A CHARLESTON
LOVE STORY;
OR,
HORTENSE VANROSS,
BY
T. G. STEWARD.
F. TENNYSON NEELY,
PUBLISHER,
LONDON.NEW YORK.
Copyright, 1899.
by
F. TENNYSON NEELY
in
United States
and
Great Britain.
All Rights Reserved.
A CHARLESTON LOVE STORY.
CHAPTER I.
"I don't think our Len will ever amount to much," said
Leonard Howell, senior, one day to his wife as he entered the
house.
"Why not, father?" anxiously inquired Aunt
Milly.
"Oh! well, he's too careless and too
trifling. He's smart enough, got wit
enough, but it all runs the wrong way. I've
about gi'n him up."
"Oh, no, father, don't say
that; don't get discouraged. Let's wait awhile
longer. You and I and Bernice here ought to be able to
bring up one boy, even if we are getting old.
I shall not give him up yet.
He may come out a good man, after all," said
Mrs. Howell kindly.
"Ah, mother, what is bred in the bone can't
be got out through the flesh. The boy is his mother
right over‐‐‐&hyphen"
"There, father, don't let us talk about
than7period; You know we agreed years ago to bury that matter
forever."
This dialogue occurred in an old‐fashioned country
house in a settlement not far from Philadelphia, over
fifty years ago. The house was built wholly of
wood, and consisted of two
parts‐‐an old and a new‐although
the new part gave evidence of having seen many summers.
The old part was only one story high, but the long
rafters and consequently high peaked roof gave room for a large
attic. It had its heavy, projecting
eaves; its oaken door, which had one day been
red; its genuine leather latchstring hanging
outside, and its
heavy oaken latch within. There were also the large
open fireplace, the swinging crane with its pothooks of
various lengths, and the heavy wrought
andirons. The furniture of this part of the house
consisted of a solid table; several chairs, some
with splint bottoms and others with bottoms of untanned
skin; a carved corner cupboard; and a rude settee
which served often as a bed.
The new part of the house was of two stories, although
the ceilings were low; and the furniture of the
room, as it was called, differed from that in
the older part of the house. Indeed, two
generations were represented in the furniture of this humble
dwelling. In the "room" were a
ten‐stove; a wooden clock, with its
picture of two brothers clasped in loving embrace on its
front, and its pecularly musical stroke; a black
walnut table, with
its feet of dragon claws, then more than a
half‐century old; and a well‐worn
rocking chair.
The house within and the yard around were generally kept
scrupulously neat and orderly; and the small farm on which
it stood showed signs of industry and thrift in all its
details. The fences were clean and in good
repair; the wagons, plows, and
barrows, as well as the live stock, all showed
the effects of intelligent care.
Leonard Howell was no idler, nor did he tolerate
idleness in those around him. Brusque in
manner, diligent in business, of good health
and with good appetite, endowed with energy and a constant flow of
good spirit, he was a thorough master of his work and the
strength and support of the home. Or, at
least, he had been so for many yhears;
now, however, he was rapidly advancing toward
old age. The estate
upon which he lived had been left him by his father,
and he was at this time possessed of sufficient means to afford a
plain but comfortable living, and was free from
debt. In his earlier days he had been successful both as
a small farmer and as a dealer in cordwood and
hoop‐poles; and many of his ventures in this
line had sailed out of the tortuous rivers of South Jersey to
Philadelphia, where the wood and the poles then found
ready sale.
Leonard Howell was fairly shrewd at driving a bargain,
and was possessed of an exterior which on first sight would
indicate rather a hard nature; but those who knew him well
could bear testimony to his benevolence of heart,l and
also to a keen sense of humor which he at times
manifested. Like most men of his time and
vicinity, he occasionally drank apple whiskey,
or apple "Jack," as it was called;
but he was never known to become the worse for
liquor. He was a member of the church, and was
thoroughly sound in the faith, and a good
contributor; but religious matters with him were to a
large extent turned over to his brother, who was a deacon
in the church, and to his wife, who was better
read than himself, and who was thoughtful and
pious. Leonard Howell, evidently,
leaned more upon his wife's prayers and his brother's counsels than
upon any devotions of his own. He had his
"principles," and was ever ready to do what he called
"the right thing," but as for services of devotion and
the like‐‐well‐‐he
submitted to them but never gave evidence that he enjoyed
them.
Aunt Milly Howell was in many respects the very opposite of her
husband both in outward and inward character. She was
spare and delicate of form, and quite gen‐
erally in poor health. Her manners were soft and
refined, and she was far above the average woman of her
neighborhood in point of intelligence. She had read
much, considering her opportunities, and her
memory was well stored with Bible facts and texts and with many
gems of old English literature.
Although usually unwell herself, she was nevertheless
filled with the tenderest sympathy for others, and was
the special friend of the children of the community. Her
resignation and patience, and here quiet,
pleasant manner filled the old home with a soothing
influence, making all who dwelt there happier,
if not indeed better because of it. The restraint which
her presence imposed upon the boisterous was by no means
burdensome, because it was always accompanied by her own
subdued example, and by her instructive and
elevat‐
ing conversation. I can see here now as I
write, sitting in her high‐backed
chair, with her neat‐fitting house dress
on, the clean handkerchief folded over her shoulders with
its lower ends concealed beneath her apron, her
spectacles, her white cap with its frills, her
gray hair and smooth brow, her softly treading
slippers. Yes, I see her now in that old
homestead, with the light of heaven falling in its gentle
fullness upon her paid‐worn face, and my soul
warms with the vision. She was one of God's angels sent
to bless the earth.
In this quiet home lived also the maiden daughter,
Bernice, the youngest of a family of seven sons and
daughters who had passed their childhood there. She
was, at the time of the dialogue above
mentioned, about twenty‐five years of
age; rather large and stalwart in form,
inheriting her father's energy and
self‐reliance, coupled
with much of her mother's reserve and kindness. She
had the will, the nerve, and the cool courage
fitting her to fill a more important sphere. Her dignity
of manner was sublime, here scorn terrible.
She could freeze or flay with less than a word. Her look
was enough. She lived long beyong the time of my
story, but she never married. Her's was the
helping hand of the community ever ready to do good.
No home is complete without the boy. Leonard
C. Howell, junior, was a
grandson, and was at this time about thirteen years
old. He was bright, but it could not be said
that he was industrious; and he seemed to have imbibed a
dislike to everything about the farm except the fruit that grew on
the trees and the food that came to his place at table.
The fowls, calves, colts,
horses, and dogs‐‐all seemed to
hate or fear him. He was inclined to be
cruel as well as "careless." His chief pastime was to
blow outlandish airs upon a small fife, the notes of
which were as much out of place in that orderly home as were his
manners and temper.
Leonard, however, always had a faithful and
powerful friend and apologist in his Aunt Bernice; and
hence when Grandfather Howell expressed himself as being about worn
out with little "Len," Bernice waited until her mother
had finished, and then with her black eyes fairly
snapping fire, she added:
"Len is not so bad. He is
mischievour, and careless and troublesome; but
he is only a boy yet. He'll be all right when he gets
older."
This was said with an emphasis that meant much more than the
words themselves expressed; and as Bernice wielded great
influence over her father, and as she
was pleading for his namesake and grandson, the case
was soon won, and the old gentleman dismissed the matter
by saying: "God grant he may&pereiod;"
The father of young Leonard, the oldest son of Leonard
Howell, senior, had married greatly against the
judgment of his parents; and although the aged couple had
long ago forgiven him and had freely received his wife as their
daughter‐in‐law, yet they had never
really changed their opinion. It was to this
wife, of course, and not to his own
son, that Grandpa Howell referred when he said,
"What is bred in the bone, can't be got out through the
flesh." He may have been right, but it is just
as probable that he was wrong. He believed he was
right, however, and his beliefs were always
quite positive. Bernice shared none of this
feeling, and to her Leonard was simply a nephew to be
warmly loved and kindly treated.
Leonard did not stay long on the farm after this
conversation; although the treatment he continued to
receive was kind even to indulgence. He became more and
more discontented, and, early one bright
morning in May, was missing. A brief search
revealed the fact that he had run away. He took the
natural course of runaway boys, which was to the
city; and thence made his way by sailing vessel to
Boston. He had hired himself to the shipmaster as cabin
boy, but Leonard grew heartily tired of the sea and of
the discipline on shipboard long before he reached Boston;
and as soon as the vessel was snugly at her wharf, he
slipped away from her, forfeiting what little pay was due
him.
Out in the streets of this strange city, with scarcely
a penny in his pocket, without a friend or acquaintance
to whom he could look, and altogether unacquainted
with city life, Leonard for the first time repented
his rashness. The seat of his repentance was,
however, rather in his stomach than in his
heart; and his feelings came and went according as he
happened to be hungry or fed. When want pinched
him, his thoughts would turn toward the smoking dinners
of coarse but wholesome food that he had so often sat down to in
the old home, and he would then reproach himself for
running away; but when chance threw a good meal in his
way, all these reflections departed and his evil courage
returned.
Thus he wandered up and down the crooked streets of Boston for a
number of days, catching odd jobs, and living
around the markets; until one day it was his good fortune
to meet with a farmer who was needing help and who offered him a
temporary home.
A bargain was soon made, and it was with a glad heart
that Leonard leaped into the farmer's wagon to enter upon the same
sort of life as that from which he had run away. His
short experience however had taught him the importance of having a
home, and he entered upon his contract with a full
resolution to fulfill it, by staying until the haying
season was over. With such feelings he began his work on
the Kingsley farm.
Although he had been bred to farm work in South
Jeresey, he soon found that being a hired boy on a farm
in Massachusetts, differed very much from the life he had
lived upon his grandfather's farm in New Jersey. The
land was rough and stony; the hills quite steep and
high, and the people were accustomed to long days and
hard work. Up in the morning by the time it was
light, they did half a Jersey
day's work before breakfast, and supplemented the day
with the other half after supper. Poor Leonard had
indeed fallen into a trying situation. He was earning
his bread by the sweat of his brow, and was becoming so
lean and hollow‐eyed that it did not seem that even the
poor privilege of sweating would be long allowed him.
His voice became thin and piping, and his spirits sank
within him. He was tired every moment, and saw
no prospect of relief until the end of the terrible haying
season. This came at last, and with it the
promised lull in the incessant rage of labor that for weeks had
been sweeping over the sultry hills and valleys of the
commonwealth.
Leonard had succeeded so well during the few weeks that Farmer
Kingsley now offered him a permanent home, agreeing to
pay him regular wages until the autumn's
work should be over, and to board him during the
winter, he doing the chores, and in the
meantime going to school. This was accepted,
and by the latter part of November the work was well over and
Leonard ready to enter the district school.
Dressed in thick, comfortable clothes, with
stout boots, and large for his age, muscular
and well formed, he was a noticeable accession,
but when he came in contact with the other boys he soon found that
he was far behind them in his studies. He was awkwardly
out of place and entirely too large for his grade.
This, however, instead of paralyzing his
energies tended to greatly stimulate them, and he
resolved to catch up with those more advanced.
The teacher was a young man who had completed a
sub‐academic course, and was now preparing
himself for college by private study, and at the same
time trying
to earn the money necessary for college expenses by teaching the
district school. He was earnest and efficient as a
teacher and kind to his pupils; but being somewhat
absorbed in his own studies, and ambitious to enter
college with a good record, he was rather too much
preoccupied to be a good disciplinarian. He enjoyed the
work of teaching, but disliked the drudgery of enforcing
order.
In keeping with the inborn principles of his nature,
Leonard soon formed the acquaintance of the more disorderly
boys, and became in some respects their
ring‐leader. Being entirely away from
parental restraint, he was more reckless in his manner
than most of the other boys, and they soon accorded him
the bad eminence of leadership. Although not
orderly, he was naturally apt, and was rapidly
advancing to a position in school more in accord with his
size.
As Grandfather Howell had said, he had "wit"
enough, and could acquire knowledge readily when he chose
to do so; and just now he was bent on his
books. But his mischievous, malevolent
disposition had not been at all modified by his hard
experience. On the contrary, it had grown
apace, and had hardened in form during these
months; and he had become more habitually surly in his
nature and more liable to fits of unreasonable passion.
It was evident almost from the day of his entrance to the school
that Leonard's presence was not to be a blessing to it;
and as soon as he had acquired the (quasi)
leadership the audacity of the turbulent element
increased, and the principles of order and respect were
trampled underfoot. The condition soon became so bad
that the attention of the trustees was called to it; but
they were in favor of mild measures,
and accordingly induced the superintendent, a kind and
elderly gentleman, to give the boys a lecture on their
behavior. This, instead of correcting the
evil, rather emboldened the offenders; and
Leonard, who now rejoiced in being the bully of the
school, began openly to annoy the teacher, as
if purposing to bring on a conflict.
"He'll not attempt to flog any of us," shouted Bill
Woodford, as he ran from the schoolhouse door to join the
group of turbulents that stood in a distant part of the
yard.
"Hum! I'd look to see him try it, wouldn't
you, Len?" squeaked little Dave
Claypole, looking up in Leonard's face.
"Say, fellers, I tell you what let's
do," said Sam Duncan. "When he calls us out in
class this afternoon let'sall stand with our feet wide
apart‐‐so, and our hands in our
pockets, and our heads way back, like
that," striking the attitude, at which all
the boys laughed heartily.
"That's the very thing," piped out little
Dave. "That will make him mad; he hates
anything like that."
All were soon agreed, and mutual pledges were passed
with considerable formality. They were to stand by one
another in the fight, and were never to tell anything
about their part of the mattere afterward. Thus filled
with evil purposes, the little band of juvenile
covenanters entered the schoolroom.
Leonard had said but little, but he had agreed to the
proposal, not having the moral courage to
oppose, although he knew that, being at the
head of the class, he would be the first one to meet the
issue, the probable consequences of which had now begun
to swim before his mind.
During all these days of semi‐defiance
the teacher had not been unobservant nor idle. He had
studied the situation thoroughly and had reached his own
conclusion. He kneew that a crisis must soon
come, and had braced himself for it. Flogging
had not gone out of practice in the schoolroom, nor was
there any law or sentiment that interfered with the teacher's free
use of the birch.
When the boys were to take their places in class, true
to their agreement, they ambled out slowly and
noisily, pounding the floor and the desks with their big
boots as they went along, and finally all stood in a line
with their legs well straddled out, their hands in their
pockets, and their chins well up in the air.
Stripped from its intention, it was altogether a comic
sight, and it is not at all unlikely that Mr.
Boyne saw something funny in the froglike attitude which the boys
assumed. It
was grotesque, and was not lost on the rest of the
school. The teacher had ignored many breaches of
order, but he determined not to ignore
this.
Calling on Leonard to recite, he said
calmly:
"Take your hands out of your pockets and stand as you ought
to."
Leonard did not move, but began to recite,
his face wearing an air of defiance and contempt.
"Leonard, I say, take your hands out of your
pockets and stand as you ought to," repeated
Mr. Boyne.
Leonard smiled but did not move. The teacher turned
quietly around and drew from behind his desk a seasoned rod that
the boys had never seen before; and the next instand this
rod was wrapping itself around Leonard's straddled legs with
amazing vigor. The teacher struck only two
blows, but these stung as though a red‐hot
wire had been coiled around his bare skin. Leonard
sprang forward and caught the teacher by the throat clutching it
with all the strength of his hardy nature, his whole
being inflamed with wild passion. He drew back his right
hand with his fist clinched to strike. He never
delivered the blow, however, for Mr.
Boyne, quick as lightning, threw out his left
hand, seized Leonard's right wrist, and the
next instand, by a trip and a twirl, threw him
full length to the floor, falling upon him. In
his descent Leonard's head had struck heavily against a
desk, and he was partially stunned;
nevertheless, he still clung to the teacher's
throat, and for a few moments the struggle was
fierce. All this time Mr. Boyne had refrained
from blows; and when at length he freed himself and arose
to his feet he was still quite cool and col‐
lected. Leonard arose, but the fall and the
flow he had received from the desk had unnerved him; and
dazed, humbled, and bleeding, he went
away to his seat, and sank down into a
half‐unconscious condition.
The boys who had done so much in planning the affair,
and who had pledged themselves so solemnly&conmma; had been
very careful to take no part in the fight, and were now
quite backward in showing their sympathy toward Leonard.
As they looked upon the late bully, exhausted and
cowed, with clothes torn, hair
disheveled, face besmeared, and head bruised
and bleeding, they may have inwardly charged him with
folly, and chuckled over their own good sense;
but it would have been impossible to have defended themselves from
the charge of meanness. After a painful
waiting, one or two of them finally ventured to
assist him in getting himself fixed up, and
Leonard, crestfallen and disgusted, set out for
home.
To Leonard's everlasting credit be it said he had not acquired
the habit of lying; and on arriving home he gave Farmer
Kingsley a truthful account of the affair, no doubt
suppressing the circumstances which told most against
himself. Farmer Kingsley listened patiently,
and although he had no sympathy whatever with Leonard's
conduct, he did not hastily decide against
him. He had seen Leonard's ambition to learn,
and knew that he was apt; and he was not convinced that
the recent experience had made upon him a good
impression. This was true. Leonard was not
only thoroughly humiliated, but was also greatly
enlightened, and had firmly resolved to alter his
ways.
His work done and supper eaten, he
went early to bed, but slept little during the
night. His head pained him seriously, but the
reflections which came to his mind were much more
painful. He saw that he had made a fool of
himself, even if he did not clearly see the wrong he had
been guilty of. And then, the recollections of
his earlier wrong steps, and the dark pictures of the
immediate future, which his lively imagination
painted‐‐for as yet he kneew nothing of
Farmer Kingsley's intentions‐‐pursued each
other back and forth across his mind like the wavese of a
squall‐tossed sea. This severe agitation
served to confirm within him the resolution he had formed;
and the next morning, when Mr. Kingsley
proposed that he should return to school, he felt greatly
relieved, although as yet he did not know how the matter
could be settled.
Farmer Kingsley was a man of great
energy and probity of character, and was well
known. His influence was almost without limit in the
community; and convinced of Leonard's sincerity,
he now took his cause, and by much persuasion finally had
him restored to the school.
Leonard's change of conduct was apparent to all, and
becoming more diligent than ever, he fairly bounded along
in his studies. Had his reformation been more
thorough, and had he gone back to the rpinciples he had
been taught by precept and by loving example in his New Jersey
home; had his change been deeply moral, and led
him to retrace his runaway steps and ask forgiveness of the tender
relatives he had wronged, his whole life would doubtless
have been brighter. As it was, the change was
great, and his resolution noble; but it had respect only
to prudence, and rested upon a merely utilitarian
morality. It was a half‐measure
and a compromise; and it was upon such a basis that
Leonard set out to erect that character upon which as a monument he
should at last inscribe his name and the record of his
life.
His schooldays were finished without further event; and
in the spring he returned to work with increased energy and
fidelity, saving his earnings with scrupulous
care. He soon won the reward due his upright and manly
bearing in the confidence and good will of the community;
and the unpleasant school episode faded from public
memory. It was a boyish freak that should not be charged
to the disadvantage of the enterprising young man, who
had not only repudiated it, but who had done all in his
power to atone for it. Leonard Howell was
forgiven.
CHAPTER II.
The city of Charleston, in South Carolina,
is often spoken of as the hotbed in which the rebellion of the
South was sprouted. Before the war Charleston was a
delightful city, especially for persons whose temperament
fitted them to enjoy its semi‐tropical climate and
customs. Socially it was extremely staid and
conservative; and the various classes of which its
population was composed moved along their allotted planes with but
little apparent friction, each individual family seeming
content with its social lot. Charleston was the
Philadelphia of the South, with increased
emphasis.
In situation, it enjoyed the advantages
of which New York may boast, without having the
obstruction of Long Island. From the Battery,
which beautifully matched New York's Castle Garden, the
eye uninterrupted might sweep out over a harbor of quiet beauty and
drop its exhausted vision to rest in the distant haze of the open
sea. The low, green‐crested islands
which marked the lines of the opening perspective, served
as a delicate border, connecting the picture with
ourselves; while bold Sumter challenged our gaze for a
moment as she reared her grim form against the eastern sky as the
faithful gatekeeper of the "City by the Sea."
The view presented by the city itself to the traveler
approaching it from the sea was also one of rare beauty.
Its shipping, spires, and abundant shrubbery
and shade trees combined to enlist the lively sympathy of the
visitor; while its background
of forest and its surrounding meads of luxuriant green enwrapped
it in a setting as delightful as ever greeted the
eye.
East and west of the city flowed the Ashly and Cooper
rivers, quite similar to the East and North rivers of New
York; and on their waters floated the tiny boats of the
scores of fishermen who daily supplied the markets with the best
fish in the world. Within the city were fine old
residences reflecting the wealth and magnificent tastes of their
occupants; but the visitor would be more deeply impressed
by the public buildings. There was the old Saint
Michael's Church, with its magnificent
chimes‐‐Saint Michael's, once saved
by the heroism of a negro slave, upon whom the rich
sentiment of Charleston bestowed, as a wreath of
honor, the boon of freedom. There stood the
old French Church, telling its story of the
Huguenots;
there the citadel, filled with aristocratic
cadets; there the theater, coming down from
colonial times; the arsenal, asylums,
hotels, and school buildings. Churches were
numerous and the population decidedly
church‐going.
The clearly‐defined classes in Charleston society
were nearly as follows: On the one extreme were the old
families who enjoyed a distinction founded upon blood,
and who were generally accorded the first place in
everything. The other extreme was occupied by the fewe
white laborers and mechanics, to whom was permitted no
social standing whatever. They existed and looked
on; they did not live and partake. Among the
aristocrats were to be found the merchants of the best
class;the planters who maintained city
residences, or who were frequent visitors to the
city; the lawyers, and, above
all, the leaders in
politics. As a rule, they were gentlemen of
leisure, with fair education, and had sometimes
traveled extensively; dignified and infolent of
manner, and splendid talkers. Their
pronunciation of English was old‐fashioned,
but uniform and fixed; as one pronounced, they
all pronounced; their tones were musical and their
inflections indicative of taste. They were not without
virtue, although the South Carolina aristocracy was
really an item brought forward from a closed accounht,
and was both out of date and away from home in the American
republic; nevertheless, it had its era and some
virtue. Of its vices it is not necessary to
speak; all who knew it will admit that it was more
admirable at a distance than at close view. The lowest
class of whites need not be specially noted. Many of
them were upright and respectable, and under freer
conditions would have reached
the higher ranks of society. The "poor white trash"
of the Carolinas generally were not always the worst
people. They were uniformly sinned against by the lordly
class, and were very much what their condition made
them; but among them were many who were far from being
despicable.
Between the two extremes already mentioned were several strata
of the middle class, comprising superior
mechanics, merchants of secondary grade, school
teachers, clerks, bookkeepers, and
the like. Among these were to be found the usual
proportion of good and bad, no doubt; but it was
also among them that some of the best people that the city every
produced were to be found. The virtues somewhat spurned
by the upper classes, and rendered impossible to the
lowest class by reason of their social surroundings,
seemed to find con‐
genial homes among many of those who were niehter high nor low
in the social scale. Here alone the domestic virtues
especially received their warmest support and brought forth their
best fruit.
Charleston was also the center and marked representative of a
slaveholding section, and had a very large slave
population. Here the Denmark Vesey insurrection was
planned, and here too it came to grief, when
twenty‐two resolute negroes, who had been
willing to risk something for freedom, met their death in
silence on the scaffold. Here also was the
whipping‐house, known among negroes ironically
as the "sugar house," to which genteel slaveholders sent
their slaves to be whipped at so much per lash.
Yes, Charleston had her slaves, her free
negroes, her free browns, and her
mixed‐blooded colored people, seemingly
without number. The
colored people, too, free and
slave, were also divided into several classes,
the most noted of which were the "free browns," the
center of which was the "Brown Fellowship Society,"
representing persons of mixed blood who were freeborn; and
the "Compact," a society of blacks that admitted none to
membership saving blacks who had been born in
wedlock.
The ante&hyphens;bellum Charleston,
however, is passed away, leaving behind it only
memories. For anything like a correct description of it
we are dependent upon the fast‐fading recollections of
the few survivors who knew it as it was. Its
picture, beautiful as it was in many respects,
is not to be found in its own current literature, not
that artists were wanting, but rather because the leaders
of thought carried public attention into other fields.
The ambitions of politics utterly despoiled the provinces of
literature.
The Vanross family belonged to the middle and
non‐slaveholding class; and it may be well to
observe that this class of Southerners, so generally kept
in the background, was very largely in the
majority. Reduced to the very minimum in social
influences by the slaveholding policy of the South, they
have seldom appeared in Southern literature except at great
disadvantage. Nor indeed have they received from the
North that share of public attention in any form to which their
character and their numbers entitle them. The
slaveholder, actual or ex, has always managed
to set himself up as the exclusive representative of the
South; and he has been too often admitted as
such, without a thought concerning the great majority of
good people whom he did not represent. The Vanross
family were not slaveholders, but were,
nevertheless, intense Southern‐
ers. They were plain, practical,
and industrious, considered in the light of the habits
and custom of their community. In another place they
would have reached high rank in society. As it
was, they enjoyed a large share of
respect.
The discussion going on in the country foreboding actual
war, reached the quiet home of Mrs.
Vanross, and greatly agitated the little domestic
circle. They loved Charleston as only Charlestonians
can; and from this standpoint, in widening
circles but with diminishing degrees, they loved the
whole South. The soft skies, the balmy
climate, the richly‐scented flowers,
the song‐birds, the delicious
fruits, their own loved home, the band of
cherished friends‐‐these were their
South, rather than the hideous machine of human
slavery, rolling out its bales of cotton on one side and
oozing out its stream of blood and death on the
other.
True to the political and religious teachings they had received
from infancy, the whole family went with their
State. The two older sons knew that if the war came it
would be "a rich man's war and a poor man's fight;" but
they also knew the intolerant spirit by which they were
surrounded, and for the sake of their mother and sisters
they saw that they should be compelled to shoulder
muskets. The family consisted of a widowed
mother, two daughters, and three
sons, two of whom, William and
Charles, were well grown. The father had not
been long dead, and the house in which they lived was
their own, and Mrs. Vanross had a small income
besides.
The boys had been early taught to lend a hand in their own
support, and the girls had been carefully trained by
their mother in all household duties, they and their
mother usually doing all the work of the family. When
help was necessary they usually employed free colored
people. This, however, occasioned no
remark, for slaveholders sometimes did the
same. As a matter of fact, the members of the
Vanross family were all opposed to slavery; but they were
very careful never to give expression to their views.
With the same hearts, had they lived in Boston rather
than in Charleston, they would have been earnest
abolitionists. As it was, they were noted for
their kindness to colored people, both free and
slave.
May, 1865. The Charleston of the past was
gone. Great fires had swept over it. Shot and
shell had pierced and racked its buildings. Pinching
want had reigned within it. All was over now&period
War had spent its fury and peace had returned.
The flag of our Union once more floated from the flagstaff of
the Citadel. Soldiers, soldiers,
soldiers were marching everywhere. Socially Charleston
now was chaos and coma. The cornerstone of its
fabric, slavery, had been plucked out of the
building, and a general collapse had followed.
Paralyzed and confused, at this hour, it had
not taken its first steps toward social reconstruction.
The city was not without population, however,
for besides the soldiers, from forty‐five to
fifty thousand civilians were moving to and fro amid its
ruins.
The ruling class that had giventone to its society had
practically disappeared; and the others,
entirely unaccustomed to lead, were existing in a state
of apparent bewilderment. Negro soldiers were
there, some fresh from the island plantations,
others from the free North and West. They had
entered the city triumphantly singing "John Brown,"
and thousands of freedmen had caught the stirring
chorus. The streets were daily crowded; old
faces were slowly disappearing, and new ones arriving
with every steamer.
Two colored soldiers of the Fifty‐fourth
Massachusetts were making their way rather carelessly along
Vanderhost Street, in front of the market.
Both sides of the walk were lined with rude market
stands, and the narrow passageway was thronged with
people. The soldiers stopped before an old colored
lady's stand and asked for glasses of "root beer." They
were chatting, and stepping backward rather
carelessly, quite rudely jostled two typical Southern
white ladies. The ladies, being naturally in a
sensitive state of mind, felt themselves
insulted. The soldiers, quickly observing
their fault, immediately straight‐
ened themselves up, and raising their caps,
politely offered their apologies.
"We are not accustomed to that sort of treatment from
negroes," said the elder lady.
"Oh! ma, 'tis no use to talk; the
negroes have got the city now," said the younger
lady. I hope the Yankees are satisfied now;
they have put us under our own negroes."
This was a little more than the soldiers could bear
cheerfully. Whether a thought of Butler's famous New
Orleans order came into their minds or not it would be impossible
to say; but they at once changed their attitude,
and taking up the glasses of root beer which they had
ordered, they tendered them in a brusque manner to the
ladies, and with the freedom of thorough familiarity
commanded them to drink to the old flag.
The ladies, embarrassed and frightened, saw
now their mistake, and fancied themselves in
danger. Their eyes filled with tears, and they
were now ready to apologize in their turn. The soldiers
did no more than press the glasses upon them, but this to
them was a terrible humiliation. As they stood hemmed in
by the crowd, and suffering from their rude
stare, suddenly a young officer dashed up, and
comprehending to some extent the situation, addressed the
soldiers loudly:
"What in thunder are you boys doing?"
"Nothing, sir," was the quick
response.
"Well, then, move on," said
Lieutenant Howell.
The soldiers drank their beer and at once complied with the
order, although a glance passing from the officer to the
men covertly assured them that they had nothing to fear from
him.
Lieutenant Howell then advanced directly to the
ladies, proffering his assistance and escort,
at the same time handing to the elder lady his card. His
offer was kindly accepted, and in the short walk from the
market to their home his manners and conversation so pleased the
ladies that he not only received their thanks, but also
an invitation to call on them at his convenience.
When the war broke out Leonard, who had just reached
manhood, and still possessed that martial spirit which
had manifested itself in the shrill notes of his boyish
fife, enlisted at the first call. Entering the
ranks as a private soldier, he carried within him a
spirit of frankness and fidelity which had been growing in his
character since the memorable schoolroom battle; and being
blessed with that enthusiasm which naturally springs from good
health, it was
not long before he became favorably known to both officers and
men. He possessed also a fair degree of
patriotism, and distinguished himself early by a close
attention to duty and by a careful and intelligent execution of
orders.
But, like hundreds of other privates who remained in
the ranks all through the war, although more worthy to
command than scores of others, who through political
influence secured shoulder‐straps, Leonard
seemed destined never to hold a commission. Advanced to
the position of sergeant, his course of promotion
stopped, and in all probability he would have reached no
higher military plane had not the government been compelled about
this time to accept the services of colored soldiers.
The black regiments that were forming needed officers,
and it was the policy of the government to put only white men
in
command. This opened before the white
non‐commissioned officers a prospect of promotion toward
which they could regard themselves as in direct line.
Faithfulness to duty, efficiency in drill,
gallantry in the field, all led to promotion as
commissioned officers to these newly‐forming colored
regiments. Here was a chance for merit to make its
way; and it has been claimed that these white
officers, placed in charge of colored troops,
were among the best found in the service.
Hence, when Sergeant Howell received a commission as a
second lieutenant in the Fifty‐fourth Massachusetts
regiment, composed of colored soldiers, it was
not only a partial surprise to him, but a compliment to
his fidelity and skill.
Entering upon his new duties, his bearing and manners
were such that he soon won the respect of the men of his
company
and the confidence of his superior officers. He was
at the storming of Wagner, and at the fearful and
disastrous battle of Olustee, when it was evident that
"some one had blundered." At Honey Hill he participated
in that bloody bayonet duel between his own regiment and a crack
regiment from Georgia, the "Savannah Grays," in
which the Southern regiment was literally cut to pieces;
in a word, he was with his regiment constantly,
from the time that he joined it with his new commission until it
practically ended the war with the last fight against rebellion at
Boynton's Mill. Singular enough it is, that
the black man should open the war by becoming its first victim in
Baltimore, on April 18, 1861, and
should close it in the last victory won over armed treason in
1865.
But the fighting was now over; Jefferson
Davis was in hiding probably somewhere in Georgia,
carrying the Executive Department of the gasping Confederacy in his
trunk; his cabinet and other high officials were seeking
rest for their weary feet in the glades and forests, and
awaiting opportunities to escape to foreign lands. The
whole South was under military rule; and the provost
marshal was the most important dignitary in every town.
The condsition of things under the military was bad
enough, but it was immeasurably better than it had been
under the declining days of the Confederacy, and better
in many respects than that rule which followed it under the guise
of reconstruction.
When the two black privates stopped Mrs. Vanross and
her daughter and were insisting upon their drinking to the old flag
in a glass of common root beer, they had not the fear of
so‐called Southern chivalry,
or Southern law before their eyes. They knew that
Southern chivalry had been unhorsed by Federal bayonets,
and that Southern law had been declared inoperative by the
Department Commander. The glance that passed between
Lieutenant Howell and the men was not entirely soldierly;
it was rather patriotic and fraternal, and the men moved
cheerfully on as bid, deporting themselves as though
nothing unusual had occurred.
Lieutenant Howell bowed his thanks on leaving the
ladies, for their kind invitation to call, and
turned away with as much dignity as he could command. He
was greatly elated over the whole affair and felt very much more
like complimenting the soldiers who had brought it about than like
reporting them for breach of discipline. His accidental
meeting with the two modest ladies had made him quite a
hero, and
had set his mind running in a new direction.
Returning to his quarters, occupied with his own
bright thoughts, his life began to assume a romantic
cast, and he began to paint himself as the leading
character of a drama already well on its course. The
pleasant words and sweet smiles of Mrs. Vanross and her
daughter had been accepted by him very much above their real
value. So long deprived of female society, and
knowing but little of the ways of the world, Lieutenant
Howell was not prepared to interpret the language and manners of
Charleston politeness. He had been decidedly embarrassed
while in the presence of the ladies, and had barely borne
himself above the gauge of awkwardness; but now that he
was at home he saw himself only as a victor. He was not
familiar with the fact that Charleston had learned
her English greatly through the French; and that words
uttered by her fair daughters, especially in their own
home, as far as they are employed as vehicles of
sentiment, needed to be greatly modified as they are
translated into the received currency of New England
life. Hence our lieutenant had taken the words and
manners of the ladies to signify a great deal more than was
intended; and yet the ladies were not insincere,
nor had they been extravagant. On the contrary they were
both reserved and sincere, according to their
standard, notwithstanding they appeared so
cordial.
It was with difficulty that Leonard restrained himself until a
seasonable time for the promised call should arrive. It
came however at length, and most carefully
attired, Leonard set out for the visit. His
reception was all that he could have
wished; and he was delighted with the quiet grace of
the mother, and with the beauty of Miss
Hortense. To tell the whole truth, Leonard had
never before enjoyed the companionship or even the
anxiety, of such thoroughly refined
people‐‐excepting of course their antipathy
to negro soldiers, which to them at that time was quite
excusable.
Leonard's visits to the Vanross residence became afterward quite
frequent, and as the days and weeks rolled on,
the intimacy between himself and the family grew into
friendship; and when in midsummer, his regiment
was ordered North to be mustered out of service, Miss
Hortense had exacted from him the promise to write to
her. The whole family also joined in inviting him to pay
them a visit during the coming winter.
CHAPTER III.
Scarcely had the frost painted the leaves of the New England
forests their many colors before Lieutenant Howell, with
his trunk packed, was on his way to New York,
there to take the first outgoing steamer for Charleston.
A delightful passage of three days brought him to the
city, and as soon as propriety would permit he was
striking the knocker of the high gate of the Vanross
residence. His reception was an overflow of genuine
cordiality.
"I am so glad to see you," exclaimed Mrs.
Vanross, her deep black eyes still sparkling with a
luster that seemed to contradict the testimony of her gray
hairs.
"You are looking so well," said Hor‐
tense, and Leonard fairly blushed with pride and
confusion.
"We are all glad to welcome you back to Charleston,"
said Lavinia, disclosing to the full a set of pearly
teeth, her arched eyebrows and long drooping eyelashes
resting upon a complexion of richest brunette, possessed
of a figure most delicately molded, and crowned with a
luxuriant mass of black and glossy hair, which had just
enough of curl in it to give it a look of life.
Lavinia was in fact bewitchingly beautiful; and as she
advanced toward Mr. Howell, clad in snowy
evening dress, extending her faultlessly shaped hand to
clasp his, that seemed so large and ill‐made
in comparison, he experienced a degree of embarrassment
hard to define. In a few moments,
however, he was at his ease. Seated on the
piazza, with a sister on
either side, and the mothere in front, he
told in his best style, which was indeed poor
enough, his experiences during the passage
northward, and of the great "muster out," not
omitting to mention the greetings he had received among his friends
at his home.
Led on by their interested attention and artless
questions, he spoke quite freely of his plans for the
future, continually circling around the one point more
important to him than all others, and yet keeping it well
in the distance. Much of what he said was intended
especially for Hortense; and Leonard hoped that she would
see that she made the greater part of that really practical future
which he enthusiastically painted, although he carefully
avoided any self‐committing expressions. Like
the ship‐of‐war seeking to draw the fire of
some concealed battery, he hoped by his honest
description, his bits of romance, and his
occasional jets of wit to bring some response from the
well‐guarded fort within. But all in
vain. Hortense listened with Desdemona‐like
sympathy and talked with the ulmost freedom, but she more
than puzzled him by giving out no sign that she was reading the
ardent story of his heart, that was fairly living and
breathing between the lines of his sprightly
conversation.
Lavinia fluttered around him, almost as gay in manner
as the little humming‐bird, which at that
moment was flitting among the flowers that scented the
piazza. She was unquestionably superior to her sister in
beauty, and was also her junior in years.
Leonard greatly admired
her‐‐indeed, he was bewildered by
her beauty‐‐and if pressed for a reason for
not preferring her to her sister would probably have answered in a
tone subdued almost to reverence: "She is too handsome
for me."
Leonard C. Howell admired the beauty of
Lavinia, but he was of too coarse a cast to hope to bring
to his side a creataure so fine of fiber and so spiritual as
Lavinia; and he had the supreme manliness not to seek to
possess and despoil a soul for whose intimate companionship he was
in no sense fitted. He admired Lavinia, but
she was above his love.
The love which he felt for Hortense had in a measure created his
world anew; for although it was ardent and romantic
enough, it was at the same time accompanied by the fond
hope that at an early day the noble object would be his.
And it was this hope which inspired him in his practical planning
for the future, and which bore him up in his present
sacrifices of pleasure and often of comfort.
The course of true love was never smooth. If for a
time Leonard's way
seemed so clear and the goal so near at hand, it was
only to entice him to surrender himself more completely to its
gentle but imperious sway. He is honest and
earnest, and the love which he brings to Hortense is the
full offering of his ripening manhood; and there seems
nothing to prevent its being kindly accepted. The
differences in manner, in taste,
expression, and experience between them only serve to
make them more interesting to each other; and although on
different sides during the war, that does not now
interfere with their friendship.
The evening's conversation terminataed very
pleasantly, after an engagement on Leonard's part to join
the Vanross family in a little social gathering at their home a
week later, on which occasion he would be regarded as the
guest of the family generally and the especial escort of
Hortense.
Up to this time there was nothing like a betrothal between the
two young people; that is, there had been no
formal proposal, nor indeed any set courtship or
lovemaking. The feeling between them had come up
Topsy‐like, without any making; it
had grown secretly but irresistibly, and although neither
had confessed it in words, yet both knew and felt its
presence, and had manifested it to others in a thousand
ways, even when trying most to hide it.
The long week ended at last, and Leonard found himself
the center of a very quiet evening party at the Vanross
residence. It was a gathering of the relatives and very
intimate friends; for even the middle circle in which the
Vanross ladies moved was not generally prepared to entertain an
ex‐"Yankee" officer. Great care had been
exercised in sending out the invitations that no inharmonious guest
should be present.
The party therefore was small but congenial, and the
time passed in easy conversation, Lieutenant Howell
receiving marked attention. He noticed,
however, that the guests on retiring were more
ceremonious, and that they were generally richer in their
expressions than those he had been accustomed to meet in his
Northern experience.
As the party had been in his honor, he was of course
the last to leave; and during the brief
after‐conversation the first straw to cross his pathwayu
fell. It was but a straw, but it
came, and it stayed.
Seated alone with the family, by the merest accident
the subject of religion came up in some form, and the
fact was disclosed that Mrs. Vanross and her daughters
were Christians of the old‐fashioned, orthodox
type. The Bible was to them the supreme rule of
life, and Hortense an earnest defender of its
teachings.
Leonard had imbibed somewhat of the so‐called liberal
ideas of New England; and although he had no definite
creed of his own, he had learned,
perhaps, to doubt orthodoxy, as he called
it, but of which he had no precise ideas, and
certainly to complain of the restraints of religion.
Hence, when he saw his adored Hortense appear as the
champion of a subject and a cause which he inwardly
hated, there arose within him a warfare which for the
time compelled him to maintain silence. It was now the
turn of Hortense to play the part of the tantalizing
corvette, and despite Leonard's caution he soon found
himself reduced to the necessity of exposing his
opinions.
Hortense, observing his uneasiness during the
conversation and the maladroitness of some of his
responses, said with kindness:
"I fear, Mr. Howell, that the
conversation is hardly agreeable to you. Perhaps we had
better turn our thoughts into another channel."
"By no means," replied Mr.
Howell, "if you are willing to allow a difference of
opinion. Who knows but we may hit upon some undiscovered
truth? At least it will be a pleasure to hear Hypatia
discourse, even upon that driest and most threadbare of
all subjects‐‐creeds and
confessions," said he, with an air of
compliment to Hortense, and of ill‐concealed
contempt for religion.
"Oh, Mr. Howell, the subject does
not seem dry at all to me; you must come and hear our
minister‐‐Dr.
Caulfield. He makes it interesting
enough."
"Oh, yes; I have heard many fine
preachers, and have heard many good things from the
pulpit; and I have noth‐
ing to say against the many hard‐working men in that
calling who honestly believe what they say; I only feel
sorry for them; but for those who do not
believe, and who yet go on and preach, I have
no feeling but one of contempt. I admit all the morality
claimed and taught by the most ardent religionists, but I
am not willing to enslave myself to their creeds."
"Well," replied Hortense laughingly,
"perhaps it is because you do not have the time to think of
religion as we do, or are so strong that you do not feel
the need of something to lean upon. Gentlemen do not
seem naturally so religious as women. I and sister
Lavinia have been so accustomed all our lives to lean upon either
papa, while he lived, or upon William since
papa's death, that we have been molded for
religion. We could not live without it.
And, then, ma‐‐she has
just
led us to God by her own faith and life."
Leonard was a little disturbed by the reply of
Hortense. Her earnestness and sincerity greatly
heightened his admiration, but at the same time he saw
enough to convince him that she would not readily surrender her
faith. Unwilling to appear as a direct opponent of
religion, and desiring to avoid being pushed further into
a discussion which had suddenly assumed so serious a
form, he turned the admirable plea aside with a
pleasantry, remarking that one so strong in character and
so rich in endowments as herself had much more to give than to
receive. He doubted not that the favored brothers could
see something of divinity in their sister.
Hortense, though earnest and pious, was not
beyond the effects of a compliment, especially from
Leonard; and she knew
that the compliment was sincere, if not indeed
deserved. Her dark cheek crimsoned slightly,
and betraying a little confusion she said:
"Oh, Mr. Howell, you do not mean
me; you mean sister Lavinia. She is the boys'
idol. Sister Lavinia, in their eyes,
is the incomparable one."
This was said with no tone of sisterly jealousy.
Hortense knew that Lavinia was more richly endowed than herself in
point of beauty; but far from envying her on this
account, she rather took pleasure in it, as so
much the more added to the common stock of the
household. Besides, Hortense heerself was by
no means devoid of beauty. She was of the same type as
her sister; had the same black eyes; the same
glossy hair, pearly teeth, ruby lips,
and rich, dark complexion; but therer was more
of the robust, the positive, the
mate‐
rial in Hortense. She was rather grand and
stately, while her sister was more fairy‐like
and captivating. The beauty of Lavinia was of that type
that brings its worshipper to her feet bewildered and almost bereft
of his mind; the beauty of Hortense bids him rise to his
greatest altitude and gird himself with his noblest
thought.
Lavinia, who was not far away, having heard
her name mentioned, was soon standing by the side of
Hortense, her face beaming with sisterly
affection, and her bewitching eyes sending their gleaming
arrows right through Leonard Howell's heart. An
entrancing picture she presented as she poised herself gracefully a
moment and said:
"What is it, sister? May I not have a share
in this deeply interesting conversation? You have
complimented me by mentioning my name,
and‐‐you know a
woman's curiosity‐‐so you must tell me
what you are talking about."
Explanations were made and the conversation lightened
up, and as it was growing late, Mr.
Howell soon after sought his hat and light overcoat and
withdrew, the ladies accompanying him to the
piazza, and following him with their gaze until he had
descended the high steps and passed down the shrub‐lined
white walk to the high street gate. Opening
this, he paused and bowed his final
good‐night, and then started briskly down
Rutledge Street to return to his hotel.
The streets were badly lighted, the sidewalks
uneven, and, except on the best business
streets, unpaved. A large part of the city
through which he passed was familiarly known as the "burnt
district," in which stood numerous chimneys rearing their
heads sullenly in the darkness as so
many tombstones marking the graves of departed homes.
On every hand was also to be seen the ruinous work of shot and
shell. The scene altogether, as it was
revealed by the dim lamplight, was well fitted to awaken
in the mind of the solitary walker serious if not somber
reflection.
Mr. Howell had left the Vanross residence in no gay
mood. He felt somewhat dissatisfied with himself and
with the part he had played in the later conversation of the
evening. Nor was he well pleased as he thought over the
entire evening. The party had been very
agreeable, and he had been the center of
attention; still he was not satisfied. But
little accustomed to fashionable life, and altogether a
stranger to the social manners of Charleston, he felt
that he had not been able to deport himself with becoming
grace; and he was specially mortified that he had
disclosed
his religious views to the Vanross family. The more
he thought over the matter the greater became his
uneasiness, and the more intense his disgust with
himself.
"The whole family will turn against me,
sure," said he half aloud; "and as to
Hortense‐‐ah, well! it is
fortunate that I have said no more to her. She shall
never know what I intended; I will quietly
withdraw, and she will be none the wiser for my
experience. It is clear she will never love
me, and why should I waste my love further upon
her? The affair must drop right where it is,
and we will remain only friends."
Soliloquizing thus, Leonard drew himself up to his
full height, and with the firm step that the drill had
taught him flattered himself that he had reached a conclusion and
had dismissed a new‐born love. Calling up the
gayety of his spirits, he entered
the hotel and hastened to his room. His
sleep, however, was not refreshing,
and when morning at last came he found himself as firmly bound in
the toils of unpleasant thought as when he paced the dark streets
on the night before. The party, the
conversation, and Hortense were still with him,
and it seemed as difficult to get away from them as to get away
from himself.
CHAPTER IV.
Leonard continued sadly confused in mind all that day,
and it was several days before he regained his wonted
composure. He was not an insincere coxcomb,
and had never indulged in the ghastly pastime of playing at chess
with women's hearts. On the contrary, he had a
heart of his own, and at present he seemed pretty much
all heart. A hundred times in a day did he resolve to
untwine the silken cords that bound him to Hortense; and a
hundred times in a day, at the conclusion of each series
of efforts, would he find himself more firmly bound than
before. Her face, her form, her
eyes, her teeth, her hair, her
sweet, musical voice, her refined,
silvery
Charleston laugh, her graceful though rather stately
carriage, her artless and becoming
manners‐‐each charm in detail had its hold
upon him, and when each was loosened, as he
fancies, he soon found that the tout ensemble had
entirely restored its hold. Ah, love!
love! Who can measure thy power or weigh thy
force! Less ponderous than sunlight, thou art
heavier than the universe!
But it was not only Leonard's heart that caused to rremain in
Charleston, and that would send him in a few days back to
the Vanross gate, but his pride was also divided in its
forces. A goodly part of his pride acted as ally with
his heart; for, had not his flowing tongue and
pen got the better of him at times among his old army
associates, as well as among the companions of his early
youth? And was it not an open secret among his
acquaintances that
he had gone South on an errand of love? Brave as
Leonard was before his heart, he found it hard to bear up
against the assaults of his pride. He had faced bullets
on the field, but he fairly cowed now at the thought of
facing ridicule; and so, yielding to the power
of love, he nevertheless took some comfort in the unmanly
thought that he surrendered rather to his pride.
It was but a few days indeed before Leonard again found himself
at Mrs&period Vandross', but these had been long days
to him. The welcome proved that no ill effect from his
previous conversation had lingered in the hearts of the
ladies. It was quite early in the afternoon of a
beautiful November day, and Mr. Howell came to
invite the young ladies to take a drive. The invitation
was accepted, and in a few minutes all were seated in the
best conveyance to be
had, himself and Hortense on the back seat and Lavinia
directly in front.
The drive included a short trip up the road to the
Half‐Moon Battery, and through the lanes of
live‐oaks that then lined the plank roadway extending
for some miles north of the city; thence somewhat
retracing their course, they ended their drive with a
tour through the city to the famous "Battery," arriving
home just about dark.
The conversation during all the way had been cheerful and
free; but still Leonard was not fully relieved from the
unpleasant recollections of the brief discussion on the night of
the party. It was his purpose to recur to the topic at
the first convenient opportunity, in order that he might
clear away any unfavorable impression which he feared his remarks
had made. But the scenes of the drive had so occupied
the attention of the entire party that he was
kept busy in observing, especially as on their
return, the whole beautiful harbor came into
view.
Arriving and alighting from the carriage, which was
then dismissed, Leonard accompanied the ladies into the
house, and was soon seated alone with Hortense in the
parlor, while Lavinia busied herself in preparing a
simple repast. Notwithstanding the heroic efforts he had
made to free himself from the peculiar bonds which seemed to link
his fate to the chariot wheels of Hortense Vanross,
Leonard never before felt as completely under her sway;
and although he had longed for the moment to come when he might be
alone with her, now that it had come he was confused and
almost paralyzed in his efforts to talk or even to
think. However, moving over and taking a seat
on the large old‐fashioned sofa on which Hortense was
already seated,
he made an effort to reintroduce the subject that had caused him
so much uneasiness, at the same time desiring to offer
some apologies for his manner and to modify the remarks he had
made.
"I fear, Miss Hortense," said he,
"that you were not pleased with what I said the other
evening when we were talking on the subject of
religion."
"Perhaps I did not altogether agree with you,
Mr&period Howell, and perhaps I spoke too
warmly. I beg pardon for anything in my tone or manner
which may have led you to think that I was displeased; I
assure you I was not at all displeased," replied Hortense
seriously.
"I surely did not mean to be impolite or in any way lacking in
courtesy; I accidentally got into the subject,
and I have felt ever since that I expressed myself quite
improperly. I am certainly not a
heathen, nor do I claim to be an infidel,
although I admit that I am not orthodox on all religious
topics. But I wished to call up the matter only to
apologize for my manner on that evening; and after
this, with your consent, we will taboo the
subject altogether."
"Oh, no, Mr. Howell,
you do not need to apologize, I am sure. No
one was the least offended, and it has not been talked of
at all. The subject is not at all disagreeable to
me, and I shall be glad to resume it at any time whenever
it may please you."
Leonard's confusion and embarrassment rather increased as the
conversation went on, and he felt himself far away from
the subject at that time dearest to his heart. How
should he ever unfold to the honored creature at his side the love
that was consuming his life? A few weeks ago he
flattered himself that she knew his interest in her and more
than reciprocated it; and he imagined then that he could
go through the form of proposal without a ruffle of spirit or quake
of heart, and would carry off in triumph the rich
evidence of his conquest. How tall and proud he appeared
then in his own eyes as he surveyed himself in the flattering
mirror of his own fancy. With what excusable assurance
did he speak of his "Southern belle" and his "Southern
beauty," the "Charleston rebel" that he had
captured.
Thus talked Lieutenant Howell to his army associates when miles
away; but where now is that volubility,
adroitness, and courage, as he sits on this
old‐fashioned sofa, not far from the side of
his adored Hortense? What has become of the freedom of
tongue he possessed, even on the occasion of his first
visit to the Vanross
house after his return to the city as a civilian?
Lieutenant Howell was in a new rôle, and his situation
could have been described as one of painful
deliciousness. He suffered, but he enjoyed his
own sufferings.
"My dear Hortense, I am always ready to converese with
you upon this subject or about anything. Whatever
pleases you delights me. It is such a rich privilege to
be in your society that the sort of conversation is not of much
importance. It is a pleasure to me to look at you and to
listen." And Leonard moved a little nearer to
her, but still the distance between them on that long
sofa was very respectable.
Hortense replied with thanks for the compliment, and
suggested pantomime, but Leonard was not equal to the
demands of such a performance and begged to be excused.
Miss Hortense then returned to
the earlier conversation about where they had left
off.
"No, Mr. Howell, you cannot be a
heathen; and you say you are not an infidel,
which I must also accept; but then at the same time you
tell us that you do not believe in creeds and confessions;
and you do not believe in Christians and in churches. Of
course this is all strange to us, who have alwayus
believed in such things. Pardon me, but I am
curious to know just what you do believe on these
subjects."
Although Lieutenant Howell would have much preferred to have
passed from the subject by an easier route, now that he
had done his best to remove the previous unpleasantness,
yet he saw no way to avoid the open door into which Hortense almost
commandingly invited him to enter. In his own mind and
heart a question was
struggling for utterance, which at that time was
vastly more important to him than the questions of his
faith. His hobby of irreligion had now lost all its
charms. However, he made some efforts to avow
his beliefs, but found the task very
difficult. It had been an easy matter to talk with men
of his own way of thinking about superstitious and creeds and
churches and preachers; but when he was called upon to
make a confession of his faith to that earnest, Christian
woman, who was already the sovereign of his
heart, his tongue was singularly tame.
Again the honest demand of Hortense had somewhat nonplussed
him. He had been in the habit of asserting only his
disbeliefs and ridiculing the beliefs of others; now he
was asked for his own belief; and to ridicule the belief
of Hortense did not enter his thought. Leonard found
himself
reduced within very narrow limits, and for the nonce
was compelled to cast the lead into the depths of his own
soul. He was unable to command art enough to deceive
even had he been so inclined. Hortense had brought him
abruptly vis‐àvis with himself, and transfixed
him, as it were, before his own soul with
mesmeric power, and he must stay until the answer was
given. Leonard, thou art now at the command of
the empress of thy heart, looking in upon thy
soul, and thou must answer her question. Thou
art unable to deceive; thou durst not disobey.
What does thou believe? Negatives and ridicule will not
avail thee in the presence of this spotless woman, who
awes thee by the very divinity of her character.
"Well, it would be much easier, Miss
Hortense," said Leonard, "to tell what I do not
believe than to tell just what I do
believe. But I say this; I do believe in
God, and I believe him to be a being of wisdom and
love, but I do not hold the usual orthodox opinions about
religion either as a theory or as an experience. I
believe all things are under invariable law," thus
sliding into a familiar retreat and hoping the discussion would
soon terminate.
"Well," replied Hortense; "Perhaps we do not
differ so widely in our opinions. You believe in a God
of goodness and love; and in law, which to me is
nothing more than God's unchangeable ways. This is a
part of religion, to believe in God as good and
loving."
"Yes; but somehow I cannot bring myself to think of the
great
God as taking any personal interest in us
individually, or as having anything to do with our petty
affairs. I look upon it that all things are placed under
law and left to work out
their destiny. I believe the law the best that could
be for the whole but not the best for each individual; I
will even grant it to be a law of bvenevolence, but I
think it is fixed; and so I cannot see the value of
prayer; nor can I recognize any personal communication
with the Divine Being. I lack all that element which is
called faith. I am not spiritual; perhaps if I
had your gifts I should have also your faith."
"But Mr. Howell," replied
Hortense, now turning her gaze full upon him,
and appearing grander in his eyes than ever before, as
her whole face kindled with an earnestness that heightened every
line of beauty in her form and features, "I am sure you
do not lack sympathy even if you do lack faith. I
noticed to‐day how easily you were interested in
everything along the drive; and how you were fairly
enraptured with our beautiful harbor and
Battery. Myself and sister were delightfully
entertained by your enlivening remarks. You wrong
yourself, Mr. Howell. You have a
soul to see the beautiful and admire it, and to see
suffering, and you have a heart to feel with the sufferer
and to relieve his sufferings if possible. Your soldier
training may have deceived you; but I know that you have
sentiment enough, spiritual life enough. Do
not say you are not spiritual; you wrong
yourself."
Lieutenant Howell had never listened to such flattering remarks
concerning himself before in all his life, and he was
greatly affected. He would have been pleased had the
words been spoken by only a friend; but to hear them
spoken by the one person above all otheers whose good opinion he
desired, transported him beyond himself. He
saw earnestness and interest in the
tone, look and attitude of Hortense, all so
chaste, and he drew in at once the most exhilarating
draught of hope. The old anticipation that had been a
little blurred by rercent circumstances, now came back
increased a thousandfold. He felt that he not only
enjoyed the good opinion of Hortense as expressed by her kind words
and kinder tones; but what was so much more previous to
him, he read in the sign‐language,
known only to reral lovers, that her heart was not locked
against him. He permitted himself to believe that he had
at length secured a recognition in her heart as something morer
than a friend.
Before he could press the advantage which came to him through
the kind words of Hortense, Lavinia entered the room and
invited them to tea, and the remainder of the evening was
passed in the presence of the family. The conversation
became
quite general, although it was unavoidably colored
from the effects of the previous brief discussion, and
the whole family recognized Lieutenant Howell's opposition to
Christianity as pro