Newspaper Page Text
226
“You see, Mr. Bently,” said I, “how very
calm I am. I have been astonished so often
lately—that is, I have heard so many wonderful
things, that if the ground beneath our feet
should yawn at this moment, I believe I could
preserve the most stoical indifference But
have you the paper?”
“ I have. Here it is.”
I took it, and it was even so. The light
flashed on me in an instant. It was just as I
expected. Lorraine and Fitzwarren were con
federates. The former was in Galveston, the
reader will recollect, on the day I witnessed the
murder recorded in the first part of this book.
He saw me retreat hastily—l had heard of my
mother’s illness, and did not wish to be detained
as a witness —and he considered this a fine op
portunity of wreaking or commencing the ven
geance he had threatened against me.
He was favorably known there to the princi
pal inhabitants, and was believed when he
pointed out my flight, denounced me as the
criminal, and described my person. Galveston
papers hardly ever reached our State, and I saw
nothing of the proclamation. No doubt the real
criminal was soon discovered and brought to
justice, or I would have been hunted up.
Fitzwarren, then, had obtained this array of
apparently incontrovertible testimony from Lor
raine—the par nobile fratrum! This was the
“.newspaper notice” about which I had heard
him speak to Mr. Bently.
“This,” said I, at length, returning the news
paper, “is plain enough. Now for the rest.”
“ Count, number two, then. Some time ago,
in Florida, a man was hung by lynch law.
It was about the time —it was between the first
and second visits you made to Bentwold. The
newspapers were full of dark hints and rumors
concerning the matter, but nothing definite was
known. It is said you were present, aiding and
abutting.”
“ The devil incarnate 1” I could not help ex
claiming. “ And he was present himself, aiding
and abetting to the full extent that I was.”
“You admit this, then?” aked Mr. Bently
quickly.
“ Certainly. I can justify the act, though.—
You admit that such proceedings are right un
der some circumstances?”
“These circumstances must be very aggrava
ted, and the law must be inefficient to punish
the criminal before I would resort to such
means.”
“This was the case, precisely.
“ But you astonish me when you say Lorraine
was with you at the hanging.”
“ Lorraine ?”
“Yes.”
“I said no such thing."
“Did you not say your accuser was at the
hanging?"
“ My accuser ?”
The truth is, I was somewhat bewildered.
“ Yes, your accuser."
“ Isn’t Fitzwarren my accuser ?”
“Fitzwarren?" echoed Mr. Bently, for it was
his turn to be astonished. “ Fitzwarren! Why,
he is gone to Texas as fast as steam can carry
him, to obtain proofs of your innocence. He
sought me—asked the reason why I had changed
my deportment toward you; when I told him,
he denounced Lorraine as a villain of the deep
est dye —said he would obtain proof that he was
unworthy of belief—showed me a newspaper
notice of his meanness and chicanery—declared
jrou should have justice rendered you—that you
should stand before me in your true light.
“ All this he did, and left Catoosa for Galves
ton in two hours after he had pledged himself to
prove your innocence.”
“Thank God!" I exclaimed. “Then Fitz
warren is not the traitor I deemed him. Noble,
self-sacrificing friend 1 How can I ever repay
him ? You know not, Mr. Bently,” I continued,
“ what a singular confidence he displays in me.
He knows nothing of this Galveston business,
but believing m 3 innocent, entirely from what he
knows of my character now, he pledges himself
for me and starts on a long journey to obtain
the proof he believes must exist.”
“ But what could have induced you to believe
that Fitzwarren was your betrayer?" asked Mr.
Bently.
I related what I had heard pass between Fitz
warren and him.
"People,” said I, when I had finished my nar
ration, “ may differ as to whether my act of list
ening was quite honorable. I did not seek an
opportunity of eavesdropping. I was convinced
that I had been slandered. The man who, I
thought, bad cast aspersions on my character,
and the man who had heard the slanders, passed
close to me. I heard my name mentioned, and
thought I would have the opportunity of un
masking a traitor. Under the circumstances, I
think I was justifiable in hearing all I could.”
“ I believe, on the whole, I would have acted
just as you did," was Mr. Bently’s reply.
I then gave him a detailed account of the
hanging, and the circumstances leading to it;
only, instead of mentioning Tom Harper’s name,
I merely designated him as a “ dear friend.” As
witnesses I referred him to Fitzwarren and Au
nez, and if these were insufficient, he could go
to county and make as many inquiries as
he chose.
“As to the other affair," said I, “as soon as
I get back home, I shall start for Galveston my
self; unless Fitzwarren shall arrive by that time
with sufficient proof to establish my innocence.
My business, now, is to have a reckoning—and
it will be a heavy one—with the man who has
slandered me. Can you inform me where Lor
raine is at this time ?”
“ I cannot.”
“ Then I suppose I must wait till I find him.”
“ I am now pretty well convinced,” said Mr.
Bently, “that the charges brought against you
are unfounded, and that—”
“ I beg pardon for interrupting you,” said I,
“ but since you do not demand proof of my in
nocence, you shall have it. All I ask of you, is
to wait—do not believe me guilty and do not be
lieve me innocent."
*• I will believe you innocent,” said Mr. Bent
ly, with a sudden impulse.
“ I vastly prefer that you will not—that you
will treat me as a stranger—a passing acquaint
ance, of whose character you know nothing.—
However, you can use your own pleasure in the
matter.”
“ Where will you be one month from now, Mr.
Bently?” I continued.
“At Bentwold—happy to see you at any
time.”
“ I wanted to beg leave to call on you and
your family with Fitzwarren, and show, how ut
terly false are the slanders that have been utter
ed against me.”
“ I’ll be glad to see you at my house, any
way."
And the interview was ended.
(to be continued.)
Can any one tell how it is that a man who is
too poor to pay five cents a week for a good
weekly paper, is able to spend fifty cents a day
for tobacco and cigars, to say nothing of an oc
c <?<yional drink ?
TMM SOimiU VXK&D UD VX&3BBXSS.
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
TO THE SAVANNAH RIVER.
BT BBS. C. I- STATIUS.
Winding river, dark Savannah! As I see thee onward
flow,
Mem'ry, with her fond beguiling, bids me dream of long
ago!
Happy days of sunny childhood passed we on yon ver
dant spot.
Where the porple violet mingles with the wild forget
me-not
There, the winding pathway sought we, as along thy
banks we strayed,
Gently fanned by balmy zephyrs, with the flashing waves
that played;
And the tiny streamlet passed we; smoothly do its wa
ters glide,
Softly stealing, as though fearful, to thy deep and dark
some tide!
Where thy banks, oh! dark Savannah! fairest, bend with
graceful sweep,
Where together elm and willow on thy glassy bosom
weep,
There was heard Oh, faithful memory! Woman's
shriek of wild despair;
"Twas an anguished mother wailing, fondest hopes that
perished there!
There thy depths entombed a loved one, when no earthly
arm could save,
Where yon curling eddy murmurs, Lula found her wa
tery grave.
Marble tells not the sad story; yet methinks the shad
ows’ play.
Quivering, writes upon the waters, ‘‘Here sweet Lnla
passed away.”
There the whip-poor-will at •ven, doth his saddest lay
outpour,
And the night winds through the cypresschant a requiem
evermore!
Many a year since then has vanished; long and weary is
the way—
Yet I view ‘mong days departed, that the saddest, dark
est day.
Willow, elm, funereal cypress, wave and zephyr, flower
and rill,
Though I never more may greet you, ye will haunt my
mem’ry still!
Winding river, dark Savannah! as I see thee onward
flow,
Mem’ry, with her sod beguiling, bids me dream of long
ago!
Bosch Island. ; *■*’
1 i »i 1
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
ALICE LEE ;
OR, THE SACRIFICE OF LOVE.
BY BESSIE B. ,
Have you ever stood on tbo banks of the Po
tomac ? Not the Potomac as you see it at Wash
ington, or at that Mecca of the American patriot,
Mt. Vernon; but the Potomac before its junction
with the Shenandoah ? If you have, I need not
tell you of the picturesque scenery through
which it flows; and if you have not, it will be
in vain for pen of mine to attempt an adequate
description of its beauties. The gentle undula
tions of hill and dale, dotted here and there with
the commodious, often elegant dwellings of the
planters, surrounded by the white cottages of
their servants, here nestling in the bosom of
some little valley, there perched upon the green
slope of a hill, and peeping out from among em
bowering trees; the smiling river, gliding along
in tranquil beauty, and the outlines of the Alle
ghanies, looking blue and dim in the distance;
all conspire to form a scene of loveliness, which
the most skillful artist would find himself una
ble to transfer to canvass.
Sixty years ago, the dwellings in this locality
were not as numerous as they now are, and you
might often ride many miles without seeing a
human habitation. ■ In one of the Eastern coun
ties of Virginia, near the junction of the North
and South branches of the Potomac, lived at that
period two gentlemen, considerably advanced in
lile, whom we shall call respectively Col. Lee,
and Major Laurens. They had both served un
der Washington, in the army of the Revolution,
and could both boast that they had shed their
bloc lin defence of their country. They had
both been deprived by death of their chosen
companions, and as their plantations joined, it is
no wonder that they were united by the strong
est bonds of friendship, or that scarcely a day
passed without their meeting, and spending a
portion of it in each other’s society.
There was this difference, however, that while
Major Lauren* was childless, Col. Lee had an in
fant daughter, who had come to him with the
parting breath of his beloved wife, and to whom
he had given her mother’s name—Alice.
She was a sweet little creature, with dove-like
eyes, and sunny curls, and it was no wonder that
her father lavished on her the most unbounded
love.
When Alice was about five years old, Major
Laurens received into his lonely household
which, since the death of his wife, had consisted
only of himself and servants, the orphan child of
his only sister, who had resided in a distant
city.
George Hastings was only two years older
than the little Alice, and it will not be surprising
when we remember the friendship of their seni
ors, that the children were almost constantly to
gether, or that they should become so attached
to each other as never to be satisfied when they
were apart.
Col. Lee and Maj. Laurens were "both well
pleased with this intimacy between the children,
and often spoke of the probability of its result
ing in the ultimate union of their families.
“ I shall never attempt to influence Alice in
the disposal of her affections,” said Col. bee, “for
I believe mischief is sure to grow out of any
such interference. It shall be my constant aim,
to hold up to her view all that is good and noble
in man, and I doubt not her heart, and intellect,
will lead her to choose rightly."
“ And I shall spare no effort," rejoined the
Major, “in trying to make George all that is
worthy of a woman’s love, so I think there will
be no obstacle in the way of realizing our wishes;
but, I perfectly agree with you, that tho children
should be left entirely to themselves in this mat
ter.”
“We must take care, however," said the Colo
nel, “not to make the path too smooth. You
know the old adage about true love.”
“No danger,” replied Maj. Laurens ; “ George
will have to be sent to college in a few years,
and that separation will add sufficient fuel to the
flame. He is progressing finely in his studies,
under the preceptor I obtained for trim in the
city, the last time I was there."
While this conversation, and much more of
the same purport, was transpiring between the
two gentlemen on Col. Lee’s piazza, George,
whose studies for the day were finished, and
who bad accompanied his uncle, as usual, to
spend the evening at Col. Lee’s, had been joined
by Alice, now released for the present from the
surveillance of her governess, and the two had
wandered off together, hand in hand, and now
stood in a little bower formed ofbutternut trees,
and wild grape vines, on the bank of the river,
watching a boat that was gliding gently along
with the current, and seeming to require scarce
an effort from its occupant to keep it moving in
the right direction.
“I wonder,” said Alice, “if our lives will al
ways glide along as smoothly as yonder boat;
somehow, it seems to me that I shall not always
be as happy as I am now.”
“What an idea,” exclaimed George, “fora
girl of ten years old! What could have set you
to dreaming of unhappiness? Why I am two
years older than you are, and I have never
thought of such a thing, except ” he added after
a pause, “ when my dear mother died; then I
was ufihappy for a time; but my good uncle
here, was so kind, that I soon recovered from
that.”
“ I don't know why it is,” replied Alice, “ but
sometimes I get to looking forward, and wonder
ing wliat kind of a woman I shall be when I
grow up, and I will sit thinking and thinking,
till Miss Alston will notice me, and ask if I am
studying a theme for my next composition; or
Aunt Becca will come in, and say, ’ why bless
my soul I the chile is dreamin with them bright
eyes of hern wide open,’ and that will bring mo
to myself again.”
“Well, I declare,” said George, “I never
thought you was such a dreamer before. I try
to look into tho future sometimes, and I always
imagine mvself some great man, like our own
Washington, but never think of anything sad.
For my part, I should rather see some sorrow,
than to live such a dull, quiet life, as it would be
which would bear a resemblance to the progress
of that boat. I should rather have some storms,
and cataracts, in the way; but come; the boat
is going out of sight around yonder bend, and
you just sit down in this grape vine swing, and
I will set you flying like the sweet little bird
that you are, swjft enough to drive away all dull
fancies.”
Alice complied with the request, and was soon
sailing to and fro through the air, laughing as
heartily as though she was never troubled with
gloomy anticipations.
The swing was formed of a wild grape vine,
which had ascended a large butternut tree <br
about thirty feet, and then falling downwards,
had struck against another tree, a short distance
from it, and twining itself around its branches,
had reascended to its very top; over which it
spread, and often tempted George, and the little
negroes of the .Colonel's plantation, by its rich
purple clusters, to climb the tree, at the immi
nent risk of a cold bath in the river below.
The swing, in its vibrations, passed out sev
eral feet over the water, but it was so securely
fastened, that no one had ever dreamed of dan
ger, and it had been for a long time a favorite
resort of Alice, who, like most other children,
dearly loved its exhilarating motion.
In the present instance, she had given herself
up to its fullest enjoyment, and with sparkling
eyes, and glowing cheeks, was uttering excla
mations of delight, as each vigorous push given
by George, sent it apparently farther and farther
out over the stream; when suddenly, just as it
had reached its greatest altitude over the water,
one end of it gave way, and Alice, with a wild
shriek, was precipitated into the nver; but still
retaining her hold of the vine, was drawn back
against the bank, with such force as to render
her entirely senseless.
She had scarcely touched the water, before
George leaped in after her, and being a good
swimmer, succeeded in disengaging her hand
from the vine, and had borne her to a place
where the bank would permit his ascending with
his burden, when he was met by some of the
servants, who had seen the accident from a
neighboring field, and ran t« bis assistance;
while a portion of them scampered off to the
house, screaming at the top of their voices, “Oh!
Lordyl ohl Lordyl Miss Alice’s drowned! Miss
Alice’s drowned 1”
Col. Lee, as the first alarm reached liis ears,
sprang from the piazza, and clearing the yard
fence at a bound, ran towards the river with a
speed which would have seemed almost incredi
ble even in his younger days, followed closely by
the Major; and met the servants who had re
lieved George Hastings of his dripping burthen,
just as they had ascended the bank. As he saw
the form of his idolized daughter, lying so pale
and motionless in the arms of one of the men, a
mist seemed to gather before his eyes, and ex
claiming “My Godl is this the end of all my
hopes ?” the brave man, and gallant officer, who
had so often faced death on the battle field, and
bad pressed on against the enemy while his own
blood was freely flowing, regardless of his
wounds, would have fallen, overcome by this
seeming deprivation of all ho loved, had he not
been supported by his friend.
Quickly rallying, however, he learned from
George in a few hurried words the cause of the
accident, and that she had not been more than
five minutes in the water; and rightly judging
that she was only stunned by her fall against
the bank, he hastened with her to the house, and
had soon the indescribable joy of seeing her re
stored to consciousness; but lie severely blamed
himself for having allowed the swing to be used
so long, without a more frequent examination.
It was a long time before Alice could again
visit their old haunts with George. Inflamma
tion of the brain, produced by thp contusion on
her temple, united to the fright she had received,
attacked her; and for a long time her life was
despaired of. It was touching to witness the
anxiety and solicitude of the servants during her
illness. Those who are acquainted with the ne
gro character, know how intimately entwined
with their very existence seems their love of mu
sic. The merry songs with which they accom
pany their labors, indicate a happy and content
ed spirit, which would astonish many of those
who so much commiserate tlieir condition; and
their labors are never so fatiguing, that they
will not, if an opportunity presents, pass half
the night in singing and dancing.
But while the spirit of little Alice hovered
thus on the confines of eternity, all songs were
hushed on the plantation of Col. Lee. The ser
vants attended as usual to their labors, but they
were performed in silence. If, while laboring in
the field, one of them, forgetting himself for a
moment, would break out in a snatch of song,
lie was quickly silenced by the others, exclaim
ing, “ Aint you shame to be singin’, when you
dun no but poor little Miss Alice is lyin’ dead
at the big bouse ?”
In the morning they always sent to know
how she was before going to the field, and their
first inquiry on returning at night was concern
ing her. When they were at length told that
the physician had pronounced her out of danger,
their extravagant demonstrations of joy were
such, that the Colonel was compelled to restrain
them, for fear that they would do serious injury
to the little invalid. So easy is it for the young,
as well as the old, to surround themselves with
an atmosphere of affection, if they will only culti
vate a spirit of gentleness in their hearts.
During her convalescence, the servants vied
with George in searching for the sweetest flow
ers, and the most delicious fruits; and when she
was able to appear once more among them, they
almost deafened her with their shouts of joy.
CHAPTER n.
We will pass over the events of the next five
years, and again step into the little rustic bower,
from which we saw our heroine so summarily
transferred to what might have proved a watery
grave. The grape vine swing has disappeared,
but in its place we find many improvements.
The mountain laurel now aspires to reach the
lower branches of those grand old butternuts,
and mingle its glossy, evergreen leaves, with the
perennial ones above it. The sweet-brier is
twining its branches with “ the laughing vine,”
and diffusing its delicate fragrance on the air.
Comfortable seats have been erected in this
charming retreat, and occupying one of them,
we again find George Hastings, and Alice Lee;
the one a fine looking, manly youth, with dark
brown eyes and hair; and the other a young
maiden of fifteen, with the same soft, dove-like
eyes, which she had always possessed, and shin
ing ringlets which exactly harmonized with them
in color.
She was not beautiful, in the common accep
tation of the term, but if you understand what
artists mean by the word spirituelle, you can
place her at once before the mind's eye. Alice’s
hand was clasped in that of her companion, and
both had been gazing for some time on the stream
before them, in silence. At length George
broke it by saying,
“ Do you remember Alice, the time when you
fell in the river?”
“ Yes,” she replied, “it was five years ago
to-day, and I was just thinking that that was the
first eventful incident in my life’s drama; and
that your departure to-morrow might prove the
commencement of the second act.”
“ How so ?” he queried.
“ Oh, I don’t know,” she said, half laughing,
“but you know I am such a dreamer, and,” she
added sadly, the smile fading from her counte
nance, “I shall miss you so much.
“ I know you will miss me,” returned George.
“ for have we not been as brother and sister to
each other ? but then, I shall write to you often,
and you will answer my letters sometimes, won’t
you ? And when vacation comes, we shall have
such pleasant times talking over what has hap
pened to each while wo were apart. It seems
to me that we shall only enjoy each other’s so
ciety the more for having been separated.”
Alice made no answer. She was thinking
how lonely she should be without him. George
too, was silent for some time : then starting up,
he said,
“ I must go now, Alice, for I have several
things yet to do before I shall be ready to take
the stage to-morrow morning. Good byand
throwing his arm around her, and kissing her as
he had been wont to do in their childish days,
he hurried away.
Alice sat long after he was gone, and the tears
would frequently fill her eyes, but she resolutely
forced them back. She was again looking anx
iously down the vista of future years, and won
dering if George would ever stand by her side,
and give her a more endearing name than that
of sister; but a dark shadow would often come
between her and the object on which she had
placed her heart’s best affections.
As she reentered the house, her father met
her and, closely scanning her countenance, said,
“ Why, Alice, I don’t see any traces of tears. I
expected those bright eyes would be red with
weeping.”
“Fy! father,” she replied, looking up into his
face with her usual frank smile, “ surely you did
not think me so foolish ?”
“ I believe the little miser has kept her heart
whole as yet," mentally ejaculated the Colonel,
as she passed on into the house, “ but time will
tell.”
Ah, Colonel 1 You are better skilled in inter
preting the movements of an enemy on the bat
tle field, than you are in reading the secrets of a
human heart.
There was one in the family who understood
these things better. Miss Alston, who had held
for seven years the post of governess to Alice,
had learned by her own experience to read the
hearts of others. Bred in aflluence, she had
given her heart to one who, when misfortune
came upon her family, basely deserted her for a
wealthier bride; but rising, phoenix-like, puri
fied by the furnace of affliction, she had gone
forth into‘the world, determined to make what
had been bestowed upon her as accomplish
ments, the means of her support. In the family
of Col. Lee she had found a quiet home, where
she was treated as an equal and not as a subor
dinate. She had labored in the moral and men
tal training of Alice as one who felt that she
must one day give account of the manner in
which she had discharged her duties.
She loved the sweet girl almost with a moth
er’s love, and she had studied closely for her
sake, the character of George, till she had be
come satisfied that they were suited to each
other. She had hoped that a mutual engage
ment would take place before he left to enter
college, for, young as he was, she knew that he
had a high sense of honor, which would never
allow him to swerve from a promise once made.
She felt certain, too, that he would never have
any real cause to regret it. With the state of
Alice’s heart she was as well acquainted as was
the maiden herself—perhaps better, for though
Alice had never spoken on the subject, she
knew that the wealth of her affections was giv
en to George, and she knew that for her to love
once, would be to love forever.
It was with deep regret, therefore, that she
saw by Alice’s countenance the true state of af
fairs, for though she exhibited in her face no
more sadness than one would naturally expect
her to show at parting with her childhood’s com
panion, still there was not that gleam in her
soft eyes, which Miss Alston knew would be
there, if she was looking forward to a certain
realization of her hopes in the future.
She wisely forbore, however, speaking on the
subject of George’s departure, and strove to di
rect the current of her pupil’s thoughts into other
channels.
* ———
CHAPTER 111.
“We have some new neighbors, I under
stand,” said Miss Alston, at the breakfast table
the next morning after George’s departure.
“Yes,” replied the Colonel, “ the old planta
tion adjoining Maj. Laurens’ has found an oc
cupant. The house and out-buildings have been
repaired, and the whole place seems to be under
going a thorough renovation."
“Do you know aught of the character of its
inhabitants?” asked Miss Alston.
“Nothing,” returned Col. Lee, “except that
the gentleman is a nephew of my old friend,
Judge Hartley, and if he is any like his uncle,
he will be a desirable acquaintance. He has a
daughter, I believe, just grown up, and as they
have been here over a week and are probably
domiciled by this time, if you and Alice will ac
company me, I will order the carriage and we
will give them a call.”
“Oh 1 do, father,” exclaimed Alice, “ that will
be so delightful to have a companion of my own
ago; you know I never have had.”
“ Have you forgotten George so soon?” said
her father, with a look that brought a crimson
flush to the brow and cheeks of the young girl.
“ I suppose, however, you meant one of your
own sex.”
“ But do you not jump too hastily at conclu
sions, in supposing that this young lady will be
a suitable companion before you have seen her?”
asked Miss Alston.
“ Alice is like most young people of her age,
I believe,” said the Colonel; “they speak first’
and think afterwards. But I hope her own
good sense, and your teachings, will keep her
from acting imprudently.”
“I shall certainly cultivate no friendships
which you and Miss Alston do not approve,”
said Alice, as the family rose from the table:
and retiring to her room, she began preparing
for the morning call. t
They found Mr. and Mrs. Morrison, the new
neighbors above referred to, very polite, agree
able people. The daughter was a young lady
of showy accomplishments, and Alice, although
really her superior in all the essentials of a good
education, felt herself completely thrown in the
shade, "by her apparent proficiency in those or
namental branches which too often constitute
the sum total of the education received at fash
ionable boarding schools.
Miss Morrison had also a brother, a young
man of very elegant manners, who strove to
make himself particularly agreeable to Alice;
but whether it was the hints thrown out by her
father and Miss Alston, at the breakfast table,
or an instinctive perception of their characters,
she felt that they could never become intimate
friends.
Mrs. Morrison complained much of the loneli
ness they should experience, after having always
been accustomed to city life; and Miss Morri
son descanted upon the total absence of balls,
parties, Ac; and was quite sure that she should
die of ennui, if it were not for the pleasure she
hoped to enjoy in the society of her “ dear Miss
Lee;” while young Mr. Morrison was sure that
he should be delighted with the opportunities
afforded for hunting and fishing: and thought
the beautiful scenery would render equestrian
excursions perfectly charming.
“Was Miss Lee fond of riding on horseback ?”
he asked. On being answered in the affirma
tive, hq expressed the hope that he would often
have the pleasure of attending her and his sis
ter, in their rides over those beautiful hills; and
thought they could easily dispense with city
amusements, when there were so many sources
of pleasure open to them; in short, he seemed
quite as much disposed to be pleased with every
thing, as his mother and sister were to com
plain.
Alice thought him a very fascinating young
man, but when she noticed the snake-like glit
ter of his cold grey eye, and the sarcastic smile
that played about his mouth, she could not help
contrasting his countenance with the frank, open
one of George Hastings; and the comparison
thus instituted was by no means favorable to
her new acquaintance.
The elder Mr. Morrison had invited Col. Lee
to look at some of the improvements he was
making, in the grounds connected with the man
sion, and the call in consequence having been
considerably prolonged, immediately after his
return to the house, himself and family took
their leave.
The next day the Morrisons called on them
in return, and soon the two families were on
terms of apparent intimacy.
I say apparent , for the feeling of distrust,
which had taken possession of Alice on their
first acquaintance, never entirely left her; and
though she always received Miss Morrison with
cordiality and seemed to take pleasure in her
society, she never admitted her to her confi
dence.
Toward her brother she was still more re
served ; and though always treating him with
the most scrupulous politeness, she never suf
fered the least approach to familiarity, a state
of affairs which he did not at all relish; for he
had decided, that as the only daughter and heir
ess of the wealthy Col. Lee, she would make
quite a desirable wife for himself; and as he
was already twenty-three, he thought the sooner
he could make an impression on her heart, the
better.
chapter iv.
We must again pass over quite an interval of
time. George Hastings’ collegiate course is
drawing toward its close. He has spent all his
vacations with his uncle, and has kept up a fre
quent correspondence with Alice; but his man
ner has always been that of an affectionato
brother. Still, his approbation has been her
guiding star. It was her determination to make
herself every way worthy of him, and her letters
have sometimes showed him glimpses of a depth
and cultivation of mind that astonished him.
During the short periods he has spent at
homo, Miss Morrison lias made his acquaintance,
and exerted herself to the utmost to dazzle him
with her accomplishments; but never has suc
ceeded in winning any attentions, further than
politeness required. She begins to think that
Alice stands in her way, and as her brother
also considers George a rival of his, he has be
come particulajly anxious to effect an engage
ment with our heroine, before Hastings’ return;
for, notwithstanding the dignified bearing sho
has always maintained towards him, his vanity
is such, that he entertains but little doubt of his
ultimate success. About this time a circum
stance occurred which slightly dampened his
hopes.
Alice, who was particularly fond of riding on
horseback, frequently accompanied young Morn
son and his sister, in their excursions over the
country. One morning, they had called for her
as usual, when she learned that an accident had
happened to her favorite pony Snow-flake, which
rendered it impossible for her to ride it. Her
father had purchased a short time previous, a
fine looking horse, with whose disposition and
habits ho was as yet almost entirely unacquaint
ed. Being a fearless equestrian, she entreated
him to let her ride this newly acquired animal.
After a little hesitation, he consented, and with
many injunctions from the Colonel to Morrison,
to take good care of her, they rode off. Her
new steed arched his neck, and carried himself
proudly, as though conscious of the priceless
burden ho bore; and the young man thought he
had never seen her look half so lovely. With
sparkling eyes, and cheeks glowing with the
healthful excitement, her closely fitting riding
dress showing her slight form to the best advan
tage, she cantered slowly along by his side,
laughing and chatting, until they had nearly
reached the brow of a gently sloping hill, cov
ered with fields in a high state of cultivation.
On the top, were a few acres of level ground; but
the opposite side of the hill was rocky, and pre
cipitous ; and just as the road reached the edge
of the precipice, it made a sudden turn, ran along
its brink for a short distance, and descended the
hill in a direction nearly at a right angle with
that by which it ascended it.
On both sides of the road, before reaching
the precipice, was a high stone wall, and this
continued, after the road turned, on one side,
leaving scarcely room for two carriages to pass