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VOL. 11.
[Selected.]
The Old Man’s Song in Autumn.
Oh, heart that beats in my breast,
Say why art thou so cast down ?
Oh, is it grief for the days growing brief
And the fields that are gathering brown?
The wind blows gentle and soft :
The sun shines bright in the sky;
And the woods to-day were never more
gay
In all of the years gone by.
The maples gleam in the vales
Like the watch fires of a camp;
And the cardinal flower in her secret
bower
Has lighted her crimson lamp.
Not all the birds have flown,
For the robin’s voice sounds clear,
From the orchard row T s where his warm
breast glows,
And the fields of stubble near.
But my heart in answer makes :
“ The robin’s note is dry;
And the woods to-day are not half so gay
As they were in years gone by.
“ The Summer I loved has flown;
The lilly has left her stalk;
And the roses are dead, both white and
red,
That grew by the garden walk.
“ The Autumn I love it not,
For cold to me is its breath;
And its deepening blush seems the hectic
flush
That bodes the coming of death.
“And winter will follow soon,
Sobbing and moaning aloud;
And the earth below will whiten with
snov,
That falls from the frosty cloud.”
[Written for the Banner of the South.]
Reaping the Whirlwind.
BY MISS ANNIE M. BARNWELL, OF BEAUFORT,
SOUTH CAROLINA.
CHAPTER I.
“ She is a child in years,
And though in wit a woman, yet her heart,
Untempered by the discipline of pain,
Is fancy-led." Taylor.
“ I cannot give my consent, Gertrude,
for 1 feel that by so doing, I should be
come the murderer of my child’s happi
ness. Can you not trust me, little one ?
1 have been a loving father to you for
seventeen years ; surely this stranger is
not more to you than 1 am ?”
Never were words of opposition more
gently spoken, but they elicited no re
sponse from the beautiful girl, who kept
close to her father’s side by his encircling
arm, yet turned away her face, with a
look of sullen, defiant anger.
Colonel Carroll’s voice shook, as he
continued still more tenderly :
‘ Listen to me, dear, and try to feel
less angrily towards me. Do you think
it ls a light matter for me to refuse you
anything, which lies so near your heart ?
from the hour of your birth, you have
been the darling of our household ; your
happiness the first consideration with
} our mother, brothers, and myself. We
all oppose this engagement with Lieut.
Austyn. Can you not -yield to us, and
trust your happiness in our hands ? Even
Lb ward, whose affection for him, and
gratitude to him as the preserver of his
‘L\ you cannot doubt—even Edward is
against him, and came to me, with tears
114 his eyes, pleading that I would never
ponsent. Aly darling, will you not yield
111 this matter
1 cannot see why* you are an against
f our Theodore 1” the girl burst forth
passionately. “You know he is brave,
01 he never would have risked his life to
' MVe Edward’s ; and I think the memory
of that service might make you less
prejudiced and bitter against him. You
cannot deny that be is talented, high
born, wealthy, handsome, and a thorough
gentlemen. Besides, what is more than
all in my, estimation, he loves me de
votedly. What more can you expect, or
desire ? You are cruel to me, all cf
you—far more cruel than he will ever
be.”
Passing over her rudeness and injus
tice, and with increased tenderness, her
father replied calmly :
“ I will repeat, once more, our ob
jections to him, Gerty. He is all that
you say, I grant, and I am not surpised
at your finding him a pleasant compan
ion for a few weeks. But, little one,
there is something more needed in the
one, who is .to be your companion and
guide for life. Can you, high-spirited,
quick-tempered, and accustomed to be
petted and indulged, as you are, teach
yourself to yield wifely obedience to his
imperious, exacting and often ungovern
able temper ? Can you be meek, patient
and submissive, darling, as a true wife
should be ?”
“No !” she broke in impatiently, “and
Theodore will never expect it. H% loves
me too well ever to seek to control me ;
and I love him so dearly, that his wishes
will always he my own. That argument,
at least, has no weight with me.”
“ Perhaps this will,” continued her
father. “Can you, the child of a South
Carolina planter, a slave holder, and
nullifier, be happy in a Northern home,
as the wife of an openly avowed aboli
tionist, and one too, so bitterly opposed
to our cherished States-rights doctrine,
as is Lieut. Austyn ?”
“I can be happy with him anywhere,”
replied Gertrude more quietly than she
had yet spoken ; “and as to his opinions
on those points, we have agreed to disagree
in peace and love.”
“ Is our happiness of no consideration
to you, my child V’ continued the Colonel,
drawing her yet closer to his side. “Will
you leave us all, to follow the fortunes of
this stranger, whom six weeks ago, you
had never seen, and who is directly op
posed to us in all the principles we hold
most dear and sacred ?”
The girl’s beautiful lips quivered, and
her answer came low and faltering :
“I love him, father, and he loves m
We are first with each other.”
“ Yet he came here engaged to an
other, and found vou the same. He has
broken his own plighted word, and in
fluenced you to trifle with the affections
of a true and noble heart, that has loved
you from childhood.”
“ Has Richard been complaining of
me to you ?” qu«stioned the girl, fiercely,
every trace of softness gone in an instant.
“He ie deceitful and unmanly. After
promising that he would throw no blame
upon me, he has gone whining to you,
with y ),'s complaints, hoping, I suppose,
that —i would plead for him, or per
hap force me to marry him.. But
he istaken. I never will be his wife.
T ANARUS/ is right. He is a dull, pitiful,
spotless, old-woman, I hate and de
spise him 1”
“ For shame, Gertrude !” cried her
father, sternly. “I will not allow you to
speak so of one, whom you know to be
brave and excellent, and whom you have
treated so shamefully. It ill befits Lieut.
Austyn, both as a gentleman and a man
of honor and good feeling, to speak in
such terms of one he has so deeply in
jured. If it is by such false and sneak
ing abuse of Richard, that he has been
able to win you from him, then, indeed,
I am ashamed of my once high-minded,
and right-feeling daughter.”
Gertrude’s abashed countenance showed
that she felt her father’s stern rebuke,
but she muttered sullenly :
“He had no right to complain of me
after his promise.”
“ lie did not. It was Wallace, who
forced from him the truth, that it- was
you, who had broken the engagement.
AUGUSTA, GJL., OCTOBER 9, 1869.
Os course, Wallace felt your conduct to
his friend deeply ; and be told nfe of it.
I spoke to Richard, and he defended you
nobly ; saying that you were young,
and not to blame for your change of
affection. You have wronged him
cruelly, Gertrude ; never again add to
that wrong by using such false and disre
spectful language about him, nor allow
another to do so in your presence. You
are a gentleman’s daughters, and such
conduct is too unworthy of you.”
A change passed over Gertrude’s ex
pressive countenance, and she lifted her
bright, dark eyes to her lather’s face, re
plying frankly :
“ I was wrong, sir. Richard is good
and generous, but I do not love him, and
I caunot marry him.”
“ That is my own candid, Gerty,” said
her gratified father, with a tender kiss.
“ I would not have your inclinations in
the slightest degree forced, darling;
your happiness is my first object in life.”
“ Then you will love Theodore for my
sake, and give me to him,” she whis
pered,* nestling closer to his side, and
looking up into his face with pleading
eyes. “That will make me perfectly
happy, and that alone.”
“ Gertrude, I cannot. My last objec
tion is the strongest far of all. These
arms held you at the font, and gave you
to my God in Baptism. Six months ago,
I wept tears of joy and thankfulness, as
I saw you receive the holy rite of Con
formation, and there kneel beside me at
the Table of our Lord. Can I then, by
word or act of mine, aid in placing you
uuder the dominion of an infidel, who
openly denies the Master, you have
pledged yourself to serve, as long as life
shall last ? No, Gertrude, it is useless
to ask me ! I cannot and will not con
sent.”
With a sudden movement, she freed
herself from his encircling arm, and
rushed from the room, closing, the door
sharply behind her. She did not pause
until she reached her own chamber, when,
locking her door securely, she threw
herself upon the bed, and burst into a fit
of passionate weeping.
It was in the Spring of 18, that this
story opens, and the scene of the above
interview was Golonel Carroll’s planta
tion, qu the Ashley River, about ten
miles from Charleston. Spotsylvania,
as the estate was called, had been in the
family for many years, their ancestor,
the Hon. Edward Carroll, having re
deemed it from the primeval forest.
Colonel Carroll was his grand-son, and
was now about fifty years of age. He
had been, in his youth, remarkable for
his strength, courage, and rare personal
attractions. His Colonelcy had been
won in the war of 1812, and ever since
peace had been declared, he had resided
in Charleston, spending part of each
year at Spotsylvania. He had been a
delegate to the !Stute Legislature, and
afterwards a member of the House of
Representatives at Washington ; was a
staunch Southerner, a devoted secession
ist, and a firm adherent of Mr. Calhoun.
With the pride, extravagance, and un
suspiciousness of many of his class, he
also possessed their generosity, frankness,
courage, aud peculiarly high sense ot
honor. He was a courteous, hospitable,
warm-hearted gentleman; a little hasty,
perhaps, but so frank and free to forgive,
that his short-lived fits of anger could
scarcely be regretted, as giving oppor
tunity for the display of such rare vir
tues. He had married early in life, the
daughter of a neighboring planter, Irene
Stuart, a fair and graceful lady, who had
borne him four sons, and then, after an
interval of four years, a little daughter,
the Gertrude of whom we have spoken.
The eldest of these sons, Stuart, was,
like his father, a planter, and, at the,
period when our story opens, was twenty
seven, with a plantation adjoining
Spotsylvania, a sweet wife, and three
little children. Wallace, the second,
was a clergyman of the Episcopal Church,
and a widower, having lost a fair young
wife within two months after their wed
ding-day. The third son, Edward, had
graduated at West Point, and was now,
at the age of twenty-three, a Lieutenant
in the army, stationed on Indian fron
tier. The youngest son, Norman, was
just of age, and after graduating with
the first honor at Columbia College, was
now studying law in Charleston.
01 this family circle Ger trude was the
pet and darling. They loved her so
dearly, and were so proud of her beauty
and talents, that she had been sadly
spoiled ; and, though loving, frank, and
noble, was nevertheless, passionate, wil
ful and capricious. About eight months
before our story opens, she had become
engaged to the Rev. Richard Lomax, a
young clergyman of rare promise, and
the most intimate friend of her brother
Wallace, whose wife had been Richard’s
sister, thus adding another link to the
chain which bound them together. Tho
families had always been very intimate,
and Richard had loved Gertrude from
childhood. Under his influence, she had
joined the Church, and her improvement
under his guidance had been a source of
great pleasure to her family. They were
to be married in October, on Gertrude’s
eighteenth birth-day, hut, alas, in March,
Edward on a furlough,
bringing, as his gui& a brother officer,
Lieut. Theodore Austyn. They had
been classmates at West Point, and were
afterwards stationed together on the
frontier. While there, Austyn had
/ j
saved Edward’s life, and had thus
changed, into friendship, what had
formerly been merely an intimate ac
quaintance. The marked opposition in
opinion, of which Colonel Carroll had
spoken, rendered them far from congenial
friends ; and had Edward’s nature been
less generous and grateful, their inter
course could not long have continued
amicable. As it was, however, their
friendship had been uninterupted, until
it became known that, while partaking
of their hospitality, Austyn had made use
of his handsome person, and attractive
manners to detach the vouug and sus-
ceptablo heart of Gertrude from its
allegiance to her betrothed, aud then to
win that heart for his, forgetful that he
too was not free to love. Wallace had
discovered that the engagement with his
friend was broken, and had told his
lather of the fact. The Colonel, in his
interview with Richard, had discovered,
in spite of his generous silence, that
Gertrude must have been to blame. He
at once, summoned his daughter, and
then he sought to win her confidence,
was met by a passionate avowal of her
love for Austyn, aud of tine engagement
into which they had entered. He refused
his consent and positively forbade the
marriage. Her mother and brothers
joined in his disapproval, and tried in
every way, to dissuade her from what
they deemed merely & passing fancy.
The Colonel also spoke to Austyu of his
dishonorable conduct, and met, in return,
with such extreme rudeness that he was
forced to request him, at once to leave
his house. This Austyn did, on the day
previous to that on which the interview
we have described took place.
The clock had struck ten that night,
and the family had all retired to their
chambers, when two shrouded forms stole
noiselessly down the private stairs, at the
back of the house, glided rouud into the
shrubbery, and disappeared among the
dark shades of orange grove. Pausing
at the entrance of the principal avenue,
they peered into the dense shadow for a
moment, in silence; then, the smaller of
the two gave a low, uncertain whistle.
It was answered instantly, aid a quick
step was heard approaching. The whis
tler sprang forward, leaving her com
panion at the entrance, ran lightly down
the avenue, and was received into the
arms of a tall gentleman. A few mo
ments were devoted to mute caresses, and
broken words of endearment, then the
gentleman said :
“You received my note, dearest, and
at once obeyed my summons. How can
I thank you, my own love ?”
'“I need no thanks, Theodore,” she
murmured tenderly. “Is it not my joy
and happiness to be with you ? Oh! my
beloved, I would brave danger and death
for the blessed privilege of feeling your
dear arms around me thus. Is it, then,
so mighty a boon that I have flown to you
without delay at your dear bidding ?”
“Sweet flatterer,” replied Theodore,
pressing her closer to his breast; “you
love me thus fondly, and yet they bid me
leave you. I have sent for you, mine
own, to ask but one question: Shall l
go ? Do you bid me say farewell for
ever V’
“No! no! no!” and the girl’s voice
trembled with passionate eagerness.
“Never will I bid you leave me, Theo
dore. He who is lord of my heart, shall
be lord of my life as well. I am yours,
yours wholly, yours forever, iny beloved,
my king, my very life !”
“Do you know what that promise im
plies, sweet Gertrude, mine ? The trea
sure that is given to me must dwell in
my own keeping, If others would fain
rob me of it, then I must steal it away,
and that right speedily, A friend of
mine, the Rev. Mr. Hudson, is now in
Charleston, lie will refuse me nothing.
To-morrow night, at eleven o’clock, a
carriage will be at the large gate, con
taining Mr. and Mrs. Hudson, and her
brother, who is with them. *he parson,
witnesses and bridegroom will be ready
—the ceremony can be performed as we
drive along. Will the bride be missing ?
A boat leaves Charleston in the morning
at daylight for New York. The Hudsons
sail in her, and there is a vacant state
room. Will no occupants be found tor
it? My little love, my birdie, will you
liy with me, by the moon’s sweet light—
the light so sacred to true-hearted
lovers ?”
And she, the idol of that stately
house, looked up into the wily stranger’s
face, murmuring :
“I am thine, beloved; do with me as
thou wilt.’’ •
An hour had passed, ere, attended by
her maid, she reached her chamber. In
that hour she had sealed ner destiny.
There are such hours in every life
hours when the great battles of our exis
tence are sought —when the good and
evil spirits within us strive for the mas
tery, and on the issue hangs our life’s
happiness or our life’s woe. She was a
mere girl, this wilful Gertrude Carroll,
with her bright, dark beauty, and her
passionate, undisciplined heart. Sleep
came to her that night, untroubled by
pre-visions of the dark future she had
shaped for herself in the shadowy orange
walk., Sbe dreamed, indeed, but those
dreams were all of a syren voice, and a
handsome face, light up by bright blue
eyes, and framed in sunny curls, and lips
and eyes both spoke of love, and low*
alone. It was the last night beneath the
roof which had witnessed her birth, and
sheltered her for seventeen happy years;
and yet, all her thoughts and dreams
were of the stranger she had known ifr
six short weeks.
Still, deem her not heartless. In spite
of everything, she loved well her home,
her country, her devoted parents, her
fond brothers, the friends aud servants,
she had kuowu from childhood. It was
the thoughtless, one-idea passion of early
vouth, the certainty that she would find
no difficulty in winning pardon, but
would return with her husband, after a
brief wedding tour, to be again the id 1
of her home circle, with one more wor
shipper added to those who bowed at her
shrine. The romance charmed her girl
ish fancy, the assertion of independence
fascinated her wilful nature, and the
sense of mystery and danger thrilled
with anew delight her undisciplined
heart. Poor child! The punishment
for h*er fault was not long delayed, and
No. 30.
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