Since the thread of our humble1 hero's life has now become interwoven with that of higher ones, it is necessary to give some `rief introduction to them.
Augustine St. Clare was the son of a wealthy planter of Louisiana. The family had its origin in Canada. Of two brothers, very similar in temperament2 and character, one had settled on a flourishing farm in Vermont, and the other became an opulent planter in Louisiana. The mother of Augustine was a Huguenot French lady, whose family had emigrated to Louisiana during the days of its early settlement. Augustine and another brother were the only children of their parents. Having inherited from his mother an exceeding delicacy3 of constitution, he was, at the instance of physicians, during many years of his boyhood, sent to the care of his uncle in Vermont, in order that his constitution might, be strengthened by the cold of a more bracing4 climate.
In childhood, he was remarkable5 for an extreme and marked sensitiveness of character, more akin6 to the softness of woman than the ordinary hardness of his own sex. Time, however, overgrew this softness with the rough bark of manhood, and but few knew how living and fresh it still lay at the core. His talents were of the very first order, although his mind showed a preference always for the ideal and the aesthetic7, and there was about him that repugnance8 to the actual business of life which is the common result of this balance of the faculties9. Soon after the completion of his college course, his whole nature was kindled10 into one intense and passionate11 effervescence of romantic passion. His hour came,--the hour that comes only once; his star rose in the horizon,--that star that rises so often in vain, to be remembered only as a thing of dreams; and it rose for him in vain. To drop the figure,--he saw and won the love of a high-minded and beautiful woman, in one of the northern states, and they were affianced. He returned south to make arrangements for their marriage, when, most unexpectedly, his letters were returned to him by mail, with a short note from her guardian12, stating to him that ere this reached him the lady would be the wife of another. Stung to madness, he vainly hoped, as many another has done, to fling the whole thing from his heart by one desperate effort. Too proud to supplicate13 or seek explanation, he threw himself at once into a whirl of fashionable society, and in a fortnight from the time of the fatal letter was the accepted lover of the reigning15 belle16 of the season; and as soon as arrangements could be made, he became the husband of a fine figure, a pair of bright dark eyes, and a hundred thousand dollars; and, of course, everybody thought him a happy fellow.
The married couple were enjoying their honeymoon17, and entertaining a brilliant circle of friends in their splendid villa18, near Lake Pontchartrain, when, one day, a letter was brought to him in _that_ well-remembered writing. It was handed to him while he was in full tide of gay and successful conversation, in a whole room-full of company. He turned deadly pale when he saw the writing, but still preserved his composure, and finished the playful warfare19 of badinage20 which he was at the moment carrying on with a lady opposite; and, a short time after, was missed from the circle. In his room, alone, he opened and read the letter, now worse than idle and useless to be read. It was from her, giving a long account of a persecution21 to which she had been exposed by her guardian's family, to lead her to unite herself with their son: and she related how, for a long time, his letters had ceased to arrive; how she had written time and again, till she became weary and doubtful; how her health had failed under her anxieties, and how, at last, she had discovered the whole fraud which had been practised on them both. The letter ended with expressions of hope and thankfulness, and professions of undying affection, which were more bitter than death to the unhappy young man. He wrote to her immediately:
"I have received yours,--but too late. I believed all I heard. I was desperate. _I am married_, and all is over. Only forget,--it is all that remains22 for either of us."
And thus ended the whole romance and ideal of life for Augustine St. Clare. But the _real_ remained,--the _real_, like the flat, bare, oozy23 tide-mud, when the blue sparkling wave, with all its company of gliding24 boats and white-winged ships, its music of oars25 and chiming waters, has gone down, and there it lies, flat, slimy, bare,--exceedingly real.
Of course, in a novel, people's hearts break, and they die, and that is the end of it; and in a story this is very convenient. But in real life we do not die when all that makes life bright dies to us. There is a most busy and important round of eating, drinking, dressing26, walking, visiting, buying, selling, talking, reading, and all that makes up what is commonly called _living_, yet to be gone through; and this yet remained to Augustine. Had his wife been a whole woman, she might yet have done something--as woman can--to mend the broken threads of life, and weave again into a tissue of brightness. But Marie St. Clare could not even see that they had been broken. As before stated, she consisted of a fine figure, a pair of splendid eyes, and a hundred thousand dollars; and none of these items were precisely28 the ones to minister to a mind diseased.
When Augustine, pale as death, was found lying on the sofa, and pleaded sudden sick-headache as the cause of his distress29, she recommended to him to smell of hartshorn; and when the paleness and headache came on week after week, she only said that she never thought Mr. St. Clare was sickly; but it seems he was very liable to sick-headaches, and that it was a very unfortunate thing for her, because he didn't enjoy going into company with her, and it seemed odd to go so much alone, when they were just married. Augustine was glad in his heart that he had married so undiscerning a woman; but as the glosses30 and civilities of the honeymoon wore away, he discovered that a beautiful young woman, who has lived all her life to be caressed31 and waited on, might prove quite a hard mistress in domestic life. Marie never had possessed33 much capability34 of affection, or much sensibility, and the little that she had, had been merged35 into a most intense and unconscious selfishness; a selfishness the more hopeless, from its quiet obtuseness36, its utter ignorance of any claims but her own. From her infancy37, she had been surrounded with servants, who lived only to study her caprices; the idea that they had either feelings or rights had never dawned upon her, even in distant perspective. Her father, whose only child she had been, had never denied her anything that lay within the compass of human possibility; and when she entered life, beautiful, accomplished38, and an heiress, she had, of course, all the eligibles39 and non-eligibles of the other sex sighing at her feet, and she had no doubt that Augustine was a most fortunate man in having obtained her. It is a great mistake to suppose that a woman with no heart will be an easy creditor40 in the exchange of affection. There is not on earth a more merciless exactor of love from others than a thoroughly41 selfish woman; and the more unlovely she grows, the more jealously and scrupulously42 she exacts love, to the uttermost farthing. When, therefore, St. Clare began to drop off those gallantr
ies and small attentions which flowed at first through the habitude of courtship, he found his sultana no way ready to resign her slave; there were abundance of tears, poutings, and small tempests, there were discontents, pinings, upbraidings. St. Clare was good-natured and self-indulgent, and sought to buy off with presents and flatteries; and when Marie became mother to a beautiful daughter, he really felt awakened44, for a time, to something like tenderness.
St. Clare's mother had been a woman of uncommon45 elevation46 and purity of character, and he gave to his child his mother's name, fondly fancying that she would prove a reproduction of her image. The thing had been remarked with petulant47 jealousy48 by his wife, and she regarded her husband's absorbing devotion to the child with suspicion and dislike; all that was given to her seemed so much taken from herself. From the time of the birth of this child, her health gradually sunk. A life of constant inaction, bodily and mental,--the friction49 of ceaseless ennui50 and discontent, united to the ordinary weakness which attended the period of maternity,--in course of a few years changed the blooming young belle into a yellow faded, sickly woman, whose time was divided among a variety of fanciful diseases, and who considered herself, in every sense, the most ill-used and suffering person in existence.
There was no end of her various complaints; but her principal forte51 appeared to lie in sick-headache, which sometimes would confine her to her room three days out of six. As, of course, all family arrangements fell into the hands of servants, St. Clare found his menage anything but comfortable. His only daughter was exceedingly delicate, and he feared that, with no one to look after her and attend to her, her health and life might yet fall a sacrifice to her mother's inefficiency52. He had taken her with him on a tour to Vermont, and had persuaded his cousin, Miss Ophelia St. Clare, to return with him to his southern residence; and they are now returning on this boat, where we have introduced them to our readers.
And now, while the distant domes32 and spires53 of New Orleans rise to our view, there is yet time for an introduction to Miss Ophelia.
Whoever has travelled in the New England States will remember, in some cool village, the large farmhouse54, with its clean-swept grassy55 yard, shaded by the dense56 and massive foliage57 of the sugar maple58; and remember the air of order and stillness, of perpetuity and unchanging repose59, that seemed to breathe over the whole place. Nothing lost, or out of order; not a picket60 loose in the fence, not a particle of litter in the turfy yard, with its clumps61 of lilac bushes growing up under the windows. Within, he will remember wide, clean rooms, where nothing ever seems to be doing or going to be done, where everything is once and forever rigidly62 in place, and where all household arrangements move with the punctual exactness of the old clock in the corner. In the family "keeping-room," as it is termed, he will remember the staid, respectable old book-case, with its glass doors, where Rollin's History,[1] Milton's Paradise Lost, Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, and Scott's Family Bible,[2] stand side by side in decorous order, with multitudes of other books, equally solemn and respectable. There are no servants in the house, but the lady in the snowy cap, with the spectacles, who sits sewing every afternoon among her daughters, as if nothing ever had been done, or were to be done,--she and her girls, in some long-forgotten fore27 part of the day, "_did up the work_," and for the rest of the time, probably, at all hours when you would see them, it is "_done up_." The old kitchen floor never seems stained or spotted63; the tables, the chairs, and the various cooking utensils64, never seem deranged65 or disordered; though three and sometimes four meals a day are got there, though the family washing and ironing is there performed, and though pounds of butter and cheese are in some silent and mysterious manner there brought into existence.
[1] _The Ancient History_, ten volumes (1730-1738), by the French historian Charles Rollin (1661-1741).
[2] _Scott's Family Bible_ (1788-1792), edited with notes by the English Biblical commentator66, Thomas Scott (1747-1821).
On such a farm, in such a house and family, Miss Ophelia had spent a quiet existence of some forty-five years, when her cousin invited her to visit his southern mansion67. The eldest68 of a large family, she was still considered by her father and mother as one of "the children," and the proposal that she should go to _Orleans_ was a most momentous69 one to the family circle. The old gray-headed father took down Morse's Atlas70[3] out of the book-case, and looked out the exact latitude71 and longitude72; and read Flint's Travels in the South and West,[4] to make up his own mind as to the nature of the country.
[3] _The Cerographic Atlas of the United States_ (1842-1845), by Sidney Edwards Morse (1794-1871), son of the geographer73, Jedidiah Morse, and brother of the painter-inventor, Samuel F. B. Morse.
[4] _Recollections of the Last Ten Years_ (1826) by Timothy Flint (1780-1840), missionary74 of Presbyterianism to the trans-Allegheny West.
The good mother inquired, anxiously, "if Orleans wasn't an awful wicked place," saying, "that it seemed to her most equal to going to the Sandwich Islands, or anywhere among the heathen."
It was known at the minister's and at the doctor's, and at Miss Peabody's milliner shop, that Ophelia St. Clare was "talking about" going away down to Orleans with her cousin; and of course the whole village could do no less than help this very important process of _taking about_ the matter. The minister, who inclined strongly to abolitionist views, was quite doubtful whether such a step might not tend somewhat to encourage the southerners in holding on to their slaves; while the doctor, who was a stanch75 colonizationist, inclined to the opinion that Miss Ophelia ought to go, to show the Orleans people that we don't think hardly of them, after all. He was of opinion, in fact, that southern people needed encouraging. When however, the fact that she had resolved to go was fully76 before the public mind, she was solemnly invited out to tea by all her friends and neighbors for the space of a fortnight, and her prospects77 and plans duly canvassed78 and inquired into. Miss Moseley, who came into the house to help to do the dress-making, acquired daily accessions of importance from the developments with regard to Miss Ophelia's wardrobe which she had been enabled to make. It was credibly79 ascertained80 that Squire81 Sinclare, as his name was commonly contracted in the neighborhood, had counted out fifty dollars, and given them to Miss Ophelia, and told her to buy any clothes she thought best; and that two new silk dresses, and a bonnet82, had been sent for from Boston. As to the propriety83 of this extraordinary outlay84, the public mind was divided,--some affirming that it was well enough, all things considered, for once in one's life, and others stoutly85 affirming that the money had better have been sent to the missionaries87; but all parties agreed that there had been no such parasol seen in those parts as had been sent on from New York, and that she had one silk dress that might fairly be trusted to stand alone, whatever might be said of its mistress. There were credible88 rumors89, also, of a hemstitched pocket-handkerchief; and re
port even went so far as to state that Miss Ophelia had one pocket-handkerchief with lace all around it,--it was even added that it was worked in the corners; but this latter point was never satisfactorily ascertained, and remains, in fact, unsettled to this day.
Miss Ophelia, as you now behold90 her, stands before you, in a very shining brown linen91 travelling-dress, tall, square-formed, and angular. Her face was thin, and rather sharp in its outlines; the lips compressed, like those of a person who is in the habit of making up her mind definitely on all subjects; while the keen, dark eyes had a peculiarly searching, advised movement, and travelled over everything, as if they were looking for something to take care of.
All her movements were sharp, decided92, and energetic; and, though she was never much of a talker, her words were remarkably93 direct, and to the purpose, when she did speak.
In her habits, she was a living impersonation of order, method, and exactness. In punctuality, she was as inevitable94 as a clock, and as inexorable as a railroad engine; and she held in most decided contempt and abomination anything of a contrary character.
The great sin of sins, in her eyes,--the sum of all evils,--was expressed by one very common and important word in her vocabulary--"shiftlessness." Her finale and ultimatum95 of contempt consisted in a very emphatic96 pronunciation of the word "shiftless;" and by this she characterized all modes of procedure which had not a direct and inevitable relation to accomplishment97 of some purpose then definitely had in mind. People who did nothing, or who did not know exactly what they were going to do, or who did not take the most direct way to accomplish what they set their hands to, were objects of her entire contempt,--a contempt shown less frequently by anything she said, than by a kind of stony98 grimness, as if she scorned to say anything about the matter.
As to mental cultivation,--she had a clear, strong, active mind, was well and thoroughly read in history and the older English classics, and thought with great strength within certain narrow limits. Her theological tenets were all made up, labelled in most positive and distinct forms, and put by, like the bundles in her patch trunk; there were just so many of them, and there were never to be any more. So, also, were her ideas with regard to most matters of practical life,--such as housekeeping in all its branches, and the various political relations of her native village. And, underlying99 all, deeper than anything else, higher and broader, lay the strongest principle of her being--conscientiousness. Nowhere is conscience so dominant100 and all-absorbing as with New England women. It is the granite101 formation, which lies deepest, and rises out, even to the tops of the highest mountains.
Miss Ophelia was the absolute bond-slave of the "_ought_." Once make her certain that the "path of duty," as she commonly phrased it, lay in any given direction, and fire and water could not keep her from it. She would walk straight down into a well, or up to a loaded cannon's mouth, if she were only quite sure that there the path lay. Her standard of right was so high, so all-embracing, so minute, and making so few concessions102 to human frailty103, that, though she strove with heroic ardor104 to reach it, she never actually did so, and of course was burdened with a constant and often harassing105 sense of deficiency;--this gave a severe and somewhat gloomy cast to her religious character.
But, how in the world can Miss Ophelia get along with Augustine St. Clare,--gay, easy, unpunctual, unpractical, sceptical,--in short,--walking with impudent106 and nonchalant freedom over every one of her most cherished habits and opinions?
To tell the truth, then, Miss Ophelia loved him. When a boy, it had been hers to teach him his catechism, mend his clothes, comb his hair, and bring him up generally in the way he should go; and her heart having a warm side to it, Augustine had, as he usually did with most people, monopolized107 a large share of it for himself, and therefore it was that he succeeded very easily in persuading her that the "path of duty" lay in the direction of New Orleans, and that she must go with him to take care of Eva, and keep everything from going to wreck108 and ruin during the frequent illnesses of his wife. The idea of a house without anybody to take care of it went to her heart; then she loved the lovely little girl, as few could help doing; and though she regarded Augustine as very much of a heathen, yet she loved him, laughed at his jokes, and forbore with his failings, to an extent which those who knew him thought perfectly109 incredible. But what more or other is to be known of Miss Ophelia our reader must discover by a personal acquaintance.
There she is, sitting now in her state-room, surrounded by a mixed multitude of little and big carpet-bags, boxes, baskets, each containing some separate responsibility which she is tying, binding110 up, packing, or fastening, with a face of great earnestness.
"Now, Eva, have you kept count of your things? Of course you haven't,--children never do: there's the spotted carpet-bag and the little blue band-box with your best bonnet,--that's two; then the India rubber satchel111 is three; and my tape and needle box is four; and my band-box, five; and my collar-box; and that little hair trunk, seven. What have you done with your sunshade? Give it to me, and let me put a paper round it, and tie it to my umbrella with my shade;--there, now."
"Why, aunty, we are only going up home;--what is the use?"
"To keep it nice, child; people must take care of their things, if they ever mean to have anything; and now, Eva, is your thimble put up?"
"Really, aunty, I don't know."
"Well, never mind; I'll look your box over,--thimble, wax, two spools112, scissors, knife, tape-needle; all right,--put it in here. What did you ever do, child, when you were coming on with only your papa. I should have thought you'd a lost everything you had." "Well, aunty, I did lose a great many; and then, when we stopped anywhere, papa would buy some more of whatever it was."
"Mercy on us, child,--what a way!"
"It was a very easy way, aunty," said Eva.
"It's a dreadful shiftless one," said aunty.
"Why, aunty, what'll you do now?" said Eva; "that trunk is too full to be shut down."
"It _must_ shut down," said aunty, with the air of a general, as she squeezed the things in, and sprung upon the lid;--still a little gap remained about the mouth of the trunk.
"Get up here, Eva!" said Miss Ophelia, courageously113; "what has been done can be done again. This trunk has _got to be_ shut and locked--there are no two ways about it."
And the trunk, intimidated114, doubtless, by this resolute115 statement, gave in. The hasp snapped sharply in its hole, and Miss Ophelia turned the key, and pocketed it in triumph.
"Now we're ready. Where's your papa? I think it time this baggage was set out. Do look out, Eva, and see if you see your papa."
"O, yes, he's down the other end of the gentlemen's cabin, eating an orange."
"He can't know how near we are coming," said aunty; "hadn't you better run and speak to him?"
"Papa never is in a hurry about anything," said Eva, "and we haven't come to the landing. Do step on the guards, aunty. Look! there's our house, up that street!"
The boat now began, with heavy groans116, like some vast, tired monster, to prepare to push up among the multiplied steamers at the levee. Eva joyously117 pointed118 out the various spires, domes, and way-marks, by which she recognized her native city.
"Yes, yes, dear; very fine," said Miss Ophelia. "But mercy on us! the boat has stopped! where is your father?"
And now ensued the usual turmoil119 of landing--waiters running twenty ways at once--men tugging120 trunks, carpet-bags, boxes--women anxiously calling to their children, and everybody crowding in a dense mass to the plank121 towards the landing.
Miss Ophelia seated herself resolutely122 on the lately vanquished123 trunk, and marshalling all her goods and chattels124 in fine military order, seemed resolved to defend them to the last.
"Shall I take your trunk, ma'am?" "Shall I take your baggage?" "Let me 'tend to your baggage, Missis?" "Shan't I carry out these yer, Missis?" rained down upon her unheeded. She sat with grim determination, upright as a darning-needle stuck in a board, holding on her bundle of umbrella and parasols, and replying with a determination that was enough to strike dismay even into a hackman, wondering to Eva, in each interval125, "what upon earth her papa could be thinking of; he couldn't have fallen over, now,--but something must have happened;"--and just as she had begun to work herself into a real distress, he came up, with his usually careless motion, and giving Eva a quarter of the orange he was eating, said,
"Well, Cousin Vermont, I suppose you are all ready."
"I've been ready, waiting, nearly an hour," said Miss Ophelia; "I began to be really concerned about you.
"That's a clever fellow, now," said he. "Well, the carriage is waiting, and the crowd are now off, so that one can walk out in a decent and Christian126 manner, and not be pushed and shoved. Here," he added to a driver who stood behind him, "take these things."
"I'll go and see to his putting them in," said Miss Ophelia.
"O, pshaw, cousin, what's the use?" said St. Clare.
"Well, at any rate, I'll carry this, and this, and this," said Miss Ophelia, singling out three boxes and a small carpet-bag.
"My dear Miss Vermont, positively127 you mustn't come the Green Mountains over us that way. You must adopt at least a piece of a southern principle, and not walk out under all that load. They'll take you for a waiting-maid; give them to this fellow; he'll put them down as if they were eggs, now."
Miss Ophelia looked despairingly as her cousin took all her treasures from her, and rejoiced to find herself once more in the carriage with them, in a state of preservation128.
"Where's Tom?" said Eva.
"O, he's on the outside, Pussy129. I'm going to take Tom up to mother for a peace-offering, to make up for that drunken fellow that upset the carriage."
"O, Tom will make a splendid driver, I know," said Eva; "he'll never get drunk."
The carriage stopped in front of an ancient mansion, built in that odd mixture of Spanish and French style, of which there are specimens130 in some parts of New Orleans. It was built in the Moorish131 fashion,--a square building enclosing a court-yard, into which the carriage drove through an arched gateway132. The court, in the inside, had evidently been arranged to gratify a picturesque133 and voluptuous134 ideality. Wide galleries ran all around the four sides, whose Moorish arches, slender pillars, and arabesque135 ornaments136, carried the mind back, as in a dream, to the reign14 of oriental romance in Spain. In the middle of the court, a fountain threw high its silvery water, falling in a never-ceasing spray into a marble basin, fringed with a deep border of fragrant137 violets. The water in the fountain, pellucid138 as crystal, was alive with myriads139 of gold and silver fishes, twinkling and darting140 through it like so many living jewels. Around the fountain ran a walk, paved with a mosaic141 of pebbles142, laid in various fanciful patterns; and this, again, was surrounded by turf, smooth as green velvet143, while a carriage-drive enclosed the whole. Two large orange-trees, now fragrant with blossoms, threw a delicious shade; and, ranged in a circle round upon the turf, were marble vases of arabesque sculpture, containing the choicest flowering plants of the tropics. Huge pomegranate trees, with their glossy144 leaves and flame-colored flowers, dark-leaved Arabian jessamines, with their silvery stars, geraniums, luxuriant roses bending beneath their heavy abundance of flowers, golden jessamines, lemon-scented145 verbenum, all united their bloom and fragrance146, while here and there a mystic old aloe, with its strange, massive leaves, sat looking like some old enchanter, sitting in weird147 grandeur148 among the more perishable149 bloom and fragrance around it.
The galleries that surrounded the court were festooned with a curtain of some kind of Moorish stuff, and could be drawn150 down at pleasure, to exclude the beams of the sun. On the whole, the appearance of the place was luxurious151 and romantic.
As the carriage drove in, Eva seemed like a bird ready to burst from a cage, with the wild eagerness of her delight.
"O, isn't it beautiful, lovely! my own dear, darling home!" she said to Miss Ophelia. "Isn't it beautiful?"
"'T is a pretty place," said Miss Ophelia, as she alighted; "though it looks rather old and heathenish to me."
Tom got down from the carriage, and looked about with an air of calm, still enjoyment152. The negro, it must be remembered, is an exotic of the most gorgeous and superb countries of the world, and he has, deep in his heart, a passion for all that is splendid, rich, and fanciful; a passion which, rudely indulged by an untrained taste, draws on them the ridicule153 of the colder and more correct white race.
St. Clare, who was in heart a poetical154 voluptuary, smiled as Miss Ophelia made her remark on his premises155, and, turning to Tom, who was standing156 looking round, his beaming black face perfectly radiant with admiration157, he said,
"Tom, my boy, this seems to suit you."
"Yes, Mas'r, it looks about the right thing," said Tom.
All this passed in a moment, while trunks were being hustled158 off, hackman paid, and while a crowd, of all ages and sizes,--men, women, and children,--came running through the galleries, both above and below to see Mas'r come in. Foremost among them was a highly-dressed young mulatto man, evidently a very _distingue_ personage, attired159 in the ultra extreme of the mode, and gracefully160 waving a scented cambric handkerchief in his hand.
This personage had been exerting himself, with great alacrity161, in driving all the flock of domestics to the other end of the verandah.
"Back! all of you. I am ashamed of you," he said, in a tone of authority. "Would you intrude162 on Master's domestic relations, in the first hour of his return?"
All looked abashed163 at this elegant speech, delivered with quite an air, and stood huddled164 together at a respectful distance, except two stout86 porters, who came up and began conveying away the baggage.
Owing to Mr. Adolph's systematic165 arrangements, when St. Clare turned round from paying the hackman, there was nobody in view but Mr. Adolph himself, conspicuous166 in satin vest, gold guard-chain, and white pants, and bowing with inexpressible grace and suavity167.
"Ah, Adolph, is it you?" said his master, offering his hand to him; "how are you, boy?" while Adolph poured forth168, with great fluency169, an extemporary speech, which he had been preparing, with great care, for a fortnight before.
"Well, well," said St. Clare, passing on, with his usual air of negligent170 drollery171, "that's very well got up, Adolph. See that the baggage is well bestowed172. I'll come to the people in a minute;" and, so saying, he led Miss Ophelia to a large parlor173 that opened on the verandah.
While this had been passing, Eva had flown like a bird, through the porch and parlor, to a little boudoir opening likewise on the verandah.
A tall, dark-eyed, sallow woman, half rose from a couch on which she was reclining.
"Mamma!" said Eva, in a sort of a rapture174, throwing herself on her neck, and embracing her over and over again.
"That'll do,--take care, child,--don't, you make my head ache," said the mother, after she had languidly kissed her.
St. Clare came in, embraced his wife in true, orthodox, husbandly fashion, and then presented to her his cousin. Marie lifted her large eyes on her cousin with an air of some curiosity, and received her with languid politeness. A crowd of servants now pressed to the entry door, and among them a middle-aged175 mulatto woman, of very respectable appearance, stood foremost, in a tremor176 of expectation and joy, at the door.
"O, there's Mammy!" said Eva, as she flew across the room; and, throwing herself into her arms, she kissed her repeatedly.
This woman did not tell her that she made her head ache, but, on the contrary, she hugged her, and laughed, and cried, till her sanity177 was a thing to be doubted of; and when released from her, Eva flew from one to another, shaking hands and kissing, in a way that Miss Ophelia afterwards declared fairly turned her stomach.
"Well!" said Miss Ophelia, "you southern children can do something that _I_ couldn't."
"What, now, pray?" said St. Clare.
"Well, I want to be kind to everybody, and I wouldn't have anything hurt; but as to kissing--"
"Niggers," said St. Clare, "that you're not up to,--hey?"
"Yes, that's it. How can she?"
St. Clare laughed, as he went into the passage. "Halloa, here, what's to pay out here? Here, you all--Mammy, Jimmy, Polly, Sukey--glad to see Mas'r?" he said, as he went shaking hands from one to another. "Look out for the babies!" he added, as he stumbled over a sooty little urchin178, who was crawling upon all fours. "If I step upon anybody, let 'em mention it."
There was an abundance of laughing and blessing179 Mas'r, as St. Clare distributed small pieces of change among them.
"Come, now, take yourselves off, like good boys and girls," he said; and the whole assemblage, dark and light, disappeared through a door into a large verandah, followed by Eva, who carried a large satchel, which she had been filling with apples, nuts, candy, ribbons, laces, and toys of every description, during her whole homeward journey.
As St. Clare turned to go back his eye fell upon Tom, who was standing uneasily, shifting from one foot to the other, while Adolph stood negligently180 leaning against the banisters, examining Tom through an opera-glass, with an air that would have done credit to any dandy living.
"Puh! you puppy," said his master, striking down the opera glass; "is that the way you treat your company? Seems to me, Dolph," he added, laying his finger on the elegant figured satin vest that Adolph was sporting, "seems to me that's _my_ vest."
"O! Master, this vest all stained with wine; of course, a gentleman in Master's standing never wears a vest like this. I understood I was to take it. It does for a poor nigger-fellow, like me."
And Adolph tossed his head, and passed his fingers through his scented hair, with a grace.
"So, that's it, is it?" said St. Clare, carelessly. "Well, here, I'm going to show this Tom to his mistress, and then you take him to the kitchen; and mind you don't put on any of your airs to him. He's worth two such puppies as you."
"Master always will have his joke," said Adolph, laughing. "I'm delighted to see Master in such spirits."
"Here, Tom," said St. Clare, beckoning181.
Tom entered the room. He looked wistfully on the velvet carpets, and the before unimagined splendors182 of mirrors, pictures, statues, and curtains, and, like the Queen of Sheba before Solomon, there was no more spirit in him. He looked afraid even to set his feet down.
"See here, Marie," said St. Clare to his wife, "I've bought you a coachman, at last, to order. I tell you, he's a regular hearse for blackness and sobriety, and will drive you like a funeral, if you want. Open your eyes, now, and look at him. Now, don't say I never think about you when I'm gone."
Marie opened her eyes, and fixed183 them on Tom, without rising.
"I know he'll get drunk," she said.
"No, he's warranted a pious184 and sober article."
"Well, I hope he may turn out well," said the lady; "it's more than I expect, though."
"Dolph," said St. Clare, "show Tom down stairs; and, mind yourself," he added; "remember what I told you."
Adolph tripped gracefully forward, and Tom, with lumbering185 tread, went after.
"He's a perfect behemoth!" said Marie.
"Come, now, Marie," said St. Clare, seating himself on a stool beside her sofa, "be gracious, and say something pretty to a fellow."
"You've been gone a fortnight beyond the time," said the lady, pouting43.
"Well, you know I wrote you the reason."
"Such a short, cold letter!" said the lady.
"Dear me! the mail was just going, and it had to be that or nothing."
"That's just the way, always," said the lady; "always something to make your journeys long, and letters short."
"See here, now," he added, drawing an elegant velvet case out of his pocket, and opening it, "here's a present I got for you in New York."
It was a daguerreotype186, clear and soft as an engraving187, representing Eva and her father sitting hand in hand.
Marie looked at it with a dissatisfied air.
"What made you sit in such an awkward position?" she said.
"Well, the position may be a matter of opinion; but what do you think of the likeness188?"
"If you don't think anything of my opinion in one case, I suppose you wouldn't in another," said the lady, shutting the daguerreotype.
"Hang the woman!" said St. Clare, mentally; but aloud he added, "Come, now, Marie, what do you think of the likeness? Don't be nonsensical, now."
"It's very inconsiderate of you, St. Clare," said the lady, "to insist on my talking and looking at things. You know I've been lying all day with the sick-headache; and there's been such a tumult189 made ever since you came, I'm half dead."
"You're subject to the sick-headache, ma'am!" said Miss Ophelia, suddenly rising from the depths of the large arm-chair, where she had sat quietly, taking an inventory190 of the furniture, and calculating its expense.
"Yes, I'm a perfect martyr191 to it," said the lady.
"Juniper-berry tea is good for sick-headache," said Miss Ophelia; "at least, Auguste, Deacon Abraham Perry's wife, used to say so; and she was a great nurse."
"I'll have the first juniper-berries that get ripe in our garden by the lake brought in for that special purpose," said St. Clare, gravely pulling the bell as he did so; "meanwhile, cousin, you must be wanting to retire to your apartment, and refresh yourself a little, after your journey. Dolph," he added, "tell Mammy to come here." The decent mulatto woman whom Eva had caressed so rapturously soon entered; she was dressed neatly192, with a high red and yellow turban on her head, the recent gift of Eva, and which the child had been arranging on her head. "Mammy," said St. Clare, "I put this lady under your care; she is tired, and wants rest; take her to her chamber193, and be sure she is made comfortable," and Miss Ophelia disappeared in the rear of Mammy.
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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supplicate
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| v.恳求；adv.祈求地，哀求地，恳求地 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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badinage
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| n.开玩笑，打趣 | |
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persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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oozy
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| adj.软泥的 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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fore
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| adv.在前面；adj.先前的；在前部的；n.前部 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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glosses
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| n.（页末或书后的）注释( gloss的名词复数 )；（表面的）光滑；虚假的外表；用以产生光泽的物质v.注解( gloss的第三人称单数 )；掩饰（错误）；粉饰；把…搪塞过去 | |
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caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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33
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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capability
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| n.能力；才能；(pl)可发展的能力或特性等 | |
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merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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obtuseness
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| 感觉迟钝 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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eligibles
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| 合格者（eligible的复数形式） | |
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creditor
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| n.债仅人，债主，贷方 | |
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41
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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42
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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43
pouting
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的现在分词 ) | |
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44
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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45
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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46
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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49
friction
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| n.摩擦，摩擦力 | |
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50
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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51
forte
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| n.长处，擅长；adj.(音乐)强音的 | |
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52
inefficiency
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| n.无效率，无能；无效率事例 | |
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53
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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54
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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55
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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56
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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57
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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58
maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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59
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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60
picket
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| n.纠察队；警戒哨；v.设置纠察线；布置警卫 | |
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61
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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62
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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64
utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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65
deranged
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| adj.疯狂的 | |
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66
commentator
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| n.注释者，解说者；实况广播评论员 | |
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67
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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68
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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69
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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70
atlas
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| n.地图册，图表集 | |
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71
latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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longitude
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| n.经线，经度 | |
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73
geographer
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| n.地理学者 | |
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74
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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75
stanch
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| v.止住（血等）；adj.坚固的；坚定的 | |
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76
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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78
canvassed
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| v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的过去式和过去分词 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
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79
credibly
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| ad.可信地；可靠地 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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82
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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83
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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84
outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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85
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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91
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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92
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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95
ultimatum
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| n.最后通牒 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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100
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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102
concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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103
frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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104
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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105
harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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106
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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107
monopolized
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| v.垄断( monopolize的过去式和过去分词 )；独占；专卖；专营 | |
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108
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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111
satchel
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| n.(皮或帆布的)书包 | |
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112
spools
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| n.（绕线、铁线、照相软片等的）管( spool的名词复数 )；络纱；纺纱机；绕圈轴工人v.把…绕到线轴上（或从线轴上绕下来）( spool的第三人称单数 )；假脱机（输出或输入） | |
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113
courageously
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| ad.勇敢地，无畏地 | |
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114
intimidated
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| v.恐吓；威胁adj.害怕的；受到威胁的 | |
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115
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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116
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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117
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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118
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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119
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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120
tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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121
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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122
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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123
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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124
chattels
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| n.动产，奴隶( chattel的名词复数 ) | |
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125
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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126
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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127
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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128
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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129
pussy
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| n.(儿语)小猫，猫咪 | |
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130
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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131
moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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132
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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133
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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134
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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135
arabesque
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| n.阿拉伯式花饰；adj.阿拉伯式图案的 | |
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136
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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137
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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138
pellucid
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| adj.透明的，简单的 | |
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139
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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140
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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141
mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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142
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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143
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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144
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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145
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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146
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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147
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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148
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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149
perishable
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| adj.（尤指食物）易腐的，易坏的 | |
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150
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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151
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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152
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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153
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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154
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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155
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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156
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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157
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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158
hustled
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| 催促（hustle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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159
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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160
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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161
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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162
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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163
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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164
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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165
systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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166
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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167
suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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168
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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169
fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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170
negligent
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| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
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171
drollery
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| n.开玩笑，说笑话；滑稽可笑的图画（或故事、小戏等） | |
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172
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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173
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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174
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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175
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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176
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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177
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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178
urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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179
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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180
negligently
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181
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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182
splendors
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| n.华丽( splendor的名词复数 )；壮丽；光辉；显赫 | |
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183
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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184
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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185
lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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186
daguerreotype
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| n.银板照相 | |
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187
engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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188
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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189
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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190
inventory
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| n.详细目录，存货清单 | |
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191
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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192
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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193
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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