perused and reperused the first page of Colonel Dumont's instructions. Without a purpose he turned the leaf, and his attention was attracted by the name of his formidable rival, Henry Carroll. He read, with astonishment, a bequest to him of fifty thousand dollars. If it needed anything to complete his discomfiture, this was sufficient. He began to think Colonel Dumont was in his dotage. He had scarcely heard of Captain Carroll until his return from Mexico, and now he was a legatee in the will of a millionaire. With much anxiety he completed the reading of the instructions, fearful that he should find the young officer's name in connection with Emily's. To his great relief he found no such allusion, and again he applied himself to the task of writing out the will.

Jaspar smoked his cigar, glanced occasionally at the newspaper, and stared out of the window. He was evidently lost to all around him, in the workings of his own mind. Now his thoughts seemed to excite him, for his eye glared with an unusual lustre, and his thin lips moved, as if they would disclose the operations of his mind. "Will he do it?" muttered he. "He shall do it, or by —— he shall suffer! I have the means of compelling him. I will use them."

Apparently satisfied with his conclusion, he rose hastily and approached the attorney. A smooth smile—an unwonted expression on his features—seemed to come on demand. Again he looked over the lawyer's shoulder. He saw the name of Henry Carroll, and his former severe expression returned, and his frame was stirred by angry emotions. A half-suppressed oath did not escape the quick ear of the attorney, and he turned to observe the face of his companion. He read at a glance the dissatisfaction which the will occasioned. The reason was plain; and, with the intention of drawing out Jaspar's views, he addressed him.

"This Carroll is a lucky fellow," said he.

"The devil is always the luckiest fellow in the crowd," growled Jaspar, with an oath.

"You are right, sir," returned Maxwell, pleased to see no better feeling between his rival and the uncle.

"But who is this Carroll?" said he.

"A hungry cub, whom the colonel has helped along in the world."

"Well, he has proved himself a brave and skilful officer, and reflects credit on your brother's judgment in the selection of a protegé," returned Maxwell, adroitly.

"The fellow is all well enough, for aught I know, but he has wheedled the colonel out of fifty thousand dollars, and I can never forgive him for that," said Jaspar, in what was intended for a playful tone, but which was designed as a "feeler" of the attorney's conscience.

"But there is still an immense property left, even after deducting the liberal charitable donations," said Maxwell.

"There is, but where does it go to? That whining young cub has divided a hundred thousand with me, and the silly girl has the rest."

"Which will eventually go into the hands of Captain Carroll,—lucky dog, he!" returned Maxwell, striving to provoke Jaspar still more.

"What! what mean you, man?" said Jaspar, with a scowl, as he caught a glimpse of the attorney's meaning.

"Is it possible, my dear sir," said Maxwell, laying down his pen, and turning half round, "is it possible you have not observed the intimacy which has grown up between this Carroll and your niece?"

"Intimacy! what do you mean? Speak out! no equivocation!" said Jaspar, almost fiercely.

"Do you not see that she will yet be the wife of Captain Carroll?"

Jaspar scowled, but said nothing. He had seen nothing from which he could draw such an inference, but he doubted not the information was correct.

"Well, well, it matters not. He may as well have it as she," muttered he. "This will suits me not, and must be broken or altered."

"It is hard upon you," said Maxwell, who had overheard Jaspar's mutterings.

"It is rather hard to be placed upon the same level with a comparative stranger," replied Jaspar, thoughtfully, after a long pause. He had not intended the lawyer should hear his previous remarks, and had reflected whether he should disown them, or pursue the subject as thus opened.

"Of course you will not mention the idle remark I made," continued Jaspar, in a vein of prudence. "My brother has an undoubted right to dispose of his property as he pleases."

"O, certainly. What transpires in my office is always regarded with the strictest confidence, whatever its nature, and however it affects any individual," replied Maxwell, laying peculiar emphasis on the latter clause.

"That's right, always be secret," said Jaspar, without any of the appearance of obligation for the favor which the attorney expected to see.

"I have secrets in my possession which would ruin some of the best families in the State of Louisiana."

"Without doubt," replied Jaspar, coldly.

The attorney resumed his writing, and pronounced in an audible tone each sentence as he committed it to the paper.

"To my beloved brother—Jaspar Dumont—I give and bequeath the sum of fifty thousand dollars."

These words, as intended, again fired Jaspar's passions.

"Is there no remedy for this?" asked he, hastily.

"No legal remedy," replied Maxwell, indifferently, as he continued his task.

"Is there any, legal or illegal?"

"None that an honest man would be willing to resort to."

"That any man would resort to?" and Jaspar was not a little provoked at the attorney's moral inferences.

"I know of none."

"I do."

"Then why do you not put it into operation before it is too late? The will is now nearly written."

"Pshaw! man; you do not understand me. A bolder step than you are thinking of."

"Well, what do you wait for?"

"I need assistance."

"If I can afford you any aid, honorably, I shall be most happy."

"Honorably! What the devil do you mean by honorably?" said Jaspar, exasperated by this unexpected display of morality.

"What do I mean by honorably? Why, anything which does not affect the legal or moral rights of others," replied Maxwell, a little touched by the seeming reflection of Jaspar.

"Fudge! how long have you been so conscientious?" sneered Jaspar.

"When a man has a reputation to make or break, it becomes him to handle it with care."

"Out upon you, man! Your reputation is not so fair, that you need be so tender of it," replied Jaspar, with some severity.

"Sir!"

"O, you needn't 'sir' me! You have led me to commit myself, and now assume a virtue you possess not."

"Sir, I value my reputation, and—"

"Of course you do, but you would not sacrifice a fortune for it," interrupted Jaspar, easily changing the tenor of the conversation.

"I certainly would not stain it unnecessarily," replied Maxwell, with a meaning smile, for he saw the folly of attempting the "high flight" with Jaspar.

"Now you talk sensibly," said Jaspar.

"Mr. Dumont, it is useless to beat about the bush any longer; if you have any proposition to make, out with it at once; and if I cannot aid you, I will, at least, keep your secret."

"Will you swear never to reveal what I shall propose?"

"Yes, if paid for it," said Maxwell, frankly.

"It is well. Now, I will put you in the way of making ten thousand dollars, if you so will," said Jaspar, slapping the attorney on the back with a familiarity which was likely to breed contempt.

This was a tempting offer, and Maxwell prepared to listen to the proposition. He was aware that it was some design upon the estate of Colonel Dumont, and he inwardly resolved to be a gainer by the operation, whether he joined in it or not.

Jaspar Dumont laid aside his sternness, and disclosed his plot to Maxwell. It was, as may be supposed, a nefarious scheme, and not only intended to deprive Henry Carroll of his legacy, but also to disinherit the heiress, and cast a stigma upon the character of his brother.

The plot we will not here disclose.

Maxwell listened attentively, occasionally interrupting the speaker, by asking for details, or pointing out dangers But the foul wrong intended towards her for whom he entertained warmer sentiments than those of friendship shocked even his hardened sensibilities, and he strongly objected to its consummation. It would also, by stripping her of her broad lands, and stigmatizing her birth, render her undesirable as a wife. But Jaspar was firm in his purpose, and refused to listen to any other scheme. This one, he contended, was the safest and surest.

"But it is a diabolical transaction," suggested Maxwell.

"Call it what you will, it is the only one that will work well."

Maxwell remained silent. He was studying to make this scheme subservient to his own purpose. He was obliged to confess to himself that his hopes with the heiress were worse than folly, and he judged that the execution of Jaspar's scheme would remove his rival. He looked forward years, and saw his own purpose gained by means of Jaspar's plan. It was true that he and Jaspar both could not have her estates; but then Jaspar was a villain, and it would be a good service, at a convenient season, to be a traitor to him. His plans were arranged, and he determined to encourage his companion to proceed, though, at the same time, to seem unwilling, and to keep his own hands clean from all participation in it.

After this long interval of silence, which Jaspar had endured with patience, for he recognized the truth of the saying, that "He who deliberates is damned," Maxwell said,

"I cannot consent to stain my hands with such gross injustice."

"You cannot!" sneered Jaspar.

"It would ruin me."

"It was part of my intention to keep the transaction a secret," said Jaspar, sarcastically.

"Of course, and your confidence in me shall not be misplaced."

Jaspar's fists were clenched, and a demoniacal expression rested on his countenance, as he said, savagely,

"You know your own interest too well to do otherwise."

"I am not to be intimidated," replied Maxwell, who despised his companion most heartily, and did not relish his tyrannical manner. "Your confidence, I repeat, is safe. Honor will keep your secret,—threats will not compel me to do so."

"Honor! ha, ha, ha!" chuckled Jaspar. "Do you know, Maxwell, that you are a —— fool, to talk to me of your honor?"

"Would you insult me, sir?" said, Maxwell, with vehemence.

"O, no, my fine fellow! Your honor!—ha, ha!" returned Jaspar, taking from his pocket a little slip of paper. "Look here, my honorable worthy, do you know this check?"

Maxwell's face assumed a livid hue, and a convulsive tremor passed through his frame, as he read the check.

In a moment of temporary embarrassment he had been tempted to forge the name of Colonel Dumont to this check, for five hundred dollars, to liquidate a debt of honor, not doubting that he should be able to obtain it again before the day of settlement at the bank, by means of a dissolute teller, a boon companion at the gaming-table. But Colonel Dumont, in arranging his affairs for their final settlement, had sent Jaspar for a statement of his bank account at an unusual time. Jaspar, who, in the illness of his brother, had managed all his business, immediately discovered the forgery. Without disputing its genuineness, he ascertained who had presented it, and traced the deed to the attorney, and thus obtained a hold upon him which was peculiarly favorable to the execution of his great purpose.

"You see I have not laid myself open to your fire without fortifying my position," said Jaspar, enjoying, with hearty relish, the discomfiture of the lawyer. "Now, no more of honor to me. I have kept your secret for my own interest, and now you will keep mine from the same motive."

"But I dare not do this thing," replied Maxwell, keenly sensitive to the weakness of his position; "I lack the ability."

"You have signed the colonel's name once very well; perhaps you can do it again," sneered Jaspar, who had no mercy for an unwilling servant.

"It will not be for your interest or mine that I should do it," returned Maxwell, determined, if possible, to avoid committing himself.

"Why not?" said Jaspar.

"My frequent visits to Bellevue would subject me to suspicion. I am known. Another would not be suspected. If I clear myself, I shall clear you at the same time. I can procure a person who will accomplish all in safety."

"Think you I will trust another man with the possession of the secret?"

"I shall compromise my own safety by writing the will, as you propose."

"True,—who is this person?"

"His name is—" and Maxwell hesitated; then a severe fit of coughing apparently prevented his uttering the name—"his name is Antoine De Guy."

"Do I know him?"

"You do, I think,—a kind of street lawyer,—you must have met him at the Exchange."

"What looking man is he?"

"About fifty years of age," replied Maxwell, more thoughtful than the simple description of a person would seem to require,—"rather corpulent, black hair and whiskers, intermixed with gray,—dresses old-fashioned, and always looks rusty."

"I do not remember him,—De Guy—De Guy," said Jaspar, musing; "no, I do not know him. Are you confident he can be trusted?"

"Perfectly confident. I pledge my own safety on his fidelity," replied Maxwell, not a little satisfied at gaining his point,—for he had a point, and a strong one, as the reader may yet have occasion to know.

"Very good,—I will inquire about him."

"And expose us both!" replied Maxwell, in much alarm.

"True,—on reflection, it would not be wise, and it would be best for you and I not to be seen together. But finish the will; the colonel will not relish my long absence. A word more: do not say anything about this will. The colonel has a fancy to keep it secret, and this fancy will be the salvation of our scheme."

But we will not follow the conversation any further. The reader has obtained a sufficient knowledge of these worthies from their own mouths, to believe them capable of any villany they may be called upon to perpetrate.

The plot was further arranged in all its details. A meeting with De Guy was fixed for the next day, when all parties were to be prepared to act their parts.

CHAPTER IV.

"He is a man, setting his fate aside,
Of comely virtues;
Nor did he soil the fact with cowardice,
But with a noble fury and a fair spirit
He did oppose his foe."
Shakespeare.

Colonel Dumont's melancholy forebodings proved to be too well grounded, for in ten days after the departure of Henry Carroll he breathed his last, not fully ripe in years, but mature in the stature of a good man. His worldly affairs had all been arranged, and with his mind at peace with God and man he bade a final adieu to his weeping daughter and dissembling brother, and calmly resigned his spirit to its Author.

The mansion of Colonel Dumont had been the abode of happiness. Cheerfulness and contentment—rare visitors at the home of opulence—dwelt gracefully amid the luxurious splendor of this house. But now a heavy stroke of affliction had come upon the devoted Emily. The ruthless hand of death had struck down her father in the midst of prosperity and happiness. She felt that she was alone in the world. Her unsympathizing uncle seemed not to feel the loss, but appeared even more cold and churlish than ever. She could not expect from him the offices of kindness and sympathy. She was an orphan, but not till she was prepared to combat with the trials of life. Recognizing the hand of Providence in this visitation of the Angel of Death, she bowed meekly and submissively to the Master Will, and was even cheerful and happy in her tears.

It was about ten o'clock on the night succeeding the funeral of Colonel Dumont that a small canoe, containing a single individual, touched at the bank of the river near the now gloomy mansion. Leaping from the canoe, which was nearly swamped by the act, the person it had contained drew the frail bark beyond the reach of the rapid current, and ascended the steep bank. Following the smooth shell road through the long vista of negro huts, he reached the little grove of tropical trees which surrounded the proprietary mansion. Casting an anxious glance around him, to satisfy himself that he was not watched, he cautiously approached the only illuminated window on that side of the house, upon which, after a close scrutiny of the interior of the room, he gave several light taps. This signal was answered by Jaspar Dumont, who, with a word of caution, opened the window. The stranger, with a light spring which belied his apparent years, gained the interior of the room, which was the library of the late owner.

The person who had thus obtained admission was the lawyer, Antoine De Guy, whom Maxwell had suggested as a fit agent for the execution of Jaspar's scheme. He was certainly an odd-looking man. His face was of a very dark red color, much like that which is produced by the united effects of exposure and intemperance, and was encircled by a pair of black whiskers, intermixed with gray. His cranium was ornamented with a huge mass of the same parti-colored hair. His fiery red nose was placed in strange contrast with a pair of green spectacles, which entirely concealed the color and expression of his eyes. His clothes were of a most primitive cut, and had probably been black once, but were now rusty and white from long service. His form was portly, a little inclined to corpulency. His hands were most unprofessionally dirty; but this might have been occasioned by contact with the canoe in his passage. On one of his fingers glittered a diamond ring, which, considering the lack of ornaments in other respects, but ill accorded with the apparent parsimony of the man. It might, however, have been obtained in the way of trade, for Maxwell had hinted that he did business under the sign of the "three golden balls." He was apparently in the neighborhood of five-and-forty, and looked like the debauchee in the face, while his dress indicated the penurious man of business.

"Did any one see you?" asked Jaspar, whose teeth were chattering with apprehension, notwithstanding his natural boldness.

"Not that I am aware of," replied De Guy, in a silky tone, which, proceeding from such a form, would have astonished the listener.

"You met no one?" interrogated the anxious Jaspar.

"Not a soul! Everything was still."

"Let us be sure of it. Step into this room for a moment. I will see that all the servants have retired," said Jaspar, pushing his confederate into an adjoining apartment.

A light pull at the bell-rope brought to the library the body-servant of the late planter.

This "boy," who was known by the name of Hatchie, was a mulatto. He was about forty years of age, and, having never been reduced to labor in the cane-fields, bore his age remarkably well. He was about six feet in height, very stout built, and was endowed with immense physical strength. His brow was a little wrinkled, and his head was a little bald upon the top,—and these were the only evidences of his years. His expression was that of great intelligence. In his countenance there was a kind of humility, to which his demeanor corresponded, that might have resulted from his condition, or have been inherent in his nature. He was a man who, even in a land of slavery, would be instinctively respected.

He had been a great favorite with his late master, in whose family he had spent the greater part of his life. By being constantly in attendance upon him and his guests, he had acquired a much greater amount of information than is often found in those of his condition. He could read and write, and by his intelligence and singular fidelity had proved a valuable addition to his master's household. Possessing his confidence, and regarded more as a friend than a slave by Emily, he was a privileged person in the house,—a confidence which in no instance did he abuse, and which in no degree abated his affection or his fidelity.

Hatchie was not a phrenologist, but he had long ago acquired a perfect knowledge of Jaspar's character,—a knowledge which his master or Emily had never obtained.

Hatchie considered Emily, now that her father was dead, as his own especial charge, and he watched over her, in the disparity of their stations, very much as a faithful dog watches over a child intrusted to its keeping. Towards her he entertained a sentiment of the profoundest respect as his mistress, and of parental affection as one who had grown up under his eye.

"Hatchie," said Jaspar, as the mulatto entered the library, "are the hands all in?"

"Yes, sir," replied Hatchie, whose penetrating mind detected the tremulous quiver of Jaspar's lip; "all in two hours ago, according to regulations."

"All right, then. You can go to bed now."

"Yes, sir," replied Hatchie, with his customary obeisance, as he turned to depart.

"Stay a moment. Go to Miss Emily, and get the keys of the secretary," said Jaspar, with assumed carelessness.

Hatchie obeyed; and, suspecting something before, he was confirmed in the opinion now, and determined to watch. His suspicions of something—he knew not what—had been excited by seeing Maxwell in earnest consultation with Jaspar on the day of the funeral. He had, of course, no idea of the plots of the latter; but, in common with all the "boys," he hated Jaspar, and was willing to know more of his transactions.

Giving the keys to Jaspar, he left the room, and heard the creaking of the bolt which fastened the door.

As soon as the servant had departed, Jaspar called his confederate from his concealment.

"Are you ready for business?" said he.

"I am," replied De Guy, "as soon as you pay me the first instalment. I can't take a single step in the dark."

"Here it is," and Jaspar took from his pocket the money. "Have you the document?"

"I have," replied De Guy, producing the fictitious will, which Maxwell had drawn up in conformity with the instructions of Jaspar.

"And you are ready to affix the signature?" said Jaspar, who appeared not to be in the possession of his usual confidence. Few villains ever become so hardened as never to tremble.

"I am. I came for that purpose. Give me the genuine will, and I will soon make this one so near like it that the witnesses themselves shall not discover the cheat," replied De Guy, with an air of confidence.

"You shall have it; but first read this to me. I do nothing blindly."

The attorney, in his silky tones, read the paper through, and Jaspar pronounced it correct in every particular.

"I see nothing in the way of entire success," said Jaspar, rubbing his hands with delight at his prospective fortune.

"Nor I," replied De Guy, "except that these witnesses will deny the substance of it."

"How can they, when they know it not? The colonel, for some reason or other, would not let them read it or know its purport. Maxwell and myself are pledged to secrecy. It is upon this fact that I based the scheme."

"But the will would not be worth a tittle in the law with such witnesses."

"Bah! the colonel knew no one would contest it. He did it at his own risk."

"But will they not contest your will?"

"If they do, I shall find the means of proving what the document affirms, and my case will then stand just as well. As a kind of assurance for the witnesses my brother affixed a character,—a kind of cabalistic design,—upon the will, assuring them it was placed on the will alone. You have a copy of this design?"

"I have. Maxwell gave it to me, and I have practised till I can do it to perfection. Your brother had an odd way of doing business."

"He had; but his oddity in this instance is a God-send."

"But the other document, Mr. Dumont! My stay is already too long!"

Jaspar, taking the keys from the table, opened the secretary, and took from a small iron safe in the lower part of it a large packet, on which were several large masses of wax bearing the impress of Colonel Dumont's seal.

"Now, De Guy," said he, "do your best."

"Do not fear! I never yet saw a name I could not imitate."

"So much the better; but be careful, I entreat you! Think how much depends upon care!"

"O, I can do it so nicely that your brother himself would not deny it, if he should step out of his grave!"

"Silence, man!" said Jaspar, angrily, as a superstitious thrill of terror crept through his veins.

Jaspar took up the packet, and was about to snap the seals, when, quicker than thought, the window through which De Guy had entered flew open, and Hatchie leaped into the room. Without giving Jaspar or his accomplice time to recover from the surprise of his sudden entrance, he levelled a blow at the lawyer, and another at the perfidious brother, which placed both in a rather awkward position on the floor. Hatchie then seized the envelope containing the will, and made his escape in the manner he had entered, well knowing that Jaspar would not hesitate to take his life rather than be foiled in his purpose.

The mulatto's blows produced no serious effect upon the heads of the two villains, and, recovering from the surprise and shock the act had occasioned, they lost not a moment in pursuing their assailant. Hatchie directed his course to the river, and scarcely a moment had elapsed before he heard the steps of his pursuers. Leaping down the bank, he ran along by the edge of the water, with the intention of reaching a boat which he knew was moored a few rods further down. In his flight, however, he discovered the canoe in which De Guy had arrived, and, casting it off, he paddled with astonishing rapidity towards the opposite shore.

His pursuers reached the bank, and perceiving the canoe through the darkness, Jaspar discharged his rifle at it. A heavy splash followed the discharge. The canoe appeared to float at the mercy of the current. Jaspar and De Guy, satisfied that the rifle-ball had done its work, hastened down stream to a small point of land which projected into the river, with the hope of securing the canoe and the body of the slave, upon which they expected to find the will. The canoe was driven ashore, as they had anticipated; but it contained not the objects for which they sought. The corpse of Hatchie was nowhere to be found, though they paddled about the river an hour in search of it,—not that the body of the mulatto was of any consequence, but in the hope of obtaining the precious will.

Here was a contingency for which Jaspar was wholly unprepared. The original signature of the will was not now available, and they must trust to luck for accuracy in signing the false one. There was little difficulty in this, as the will was known to have been signed in the usual manner, and the private character they had in their possession. Still Jaspar felt that the original paper afforded the surer means of deceiving the witnesses. They had before intended to produce a fac-simile, mechanically, of the original,—a purpose which could not now be accomplished. The witnesses were all friends of Colonel Dumont, and they had various papers signed by them from which to copy their signatures. The worst, and to Jaspar's daring mind the only difficulty which now presented itself, was the fear that the body of Hatchie might be found, and the genuine will thus brought to light. After much reflection and consultation with De Guy, he determined to risk all, to watch for the body, and be prepared to overcome any obstacle which might be presented. With this conclusion they returned to the library. By the aid of old notes, checks, and other papers, the fictitious will was duly signed, the significant character affixed, and the document enveloped so as to exactly resemble the original packet.

The whole transaction was so well performed that Jaspar retired to his pillow confident of success, to await the result on the morrow, when the will was to be read.

CHAPTER V.

"Is this the daughter of a slave? I know
'Tis not with men as shrubs and trees, that by
The shoot you know the rank and order of
The stem. Yet who from such a stem would look
For such a shoot?"
Knowles.

The morrow came. Emily was summoned to the library, to hear the reading of her father's will. With her no worldly consideration could mitigate the deep grief that pervaded her heart. She derived her only consolation from a purer, higher source. She was a true mourner, and the acquisition of the immense fortune of which she was the heiress was not an event which could heal the wound in her heart. She looked not forward to the bright scenes of triumph and of conquest that awaited her. She was not dazzled by the brilliancy of the position to which wealth and an honorable name entitled her. Such thoughts never occurred to her. She did think of Henry Carroll; but not in the proud situation to which her wealth might elevate him, but as a pure heart that would beat in unison with her own, that would sympathize with her in her hour of sorrow; as one who would mingle his tears with hers, over the bier of a common parent. She was not sentimental in her love, nor in her grief. Sighs and tears with her were not a sentimental commodity,—an offering which the boarding-school miss makes alike at the altar of her love, or at the shrine of a dead parent's memory. The desolation of heart and home was not a trial which wealth and honors could adorn with tinsel, and thus render it desirable, or even tolerable!

Emily Dumont entered the library. The occasion was repugnant to her feelings. The unceremonious blending of dollars and cents with the revered name of her father was extremely painful to her sensibility. It seemed like a profanation of his memory.

Her uncle, Maxwell, the witnesses of the will, and several others,—intimate friends of the family,—were already there. On Jaspar's countenance were no tell-tale traces of the last night's villany. He looked gloomy and sorrowful. So thoroughly had he schooled himself in hypocrisy for this occasion, that the scene he knew would, in a few minutes, transpire, had no prophetic indications in his features. Like the tragedian who is tranquil and unaffected in the scene in which he knows his own death or triumph occurs, Jaspar was calm, and his aspect even sanctimonious.

As Emily entered Maxwell tendered his sympathies in his usual elegant manner, and so touchingly did he allude to the death of her father that with much difficulty she restrained a flood of tears. The scene in the office, and the disfavor with which she had lately regarded him, were forgotten in his eloquence.

After this courtesy to the daughter of his former patron, Maxwell again seated himself, and after briefly and formally stating the reasons of their meeting, to which he added a short but apparently very feeling eulogy of the deceased, he took the packet from the safe, and proceeded to break the seals.

In his full and musical tones the attorney read the preliminary parts of the instrument, and then commenced upon the principal items of the will. First came several legacies to charitable institutions and to personal friends; after which was a legacy of ten thousand dollars to Emily Dumont, to be paid in Cincinnati by his brother. The testator further declared that the said Emily was manumitted, and should proceed under the guidance of his brother to the place designated for the payment of the legacy.

Emily, who had scarcely heeded the provisions of the will until the mention of her name attracted her attention, was, as may be supposed, somewhat astonished to hear her own name in connection with a legacy. She raised her sad eyes from the floor, and heard the other stipulations in regard to her. So utterly unexpected, so terribly revolting, was the clause which pronounced her a slave, that for a time she did not realize its awful import. But the blank dismay of her friends, the well-counterfeited surprise of Jaspar and Maxwell, brought her to a painful sense of her position. She attempted to rise, but in the act the color forsook her face, and she sunk back insensible. In this condition she was conveyed to her room.

The attorney completed the reading of the will, though, after the extraordinary incident which had just occurred, but little attention was given him. The witnesses at once recognized the strange character, and acknowledged the signatures to be genuine. Here, then, thought they, was the reason why the provisions of the will had been concealed from them. So impressed were they with the apparent purpose of Colonel Dumont in throwing the veil of secrecy over the contents of his will, that the very strangeness of it seemed to confirm its genuineness; and they did not scrutinize it so closely as under other circumstances they probably would have done.

How often may a good motive be tortured, by the appearance of evil, into the most despicable criminality! Colonel Dumont in this will had devised large sums of money to various charitable institutions, and in the event of his life being prolonged, did not wish to be pointed at and lauded for this act. True charity is modest, and Colonel Dumont did not desire to see his name blazoned forth to the world for doing that which he honestly and religiously deemed his duty.

This modesty had favored Jaspar's plans. No one could now gainsay the will he had invented; and he felt strong in his position, especially after the witnesses had assented to their signatures.

Among the persona who had been present in the library was Mr. Faxon, an aged and worthy clergyman. He had for many years been an intimate friend of Colonel Dumont, and was a legatee in his will to a liberal amount. A constant visitor in the family, its spiritual adviser and comforter, he had possessed the unlimited confidence of the late planter and his daughter. To him the whole clause relating to Emily seemed like a falsehood. Pure and holy in his own character, it was beyond his conception that a man of Colonel Dumont's lofty and Christian views could have lived so many years in the practice of this deception. He had no means of disproving the illegitimacy of Emily. The family had been unknown to him at the period of her birth. The house-servants, with the exception of Hatchie, were all younger than Emily. Then, the statement was made in the will, and was, therefore, the statement of Colonel Dumont himself,—for the genuineness of the will he did not call in question. In accordance with his general character, her father had manumitted her, and left her a competence. From this clause he inferred that her father intended to place her beyond the reach of harm, and beyond the possibility of ever being reduced to the degraded condition so often the lot of the quadroon at the South. He had not only given her freedom, but had provided for her conveyance beyond the pale of slavery. With these intentions, if she were in reality a slave, Mr. Faxon could find no fault. They were liberal in the extreme. But why had he, at this late period, mentioned the stain upon her birth? Why not let her live as he had educated her? These queries were so easily answered that the good clergyman could not condemn the dead on account of them. If the daughter, then she was the heiress; if not, legitimately, it would be injustice to the brother.

Mr. Faxon reasoned in this manner. He could not believe, even with all the evidence before him. There was a reasonable answer, apparently, to every objection he could think of, and he resolved to apply to Jaspar and Hatchie for more information. All that Jaspar could say, or would say, in answer to his interrogatories, was that his brother's wife had died in giving birth to a dead child; and that Emily, who was the child of a house-servant by him, had so engaged his attention by her singular beauty that he had substituted her for his own child. This story, Jaspar said, his brother had told him in the strictest confidence, many years before. Mr. Faxon, appreciating the disappointment of a father with such a sensitive nature as Colonel Dumont, was willing to believe that Emily had been substituted to supply in his affections the place of the lost child; but that he should educate her as his own child, and then cast her out from the pale of society, was incredible!

The evidence was so strong, he could see no escape from the terrible conclusion that the gentle being, to whom he had ministered in joy and in sorrow, was a slave! It required a hard struggle in his mind before he could reconcile himself to the revolting truth. Her beautiful character, built up mostly under his own supervision, he regarded with peculiar pride. He was not so bigoted, however, as to believe his labors lost, or even less worthy, because bestowed, as it now appeared, upon a slave. In heaven his labors would be just as apparent in the quadroon as in the noble-born lady.

After the departure of the friends who had been summoned to the reading of the will, and whose stay had been prolonged by the melancholy interest they felt in the unfortunate Emily, Mr. Faxon requested to see her, and was shown to her room. She had just been restored to consciousness, by the assiduous efforts of her maids, as the good man entered.

"O, Mr. Faxon!" sobbed Emily, but she could articulate no more. The terrible reality of her situation had entirely overcome her.

"Be comforted, my dear child," said Mr. Faxon, affectionately, taking her hand. "The ways of Providence are mysterious, and we must bend humbly to our lot."

"I will try to be resigned to my fate, terrible as it is," replied Emily, looking at the minister with a subdued expression, while hot tears poured down her cheeks. "You will not forsake me, if all others do!"

"No, no, my dear child; it is my duty to wrestle with sorrow. I have come to direct your thoughts to that better world, where the distinctions of caste do not exist."

"O, that I could die!" murmured Emily, as a feeling of despair crept to her mind.

"Nay, child, you must not repine at the will of Heaven. In God's own good time He will call you hence."

"I will not repine; but what a terrible life is before me!"

"The future is wisely concealed from us. It is in the keeping of the Almighty. He may have many years of happiness and usefulness in store for you."

"But I am an outcast now,—one whom all my former friends will despise,—a slave!" replied Emily, covering her face with her hands, and sobbing convulsively.

"Nay, be calm; do not give way to such bitter thoughts. This may be a deception, though, to be candid, I can scarcely see any reason to think so."

Emily caught at the slight hope thus extended to her; her eyes brightened, and a little color returned to her pallid cheek.

"Heaven send that it may prove so!" said she; "for I cannot believe that he who taught me to call him by the endearing name of father; who watched so tenderly over my infancy, and guided my youthful heart so faithfully; who, an hour before he died, called me daughter, and blessed me with his dying breath,—I cannot believe he has been so cruel to me!"

"It seems scarcely possible; but, my child, the ways of Providence are inscrutable. Whatever afflictions visit us, they are ordered for our good. Trust in God, my dear one, and all will yet be well."

"I will, I will! My father's and your good instructions shall not be lost upon me, slave though I am. Dear father," said she, and the tears blinded her,—"I love his memory still, though every word of this hated will were true. I ought not to repine, whatever be my future lot. That he loved me as a daughter, I can never doubt; that he never told me I am a slave, I will forgive, for he meant it well."

"I am glad to witness your Christian faith and patience in this painful event. But, Emily, had you no intimation or suspicion of this trial before?"

"No, never, not the slightest," said Emily, wiping away the tears which had gathered on her cheeks.

"See if you cannot call to mind some slight circumstance, which you can now recognize as such."

Emily reflected a few moments, and then replied that she could not.

"And your house-servants are all too young to remember as long ago as your birth?"

"All but Hatchie."

"Perhaps you had better send for him, and I will question him.

"I will, and I pray that his knowledge may favor me."

Emily sent one of the maids for Hatchie; but she returned in a few moments, accompanied by Jaspar, who, hearing her inquiries for the man his rifle-ball had sent to the other world, had come to prevent any injurious surmises.

This man, Hatchie, had not escaped Jaspar's attention, in the maturing of his plot; but, as in some other of the particulars, he had trusted to the facilities of the moment for the means of silencing him. Being a man, it was not probable he could know much of the events attending the birth of Emily to his prejudice. If it should prove that he did, why, it was an easy thing to get rid of him. His rifle-ball or the slave-market were always available. But Jaspar's good fortune had smiled upon him, and he felt peculiarly happy, at this moment, in the reflection that he was out of the way, for he doubted not the object of Emily in sending for him.

"Miss Emily," said Jaspar, in a tone of unwonted softness, "I am sorry to say that your father's favorite servant met with a sad mishap last night, of which I intended to have informed you before, but have not had an opportunity."

Emily's cheek again blanched, as she saw all hope in this quarter cut off.

"Poor Hatchie!" said she, as calmly as her excited feelings would permit. "What was it, Uncle Jaspar?"

Jaspar's lip curled a little at the weakness which could feel for a slave, and he commenced the narrative he had concocted to account for the disappearance of Hatchie.

"About eleven o'clock last night," said he, "as I was about to retire, I heard a slight noise, which appeared to proceed from the library. Knowing that you would not be there at that hour, I at once suspected that the river-thieves, who have grown so bold of late, had broken into the house. I seized my rifle, and when I opened the door the thief sprung out at the open window. I pursued him down the shell-road to the river; upon reaching which I perceived him paddling a canoe towards the opposite shore. I fired. A splash in the water followed the discharge. The canoe came ashore a short distance below, but the man was either killed by the ball or drowned. In the canoe I found a bundle of valuables, which had been stolen from the library,—among them your father's watch."

"But was this Hatchie? Are you quite sure it was Hatchie?" asked Emily, with much anxiety; for she felt keenly the loss of her slave-friend.

"My investigations this morning proved it to be so. He is missing, and the appearance of the thief corresponded to his size and form. I am now satisfied, though I did not suspect it at the time, that he was the man upon whom I fired."

"But Hatchie was always honest and faithful," said Emily.

"So he was, and I must share your surprise," returned Jaspar.

"There is a possibility that it was not he," suggested Mr. Faxon.

"There can be no doubt," said Jaspar, sharply. "The evidence is conclusive."

"No doubt!" repeated Mr. Faxon, with a penetrating glance into the eye of Jaspar, whose apparent anxiety to settle the question had roused his first suspicion. "He was, if I mistake not, the only servant of your household who was on the estate at the time of Miss Dumont's birth?"

"He was, I believe," replied Jaspar, with a coolness that belied the anxiety within him.

"Were you alone when you shot him, Mr. Dumont?" asked the clergyman, sternly.

"I was alone. But allow me to ask, sir, by what right you question me. I am not your pupil or your servant," replied Jaspar, rather warmly, his natural testiness getting the better of his discretion.

"Pardon me, sir," replied the minister, in a tone of mock humility. "Do not let my curiosity affront you."

"But it does affront me," said Jaspar, losing his temper at the sarcastic manner of the other. "Now, allow me to inquire your business with this girl."

"I came in the discharge of my duty as a Christian minister, to impart the consolations of religion to this afflicted child of the church. Of course, my business could not be with you in that capacity."

"You seem to have departed very widely from your object," replied Jaspar, with a sneer which he always bestowed upon religious topics.

"True, I have. This last blow upon poor Emily was so sudden and so severe as to call forth a remark, and even a question of the validity of the will."

"Indeed!" replied Jaspar, with a nervous start; "you have the will as her father left it."

"Uncle, you said my father's watch was stolen? Was it not in the iron safe, with the other articles?" asked Emily, timidly.

"It was," replied Jaspar, coldly.

"How did he open it?" interrogated Mr. Faxon, taking up the suggestion of Emily.

"Did Hatchie return the keys to you last night?" asked Jaspar of Emily, promptly.

"He did not," replied she.

"I sent for them to put a note in its place, and sent them back by him immediately. The fellow stood by when I opened the safe, and must have witnessed its contents. You can judge how he opened it now," returned Jaspar, with a sneer, well pleased that he had foiled their inquiries.

"You say that the canoe in which he was making his escape came ashore. Where is it now? No canoe belongs to the estate."

"There is not," said Jaspar, uneasily.

"Perhaps an examination of it will disclose something of the robber, if not of the will."

"So I thought this morning, and for this purpose went to the river, but the canoe was not to be found. I did not secure it last night, and probably it broke adrift and went down," replied Jaspar, whose ingenuity never deserted him.

"Very likely," said the minister, with a kind of solemn sarcasm. "This whole affair seems more like romance than reality."

"I cannot believe my father was so cruel," cried Emily, the tears again coming to the relief of her full heart.

"Do you doubt the word of the witnesses, and the mark and signature of your father?" said Jaspar, fiercely, with the intention of intimidating her.

"No, no! but, Uncle—"

"Call me not uncle again! I am no longer the uncle of the progeny of my brother's slaves. This cheat has already been continued too long."

"I will not call you uncle, but hear me," replied Emily, frightened at Jaspar's violence.

"I will hear nothing more. You will prepare to leave for Cincinnati next week. I will no longer endure the presence of one upon whom my brother's bounty has been wasted. Have you no gratitude, girl? Remember what you are!"

With these cruel words Jaspar hurried out of the room, satisfied that he had established his position, and, at least, silenced Emily. The minister he regarded, as he did all of his profession, with contempt.

Mr. Faxon and Emily had a long consultation upon the embarrassing position of her who had so lately been the envied heiress. The murder of the mulatto, the conduct of Jaspar, and some other circumstances, afforded ground to believe that the will was a forgery. If such was the fact, the minister was compelled to acknowledge that it was a deep-laid plot. Everything seemed to aid the conspirators; for he was satisfied, both from the wording and the chirography of the will, that Jaspar, whatever part he played, was assisted by others. There was not the slightest clue by which the mystery could be unravelled. If there was hope that the will was a forgery, there was no immediate prospect of proving it such.

Under these circumstances, Mr. Faxon felt compelled to advise obedience to the instructions of the will. The journey to the North could do no harm, and was, perhaps, advisable, under the state of feeling which would follow the publicity of the will. Emily, painful as it was to leave the home of her childhood at such a time, acquiesced in the decision of her clerical friend. But there was a feeling in her heart that she was wronged,—that she should go forth an exile from her own Bellevue.

On the following week, Jaspar and Emily proceeded to New Orleans, in the family carriage, to take a steamer for Cincinnati.

CHAPTER VI.

"Day after day, day after day,
We stuck,—nor breath, nor motion,—
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean."
ANCIENT MARINER.

It was about the time of the events related in the preceding chapters, at the close of a variable day, in which the storm and sunshine seemed to struggle for the ascendency, that a plain-looking, home-made sort of man might have been seen attempting to effect a safe transit of the steamboat levee at New Orleans. This personage was no other than Mr. Nathan Benson, commonly called at home "Uncle Nathan." He was one of the better class of New England farmers, an old bachelor, well to do in the world, and was now engaged in the laudable enterprise of seeing the country.

Uncle Nathan, though he laid no claims to gentility in the popular signification of the term, was, nevertheless, a gentleman,—one of Nature's noblemen. He was dressed scrupulously neat in every particular, though a little too rustic to suit the meridian of fashionable society. He presented a very respectable figure, in spite of the fact that the prevailing "mode" had not been consulted in the fashioning of his garments. His coat was, without doubt, made by some village tailoress, for many of the graces with which the masculine artist adorns his garments were entirely wanting in those of our worthy farmer. His hat was two inches too low in the crown, and two inches too broad in the brim, for the style; still it was a good-looking and a well-meaning hat, for it preserved the owner's phiz from the burning rays of the sun much better than the "mode" would have done. His boots, though round-toed and very wide, were nicely polished when he commenced the passage of the levee, but were now encased in a thick coating of yellow clay.

Uncle Nathan was a medium-sized man, and preserved as much of nature's grace as a man can who has labored for five-and-thirty years at the stubborn soil of New England. His hair was sandy, and his full, good-natured physiognomy was surrounded by a huge pair of reddish whiskers.

The superficial, worldly-minded man would have deemed Uncle Nathan's principles rather too ultra for common, everyday use; but he, good soul, found no difficulty in applying them to every action he performed. He was, to use a common phrase, a "professor of religion;" but, less technically, he was more than a professor, and strove to live out the spirit of truth and righteousness.

After much difficulty, Uncle Nathan succeeded in effecting a safe passage to the planking which formed the landing for the boats. After a glance of vexation at the soiled condition of his boots (Uncle Nathan was a bachelor!), he commenced his search for an upward-bound steamer, for he was about to begin his homeward tour. Two columns of dense black smoke, the hissing noise of escaping steam, and the splashing paddles of a boat a short distance down the stream, attracted his attention, and towards her he directed his steps. Approaching near enough to read her name, he was not a little surprised to find the boat he had seen advertised to start a week before. Concluding, in his innocence, that some accident had detained her, he hastened on board. Entering the cabin, the scene which was there presented did not exactly coincide with his ideas of neatness or morality. Uncle Nathan had read descriptions of the magnificence of Mississippi steamers; but the Chalmetta (for this was the name of the boat) fell far below them. Even the best boats on the river he considered vastly inferior to the North River and Sound steamers.

After a hasty survey of the Chalmetta's capability of making him comfortable for a week or more, he concluded to take passage in her for Cincinnati, and accordingly he sought for the captain. To his inquiries for that personage a thin, cadaverous-looking man presented himself, and drawled out a civil salutation.

"How long afore you start, cap'n?" inquired Uncle Nathan.

"We shall get off in about ten minutes," replied Captain Brawler. "John," continued he, turning to a waiter near him, with a wink, "tell the pilot to be all ready, and ring the bell."

"Why, gracious!" said Uncle Nathan, hastily, as the waiter dodged into the pantry, "I shan't have time to get my trunk down."

"How far up do you go?" inquired Captain Drawler.

"To Cincinnati, if you can carry me about right," replied Uncle Nathan, with an eye to business.

"Well, as you are going clear through, I will wait a few minutes for you," suggested the captain.

Uncle Nathan thought him very obliging, and after some little "dickering" (for he had heard that Western steamboats were not particularly uniform in their charges), he engaged a passage, applying to the bargain the trite principle that "no berth is secured till paid for," which had been reduced to writing, and occupied a conspicuous place in the cabin. Without waiting to see the berth he had paid for, he hastened to the hotel for the large hair trunk, which contained his travelling wardrobe.

Our worthy farmer made it a point never to cause any one an unnecessary inconvenience; never to read the morning paper more than half an hour when an impatient crowd was waiting to see it; and never in his life stopped his five-cattle team in the middle of a narrow, much-frequented road, to the annoyance of others. So the captain did not have to wait more than five minutes beyond the stated time. Depositing his trunk upon a heap of baggage in the cabin, and turning with pious horror from the gaming-tables there, Uncle Nathan seated himself in an arm-chair on the boiler deck, to await the departure of the boat, and, in anticipation, to feast his vision with the wonders of the Father of Waters. He waited very long and very patiently, for Uncle Nathan considered patience a cardinal virtue, and strove manfully against every feeling of uneasiness. The tongue of the hugs bell over him at intervals banged forth its stunning cadence, the hissing steam let loose from its pent-up cells, the water which the wheels sent surging far up upon the levee, all were indications, to his unsophisticated mind, of a speedy departure.

Two hours he waited, with the same exemplary patience; but still the Chalmetta was a fixture.

Night came, and the music of the bell, and the steam, and the surging water, ceased. Uncle Nathan, thinking patience no longer a virtue, cardinal or secondary, hastened to the captain, with some appearance of indignation on his honest features. The worthy officer very coolly informed him that, owing to the non-arrival of the mail, he should be unable to get off till the next morning.

Uncle Nathan uttered a very peculiar "O!" and, seemingly perfectly satisfied with this explanation, asked to be shown his berth. The captain consulted the clerk, and the clerk consulted the berth-book, which conveyed the astounding intelligence that the berths were all taken!

"All taken!" exclaimed Uncle Nathan, aghast. "Haven't I paid for one?"

The gentlemanly clerk acknowledged that he had paid for one, and kindly offered him a mattress on the floor, assuring him that there would be plenty of berths after the boat got off.

Uncle Nathan did not see how this could be, and was informed that many berths taken were not claimed.[1]

[1] Western steamers seldom start at the time they advertise, but wait until they are full of freight and passengers. The latter are boarded on them from the time they take passage, if they wish,—often a week or ten days. Berths are often engaged by "loafers," who eat and sleep on board, and grumble at the detention, but who suddenly decamp when the boat starts.

Contenting himself with this explanation, Uncle Nathan sought the boiler deck again, to obtain the only possible oblivion for his uneasiness in the society of mongrel gentlemen and monstrous mosquitos. Those who have been subjected to these steamboat impositions will readily perceive that Uncle Nathan was in no very agreeable state of mind. He was, to a certain extent, home-sick. There was something in his expectant state, and something in the gloomy aspect of the low city with its cheerless lights, in the damp atmosphere and the clouds of mosquitos, to produce a sigh for home and its joys. If any one had hummed "Sweet Home" in his ears, it would have brought the tears to his eyes. He thought of everything connected with his hallowed home: of the good-natured spinster who was his housekeeper, and of the ten-acre lots upon his farm; of the red steers and the gray mare; of the shaggy watch-dog and the tabby-cat; of home in all its minutiæ. Its familiar scenes visited him with a vividness which added ten-fold to their influence. He was as far abstracted as the mosquitos, which gathered in swarms upon every tenable spot of his flesh, would permit, when his meditations were disturbed by the gentleman who occupied the next chair. He wore the uniform of the army, and was battling the mosquitos with the smoke of a plantation cigar, which bore a very striking resemblance to those rolls of the weed vulgarly denominated "long nines."

This gentleman was Henry Carroll, who had been in waiting three days for the sailing of the Chalmetta. On his return from Georgia he had not deemed it prudent to visit Bellevue. Of the startling events which had transpired there since his departure he was in entire ignorance.

"No prospect of getting off to-night, is there?" said he to Uncle Nathan.

"Not the least," replied the latter. "The cap'n just told me the mail hadn't come, so he should have to wait till mornin'."

Henry turned to Uncle Nathan rather sharply, to discover any mischief which might lurk in his expression. Perceiving that he looked perfectly sincere, and was innocent of any intention to quiz him, he merely uttered, in the most contemptuous tone, the single word "Humbug!"

"You seem a leetle out o' sorts," returned Uncle Nathan, piqued at the coldness with which his intelligence was received.

"Well, sir, I think I have very good reason to be so," returned Henry; "for I have lain about this boat, like a dead dragoon, for three days, in suspense."

"You don't say so!" responded Uncle Nathan, with interest. "When did they tell you they should start?"

"The captain said in about ten minutes," answered Henry, with a smile.

"Good gracious! he told me the same thing!" said Uncle Nathan, astonished at the coincidence.

"But I knew he lied, when he said so; yet the boat seemed full of passengers, and I did not expect to wait so long."

"Don't you think they will get started to-morrow?"

"I cannot venture an opinion, having been so often deceived. The captain is trying to get a freight of soldiers on deck. The city is full of them now, returning to their respective states."

"Then he has taken me in most outrageously," said the New Englander, with emphasis.

"A very common occurrence, sir," replied Henry, who now explained to his companion some of the tricks of Western steamboat captains.

"Is there no remedy?" asked Uncle Nathan, anxiously.

"Certainly; you can go in the next boat, if you choose. I shall take the 'Belle of the West,' which I am pretty well assured will sail to-morrow, if this one does not. But I prefer this, as many of my friends go in her."

"But will they give you back your passage-money again?" asked the economical Yankee.

"I have not paid it yet," replied Henry, now understanding the position of his fellow-traveller.

"Then how did you secure a berth? The sign in the cabin says 'No berth secured till paid for.'"

"I see how it is. You have been dealing with these fellows as though they were honest men." He then explained that there is no security against imposition for travellers who pay their passage in advance, in case the boat gets aground, or the captain pleases to detain them an unreasonable time; that the "old stagers" never show their money till the trip is up; and much more useful information for the voyager on the Western rivers.

"And I have no berth yet! The fellow promised me one when we got off," said Uncle Nathan, chopfallen; for, if any one is keenly sensitive to an imposition, the Yankee is the man.

"There you are lame again," replied Henry. "You may get one, and you may not. As you have paid your fare, you had better keep quiet, and to-morrow I will assist you in securing your rights."

"Thank ye," replied Uncle Nathan, truly grateful for the kind sympathy of the officer. "I had no sort of idee that they played such tricks upon travellers."

"Fact, sir; this New Orleans is said to be a very naughty place," returned Henry, amused at the simplicity of his companion.

"True as gospel!" ejaculated Uncle Nathan, fervently.

"Have you been here long?"

"Only about ten days; but I have seen more iniquity in that time than I supposed the whole airth contained."

Henry smiled at the fervid utterance of his companion.

"You are from the North, I perceive," said he.

"Yes, sir, I am from Brookville, State of Massachusetts, which, thank the Lord, is a long way from New Orleans!"

"Still, there are some excellent people here," suggested Henry, who had known and appreciated Southern kindness and hospitality.

"Well—yes—I suppose there is; but their morals and religion are shockin'. It made my blood run cold, and my hair stand on eend, to see a company of soldiers marchin' through the streets last Sabba' day, to the tune of 'Hail Columby;' and then to think of balls and theatres on the Lord's day night, really it's terrible. I wouldn't live in sich a place for all the world!"

"Very different from New England, certainly," replied Henry, good-naturedly, for it must be confessed he was not so much shocked at these desecrations.

Uncle Nathan discoursed long and eloquently on Sabbath-breaking, gambling and intemperance, which prevail to such an extent in the luxurious metropolis of the South,—as long, at least, as the patience of his new-found military friend would permit. At his suggestion they retired to a hotel for the night, for the mosquitos were in undisturbed possession of the Chalmetta.

CHAPTER VII.

"—And deep the waves beneath them bending glide.
The youth, who seemed to watch a time to sin,
Approached the careless guide, and thrust him in."
PARNELL.

"Accoutred as I was, I plungéd in."
SHAKSPEARE.

Early on the following morning, Henry Carroll and Uncle Nathan were on board the Chalmetta, ready and eager for a start. But they were doomed to more disappointment. Nearly all day the bell banged and the steam hissed; the captain told a hundred lies, but the boat did not budge an inch from her berth. Still there were certain signs that the hour of departure could not be far distant. Fresh provisions and ice in unusually large quantities were received on board about noon, and these are unfailing prognostics of "a good time coming."

At about five o'clock in the afternoon, the captain's ten minutes, with which he had secured an occasional fresh passenger, seemed actually to have expired. Our two friends on board, however, had been so often disappointed that they did not allow a single bright anticipation to enliven their hearts, till they actually heard the order given "to cast off the fasts and haul in the planks." And even then their hopes were instantly dampened by the sudden reversion of the order.

This unexpected change had been produced in the mind of the captain by seeing a splendid equipage dashing at a furious pace across the levee, the driver of which had, by his gestures, made it appear that his vehicle contained passengers.

The carriage drew up opposite the boat, and Emily Dumont and Jaspar alighted from it. Picking their way through the crowd of dealers in cigars, shells, and obscene books, who had just been ejected from the boat, they were soon on board. A few moments' delay in getting up the baggage of the new comers, and the welcome "cast off the fasts and haul in the plank" was again heard. The rapid jingling of the engineer's bell succeeded, and, to the joy of some three hundred souls on board, she backed out into the stream and commenced her voyage. Uncle Nathan breathed freely; the load of anxiety which had oppressed him was removed. But his joy was short-lived, for Henry Carroll informed him that the boat was headed down river!

"What in all natur' can be the meanin' of this?" exclaimed our Northerner, wofully perplexed.

"I cannot tell," replied Henry; "but I am much afraid we shall yet have to stay over Sunday in New Orleans."

"The Lord deliver me!" ejaculated Uncle Nathan. "I will go into the swamp back of the city, afore I will look upon the iniquities of that Sodom again."

"Rather a hard penance; but let us first see what this movement will amount to."

At this moment Captain Drawler descended from the wheel-house, and was immediately besieged by a dozen angry passengers, who had resolved to lynch him, or leave the boat,—which he dreaded more,—if satisfaction was not given.

The stoical captain, with perfect coolness, heard their complaints and their threats. He waited with commendable patience till they had vented their indignation, and then informed them that he only intended to receive a little freight at the lower city, which would not detain him "ten minutes."

The captain's assertion, with the exception of the ten minutes, was soon verified by the boat touching at a sort of dépôt for naval and military stores. The "freight" which the Chalmetta was to take consisted of several long boxes, which lay near the landing. These boxes contained coffins, in which were the remains of some sixteen officers, who had paid the debt of nature in the discharge of their duties in Mexico.

Henry Carroll, with a melancholy heart, witnessed the process of conveying these boxes to the deck of the steamer. In them was all that remained of many stout hearts, with whom, side by side, he had marched to glory and victory. There were the forms with whom he had triumphantly mounted the battlements at Vera Cruz, and raised the stars and stripes over the city of Mexico. There, before him, forever silent, were the dead heroes of Chepultepec and Perote. Those with whom he had endured toils and hardships of no common nature,—with whom he had contended against a treacherous foe, and a more treacherous climate,—were there encoffined before him. They died in defence of their country's honor; and he almost envied them the death which wrote their names, subject to no future stain, upon the roll of fame.

The sight of these boxes, and a knowledge of their contents, also awakened sad reflections in the mind of Uncle Nathan. But his reflections were of a different character from those of the soldier. War he regarded as an unnecessary evil,—one which men had no more right to countenance than they had the deeds of the midnight assassin. The honor of a nation were better sacrificed than that the blood of innocent men should flow in its support. He was a thorough disciple of the peace movement. With such views as these, his sympathies naturally reverted to the dwelling of the departed hero; to the home rendered desolate by the untimely death of a father; to the circle which gathered in tears around the fire-side, to deplore the loss of an affectionate brother and son; to the widow and the orphan, whom war's desolating hand cast into the world to tread alone its dreary path. To Uncle Nathan victory and defeat were alike the messengers of woe. Both were the death-knell of human beings; both carried weeping and wailing to women and children.

After the last box of the pile had been conveyed on board, and preparations were making to cast off, the reflections of hero and moralist were disturbed by several long, loud vociferations, in a strong Hibernian accent. They proceeded from a man, dressed in the tattered remnants of the blue army uniform, who was industriously propelling a wheel-barrow towards the landing, on which was a box of similar description to those just embarked.

"Hould on!" shouted he; "hould on, will yous, and take on this bit of a box?"

"Does it belong with the others?" asked the captain.

"To be sure it does," replied Pat. "What the divil else does it belong to? Arn't it the body of Captain Farrell, long life to his honor! going home to see his frinds?"

"Take it aboard," said Captain Brawler to the deck hands, after examining the direction.

The men lifted the box rather rudely, in a manner which seemed to hurt poor Pat's feelings.

"Bad luck to yous! where were you born, to handle the body of a dead man the like o' that?" said he. "Have yous no rispict for the mim'ry of a haro, that yous trate his ramains so ongintlemanly? Hould up your ind, darlint, and walk aisy wid it!"

"Lively there," cried Captain Drawler, "lively, men!"

"Bad luck to your soul for a blackguard, as ye are!" shouted Pat. "Where did you lave your pathriotism?"

The box was by this time on deck, and the captain, to do him justice, made all haste to proceed on his voyage.

The cases containing the remains of the officers were deposited in the after part of the hold, to which access was had by means of a hatch near the stern. Pat's peculiar charge was placed on top of the others, and he maintained a most vigilant watch over it.

There was now a fair prospect of commencing the voyage, and our two passengers were in high spirits. Henry was not a little fearful that the boat would resume her long-occupied position at the levee; the very thought of such a calamity was painful in the extreme. But this fear was not realized; the Chalmetta gave the levee a wide berth. The Rubicon was passed; the shades of doubt and anxiety were supplanted by the clear sunshine of a bright prospect.

"We are at last fairly started," said Henry, seating himself by the side of Uncle Nathan, on the boiler deck.

"Thank fortin, we are!" responded the farmer, heartily. "We are fast getting away from that den of sin."

"And you may preserve your morals yet," said Henry, with a pleasant laugh.

"My morals are safe enough, thank the Lord!" answered Uncle Nathan, a little touched at this reflection upon his firmness; "but I don't like the place, to say nothing of its morals."

"Very likely. But see that Irishman—the fellow who had charge of the box. He looks poorly enough, as far as this world's goods are concerned, but happy and full of mirth, for all that."

"He looks as though he had seen hard times," added Uncle Nathan, indifferently.

"He does, indeed, like many other of the poor soldiers; but, I warrant me, he has a stout will, and an honest heart. I say, my fine fellow," said Henry, addressing Pat, "come up here."

"Troth I will, then, for I see yous wear the colors of Uncle Sam," replied the Irishman, making his way to the boiler deck.

"Long life to your honor!" continued Pat, as he reached the deck, and making a low bow, as he doffed his slouched hat,—"but I wish I had the money to trate your honor."

"Which means," replied Henry, "as you have not, I should treat you?"

"That's jist it, your honor. I persave your honor is college-larnt by the way yous see into my heart."

Henry laughed heartily, and so did Uncle Nathan; though, to tell the truth, our moralist of the North was sorry to see his companion hand the man a "bit" to drink with, for he was a member of the temperance society.

Pat got the "smile," and with a grateful heart returned to his patron.

"Thank your honor, kindly," said Pat.

"Now tell me, Pat, what regiment you served in," said Henry.

"In the first Pennsylvanians,—Captain Farrell's company."

"Captain Farrell's! I knew him well,—a fine fellow and a gallant officer! Many were the tears shed when the vomito carried him off," said Henry, with much feeling. "And you were one of his company?"

"Troth, I was, thin. He was every inch a sodger and a gintleman."

"And the box you brought on board contains his remains?"

"Upon me sowl it contains the body of as good a man as iver breathed the breath o' life," replied Pat, very emphatically.

"Very true. You speak well of your captain, and he deserved all he will ever get of praise. Here, Pat, is a dollar for you; and if you want anything, come to me."

"Thank your honor," replied Pat, uncovering, with a bow and a scrape of the foot. "You are as near like poor Captain Farrell as one pay is like another. Long life to your honor,—may you live forever, and then die like a haro!"

"A genuine Irishman!" said Henry, as Pat descended to the main deck; "one in whom gratitude and faithfulness are as strong as life itself!"

"He seems a good sort of man," returned Uncle Nathan, who had but little appreciation of the Irish heart.

The conversation was interrupted by the ringing of the supper-bell. An eager multitude rushed to the cabin; but every seat was already occupied. On a crowded boat on the Mississippi there is often much selfishness displayed. On the Chalmetta half an hour before tea-time the most knowing of the passengers had stationed themselves in a line around the table, ready to charge upon the plates, like a file of soldiers, the moment the bell rang. Those who did not understand the necessity of this precaution, on entering the cabin were much surprised to find every place occupied, and were comforted with the assurance of a second table.

Uncle Nathan and Henry secured seats which had been reserved for ladies who did not appear to claim them. Opposite them were seated Emily and her uncle. She was dressed in deep mourning, and her countenance was saddened by the gloom of affliction. Her eyes were reddened by weeping, in which she had indulged freely in the quiet of her state-room. By intense effort she had subdued her violent agitation, and a sad calmness rested upon her face, that belied her feelings.

Henry Carroll, who had not before been aware of her presence, was, as may be supposed, astonished at this meeting. In her sable dress and melancholy aspect he read the sad affliction which had befallen her in the death of her father. Their eyes met, and exchanged warmer greetings than their words could have done. A sad smile—the smile of pleasure—rested upon her beautiful features, as they interchanged salutations. Her pale cheek was slightly crimsoned with a tell-tale blush. Her fluttering heart refused to retain its secret.

Henry expressed his grief at the melancholy event which had shrouded her in the weeds of mourning,—not in words alone, but his sorrow for the death of a kind friend was more eloquently told in his countenance.

Jaspar was chagrined at this meeting, and his awkward attempts to be civil to Henry were entire failures. This was an event for which he was not prepared,—the consequences of which filled him with anxiety. He knew that in Henry his wronged niece would have a zealous advocate;—not a superannuated priest, but a young man whose blood was warm, and whose soul was full of energy. True, he reasoned, the young officer was powerless as a diplomatist. Ho as yet knew nothing of the will, or of Emily's degraded position. Henry knew the feelings and character of his brother, and would be the last one to believe the infamous statement of the will. What the father might have said to him in regard to her he knew not. As guilt always does, he imagined a thousand dangers, and saw with a clear vision the real ones besides.

At the tea-table there was little conversation beside the ordinary courtesies of the occasion. Jaspar said but little.

The guilty never feel any security in the enjoyment of ill-gotten wealth. The murderer is haunted by the ghost of his victim. The cries of the widow and the orphan continually ring in the ear of the avaricious. The fear of discovery haunted Jaspar. Although he saw no probability of his villany being exposed, the fear of discovery troubled him day and night. Revengeful and cruel, dauntless and bold, as he had ever been, the present seemed a crisis in his life. He had accomplished the climax of villany, and as he had racked his powers of invention for the means of attaining his purpose, he now taxed them for the means of concealing it. The insecurity of his position was so tedious, that he sought, as the tempest-tost mariner seeks the quiet haven, to fortify it, so that he might be at rest from the tormenting doubts which assailed him. Vain hope! there is no rest for the wicked. Plots and schemes ran through his mind; but they afforded no satisfaction. There was only one event which promised the least mitigation of his mental sufferings, and this was the death of his niece. Black as he was at heart, he shrank from her murder,—not at the deed, but at the terrible consequences to him which might follow it.

Emily was conducted to the ladies' cabin by Jaspar, who, by a dogged adherence to her side, seemed determined to prevent any further conversation between her and Henry. But the black chambermaid, with an official dignity which is oftentimes necessary in her position, politely requested him to retire. Jaspar left, satisfied she would be safe from intrusion for the present.

Jaspar's disposition to prevent further conversation between Emily and Henry was not unperceived by the latter. He was satisfied that her uncle's close attendance at her side—so foreign to his former manner—was not without its purpose. Love, which he had in vain attempted to stifle, pressed more vigorously at his heart. In her recognition of him he had read that the sentiment in her heart was not abated by his absence. Her melancholy aspect had awakened a new interest in him. Disappointed in obtaining the interview he desired, he sought the hurricane deck to think of her, and to cherish the warm feeling in his heart. But what was his surprise, on reaching it, to find Emily there, and alone!

After the departure of Jaspar she had retired to the gallery which surrounds the cabin, to enjoy the freshness of the evening air. The gallery was somewhat crowded, and, with a lady and gentleman, she had ascended to the hurricane deck. Her companions, more gay and happy than she, soon left her to the gloom and comparative silence which usually reigns on the upper deck. There were no other passengers there, and, fearing not the darkness or the loneliness, she was there venting the sadness which pervaded her heart. She was about to descend, when she recognized Henry.

Emily related to him the circumstances of her father's death, and of the reading of the will.

"Impossible!" exclaimed Henry, in astonishment.

"It is strange; but I cannot see any reason to disbelieve it, except that my father's character assures me it is not so."

"Which would be a very good reason for disbelieving it. And you are now on your way to Cincinnati?"

"I am; and it is the most melancholy journey I ever attempted. But I ought to be thankful for all that comes,—if I am a slave, for the freedom that awaits me."

"Good Heavens! Emily, do not talk so! You freeze the blood in my veins!"

"Nay, I feel somewhat reconciled to the terrible reality now, for it little matters what I really am, since the will—true or false—condemns me to the odium of having been a slave. You will not wish now to own your sister!" said Emily, with a sad smile.

"Yes, were you ten times a slave, it would not obliterate the mark of the omniscient God! It could not alter the beauty of the features or the character. I should be proud of such a sister, even did she wear the shackles. But you! No, no, there is no stain upon your birth!"

"And can you regard me as you once did? A—"

"An angel. Yes, truly, as an angel of the higher order."

"Nay, nay, this sounds not like the Henry Carroll of a month since. You are a flatterer," said Emily, with a smile.

"I did but say what I would have gladly said then," replied Henry.

The fear of ingratitude to a father no longer chained his heart to the narrow limit of friendship. He saw her before him trodden down by misfortune, in the power of subtlety and villany, and as a child of misfortune his heart even more strongly inclined to her. He loved her more tenderly than before.

"Then, when sorrow was a stranger, you were subdued and distant to your sister," said Emily, her heart fluttering with the storm of emotion within it.

"I am as I was then; but you were a child of affluence, and I feared to—to—"

"Why did you fear?" asked Emily, not waiting to hear the word Henry was stammering to enunciate. "Had you no confidence in your sister?"

"I did have confidence in the sister. But I fear it was not a sister's confidence I sought."

"Indeed!" said Emily, her emotions destroying the appearance of surprise the word was intended to convey.

"Emily, I will not now attempt to conceal the feelings which have torn my heart," said Henry, in a low tone, as he took her willing hand. "When I bade you farewell,—alas! what misfortunes have come since!—when I left you for I dared not think how long, you know not what violence I did to the warmest feeling of my heart. You know not what misery the struggle between that feeling and duty has caused me. I have striven to conquer it; but Heaven has now put you in my path, thus bidding me resist no more the impulse of my heart. I love you, Emily, and I have tried, for your sake and your father's, to conquer my love. Say, Emily, may I venture to hope my love is not unvalued?"

A slight pressure of the hand he held was all the answer he received—was, indeed, all he asked.

"You forget what I am," murmured Emily.

"I will always forget what this will has said you are. But Heaven will not let the innocent be wronged, nor the guilty remain unpunished. A month since, how I wished you were not the heiress of a millionaire!"

"Why did you wish it? Did you think that gold would blacken my heart?"

"No, dear Emily, but it would have been ingratitude in me to win your love, and thus destroy any other plan your father might have cherished."

"My father never had an avaricious disposition," replied Emily, warmly.

"Far from it; but he might have had some views, in regard to his daughter, with which I might have interfered."

"But you were a rebel against his views, notwithstanding," said Emily, with a smile, and a deep blush, which the darkness concealed from Henry.

"I should have been sorry to have heard you say so, then; but now, Heaven bless you for the words!" replied Henry, with a warm pressure of the hand.

"Madam," said Jaspar, who had stealthily approached, without the knowledge of the lovers, "to your state-room! Captain Carroll, as the guardian of this lady, I request your entire withdrawal, in future, from her society."

"A request," replied Henry, proudly, "which I shall entirely disregard."

"Then, by—you will receive the penalty of your obstinacy!" said Jaspar, in a passion.

"I am not to be intimidated by threats."

"Do not provoke him, Henry" said Emily, fearful for the safety of him whom the last hour had doubly endeared to her.

"Mr. Dumont, her request I will obey," and Carroll walked forward.

He paused by the side of the wheel-house, to hear the report of the leadsman, who was sounding the depth of water, in obedience to the command of the pilot, expressed in a single clang of the heavy bell. Mechanically he had stopped, and with no interest in the matter he listened to the monotonous reply, "Quarter less three," &c. He was about to descend to the boiler deck, when a shrill shriek startled him from his revery. There was no mistaking the sound of that voice! Without an instant's hesitation, he called to the pilot to stop the boat, and, with a few bounds, was by the side of Jaspar, who was calling lustily for help. Henry, careless of his own safety, slid down to the gallery abaft the ladies' cabin, and then sprang to the single pole upon which was suspended the small boat. Before he could unloose the tackle, and lower himself down, he heard a splash, and saw a man swimming towards the spot where Emily had disappeared. Henry plied a single oar in the stern of the boat, and reached the place in season to take in the noble fellow who had preceded him, together with his lifeless burden, as he rose. The steamer backed down, and in a few moments more the party was safely on board again.

"Where is the man who saved her?" said the disappointed Jaspar, after assisting Emily to her state-room.

Emily's fall had not been accidental, as the reader will at once infer. Jaspar's passion, and the danger which he thought the young officer's presence menaced, had prompted him to an act which was not attended with his usual prudence, and the failure was likely to place him in a more uncomfortable position than his former one. With the instinct of deception, he immediately offered a liberal reward to the man who had rescued her.

"Where is he? Who is he?" shouted Jaspar, eagerly.

"Here!" cried a voice from the crowd.

Jaspar started and turned pale, for the voice was a familiar one.

"Where is he?" called Jaspar again, concluding that he must have mistaken the voice.

"Here!" again came forth from the crowd, and Hatchie stepped forward.

"Hell!" exclaimed Jaspar, staggering back as he recognized the man whom he supposed his rifle-ball had sent to furnish food for the fishes. But he recovered his courage instantly, feeling the danger of betraying himself.

"Here is the reward," stammered he, holding out the money.

"Never!" said Hatchie; and, before the crowd could clearly understand the nature of the case, he had vanished behind a heap of freight.

At Jaspar's suggestion, a diligent search was made in every part of the boat, but the mulatto was nowhere to be found. Jaspar, as usual, invented a story to account for the strangeness of the incident which had occurred. A liberal reward offered by him failed to produce the preserver of Emily.

CHAPTER VIII.

"'Tis much he dares;
And to that dauntless temper of his mind
He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valor
To act in safety." SHAKSPEARE.

Although the general condition of the negro slaves at the South is the most degraded in which humanity can exist, there are some exceptions to the rule; and among them may well be placed the body-servant of Colonel Dumont, Hatchie, whose sudden and mysterious reäppearance upon the deck of the Chalmetta must be accounted for.

With an intelligence far superior to his condition, Hatchie discovered the villany that lurked in the eye of Jaspar, on the night of the forgery of the will. As we have before said, no one better than he knew the character of Jaspar; no one better than he knew of what villany he was capable. When he had been sent for the keys, an undefined sense of duty prompted him to watch, and, if possible, to prevent the mischief which he foresaw was gathering. When ordered to retire, he had pretended to obey; but he placed himself beneath the window through which De Guy had entered, a small crack of which had been accidentally left open. In this position he saw Jaspar take out the packet which he knew contained the will. He heard De Guy read the fictitious will, and at once discerned enough of the plot to comprehend the danger that hovered over his mistress. He understood that the real will was to be destroyed; and his first impulse was to save it, which he had adroitly accomplished as before related.

When Hatchie reached the open air, he was sensible of the dangerous position in which his bold act had placed him. So sudden and unpremeditated had been his action that no thought of future consequences had accompanied it. But, undismayed, he ran at his fleetest speed towards the river. He heard the footsteps of his pursuers, and every step he advanced he expected to receive the bullet of Jaspar. Trusting for safety to the darkness of the night, he quickened his speed, till he gained the steep bank of the river. Leaping into the canoe which he discovered in his flight, he pushed out into the stream, and was several rods advanced towards the opposite shore when his pursuers reached the bank.

Plying the canoe with all the strength and skill of which he was master, his progress was suddenly interrupted by a log, upon which his frail bark struck with much violence. The collision checked his progress, and swung the canoe round by the side of the log. Satisfied that Jaspar would fire as soon as he saw the canoe, his ready ingenuity supplied him with the means of avoiding the ball, and of escaping further pursuit. Taking the will in his mouth, he grasped the canoe with one hand, and paddled silently with the other and with his feet. He had turned the canoe adrift, and Jaspar, without waiting to examine it, had fired. Hatchie then jumped up in the water, and produced the splash which had deceived his pursuers.

With much difficulty the mulatto had propelled the log beyond the reach of the current into comparatively still water. Here he remained quietly on the log, using only sufficient exertion to avoid the current, until he was satisfied that Jaspar and his companion had departed from the bank. He then returned to the shore, using the greatest precaution to avoid his enemies; but all was still.

Immediate danger being at an end, he bethought him of securing his future safety,—a matter of extreme difficulty for one in his position. He was satisfied that Jaspar would invent some story to account for his disappearance; and just as well satisfied that he would shoot him, if he again showed himself on the plantation. He congratulated himself on the happy scheme he had adopted to deceive Jaspar; for he had now a reasonable security from being advertised and pursued as a runaway slave.

After much reflection, he concluded his wisest plan would be to seek safety in New Orleans, where, in the crowd, he might escape recognition. The cane-brake and the cotton-grove would not protect him. He might be seen, and the blood-hound and the rifle bring him in a prisoner, and even Miss Emily would now be unable to save him from the penalty. How could he live in New Orleans, or how escape from there? He was without money, and he had sense enough to know that money is a desideratum, especially to the traveller.

Of this useful commodity, however, he had a supply in the mansion house, which he had saved from the presents made him by Colonel Dumont and his guests. Recognizing the necessity of obtaining it, as well as some more clothing, he resolved to enter the house and procure them, after the light he saw in the library-window was removed.

While waiting, he pondered more fully his position. What should be his future conduct in regard to the will? He carried with him, he felt, the future destiny of his gentle, much-loved mistress. He felt that on his action during the next hour depended the happiness for a lifetime of one whom he had been taught to revere, and whose gentleness and beauty had almost lured him to worship. If the morrow's sun found him in the vicinity of the estate, he would probably fall a victim to Jaspar's policy. What should he do with the will? Should he show himself at the hour appointed for the reading of it? He might fall into Jaspar's hands in the attempt, the precious document be wrested from him, and thus all his exertions be in vain. Without the will itself he could do nothing,—his word or his evidence in court would be of no avail. No one would believe the former against Jaspar, and the latter was inadmissible.

Should he carry it to Mr. Faxon, or even to Miss Emily herself, Jaspar might obtain possession of it by some means.

His deliberations could suggest no method by which immediate justice could be done his mistress; and the conclusion of his reflections was, that he must place himself in a safe position before he attempted to expose the villany of others. His mistress, he knew by the will which he had heard De Guy read, was to be conveyed to Cincinnati. He must go to Cincinnati—but how? This was a hard question for the faithful Hatchie to answer; but answer it he must. He would go to New Orleans, and there form his plan.

After waiting till the lights were extinguished in the library, he entered the house, and obtained his money and clothing.

By the exercise of much caution, he reached New Orleans in safety, where, by the disbursement of a small sum of money, he obtained a secure retreat in the house of a free man, with whom he had formerly been acquainted. His object was now to obtain a passage to Cincinnati,—a matter not easy to accomplish, as the law against conveying blacks, unprovided with the necessary permit, was very stringent. He could not hope, with his limited means, to offer an acceptable bribe for this service. To attain his object, therefore, he must resort to stratagem, for the chances of obtaining a passage by direct means were too remote and too perilous to be hoped for. But accident soon afforded him the means of attaining his end.

The negro with whom he had obtained a shelter kept a small shop, and by the grace of the authorities and his neighbors was permitted to sell liquor, tobacco and cigars, to the steamboat cooks, stewards, sailors, and the soldiers who thronged the city on their return from Mexico. In the rear of this shop, and connected with it, was a small room in which the negro lived. This room afforded a safe retreat, and in it Hatchie had his hiding-place.

One day a little knot of men, in the faded, dilapidated garments of the army, entered the tap-room of Hatchie's protector. They drank deeply, and, as was their constant practice, they seated themselves at the broken table, and commenced gambling with the negro's dirty cards for the few dollars which remained in their possession. This amusement terminated, as such amusements frequently do, in a fight, in which one of the number seemed to be singled out as an object of vengeance for the others. This individual was an Irishman; and, for a time, he held way manfully against his assailants. But, at last, in spite of the exertions of the "proprietor" to protect him, he was likely to get the worst of it, when Hatchie, no longer able to control his indignation at the unfairness displayed in the encounter, suddenly interfered in favor of the now fallen man. His enormous strength and skill soon cleared the room of the rioters. Hatchie drew the defeated Irishman into his hiding-place, and locked the door. This man was Pat Fegan, who has been introduced to the reader.

Pat was filled with gratitude to his protector, and swore he would stick by him till his dying day, if he was a "naiger." A mutual friendship was thus established, which resulted in the disclosure of their future prospects. The fact that both were seeking the same destination seemed to strengthen the bond thus formed. Hatchie, shrewd by nature, read the true heart of the Irishman. He felt that he could trust him with his life; but his ability was quite another thing.

Pat Fegan was without means, and readily accepted the hospitality which Hatchie offered to pay for. In the course of the long conversations with which the two friends beguiled the weary day, Pat related his adventures in Mexico, at the close of which he casually mentioned that the remains of several officers, who died there, were to be conveyed up the river. Hatchie's curiosity prompted many inquiries, which drew from the talkative Hibernian a full description of the boxes that contained the coffins, and many particulars relative to the transportation of them.

Pat's description of the boxes suggested to Hatchie the means of getting to Cincinnati.

"Could you get me a box like those which contain these coffins?" asked he.

"Faix, I can, thin, if I only had the matther of two or three dollars. But what the divil makes yous ax sich a question?"

"I will give you ten dollars, and pay your passage to Cincinnati besides, if you will get me the box," said Hatchie, disregarding Pat's query.

"By me sowl, I'll get yous the box, and ax yous only the price meself pays for 't," replied Pat, touched at the idea of a reward, which between friends seemed base even to his rude mind.

"And I shall want your help, too."

"Yous may well count on that, for whin did a Fegan desart his frind? But tell me, honey, what yous mane to do wid it."

"I intend to get to Cincinnati in it."

"Is it in the box?" exclaimed Pat, astonished beyond measure. "Sure you will smodther!"

"But, my friend, I want you to look out for that, and give me something to eat and drink. You can pretend that the box contains the body of your captain, who, you said, died in Mexico."

"Arrah, me darlint, I see it all!" and Pat shook his sides with laughter at the idea of the mulatto's "travelling-carriage," as he styled it.

Pat had procured the box, and conveyed it to Hatchie's asylum. It was sufficiently large to furnish quite a roomy apartment. The covering consisted of short boards, matched, and screwed on crossways. To facilitate the introduction of food and air, and to afford the means of a speedy exit in case of need, he had taken off half these boards, and fastened them together with cleats on the inner side. The ends of the screws were then filed off, so that this portion of the lid exactly corresponded with the other portion. A number of hooks were then procured, so as to fasten it upon the inner side. By this arrangement, the occupant of the box would not be dependent upon exterior aid for egress. When once on board the steamer, he expected he should be able to leave his hiding-place in the night, and perhaps at other times.

Upon the outside the box was similar to the others, and was duly marked and consigned.

Hatchie's quarters were near the dépôt from which the coffins were to be shipped, and Pat, watching his time, had wheeled his own charge down in season to be shipped with the others. In the haste of embarking, the clerk had not noticed that one box more had been brought on board than his manifest indicated.

Hatchie was not aware that Emily and her uncle were passengers on the same boat till the moment of the accident. He had before released himself from his prison-box, and was enjoying the fresh air, which the closeness of his box rendered particularly desirable, when he heard the scream of his mistress. Her voice was familiar, and even in the scream of terror he recognized it. It needed not a second thought to convince him of his duty. He had saved her life, and, forgetful of the danger of thus exposing his person, he stood by and saw her conveyed to her state-room. He heard Jaspar call for her deliverer, and offer a reward. This he knew, if no one else did, was gross hypocrisy, and in the indignation of his honest heart he had stepped forward to confront him. The sight of Jaspar, and the thought of his own responsibility, recalled his prudence; and he hastened to retrieve his error by escaping to his hiding-place in the box, in which no one thought of searching for a living man.

In the excitement and exertion attendant upon the incident, Henry Carroll had not recognized Hatchie; and, while Jaspar inquired for her deliverer, he had been seeking the surgeon. Henry thought of nothing but her safety.

Hatchie at once knew the voice of Henry, but, knowing nothing of the relation between him and his mistress, he feared to trust him with his secret.

CHAPTER IX.

"But as thou art a man
Whom I have picked and chosen from the world,
Swept that thou wilt be true to what I utter;
And when I've told thee that which only gods,
And men like gods, are privy to, then swear
No chance, or change, shall wrest it from thy bosom."
OTWAY.

Emily Dumont, while yet insensible, was conveyed to her state-room, where, by the assiduous attention of the stewardess and the lady passengers, she was soon restored to consciousness. An army surgeon, who was fortunately on board, prescribed a course of treatment which prevented all evil consequences, so that on the following morning she appeared at breakfast as well as usual bodily, though the terrible fact that her uncle had attempted her life so agitated her that sleep had been a stranger to her eyelids. By whom she had been rescued was yet unknown to her.

Henry Carroll again took his place opposite her at the morning meal,—a place he had secured by the exercise of a full hour's patience in occupying it. At the first convenient opportunity, he congratulated her upon her safe recovery, and for the first time she heard the particulars of her rescue. Jaspar, with an ill grace, expressed his obligations to him, though at the same time he wished him at the bottom of the river.

Henry failed not to notice the blush which came to her cheek, as she modestly but fervently expressed her gratitude for the noble service he had rendered her. Although her accepted lover, there had been but little intercourse of a tender nature between them,—not enough to prevent her heart from fluttering when he spoke, and sending its warm blood to her cheek.

With what indescribable pleasure does the lover recognize the blush which a word or an act of his own calls to the face of his new-found love! Like the breaking clouds which disclose to the worn mariner the faint outline of the distant land, he hails it as the omen of future bliss! It is part of the mystical language of the heart. It is part of the mechanism of the affections, which the will cannot conceal. The gentle look, the warm pressure of the hand, the eloquent language of love, which modesty at first forbids, are supplied by the timid, uncalled, beautiful blush! Prudence and delicacy cannot chain it in the veins.

Henry read in her blush the warm current of pure love which flowed from her heart. It told him how willingly her gratitude coalesced with her love. Their position at table did not afford the opportunity of interchanging those feelings of the heart which each felt swelling within. The present, so full of joy and hope, it seemed cruel to surround with circumstances which forbade them to enjoy it. A crowded steamer is the most uncomfortable place in the world for a pair of lovers, and Henry and Emily felt the inconvenience of it.

But, if the position of the lovers was uncomfortable, Jaspar's was painful. They had the consolation of loving and being loved; but he was now writhing under the weight of an additional torture. The appearance of Hatchie was the knell of all his hopes, the precursor of ruin. To him it was a mystery, and all his endeavors to solve it were unavailing.

About noon the Chalmetta arrived at Baton Rouge, where, according to previous arrangement, and much to the joy of the perplexed uncle, De Guy came on board. Jaspar greeted him with more than usual courtesy, and felt, to as great a degree as guilt can feel it, a relief from the embarrassments which surrounded him. The first step of the red-faced attorney, on finding no state-room unoccupied, was to dispossess two flat-boatmen of theirs, by the payment of a round bonus. Jaspar thought this a rather extravagant move for one apparently so parsimonious; but his mind was too deeply engrossed with the difficulties which environed him to comment on extraneous subjects.

To this state-room Jaspar and his confidant retired, to consider the condition of their operations; and while they deliberate we will return to another character.

Uncle Nathan was in the full enjoyment of all the satisfaction which seeing the world affords to the observing man. He gazed with unceasing wonder upon the Father of Waters, on whose mighty bosom he was borne towards the loved scenes of home. He was edified and amused with the ever-varying succession of objects which presented themselves, as the Chalmetta progressed. Flat-boats and steamers, plantations and cotton-wood groves, islands and cut-offs, were all objects of interest. And, when he was tired of these, "Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress," which was his constant travelling companion, afforded him all the excitement his contented disposition required. The time promised to be easily disposed of, even if the passage should be unusually prolonged. Besides, the number and variety of dispositions on board afforded him some study, and some instruction. There were men of all grades of society, and all degrees of moral worth,—beginning, of course, at a very moderate standard, and descending to the vilest of the vile, which last were in a large majority. There were tipplers, and gamblers, and profane swearers, in abundance; and Uncle Nathan felt, at the bottom of his philanthropic heart, a desire to lead them from their sins. Not that he was officious and meddlesome, for he believed in "a time for everything." In his modest, inoffensive way, no doubt, he sowed the seeds of future reformation in some wayward heart.

Pat Fegan proved an apt disciple, and already had Uncle Nathan given him the first lesson in the form of a temperance lecture, which probably had its effect, as he left the boiler deck without the dram for which he was supposed to have come up.

"Now, Partrick," said Uncle Nathan, on the evening after Emily's rescue, "rum never did any one any good."

"'Pon my soul it did, thin,—it makes me happy whin sorra thing else in the wide world will comfort me," replied Pat.

"But that an't nateral happiness; it an't the sort that comes of doin' good to your feller-creturs."

"It sinds throuble away—what else is happiness?"

"But how do you feel arterwards? That's the pint."

"Arrah! bad enough, sure. Yous have the betther of me there."

"Then leave it off, Partrick," responded Uncle Nathan, drawing the pledge from his pocket. "Sign the pledge, and you are safe."

But we need not follow Uncle Nathan in his reformatory lucubrations. Pat signed the pledge; but whether he had an appreciating sense of the restraint he imposed upon his appetite we cannot say. Uncle Nathan thought him saved from his cups, and rejoiced accordingly. Perhaps, if he had looked a little closer, he might have suspected an interested motive on the part of Pat. He saw none, and, feeling secure in the present victory, he admonished his disciple "to stick to it as long as he lived."

"'Pon me word, I will, thin," replied Pat. "I see yous are a gintleman, if yous don't look jist like one. Now, do you see, Mr. Binson, you are jist the man I am looking for, this last six hours."

"Why so, Partrick—what do you mean?" said Uncle Nathan, mystified by the sudden change of manner in the new convert.

"Hould aisy a bit, for I'd like to hould a private correspondence wid yous. Will ye jist come to the hurricane deck, till I tells yous all about it?"

"Sartain," replied Uncle Nathan, his curiosity fully excited.

As soon as they reached a deserted portion of the promenade deck, Pat, after satisfying himself there were no listeners near, commenced, with an air of grave importance, his story.

"Whisht now, and draw near," said he. "Can yous keep a sacret?"

"Well, I think I could, if it was an honest one."

"Faix, thin, it is an honest one. Sure yous come from the North, and don't belave in keeping the naigers in bondage?"

"To be sure not."

"Well, then, would yous help a naiger out of throuble, if yous could as well as not?"

"I sartainly wish 'em well; but the Scripture says 'Honor the king,' which means nothin' more nor less than 'obey the laws.' Arter all, though, perhaps we ought not to mind wicked laws."

"Musha bad luck to your raysoning! Sure I'm no docthor, to blarney over the matther. Will yous kape the sacret?" asked Pat, a little excited, and somewhat disappointed to find his auditor lukewarm in "the cause."

"Sartain; tell your story, and, if I can't do you any good, I won't do you any harm."

"That's the mon for me!" replied Pat, slapping Uncle Nathan familiarly on the back. "Now, do you see, there's a naiger on this boat, that wants a frind."

"A friend!" said Uncle Nathan, with some doubt, as he reflected on the conflict between the claims of humanity and the stringent laws of the slave states.

"To be sure, a frind!" replied Pat, with emphasis.

"I will befriend him," replied Uncle Nathan, his natural inclination triumphing over his fear of the law.

"Spoken like a Christian! Sure, that's jist what St. Patrick would say, if the saint—long life to him!—were here," replied Pat, rejoicing that the difficulty was overcome.

"Now, dhraw near till I tells yous all about it; and, if iver you mintion a word of it, may your sowl never lave purgatory till it is burnt to a cindther! Now, do you mind, there's a naiger concayled in the hould of the boat, that wants to correspond with a faymale in the cabin."

"But he will expose himself, and she may deliver him up."

"Divil a bit! Didn't he save her from dhrowning, last night?" exclaimed Pat, warmly, for this act of Hatchie excited all his admiration.

"Good gracious! you don't say so!" and Uncle Nathan understood the mystery of the previous night.

"Sorra a word o' lie in it."

"But where in natur is the feller?" asked the wonder-struck Yankee, his curiosity getting the better of every other consideration.

"Whisht, now," whispered Pat; "he is in one of those boxes, with the dead men! Do yous mind?"

"Good gracious! how you talk! In a coffin?"

"Divil a coffin at all. Sure as nate a bit of a box as iver held a Christian."

"But why does he wish to speak with the lady?"

"Sorra know I know," replied Pat, to whom Hatchie had communicated no more than was necessary.

"Does he wish to see her in person?"

"Not a bit of it. Now, do you mind, I saw you speaking to the lady, and I tould him of it. Then the naiger axed me could he trust yous. I tould him yes; and he tould me to bring yous down to him, and that's the whole of it. Now, will yous go down the night and spake to him?"

Uncle Nathan reflected a little; for, though no craven, he was very prudent, and had no romance in his composition. After deliberating some time, much to the detriment of Pat's patience, he replied in the affirmative.

Pat then instructed him in relation to certain precautions to be observed in order to avoid notice, and left him to ponder the strangeness of the adventure. He had well considered his course, and, having decided upon it, he was earnest in pursuing it. He had chosen, he felt, a dangerous, but his conscience assured him a right path, and nothing could now deter him from proceeding in it. He was not fickle, and invoked many a blessing on the effort he might make for the salvation of the poor negro. True, his prudence had magnified the undertaking, which was a trivial affair, into a great adventure. Imagination often makes bold men.

CHAPTER X.

"Duke.—How's this?
The treason's
Already at the doors."
VENICE PRESERVED.
"Amelia.—I thought I heard a step.
Charles.—'T is your tyrant coming."
PROCTOR.

Jaspar and De Guy were for a long time closeted in the state-room. On their reäppearance Jaspar felt much easier. The silky-toned attorney had used a variety of arguments to convince him that their schemes were working excellently well, and that everything, notwithstanding the resurrection of the negro, would terminate to his entire satisfaction.

The process of "wooding-up" on a Mississippi steamer, inasmuch as it affords the passengers an opportunity to exercise their locomotive powers on shore, is regarded as an interesting incident. This was particularly true on board the Chalmetta, for she was crowded to nearly double her complement of cabin-passengers, and the space usually devoted to exercise was too much crowded to render it very pleasant.

When, therefore, the Chalmetta touched at a wood-yard, after leaving Baton Rouge, the passengers hurried on shore, to enjoy the novelty of an unconfined promenade. De Guy, on pretence of further private conversation, induced Jaspar to forsake his post as sentinel over Emily, and join him in a walk. For half an hour the attorney in his silky tones regaled the ears of Jaspar with various strange schemes, until the bell of the steamer announced her near departure. Even then De Guy seemed in no haste, and assured his companion the boat would not start without them. But the second bell admonished them that the steamer was already getting under way. The passengers were all on board, and, as they heard in the distance the tinkling of the engineer's bell, they started at a run to reach her. By some accident, De Guy's foot got between Jaspar's legs, and he fell. The attorney stooped, as if to assist him up, but, in reality, struck the fallen man a blow, which rendered him insensible. De Guy hurried towards the boat, leaving the watchful uncle to shift for himself. He reached the landing in season to jump upon the stern of the boat as it swung in shore. Pushing through the crowd which had gathered to witness his exploit of getting on board, he retreated to his state-room, and locked the door.

Jaspar was not immediately missed by Emily, and his absence was too desirable to be the cause of any solicitude. As the tea-hour approached, and the ladies were requested to take their places at table, she was very much surprised to see Mr. Maxwell present himself as her escort to the table. Since the unhappy disclosure of his love in the office, she had regarded him with pity, rather than with the contempt he merited. She could not but feel that he loved her. His eloquent language and forlorn aspect had not been in vain, for they had saved him from her utter contempt. A true woman cannot be conscious of possessing a portion of the love, even of a dissolute man, without feeling some respect for him. To love truly and devotedly is an element of the angelic character; and such love will purify and ennoble even the grossest of human beings. Emily unconsciously arrived at this conclusion; and, discerning some indications of pure love towards her in his gross and earthly mind, she felt that he was entitled to her sympathy. She cherished no affection for him; all that her gentle heart could contain was bestowed upon another. A suspicion had more than once entered her mind that Maxwell was, in some manner, connected with the foul plot which had drawn her into its toils. But, she reasoned, if he loved her, he would not injure her,—no, not even in revenge for her refusal. She could not, and her beautiful nature would not allow her to believe it, even of a man as gross as her better judgment told her Maxwell was.

To her inquiry for her uncle, Maxwell informed her that he had some conversation with him since he came on board at Baton Rouge, and that he had requested him to attend her at tea. He had not seen him since, but supposed he was forward, or in his state-room.

Emily readily accepted his arm, for anything was a relief from the hateful presence of Jaspar. Maxwell used all the art which politeness could lend to render himself agreeable. His ready wit, and the adaptation of his conversation to the unhappy circumstances of her position, in some measure dispelled the misery of the hour. Besides, it was plain the attorney did not believe the statement of the will; for a high-born Southern gentleman would never associate in public with a slave girl. She had, too, a presentiment that he came on some errand to her. Perhaps the good minister, Mr. Faxon, had sent him with good news to her. Perhaps through him the will had been proved false. Such reflections as these imparted more interest to his society than she would otherwise have felt.

During the tea-hour his assiduous courtesy left scarcely a particular in which Henry Carroll, who, as before, occupied a seat opposite to him, could render himself of use. He could hardly address a word to her without interrupting her companion. An introduction, which had before placed the young captain and the attorney on speaking terms, did not prevent the latter from mixing excessively good with excessively bad breeding. He was apparently unwilling that Henry should be heard by Emily. Maxwell had some idea of the relation which subsisted between his two companions; but, of course, knew nothing of the previous night's interview, which had indissolubly bound their hearts together. He seemed determined to keep their sympathies as far apart as possible.

Henry Carroll wondered at the absence of Jaspar and at the sudden appearance of Maxwell, for he had not before seen him. His attentions to her he loved created no jealousy. Emily had satisfactorily acknowledged her affection for him, and to believe her pure nature, especially under the present circumstances, susceptible of coquetry, were infidelity. A single look beaming with love had assured him that his star was still in the ascendant.

At the conclusion, Maxwell, with the same elegant courtesy, conducted her back to the ladies' cabin. Emily repeated her acknowledgments for the attentions, and was about to enter her state-room, when he addressed her.

"May I beg the favor of a few moments' private conversation, Miss Dumont?" said he, in a more business-like manner than that he had assumed at the tea-table.

Emily hesitated. Her supposition concerning his mission was partly verified in this request; but the remembrance of her last interview with him at his office in New Orleans came like a cloud over the bright sky of her hopes. Curiosity and a painful interest prompted her to risk the interview. If this interview was likely to be of an unpleasant nature, she could retire; and, if the worst she apprehended was likely to be realized, she knew that Henry Carroll hovered near her, at all times, like a guardian angel.

"In your legal capacity, I presume?" said she, with a smile and a crimson face.

"Certainly, certainly," replied Maxwell, not a little disconcerted to discover this troublesome caution.

"Will you take a seat, then? I think no one will feel an interest in our conversation beside ourselves."

"Excuse me," replied Maxwell, in his blandest tones, "a few words of our conversation overheard might expose persons we wish not to injure."

"Perhaps it had better be deferred to a more convenient opportunity."

"Delays are dangerous, Miss Dumont. Justice to yourself requires that my communication be made at once. Allow me to attend you to the promenade deck, where we shall be secure from interruption."

Emily, with many doubts, accepted his arm, and they proceeded to the promenade deck.

"Now, Mr. Maxwell," said Emily, in a very serious tone, for she wished to awe the profligate into the most business-like reserve, "be as speedy as possible, for I am fearful of the effects of the night-air upon my health."

Maxwell was disconcerted at this change in the manner of his companion, and vexed to account for it. The remembrance of past events came to his aid, but afforded no satisfactory solution. He could not see why Emily should studiously reject his overtures. His experience of female society had been of the most flattering character. He was perfectly aware of his popularity. His personal attractions always had been a strong recommendation, and he could not see why they should not be in this instance. His family was good, his fortune supposed to be respectable,—everybody did not know the inroads he had made upon it; his business was a pastime—the gate of honor and fame. It was true his character was dissolute, but she did not know this.

Unfortunately for him and his prospects, she did know it, and the fact had all the weight which a virtuous mind attaches to such a circumstance.

"I have been fortunate enough to obtain some information which may be of great value to you, or I should not thus have intruded upon you," said Maxwell, with the air of a man upon whom suspicion rested unjustly.

"Indeed, Mr. Maxwell!" replied Emily, forgetting both the night-air and the character of the man who stood beside her; "pray, tell me all at once!"

"Pardon me," replied he, coldly, "as the story is somewhat lengthy, perhaps it might be deferred till to-morrow, if your health is likely to suffer from exposure at this hour."

Emily was confused; but she could not stoop to the weakness of deception to smooth over her former coldness. She was burning with impatience to be restored, even in imagination, to the position from which she had been degraded by the cruel will. Her companion's language was not calculated to remove her doubts of his intentions. If the communication was of a business character, why should he be offended at her haste to terminate the interview? This reflection strengthened her resolution not to conciliate him. She would trust to Providence and the justice of her cause, rather than make an intimate of a man whom she despised.

"Miss Dumont," said Maxwell, growing desperate at the lady's silence, "perhaps I have offended in some manner. If I have, it was unintentional, and I trust you will forgive me."

"O, no, sir, not at all!" exclaimed Emily, mollified, in spite of herself, by the humility of the attorney. "There is no offence, and no apology is necessary."

"I am greatly relieved by this assurance, and, with your leave, will proceed with my narrative."

Maxwell now entered into a relation of the history of the will, but studiously avoided imparting a single fact with which she was not already acquainted. All this he had related with a lawyer's skill, to awaken her curiosity and interest, and to remove by distance any unpleasant suspicions which might have been awakened in her mind in regard to his motives.

To all he said Emily listened with profound attention, momentarily expecting the development of the foul plot. But thus far Jaspar Dumont is as pure as an angel,—nothing is disclosed. In this manner half an hour passed away, and Emily was no wiser than at first.

Maxwell has now, with an adroitness peculiar to the successful lawyer, made himself the subject of his remarks. He is careful that she shall know how sagacious he has been in discovering the facts he has not yet revealed. He tells her how many weary days and nights he has spent in searching out the truth; what wonderful intelligence of his had converted the shadow of a suspicion into the reality of an incontrovertible conviction; how a single word he casually overheard has been followed through weary days and dismal nights, till he has arrived, with all the evidence in his hands, at the truth!

Emily was certainly grateful for the deep interest he had manifested in her behalf, and she expressed her gratitude with modest earnestness.

"But, Miss Dumont," continued Maxwell, "I could not thus have sacrificed myself for every client. My health and strength, under ordinary circumstances, would have given way, and the case have been lost."

"Indeed, sir, you may rely on the fullest and most substantial acknowledgment for the service you have rendered. My purse shall be entirely at your disposal," responded Emily, warmly and innocently.

"Money, Miss Dumont, would not have tempted me to make the sacrifice of health and comfort which this exertion has required of me. I have done all my humble talents would permit from a higher motive. I look for my reward in the consciousness of having done my duty."

"I trust, Mr. Maxwell, you will receive the great reward which is sure to follow every noble and true action."

Emily was sadly perplexed to understand this new and singular phenomenon.

"The act itself is its own reward," said Maxwell, with an attempt to counterfeit humility, which was very awkward, but which deceived Emily, agitated as she was by hopes and fears.

"But, as I said," continued he, "I would not have done this for every client, and I trust you will pardon me when I say the only reward I look forward to is your smile of approval."

"I certainly cannot but approve of the motives which have actuated you, and your actions perhaps I could better appreciate if my knowledge of them was more extensive," responded Emily, disappointed and displeased, as her suspicions were reawakened.

But a faint smile rested upon her beautiful features, as if to soften, the reproof she had administered, and to conceal her rising emotions. She felt that Maxwell could assist her, but she feared every moment that some allusion to the prohibited subject would compel her to banish him from her presence.

"A smile from you were an ample reward for all my trouble and exertion," said Maxwell, deceived by the smile of Emily. "To be as sincere as your generous nature demands, I cannot conquer the love I have before expressed. I—"

"Excuse me, sir," indignantly interrupted Emily, "I must retire."

"Nay, nay, Miss Dumont! I meant no offence. Hear me but for a moment!"

"Not another instant, sir! You have deceived me."

"Upon my honor, I have not. I possess the evidence by which your birthright and possessions may be restored."

"No more! I had rather die in poverty, with the stain clinging to me, than owe the restoration of my rights to you. You have taken advantage of my unprotected condition to impose upon me."

"You wrong me, Miss Dumont; as, if you will remain but a moment, I will prove to you," said Maxwell, pleading like an injured man.

Maxwell's peculiar tone and penitent air made Emily pause, and perhaps think she had spoken too hastily. All the wrong of which she could accuse him was, that he loved her. She felt that this was not a crime. The remembrance of wrongs she knew he had inflicted upon others, perhaps weak and unprotected like herself, nerved her resolution, and to a word of love from him she could not listen. She wished to conciliate him, if possible, but not at the expense of her self-respect.

"Why have you detained me all this time to listen to a story with which I was before as familiar as yourself? Why have you used the language of love, which a refusal to hear now renders insolent?"

"I have offended you, Miss Dumont," said he, in the humblest tones; "can I hope to be forgiven?"

"Your future conduct alone can secure my forgiveness."

"Then I solemnly promise never again to allude to the admiration with which I have regarded your matchless beauty, or to mention the love which now consumes my heart."

"I trust you are sincere," said Emily, not knowing whether to smile or frown upon this making and breaking the promise in the same breath. The deep anxiety she felt for her future fate made her disposed to forget the past, and in a gentler tone she expressed her forgiveness.

Maxwell imagined that, at last, his star was in the ascendant. His experience of woman-kind only indicated that he had been too precipitate, and that the reserve, even the refusal he had received, were only the accidents of the moment, not the natural expression of an indifferent heart. His assurance increased as he reflected. He was led to believe that he might, now that the ice-barrier was removed, be more unreserved in his wooing. His perseverance had now overcome all obstacles, and the prize was in his grasp.

"I have a plan to propose," said he, "which will immediately secure to you all your rights."

"Pray what is it?" asked Emily, eagerly.

"As you have forbidden me to speak of love, I am placed in a very unfortunate position. In short, you can obtain possession of your estate by returning as my wife."

This last sentence was said in a whisper, and in a tone of assurance, as though he felt she would gladly accept the alternative.

"Sir!" exclaimed Emily, aghast with astonishment and indignation, for the abruptness of the degrading proposition nearly deprived her of the power of speech.

"Even so, Emily. I have the power to restore your rights, and will do so on this condition. The ceremony may be performed at Natchez, where we shall arrive to-night; or, if you fear I promise more than I can perform, I will draw up an agreement, which you shall sign, to the effect that you will accept my hand on the restoration of your rights. I will give you two hours to think of it; and if, at the end of that time, you accept the proposal, I will at once take the necessary steps to regain your fortune, and remove the stigma which rests on your name."

"Never, sir, never! I will die a beggar before I will owe my prosperity to such a contract!" exclaimed Emily, whose indignation now found utterance.

"I beg madam will reflect before she decides," said Maxwell, in a satirical tone.

"Sir, I will die upon the rack, before the hand of a villain shall lead me to the altar!" answered Emily, unable to control her feelings.

"Softly, lady, softly!"

"Leave me, sir! leave me, or I will call upon my uncle to protect me from further insult!"

"Your uncle, I fear, was left at the last wood-yard; so I heard my friend De Guy say."

Emily felt herself the victim of a plot, and, rousing all her energies, she said,

"I see it all. The machinations of a villain—for such you are—shall be foiled."

"Miss Dumont," said Maxwell, his passions roused by the severity of her epithet, "do you forget your condition? You are a slave! Your supposed uncle is not here. You have no free papers, and are liable to be committed to the next jail."

"But I am not without a friend who is able to protect me," said Emily, with spirit, as she saw Henry Carroll ascend to the deck upon which they stood.

"Your friend is helpless. Another word, and I will proclaim your condition," and he rudely seized her by the arm. "Your friend cannot help you. He has not your free papers."

"But he has a strong arm!" shouted Henry Carroll, as with a single blow he struck the attorney to the deck.

"This way, Emily," said he to the weeping girl, who clung tremblingly to him; "you are safe now."

Emily was conducted by the gallant arm which had protected her from we know not what indignity. She felt secure in his presence from further molestation, and his soothing words and hopeful promises did much to restore her.

Maxwell soon recovered from the effects of the blow he had received, and, boiling with passion, swore vengeance upon the man who had interrupted him. But his passion was of short duration, and was succeeded by sober reflections upon the "position of his case." Emily Dumont was not of that class of women with whom he was accustomed to deal. He had found in her an element with which he had not before been conversant,—of which, indeed, he had read in books of poetry, but did not believe it existed in the material world.

CHAPTER XI.

"Caught, caught
In thine own trap! Thou hast confessed it all,—
The means, the end, the motive,—laid all Bare!
O, thou poor knave!—and that convenient friend
Who swears or unswears, speaks or holds his peace,
At thy command,—you have conspired together!"
LOVELL.

On board the Chalmetta, Harwell discovered an old acquaintance in the person of a notorious gambler,—a class of persons who congregate on Mississippi steamers, and practise their arts upon the unwary traveller. This person, who went by the name of Vernon, was well known at the faro and roulette boards in New Orleans. He was an accomplished swindler. In the winter season, when the city is crowded with the élite of the state, and with strangers from all parts of the Union, Vernon found abundant exercise for his professional ability at the hells of the city, in the employment of their proprietors, acting the part of banker, or anything else that offered him the means of gratifying his luxurious habits. A twinge of conscience never prevented him from adopting any means of emptying the pockets of his victims, even without the formality of dice or cards.

In the summer season he beguiled his time on the river, or migrated with the fashionables to Pascagoula, or a more northern watering-place,—in fine, to any sphere which afforded him a theatre for the exercise of his talents as a blackleg. Wherever he was, he never passed by an opportunity to obtain possession of his neighbor's valuables. If the monied man would accept a hand at euchre or poker, why, he was so much the easier cleaned out; if not, false keys, pick-locks, or sleight-of-hand, soon relieved the unfortunate victim of his superfluous possessions.

Early in his career of fashionable dissipation, Maxwell had made the acquaintance of this notorious individual. Indeed, he had sufficient cause to remember him, for he had made a deep inroad into his patrimony. Maxwell was too great a rascal himself to be long duped by a greater one. A kind of business intimacy had grown up between them, and continued to exist at the time of our story. This connection was not, however, publicly acknowledged by Maxwell; it would have been the ruin of his fine prospects: but he used him whenever a scheme of profit or revenge required an unscrupulous confederate. Yet this Vernon was by no means a dependent creature of Maxwell's, for he was bold, reckless, and independent to the last degree. Whether acting as the paid devil of another, or on his own responsibility, he bowed to no power but his own will. His physical courage was well known to be of the most obstinate character. When the coward dandy had an enemy to punish, Vernon, for a hundred dollars, would first insult and then fight the luckless individual. This had formerly been a lucrative part of his trade; but latterly his claims to the distinction of gentleman and man of honor had been of such a questionable character, that the man who refused to meet him did not lose caste among the bloods of the city.

Vernon was now on his way to a wider sphere of action than New Orleans, with its yellow fever season at hand, afforded him. As usual, he practised his arts on board the Chalmetta, which, however, afforded him but a narrow field, the passengers being mostly officers, who had left their pay in the cabarets of Mexico.

By some means he had ascertained that Henry Carroll was in possession of a considerable sum of money. By all the arts in his power he had endeavored to lure him to the gambling-table, which was constantly spread in the cabin, and surrounded by unfortunate victims, vainly striving against the coolness and trickery of professional blacklegs, to recruit their exhausted finances, or retrieve the ruin to which an unlucky hour had enticed them. Henry obstinately refused to take a hand; but Vernon's heart was set upon the bag of gold he knew was in Henry's trunk, and he resolved to possess it,—a feat not easy to accomplish on board a crowded steamer.

After Maxwell had recovered from the blow which had felled him to the deck, and while Henry was soothing the distress of Emily, he met Vernon, who was in the act of reconnoitring the young officer's state-room. Vernon was just the person to serve him in this extremity. The protector of Emily must be removed from his charge, as her uncle had been by De Guy. He resolved upon a consultation with the blackleg. Accordingly he expressed his desire, to which the gambler replied by requesting him to give notice of the approach of any one, while he did a little business in the state-room.

Maxwell vainly remonstrated, but was obliged to comply with the wishes of the robber, or lose his services.

Vernon, thus protected from intrusion, entered the room, and by the aid of a pick-lock soon succeeded in obtaining possession of all poor Henry's earthly wealth. Beckoning Maxwell to follow, he descended to the main deck, where, procuring a lantern, they proceeded aft.

We must return to Uncle Nathan and Pat Fegan, whom we left on their way to the fugitive in the hold of the steamer.

"Whisht, now," said Pat, in a whisper, as they prepared to jump down the hatchway; "whisht, now, and don't spake a loud word, for the life of yous."

Uncle Nathan promised obedience, and followed Pat into the hold. All was total darkness, and it was not without a feeling of superstitious dread that Uncle Nathan heard his companion tap on the box which contained the mulatto. He heard the whispered recognition of its inmate, and stood like a statue while Hatchie freed himself from his confinement.

"Whisht, now," said Pat, in a low voice; "give me your hand, Mr. Binson. Now, there yous are," and he placed Uncle Nathan's hand in that of Hatchie.

Uncle Nathan found the hand was warm, and felt completely relieved of the sensation of fear which had come over him.

"Glad to see you," said he, though an instant afterwards his conscience asked him if he had not told a lie, inasmuch as it was so dark he could not see anything.

"You are a friend, I trust," replied Hatchie, who, although he implicitly relied on the faith of the Irish ally, had not the fullest confidence in his judgment. Nothing but what he deemed a stern necessity would have compelled him to trust the secret with any one. So many dangers encompassed him, that the duty he owed to his injured mistress obliged him to look around for the means of preserving the valuable document he possessed. An accident to the steamer, the continuous danger of being restored to Jaspar, and a hundred other painful reflections, brought him to the resolution of depositing the will in the hands of the most trustworthy person he could find. In this extremity, he canvassed the characters of all he knew on board. Henry Carroll, he feared, was too impetuous, if not actually devoted to Jaspar. He knew nothing of the interesting relation which the hearts of the lovers had recognized,—pity he did not! Uncle Nathan, whom Pat had described in glowing colors,—none are more highly esteemed than those who confer the most solid benefits,—seemed to him the proper person, especially as Pat had seen her speak to him after the accident. An honest man is so easily known, that the poor Irishman's instinctive knowledge of human nature imparted the most correct information.

"I am your friend, and I trust the Lord will always put it into my heart to befriend the unfortunate," said Uncle Nathan, in answer to Hatchie's remark.

"It is not on my own account that I need a friend," said Hatchie, in a melancholy tone, for the responsibility which rested upon him had solemnized his mind, and banished all reflections of self. "It matters little what becomes of me. But, sir, you are a stranger to me, and I know not that I may trust you."

"Nor I nuther, till I know what you want of me. If it is an honest sarvice, one that I can do without goin' agin my conscience, why, I am ready to do anything to help a feller-cretur."

"The service I am about to request," replied Hatchie, his doubts in a great measure removed by the apparent sincerity of his auditor, "can be done honestly; and, if your conscience approves any act, it will approve this one."

"Very well, I will act for you to the best of my judgment, and use all the discretion that natur gave me, and a little I larned by the way-side. Partrick tells me you want to talk with the lady whose life you saved last night."

"Not exactly to talk with her, but about her. I feel that I can trust you, even with her destiny. That lady is my mistress. She is an angel of goodness. I am perfectly willing to be her slave, so that it was not to gain my freedom I escaped in this box. It was to save her from a cruel wrong which her uncle would inflict upon her."

"That old gentleman who is with her?" interrupted Uncle Nathan.

"The same. He is the most hardened villain in the world,—so different from my poor master, who was a good man, and loved even his slaves! This man would make it appear that my mistress is not the legitimate child of her father, but the daughter of a quadroon girl, whom he formerly owned. He has forged a will to obtain his own purposes, and deprived poor mistress of her natural rights. But, on the night when the villany was perpetrated, I managed to obtain the true will, and to make my escape,—and a very narrow escape it was, for I was shot at and obliged to jump into the river to save my life. They think the shot killed me; but I shall yet expose their villany—"

"Good gracious, I hope so!" exclaimed Uncle Nathan, whose sympathies wore awakened by the brief narrative of the mulatto.

"Now, it is scarcely prudent for me to retain possession of this will. I may be discovered, or drowned, or shot; and then my poor mistress would never be restored."

"True," replied Uncle Nathan, appreciating his companion's reasoning, and admiring his warm devotion to his mistress.

"I wish to place the will in the keeping of some trusty person, who will guard it as his own life,—who will deem no sacrifice too great to relieve the distressed, and foil the wicked," said Hatchie, earnestly.

"I will do the best I can."

"Before I intrust it to you, I must feel that you will not only be discreet, but that you will labor to foil this wicked plot."

"I will do everything I can," replied Uncle Nathan, warmly, for his heart was touched at the wrongs of Emily.

"Then here is the will," said Hatchie, handing him the packet, which he had taken the precaution to envelop in oil-cloth. "Remember how much depends upon your caution and fidelity. God forgive me, if I have done wrong in giving it to you."

"You may depend upon me. I will take good care of the document. But shan't I say anything to the lady about it?"

"Assure her, if you can without exposing yourself, that the will is safe. It will give joy to her heart to know that she has the means of restoration to her home and name."

"I will see everything done about right; and I hope soon to meet you in the land of liberty."

"I shall never leave my mistress. I have been near her from her birth, and, though only a slave, I feel that I was sent into the world for no other purpose than to protect and serve her. Liberty away from her has no charms for me."

"Goodness!" ejaculated Uncle Nathan; "I never should have thought it!"

Hatchie's devotion to his mistress, so eloquently expressed, jostled rather rudely the Northerner's prejudices concerning the treatment of slaves.

The conversation was here interrupted by three taps on the deck above them, produced by the brogan of Pat Fegan.

Hatchie recognized the preconcerted signal, and, abruptly terminating his remarks, he leaped into the box, drew on the lid, and left Uncle Nathan to find his way out as best he could.

"Whisht, now," said Pat, whispering down the hatch. "Jump up, Mr. Binson!"

Uncle Nathan approached the hatchway, and endeavored to leap out, an effort which was assisted by Pat, who, rudely seizing him by the collar, jerked him out with a violence that threatened his bones with dissolution.

"How the divil did yous tumble in there?" screamed Pat, as two persons approached. "Are yous hurted?"

"A little," replied Uncle Nathan, perceiving the ruse of his coadjutor.

"I fear yous are. Thry are your legs broke?" continued Pat, whose energy of utterance gave a fair appearance to the deceit.

"Are you much hurt?" asked one of the persons who had by their presence disturbed the conference.

"Very little," replied Uncle Nathan, who really felt the uncomfortable effects of a knock on the knee he had received in his involuntary ascent from the hold.

"Bad luck to 't, but 'twas a wicked fall!" said Pat, fearful that his conscientious companion would expose the deceit.

"Can I render you any assistance?" asked one of the intruders, who were none other than Maxwell and Vernon, whom we left on their way to the main deck.

"Thank ye, I don't need any," replied Uncle Nathan, hobbling off, accompanied by Pat.

"Now, is the coast clear?" said Vernon, who carried a lantern he had borrowed from the mate.

"All clear; but put out that light,—the engineers will notice us," replied Maxwell.

"But I can't find my way into the hold without it. There is no danger of the engineers. They are all asleep on the forward deck."

"What do you want in the hold?" asked Maxwell, in an irritable tone.

"I want to hide this bag of money," replied Vernon, in a whisper. "As soon as the covey finds he has been picked, they will search the boat; and my character is not likely to save me from the indignity of being obliged to open my trunk, and turn out my pockets."

"It is bad business, and I wish you had not done this thing. As I told you before, I have nothing to do with it. I feel myself rather above common robbery."

"Self-esteem! But you came down on your own business, not on mine. You can return, and not trouble yourself any further," growled Vernon.

"I need your help, and will pay you for it."

"Very well, then, wait till this job is finished."

"Go on! I will follow," replied Maxwell, finding remonstrance vain.

After a careful scrutiny of the premises, Vernon concealed his lantern under his coat, and leaped into the hold, followed by Maxwell.

"Now," said Vernon, "I must put this bag into one of these boxes, to be guarded by the spirits of the brave men whose bones repose in them."

"Are you mad, man? Would you open the coffins of the dead to hide your ill-gotten gold?" exclaimed Maxwell, alarmed at the purpose of his confederate.

"Why not? We need not disturb the bodies,—only open the outside box."

"Very well," said Maxwell, who felt how useless it was to oppose his companion. "But remember, I have nothing to do with the robbery."

"Of course not, and nothing to do with sharing the proceeds; but sit down, if you have anything to say to me. We are perfectly safe from interruption here;" and Vernon seated himself on the box which was occupied by the mulatto.

"My words need not be many. In the first place, I have been insulted, and must have satisfaction; and, in the second, there is a girl in the cabin to whom I am much attached, and she will not give me the smallest sign of encouragement. Have her I must, by fair means or foul. I would marry her. You understand?"

"Certainly; but what's the plan?" asked Vernon, indifferently.

"Rather a difficult one, and may require some nerve to execute it," replied Maxwell, who proceeded to develop his schemes, both in respect to Henry Carroll and to Emily.

Although the conspirators spoke in a low tone, Hatchie heard and understood the whole plot. The voice of Maxwell he recognized, and, although the name of the lady against whom his designs were meditated was not mentioned, he comprehended who she was.

The confederated scoundrels having finished their conference, Vernon drew from his pocket a small screw-driver, and proceeded to remove the screws from one of the boxes, which, to Hatchie's great relief, was not the one occupied by himself. After much labor, for the boxes were carefully constructed, to bear the rough usage of transportation, he succeeded in removing the lid, and deposited the bag of money between the coffin and the case which enclosed it.

Having effected the object which brought them to the hold, the two ascended again, and made their way to the cabin.

In addition to the knowledge of the plot, Hatchie was made acquainted with a fact which afforded him much pleasure—that Henry Carroll, in defence of his mistress, had knocked Maxwell down. This was evidence in his favor. He also heard something of the preference she had bestowed upon him, and that on this account, more than for the blow, he was to be the victim of Maxwell's vengeance. But he resolved to foil both schemes.

CHAPTER XII.

"He must be taught to know he has presumed
To stand in competition with me.
—You will not kill him?" SHIRLEY.

—"Wherefore com'st thou?
—To comfort you, and bring you joyful news."
MARLOW.

On the second night of the Chalmetta's voyage, as Henry was about to retire, the steward handed him a note. An hour before he had struck a "fashionable" man a severe blow, and he conjectured at once that it had called forth this note. On opening the billet, his supposition proved to be correct. It was a challenge from Maxwell.

We are very much opposed to duels and duelling, and we regret that faithfulness to the facts of history compels us to record that Captain Carroll accepted the challenge. He had moral courage enough to resist the promptings of that artificial spirit of honor which encourages duels, but there was "a lady in the case,"—a lady whom he fondly loved. He felt that the insult which she had received was not sufficiently punished. Besides, there was an audacity about the man which deserved to be punished, and he resolved to punish it. Poor human nature! Henry never reflected that he might be shot himself, and the persecutor of innocence escape unharmed. No, he felt that the blow he had struck in defence of innocence was a just retribution, as far as it went; and that he should fall, he who had espoused the cause of innocence, why it was simply impossible!

He accepted the challenge, and requested a brother officer to act as his "friend." The two seconds—Major Brunn on the part of Henry, and Vernon on the part of Maxwell—arranged the preliminaries.

The boat would arrive at Natchez about daylight, and would remain there long enough to allow the meeting to take place.

Henry Carroll, though his chivalrous spirit was gratified at the opportunity to revenge the insult offered to Emily, was ill at ease. To meet a man of no character (for such he supposed Maxwell to be) was not a very ornamental accompaniment to an affair of honor. He had a hundred times braved death on the field of battle, but to die in a duel with such a man seemed to his now tranquillized mind anything but honorable. Emily had retired, and he could not bid her farewell. Perhaps he had seen her for the last time on earth, for the possibility of being killed himself tardily came to his mind. He wrote a long letter to Emily, and another to Uncle Nathan.

The worthy Northerner had produced a very favorable impression upon his mind. He knew his liberal soul, and the design of the letter was to interest him in her favor,—to induce him to conduct her to his Northern home.

Henry returned to his couch with many painful doubts as to the morality, and even the expediency, of his course. But the feeling of honor—of false honor—comforted him, and, animated by its spirit, he even looked forward with pleasure upon his revenge,—upon the death of his opponent. This would be in accordance with the justice of the case, and he flattered himself that justice, if it did not always prevail, would triumph in this instance. With such reflections he closed his eyes, and sunk to his slumbers.

The Chalmetta moved lazily on her course. Her lights had all been extinguished, and the idlers, who a few hours before had paced the decks, were now slumbering in their berths, or on the cabin floor. The clock over the clerk's office indicated the hour of twelve. On the main deck forward the sleepy firemen were languidly supplying the furnaces; the engineers, less actively employed, had fallen asleep by the cylinders.

On the after quarter, laying flat upon the deck, were two men earnestly engaged in conversation, in which the whispered brogue of Pat Fegan might have been detected. After the conversation had continued some time, one of them cautiously raised his head, as if to penetrate the gloom that enshrouded them. Satisfied that they were alone, the two rose, and, without noise, climbed up one of the posts to the gallery which surrounded the cabin. Then, with a light step, they passed on, and stopped before the state-room occupied by Vernon.

"Are you sure this is his room?" asked Hatchie, in a smothered whisper.

"Troth, I am, thin," responded his companion; "but be aisy, or you'll wake him."

"The worse for him," replied Hatchie, as his teeth ground together.

Hatchie placed his hand upon the door, and softly opened it. The sleeper heard him not. The negro groped about the room until his hand rested upon some pistols which lay on a trunk by the side of the berth. These he took, and, handing two of them to Pat, retained the third in his hand. Closing the door, they proceeded, as they had come, to the main deck.

Seating himself behind a heap of merchandise, Hatchie proceeded to examine the pistols by the light of a lantern which Pat had borrowed from the sleeping engineers. The pistols were of the common pattern used in duelling. Two of the three were mates; and Hatchie discovered, on examination, that neither of them were loaded with ball. The third pistol, which contained two balls, was very similar in form and size to the pair. Hatchie extracted the balls from this one, and loaded the pair with one ball each, leaving the unmatched one blank. They then carefully conveyed them to Vernon's state-room, and placed them on the trunk precisely as they had found them.

As had been premised, the Chalmetta arrived at Natchez about daylight. Vernon, well acquainted with all its localities, led the parties of the duel to a retired place in the vicinity. The distance was measured off, and the principals took the stations assigned them.

"Now be careful they do not see you do it," said Vernon, in a low, careless tone.

The pistols were handed to the principals, the signal was given, and both fired nearly at the same instant.

"Confound it!" exclaimed Maxwell, dropping his pistol, and grasping the left arm, which had been hit by Henry's ball. "How does this happen?"

But Vernon was as much confounded by this unexpected result of the duel as his principal. He had only time to protest that he had prepared the pistols as agreed upon, when Major Brunn arrived at the spot.

On examining the wounded man, it was found that the ball had struck the fleshy part of the arm. The injury was very trifling. Maxwell was much astonished at receiving a ball from his opponent's pistol,—a circumstance which was owing entirely to Hatchie's precaution on the previous night. He had overheard the plan by which Maxwell was to fire a ball at Henry, with no danger of receiving one in return. Vernon had loaded the pair without ball, and the single pistol with two balls. Henry was to select from the pair; the third was to be concealed upon the person of Maxwell, who was to use it instead of the blank. Major Brunn, supposing Vernon to be a man of honor, had not insisted upon examining the charge in presence of both seconds, and thus everything had worked to the satisfaction of the confederates up to the time of the firing. By Hatchie's precaution, Henry held one of the two which were loaded with ball, while Maxwell had fired the blank.

Maxwell was, as may be supposed, vexed and disconcerted at the result of the duel; and, with an ill grace, he resolved to postpone his revenge to another time, inasmuch as he could not hope again to shoot at his foe in perfect safety.

The party returned to the steamer just in season for her departure. Maxwell's wound was examined by the surgeon, and pronounced very slight. Henry was rejoiced at this intelligence, for the cold-blooded thoughts which had found a place in his heart had departed, and his naturally kind disposition resumed its sway. He was glad that the affair had terminated without the loss of life; glad that his conscience was not burdened with the blood of a fellow-creature; glad, too, that he had escaped unhurt. This last consideration was not a selfish one. He felt that all the energy he possessed he should require in the restoration of her he so tenderly loved.

His first step, on returning to the steamer, was to destroy the letters he had written to meet the worst calamity which might befall him. Having occasion to open his trunk, he discovered, to his surprise, that it was unlocked. Further examination showed that he had been robbed of all his earthly possessions. This was a severe blow. The money was the accumulation of two years' service, and he was now penniless,—without even a sufficient sum to pay his passage. He immediately informed the captain of his loss, who gave him the comfortable assurance that the robber had probably gone ashore at Natchez. However, he caused a thorough search of the boat to be made; but, as may be supposed, the search was vain.

Uncle Nathan sympathized with him in his loss,—not with words alone, but voluntarily proposed to lend him any amount he required; an offer which Henry accepted with gratitude.

"I see you are acquainted with that lady you saved from drowning," said the worthy farmer, after he had passed the loan to Henry. The duel had before been discussed and roundly condemned. The cause of the quarrel had introduced the fact to which the farmer had alluded.

"I am. Her father was my best friend. I spent a few weeks with him a short time before his death."

"O, ho!" thought Uncle Nathan, "I guess the black feller didn't know that, or he would have given the papers to him;" and he resolved to inform Hatchie of Henry's presence.

Descending, he soon discovered Pat Fegan, and, by his help, was enabled to hold a conference with Hatchie, who, now that it was daylight, talked through a crevice in his box.

Hatchie was anxious to know the result of the duel, which Uncle Nathan imparted, to whom, in return, the mulatto related the means he had used to foil the attorney's purpose, which was nothing less than murder. He also disclosed the particulars of the second plot, which was to be put in execution that night.

The information the faithful slave had gained in relation to the character of Henry's efforts for his mistress made him quite willing to have him admitted into the confidence of her secret protectors.

Uncle Nathan returned to the cabin, delighted with the idea of sharing his responsibility with Henry. But his first wish was to relieve the distress of Emily, who, he rightly judged, was in continued suffering, on account of the painful uncertainty which shrouded her destiny.

Emily rose on the morning of the duel in blissful ignorance of the danger which Henry had incurred on her account. She had passed a sleepless night, in the most intense agony. Her eyes were red and swollen with weeping, and her heart yet beat with the violence of her emotions. She felt in the most intense degree the misery of her situation, to which she failed not to give all its weight. She had a friend—a brother—more than brother—near, in the person of Henry. That love which she allowed her fond heart to cherish was like an oasis in the desert of her misery. She loved him, and in this thought—in the delightful sensation which accompanied it—she found her only solace.

At breakfast she saw him again; again his speaking eyes told how fondly his heart clung to her; again his smile fanned her fevered brain, like the zephyr of summer, into a dream of bliss. Her heart led her back to the days when they had wandered together over her father's plantation. Then, restrained by the coyness of unrevealed love, each enjoyed a happiness to which the other was supposed to be a stranger.

But the anguish of her painful position would come to destroy the dream of bliss, and dissipate the bright halo her imagination had cast before her. She retired to her state-room, to ponder again her unhappy lot. "Thy will be done," murmured she, as, throwing herself into a chair, she resigned herself to the terrible reflection that she was a slave and an outcast. The bright dream of love was only a chimera, to make her feel more deeply the terrible reality.

Whilst she was thus venting her anguish, she was roused from her lethargy of grief by the chambermaid, who had entered by the inner door.

"Please, ma'am, a gentleman out in the cabin says he wants to speak to you."

"A gentleman wishes to speak to me? Did he send his name?"

"No, ma'am. He said you wouldn't know him, if he did; so it was no use to send it."

"Pray, what looking gentleman is he?"—her mind reverting to Maxwell.

"Well, ma'am, he's a very respectable looking gentleman," answered the girl, to whom Uncle Nathan (for he was the person alluded to) had given half a dollar. "I think he is a Yankee, by his talk."

"Pray, ask him to send his name."

"Yes, ma'am," said the chambermaid, retiring.

Emily was puzzled by the request, and, judging from the girl's description that it could not be Maxwell, began to dread a new enemy.

The chambermaid presently returned, and said the gentleman's name was Benson.

Emily's perplexity was not diminished, but she resolved to see the applicant at the door of the room, so that, if his errand was from Maxwell, she could easily retire from his presence. Accordingly she instructed the girl to show him to the door on the gallery.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am," said Uncle Nathan, as soon as he reached the position assigned him; "you are Miss Dumont, I believe?"

"The same," said she, as calmly as her fluttering heart would permit. "May I beg to know your business with me?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Uncle Nathan, bluntly; "but don't be scart. I know something of your trials; and I trust the Lord will give you strength to endure them with patience."

"Really, sir, you astonish me! May I be allowed to ask how you became acquainted with my affairs?"

"All in good time, ma'am; I have in my possession a document, which, I'm told, will set matters all right with you."

"What is it, sir?"—and Emily was still more astonished at the singularity of the adventure.

"It is your father's will, ma'am," replied Uncle Nathan, disdaining all preface and preliminary to this important remark.

"My father's will, sir! Impossible!"

"Fact, ma'am. I will tell you all about it," and Uncle Nathan proceeded, in his own blunt way, to relate his adventures in the hold.

Emily listened with surprise and joy to the honest farmer's story. When he had concluded, although she did not give way to the joy of her heart, a change from the depth of despair to the pinnacle of happiness took place in her silent heart. How devoutly she thanked the great Father who had watched over her in her anguish, and now shed a halo of joy across her darkened path! How earnest was the silent prayer which arose from the depths of her heart, for the safety of the faithful slave, who had perilled his life for her happiness! How deeply laden with the incense of gratitude was the song of thanksgiving which rose from her soul to the Giver of all good!

And when Uncle Nathan told the story of the duel, a new song of thanksgiving arose for Henry's safety. The joy she felt in his preservation would not be entirely confined to her heart, and Uncle Nathan—unromantic bachelor as he was—could not but discern the deep interest she felt in him.

The interview was concluded, and the worthy farmer left the gallery more rejoiced than if he had himself been declared heir of Colonel Dumont's millions; and he looked around, as excited as a school-boy on the first day of vacation, to find Henry, and relate the good news.

CHAPTER XIII.

"Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash
Of echoing thunder." BYRON.

The day of the duel was a day of happiness to Emily Dumont. The restraint which Jaspar's presence imposed was removed. Maxwell, from prudence or some other motive, did not intrude upon her. Her heart was rejoiced by the glad tidings which Uncle Nathan had conveyed to her. Henry Carroll was permitted to enjoy her society. It was a day of bliss to both; and, though a crowded steamer could ill afford the privacy which new-born love ever seeks, yet opportunities of giving expression to their feelings were not wanting. All day long they revelled in the delightful emotions which warmed their hearts. Their intercourse was now burdened by no painful reflections on the misery which had so lately environed Emily. The means of her restoration to home and society were at hand. The only difficulty now was to discover the best method of establishing her rights. Against Jaspar and Maxwell they cherished no ill-will,—they had no desire to punish them for their wicked designs.

Uncle Nathan, too, was in the "full enjoyment of his mind." The relief he had "providentially" been able to afford to Emily's mind was the medium of an abundant satisfaction. As the darkness began to gather, he found an opportunity of conversing with Henry, whose entire devotion to Emily during the day had rendered him a stranger in the gentlemen's cabin. The plot which Hatchie had revealed to him had caused him but little anxiety. Maxwell's wounded arm, he concluded, would delay its execution. But he gave the particulars to Henry, who was not at all satisfied that it would not be undertaken.

"We must watch to-night," said he.

"Sartain, we'll keep a good look-out; but the scamp can't do anything while he is wounded."

"But he had confederates."

"Perhaps he has. But here is another friend," said Uncle Nathan, as he perceived Pat Fegan, who had for some time been watching an opportunity to speak to him.

"Sure, the naiger would like to spake wid yous," said Pat, in a whisper.

"What's the matter, Pat?" asked Henry.

"Nothin', your honor," replied Pat, promptly; "I was only tellin' this gintleman that a poor divil was dhrunk on the lower deck, and he'd betther go and praych timperance to him."

"No, no, Partrick, that's too bad," interrupted Uncle Nathan, reprovingly; "I must teach you to tell the truth."

Pat opened his eyes with astonishment when he heard Uncle Nathan explain to Henry the part he had borne in the drama, and was about to utter in plain Irish his opinion of a man who would thus betray a confidence, when Henry explained that he was an old friend of Hatchie and the lady.

"Long life to your honor, if that be true!" exclaimed Pat; "and you won't blow on the naiger?"

"I have too strong an interest in him to do anything to his injury," replied Henry. "But show me the way to him, Pat."

"One at a time, if yous plaze," said Pat, as he perceived Uncle Nathan about to follow them.

Pat led the way to the after part of the lower deck, to which Hatchie had ascended, as on the night of the rescue, to inhale the fresh air. This step was a safe one in the night, as, if any one approached (which was seldom), he could easily and speedily regain his hiding-place.

"Hould aisy," said Pat, as they approached the fugitive; "don't be afraid,—I have brought yous a frind."

"I hope you will not bring me too many friends," replied Hatchie, a little disconcerted.

"Don't you know me?" said Henry, as he grasped the hand of Hatchie; "I have just come from your mistress, and know your whole story."

"Not all," replied Hatchie; "you cannot know how much anxiety I have endured. Miss Emily is not yet safe."

"But we can easily foil the villain's future designs."

"We will, at least, endeavor to do so."

"I believe I have seen you before; we were companions in the rescue."

"We were, and God bless you for the noble service you rendered my mistress!"

"That service was all your own, my gallant fellow."

"You undervalue your own efforts. He who gets into the Mississippi seldom gets out alive. Without your timely assistance, I tremble to think of what might have been the end. My experience of the river enabled me to bring her up; but without your aid at the moment it came I do not think I could have saved her. But this is all past. Thank God, she is yet safe, though another danger hovers over her."

"This foul conspiracy,—will they put it in execution to-night?"

"I heard the villain they call Vernon, an hour ago, engage a deck hand to help him row the boat."

"Then there is indeed danger. I had thought Maxwell's wound would have prevented it for a season."

"A mere scratch. I would your ball had found the villain's heart, if he has one. But Vernon is the most dangerous man—a more accomplished villain."

"Vernon," said Henry, musing; "he was Maxwell's second."

"Yes. That duel was a plot to murder you."

"How so?"

Hatchie explained the plan of Vernon, which had been rendered futile by his precaution.

"The scoundrel! but how knew you this, and how happens it that I escaped while he is wounded?" said Henry.

"I overheard the plot when I did the other. Vernon is a common robber. He came into the hold to conceal a bag of money he had stolen."

"A bag of money!" interrupted Henry, his thoughts diverted from the subject.

"Ay, a bag of money."

"Do you know where they hid it?"

"I do; but why do you ask?" and Hatchie was much pained to discover in Henry what he mistook for a feeling of rapacity. He wanted and expected the perfection of an angel in the man who sustained the relation of lover and protector to his mistress.

"Because I have been robbed of all I had in the world," replied Henry, seeing the shade upon Hatchie's brow.

"Indeed!" exclaimed the mulatto, his doubts removed, and pleased in being able to restore his money.

"The money is undoubtedly mine. Your noble devotion to your mistress has thus proved a fortunate thing for me. But about the pistols?"

Hatchie related the means he had used to derange Maxwell's plan.

"I shall never be able to repay the debt I owe you," said Henry, warmly, as the mulatto finished his story.

"I did it for my mistress' sake. I learned that you were her friend."

"And she will bless you for the act."

"Now, what shall be done to insure her safety to night? for they will attempt her abduction, I doubt not."

It was arranged that Henry should watch in the vicinity of Emily's state-room, while Uncle Nathan, Hatchie and Pat Fegan, should occupy the lower deck. Emily was not to be informed of the danger; it would distress her to no purpose.

They had no doubt of their ability to protect her. Accustomed as Henry was to danger, perhaps he did not fully appreciate that which was now gathering around Emily. He felt that, in knowing the particulars of the nefarious scheme, he was abundantly able, even single-handed, to prevent its success.

Obtaining a screw-driver and a lantern from one of the engineers, he succeeded in obtaining possession of his stolen bag of gold. On his return to the cabin, he observed Vernon standing at the bar, and the temptation to give his moral faculties a start could not be resisted. Purchasing a dozen cigars, he remarked that he had no change, and coolly pulled the bag of gold from his pocket. Vernon's astonishment and consternation could not be entirely concealed, as he recognized the bag he had securely deposited in the box with the dead. Henry took no notice of him, though he heard him say, in a suppressed tone, "The devil is in this boat!"

Henry sought his state-room, where he found Uncle Nathan impatiently waiting to hear the result of the interview.

"There is danger," said Henry, "and we must be ready to do our duty manfully."

"Good gracious! you don't say so!" exclaimed Uncle Nathan.

"We must watch to-night, and, if need be, fight!"

"How you talk! You don't think the feller with the sore arm will try to do anything to-night?"

"I fear he will;" and Henry opened his trunk, and took therefrom a pair of revolvers.

"Gracious! will there be any need of pistols? Couldn't you reason with them?" exclaimed Uncle Nathan, who, as before hinted, had a great repugnance to the use of deadly weapons.

"I am afraid they will not listen to reason," said Henry, smiling, in spite of his anxiety. "If action is necessary, it must be prompt. I know your heart, my good friend, and I trust your non-resistant notions will not interfere with your duty. I must rely on your aid in this affair."

"Sartain. I will do all I can, if I die for it. But I think I can get along very well without one of them 'ere things," said Uncle Nathan, eying the pistols with distrust.

"Very well, I shall not urge you, though I think it would be prudent for you to have one. As you go to your station, you will oblige me by giving this one to the mulatto boy."

"Sartain, cap'n," replied Uncle Nathan, taking the pistol; "I an't exactly a non-resistance man, only I hate to use pistols;—not that I'm afeered on 'em; but to take a feller-cretur's life is a dreadful thing. You know the New Testament says, 'Resist not evil,' and—"

"Yes, I remember; but now is the time to act, and not to preach. I shall place myself near Miss Dumont's state-room, and your party will see that the stern-boat is not disturbed."

"All right, cap'n, but do be careful about spilling blood!" said Uncle Nathan, who did not like the cool, determined air with which Henry handled his pistols.

"Be assured I will not wantonly take the life of even the most hardened villain; but in defence of Miss Dumont I shall consider that the end will justify the means."

Uncle Nathan went to his post, and Henry, muffling himself in a large camp-cloak, seated himself near Emily's door. Accustomed as he was to the perils and privations of the camp, the duty before him did not seem difficult or irksome. To his chivalrous spirit there was a pleasure in thus watching over an innocent being, while she slept, unconscious of the danger that menaced her. Lighting his cigar, he resigned himself to the dream of blissful anticipations, which relieved the monotony of the scene.

Maxwell, in the seclusion of his state-room, had thoroughly digested the plan for the abduction of Emily. Vernon had arranged the details, and the lawyer's reflections suggested no material alteration. His wounded arm was a hindrance, but time was too precious to admit of delay. The Chalmetta was so tardy in her movements that Jaspar must soon overtake them, and then the opportunity would be lost.

If he could get Emily into his power, and away from the influences which now surrounded her, he doubted not he could induce her, by threats or persuasion, to become his wife; then he would spring the trap upon Jaspar, and the coveted object of his existence would be gained. He had already forged a bill of sale of her person, and, thus provided with an implement of coercion, he doubted not that success would crown his efforts.

As the evening advanced, and the passengers had mostly retired for the night, Maxwell and Vernon left the state-room, and went aft to examine more particularly the means of descent to the lower deck. As they approached Emily's state-room, they perceived Henry puffing away at his second cigar. Had it been any other person, Maxwell would not have devoted a thought to him. It was he with whom he had fought the duel,—whom a mysterious providence seemed to protect. Was he there by accident or design?

The two confederates passed round the gallery, and returned to the cabin. A long hour they waited, and the cabin clock pointed to the hour of twelve; still Henry had not changed his position. His cigar was consumed, but there he sat like a statue, obstinately obstructing the completion of Maxwell's designs. The confederates began to fear he had some knowledge of their contemplated project. Yet how could this be? The plan had been arranged in the hold of the steamer. It was impossible that any one, even the men they had hired to row the boat, could know their intentions. Vernon, who had seen the stolen bag of money miraculously restored to its owner, who had seen two balls pass harmlessly through him, was perfectly willing to believe that Henry Carroll was the devil! But, devil or not, it was all the same to him.

It was already time to commence operations. Vernon was impatient to begin; for, as he averred, he did not like to lose a whole night's sleep in so small an affair. But nothing could be done while Henry retained his present position, unless they silenced him by force; and he seemed an ugly customer.

The Chalmetta pursued her way, stemming with difficulty, as it would seem by her lazy pace, the current of the mighty river. She had just passed Vicksburg. The night was dark and gloomy. Those bright, beautiful moons, with which the panorama-mongers are wont to gild the eddying current, and solemnize the scenery with a pale loveliness, were not in the ascendant. Even the bright stars were hid by the thick clouds. The darkness cast a sad gloom over the scene, which a few hours before had been "leaping in light, and alive with its own beauty." The yellow bank rose high on either side of the river, and formed a sombre wall, which seemed to keep the sojourner on the tide a prisoner from the world above.

Yet, deep as was the darkness, and perilous as was the navigation of the river, the Chalmetta sluggishly pursued her upward course, shunning sand-bars and snags which the eye could not see, and which the stranger knew not of. Now she crept, like a thief at night, so closely beneath the high bank that her tall chimneys almost swept the overhanging branches; then, stealing from the treacherous shoal, she sped her way through the middle of the vast waters, as if ashamed of her former timidity. Here she shot through the narrow cut-off, and there left her foaming surge in the centre of the broad expanse.

On board all was still, save the puffing blasts of steam, which, at each stroke of the pistons, echoed through the woods and over the plains. The cabin lights had long been extinguished, and, from a distance, nothing could be seen of her but the huge blazing furnaces, and the red signal lantern, which was suspended over the boiler deck. The firemen, just roused from their dream of comfort, no more passed round the coarse jest, no more whistled "Boatman, dance," but, like automata, threw the fuel into the roaring furnaces. Occasionally, the startling note of the great bell roused the deck-watch from his slumber, and he sang over again the monotonous song that told the pilot how far his keel was from the sands below. Again the bell pealed a heavy stroke, which indicated that the steamer was in free water, and the leadsman settled himself for another nap.

The passengers, save those whom we have before noted, were deep in the arms of Morpheus, rejoicing, no doubt, in their dreams, over the many tedious hours they thus annihilated.

Wakeful and watchful, Henry Carroll still kept his post. Ever present to his mind was the fair being over whose safety his vigil was kept. Her image, clothed in all the gorgeous fancies which the love-sick brain conjures up, spoke in silver tones to his heart, and the melody of her voice thrilled his soul. Descending from the dignity of the man, he built childish air-castles, wherein he throned his idol, and in a few fleeting moments squandered years of happiness by her side. The perils of the past, the sternness of the present, the responsibilities of the future, all faded away, and from their ashes rose the bright empress of his soul.

This, we know, was all very foolish of him; but then it must be remembered he was in love, and men in love can scarcely be called accountable beings.

Thus he dreamed, and thus he trod the fairy ground of imagination, nor heeded the creaking timbers and the increasing rapidity of the puffs from the escape-pipe. To a man not intoxicated by the dream of young love these facts would have indicated a great increase in the speed of the boat; but he noticed them not.

By the motions of the Chalmetta it was plain that, though incapable of accomplishing any wonderful feat in the attainment of speed, she had a considerable amount of that commodity somewhat vulgarly termed "spunk." As she passed the mouth of the Yazoo river, another steamer, apparently of her own calibre, rounded gracefully into the channel, from a wood-yard. This boat—the Flatfoot, No. 3—seemed, by her straining and puffing, to throw the gauntlet to the Chalmetta; a challenge, real or imaginary, which the latter made haste to accept,—or, rather, her sleepy firemen did, for, without leave or license, they crammed her furnaces to their utmost capacity. The effects of this movement were soon perceptible in every part of the boat, for she creaked and groaned like a ship in a gale. But the Flatfoot, No. 3, had the lead, and seemed to gain upon her rival,—a circumstance which seemed to rouse the lethargic firemen of the Chalmetta to the highest pitch of excitement, for they packed the furnaces more closely still.

Maxwell saw, with much satisfaction, the prospect of a race; not that he expected in this instance to enjoy the excitement which, with "fast men," is consequent upon such an occasion. He hoped it might distract the attention of the person who, by accident or design, opposed the execution of his purpose. He had sent Vernon to the cabin to watch the movements of Henry, while he remained upon the main deck, forward of the furnaces, to encourage the firemen in their ambitious project of passing the other boat. Several barrels of hams which lay upon the deck the apparently excited attorney ordered the firemen to throw into the furnaces, promising to screen them from blame by paying the owner double their value. The firemen, not blessed with an undue amount of caution, willingly obeyed the order, and soon the boilers hissed and groaned under the extraordinary pressure. The engineers, roused from their slumbers, and entering at once into the sport, secured the safety-valve in its place by attaching to the lever double the usual weight.

Still the person whom Maxwell wished to lure from his post remained immovable. A few pitch-barrels were now split up, and cast into the furnaces, which so increased the pressure that the faithful safety-valve refused longer to endure the curb placed upon the discharge of its function. It was again secured, and the reckless firemen, urged on by Maxwell and the engineers, still pressed the boat to its destruction.

The boilers, notwithstanding the tremendous pressure to which they were subjected, still realized the expectations of the confident engineers, and refused to be the agents of an "awful calamity." But all exertion was of no avail; the Flatfoot, No. 3, whose tall chimneys vomited forth a long trail of flame, showing that she, too, was hard pressed, was rapidly increasing her distance. Still the firemen plied the furnaces, and again the engineers added more weight to the lever of the safety-valve. The boilers were evidently pressed to their utmost, the, decks were hot, and her timbers creaked and snapped as though they would drop out of her.

Hatchie had placed his party in the hold, one of which was on the look-out at the hatchway. He saw the danger of the steamer; but all his friends were in the safest places the boat afforded. It was an anxious hour for him; but everybody was in peril, and there was no remedy.

Maxwell, whose excitement in the race was feigned, perceived that the boat was in imminent danger. He had not intended to carry the excitement quite so far. An explosion was not exactly the thing he desired. It would not be sufficiently discriminating in its choice of victims. But the firemen were too much excited to listen to reason; therefore he proceeded, with Vernon, towards the extreme after part of the boat. Passing round the gallery of the ladies' cabin, they perceived that Henry had, at last, left his post. Such was indeed the case. Roused from his abstraction by the terrible anticipation of an explosion, he had gone forward to reason with the pilots on the recklessness of their course in allowing the boat to be so hard pressed.

"Now is our time," said Maxwell, in a whisper.

"Here goes, then!" replied Vernon.

"Be careful that you do not injure her,—and bring her clothes."

"Ay, ay! Have the boat ready quick, for, if I mistake not, the sooner we are out of this boat the better."

The ruffian approached the door of Emily's state-room, and was about to open it, when, with a noise louder than the crashing of the thunderbolt, the starboard boiler exploded, and the Chalmetta lay a shapeless wreck upon the waters!

CHAPTER XIV.

"False world, thou ly'st; thou canst not lend
The least delight;
Thy favors cannot gain a friend,
They are so slight." FRANCIS QUARLES.

The traveller on the Mississippi observes with interest the innumerable islands which dot the river, and relieve the monotony of the scenery. These islands are, for the most part, covered with a luxurious growth of cotton-wood trees. They have generally been formed by what are technically called cut-offs, or new channels, from the main land. The mighty torrent, scorning its own well-beaten track, ploughs a way through the country, and returns to its channel miles below, opening at once a new path for the voyager upon its tide. The portion of land thus separated from the main shore is often subdivided by the action of the waters into several smaller islands. These islets are, however, oftener seen in isolated positions, varying in area from a few square rods to several acres. A remarkable feature of these islands is their locomotive powers,—for, strange as it may seem, they annually take a step down stream! Observation has shown a change of position almost incredible.

The river, continually wearing upon the up-river side of the island, washes the sands and soil to the lower side. Thus, the situation of the island is actually changed. The fact is clearly shown by the singular configuration of the mass of trees growing upon them. The wood on the upstream side of the island is of the largest size; while that on the down-stream side begins at the mere shrub, and, by a regular gradation in height, like a pair of stairs, increases to the altitude of the full-grown tree. Each successive year places a new layer of soil upon the lower side, in which the young tree takes root; and the growth of each year is distinctly visible to the traveller as he ascends the river.

On one of these islands, above Vicksburg, was located a neat cottage. The island differed in many respects from others. Its area might have been eight or ten acres. On one side of it was a narrow, but deep stream, which, entering from the broad river, described a semi circle, and returned its waters on the same side. On three sides, except at the mouths of the little stream, the island was rendered inaccessible by the high banks, while on the fourth side the shrubs grew so luxuriantly as to be impervious, save to the most resolute visitor. From the high banks which walled it in the surface of the island sloped gradually towards a common centre, through which rushed the little stream.

This little island had probably been a part of the main land; the river had forced its way through a valley, and, by degrees, had worn down the high land on either side, till they formed the precipices which now frowned on the visitor. The little stream had, perhaps, once been a meandering rivulet,—part of one which emptied into the river on the opposite side.

On one of the sloping sides of the interior was situated the cottage. It was small in size, containing but four rooms and an attic, and was neatly painted white. Its location in the valley concealed it from the main land, and from the traveller upon the river. It was accessible only by means of the stream, which rolled by within a few rods of the door. A cow grazed in the woods, which had been partly cleared of under-brush, and had the appearance of a park grove. Near the house a plot of land had been reduced to a state of cultivation, upon which an old negro servant managed to raise vegetables sufficient for the use of the family.

The interior of the cottage was neatly furnished, though with none of the gaudy trappings of fashion. Everything was plain and useful. On the side fronting the stream, which served the inmates as a highway, were two rooms,—a library, which was also the sitting-room, and a sleeping apartment. The library was far the most substantial and comfortable-looking room in the house, inasmuch as it was abundantly supplied with modern and classical lore. In the middle was a large writing-desk, upon which lay sundry manuscripts, apparently the last labor of the occupant. The books and papers were all arranged with scrupulous neatness and method.

The two rooms in the rear were the dining-room and another sleeping apartment, while the attic was occupied by the old negro and his wife,—the property of the proprietor, and his only attendants upon the island. Back of the house, as is the custom of the South, was a small building used as a kitchen. Near it was another building, appropriated to the use of the cow aforesaid.

In the stream in front of the cottage, fastened to a tree on the bank, was a beautifully-modelled sail-boat, which was worthy to rank with the miniature yachts of our large cities. She was schooner-rigged, with a small cabin forward. Her masts, by an ingenious contrivance, could be lowered down aft, and, by means of a rope attached to the fore-top, and running through a block on the bowsprit, could be instantly restored to their original upright position. This arrangement the owner found necessary, on account of the overhanging trees, which nearly concealed the two openings of the stream into the river.

On the night of the Chalmetta's terrible disaster, a man wrapped in a camlet cloak left the cottage, and approached the landing-place. In one hand he carried a glass lantern, and in the other a double-barrelled gun. Descending the steps to the rude pier of logs, he drew the boat in-shore and seated himself in the stern-sheets. Unloosing the stern-line, which alone held her, the boat was borne on by the rapid stream. The helm the occupant handled with a masterly skill, and in a moment the little bark swept through the half-hid opening into the broad river. Placing the helm amid-ships, the man went forward, and, pulling the proper line, brought the masts to their upright position. He then inserted the iron keys which kept them in their place, and hoisted the sails. By this time the boat had drifted to the lower extremity of the island; so, bracing her sharp up, he stood away across the river. Tacking before he reached the swift channel, which flowed close in shore, he laid the boat's course up the stream. The wind was blowing fresh, and, notwithstanding the contending force of the current, the boat careened to her task, and made very good progress through the water. While the gallant little bark pursues her way, we will introduce her skipper to the reader.

Dr. Vaudelier was about fifty years of age. He was descended from one of the old French families of Louisiana; and had been, for nearly thirty years, a practising physician in the city of New Orleans, during which time he had accumulated a very handsome fortune. At the age of twenty-five he had been married to a lady, whose only recommendations were her personal beauty and her fashionable accomplishments. Her vanity had disgusted him, and her uncontrollable temper had embittered to its very dregs the cup of his existence. Being naturally of a gloomy and melancholy temperament, this unfortunate union had rendered his life almost insupportable. Domestic happiness, to which he had looked forward with high-wrought anticipations, proved, in his case, to have no foundation.

He was disappointed. His dream of home and its blessings faded away, and was supplanted by a terrible reality. He grew more and more melancholy. But there was a solace, which saved him from absolute misery. Two children—a boy and a girl—blessed his otherwise unhallowed union. The education of these children was the only joy his home afforded; but even this to his misanthropic mind could not compensate for his matrimonial disappointment.

Years passed away; the son was sent to college, from which, to the anguish of his father, he was expelled for gross misconduct. The young man returned to New Orleans, and became one of the most dissolute and abandoned characters of the city. Dr. Vaudelier disowned him, and sunk the deeper in his melancholy.

The death of his wife left him alone with his daughter; and if the fatal influence of past years could have been removed, perhaps he might have been a happy man. The daughter was a beautiful girl, and promised to realize all the fond expectations of her father. Her daily education and method of life, as directed by her father, were better calculated to fit her for the occupancy of a nun's cell than for rational society.

About five years previous to the time of our story, the solemn quiet of Dr. Vaudelier's dwelling was disturbed by the arrival of a young French gentleman, bearing letters of introduction to the misanthropic physician. This gentleman was delighted with the daughter of his host, and she experienced a before unknown pleasure in his society. The doctor was, to some extent, obliged to abandon the "pleasures of melancholy," and accompany the young couple into the world.

This intimacy between the young persons rapidly ripened into love. Dr. Vaudelier's inquiries into the character and circumstances of the young gentleman were not satisfactory, and he refused to sanction the union. Perhaps he was influenced more in this decision by the dread of parting with his daughter than by any other motive. The father's refusal was followed by the elopement of the young couple,—an act which blasted the only remaining hope of the misanthrope. His heart was too sensitive to endure the shock.

Reduced to the depths of despair, suicide presented itself as the only effectual remedy for his misfortunes. But the church, to whose rites and promises he yielded the most devoted reverence, doomed the suicide to eternal woe!

Society, into which for a brief period he had allowed himself to be enticed, was ten-fold more distasteful to him than before. He could not endure even that which the practice of his profession demanded. The great city seemed a pandemonium, and he resolved to escape from its hated scenes.

He travelled up the river in search of seclusion, and accidentally had noticed the island upon which he afterwards fixed his residence.

His abode upon the island was not entirely unknown to the inhabitants of his vicinity; yet they seldom troubled him with their presence. Steamers and flat-boats continually passed his little domain; yet the traveller knew not that it was occupied by human beings.

Dr. Vaudelier's pursuits were of the most simple nature. He read and wrote nearly the whole day, and in the evening,—often at the dead of night,—he would unmoor his yacht, and stem the tide of the mighty river. His chief happiness was in communion with nature. His solitary habits had completely estranged him from society; and he chose the night for his lonely excursions on the river, to avoid the presence of man.