Chapter VIII: Which Is the Wife?

Holy St. Francis! what a change is here!
Is Rosaline, whom thou didst love so dear,
So soon forsaken? Young men’s love then lies
Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes!—_Shakespeare._

Orville Deville, with his back turned upon the wilderness and his face set homewards, fell into deep and troubled thought.

Once out of the fascinating sphere of the beautiful enchantress—who had charmed his reason and memory to sleep while she intoxicated his passions and imagination—Orville Deville began to come to his senses. It was a painful process. Indeed, all his emotions from the moment of setting forth upon his journey homeward had been unmitigated pain.

For first there was the impatient grief of the youthful lover parting from his love.

Then there was anxiety for the sick mother to whom he was going—that mother who thought her single and devoted affection had attained so great an influence over her spoiled and wayward son.

Lastly, from these two troubles arose a third more terrible than either. _What had he done?_ While memory and reason slept, and passion and imagination waked and raved, _what had he done_?

He dared not answer his own question! He shrank shuddering from the thought of _the name that the law would have given his crime_!

While the master rode on in silent thought, the man whose gift was not silence, followed with an ill-used look. For every time that honest Nero had ventured to offer an observation, he had been put down by a surly—

“Hold your tongue!” from his master.

They had ridden four mortal hours without conversation, and poor Nero was growing desperate, when at last, he burst out with this wailing cry:

“Mar-ster!”

“Well?” growled the young man, arrested by the misery of his tone.

“I’m tired to death, sar, wid holding my tongue!”

“Humph!”

“And my heart’s ready to bust, sar, wid having nothing to say!”

“Talk, then!”

“Yes, sar! thanky, sar!” then with a sudden, merry change of tone, he said—“’Fore de Lord, sar, I’s berry glad how we’s done got away from down yonder!”

“Humph!”

“’Deed is I! cause you see, sar, how I does believe how ef we’d staid longer we’d come to grief.”

“Pshaw!”

“’Deed does _I_! ’Sides which I would’nt been answer’ble for de quincequonces!”

“Chut!”

“Young marse, chile, you needn’t be scornful, nor likewise incredible in your mind. For ef ebber dis chile saw de debbil in de guise ob an angel ob light it was dat ere fierce, black-eyed young witch; which it’s my full belief, as if you’d a-staid longer, she’d a-brought you to your ebberlasting ruination!”

“SIRRAH!!”——

—Burst forth the young man, wheeling around upon the negro, with a suddenness and fury that caused the latter to jerk his own horse back upon his haunches, and with wildly-rolling eyes, chattering teeth, and quavering tones, exclaim:

“He’s ‘witched a’ready! I knowed it!—Oh, marster! for hebben sake, sar, don’t ride ober me, an’ I’ll nebber do so no more!”

“Fool! look to your horse, or he’ll fall upon you!” cried the young gentleman.

Nero, still desperately frightened, slackened his reins, brought down his horse and began to pat his neck and soothe him.

“There, idiot! that will do! now follow me! and whatever else you may do, never venture, either here or elsewhere, to me, or to any one else, to mention the name of the young girl to whom you refer! for if I ever hear of her again I shall know that the news must have come from you, and—_I shall deal with you accordingly_!”

“Me! an old man of sixty to be threatened by a boy, as I’ve been a father to!” whimpered poor Nero, as with a slow and solemn motion he shook his head and fell a little behind. The mysterious obscurity of that threat, too, had a fearful power over his imagination. He dared not brave an undefined retribution!

They were now travelling through the thick, almost unbroken forest lying between the Alleghany mountains and the Blue Ridge.

As the day declined, though the density of the forest forbade them to see the country beyond, yet they were warned by the sound of rushing waters, that they were approaching the Blue Ridge, at the point where the upper forks of the Potomac, uniting, force their way through the everlasting mountains—the point where _now_ stands the picturesque village of Harper’s Ferry, but where _then_ stood only a country-inn and ferry-boat, owned by one John Harper.

It was nightfall when they reached the Ferry. Dark towering mountains rose on either side, and wild waters rushed between.

They spent the night at the tavern, rested their horses, and by the earliest light of day crossed the ferry to the Maryland side, and continued their journey, following the course of the Potomac.

“An’ _be_ dis our own river as flows down by our house at River-view?” inquired Nero, in astonishment, as they turned their horses’ heads to the south-east, and ambled down the narrow bridle-path between the towering precipices of the Blue Ridge on their left, and the wild, rushing waters of the Potomac on their right.

“Yes,” answered his taciturn master.

“Well, all I has to say, it don’t look a bit like it. Why here it is narrow and pent up, and scurries along, foaming and growling as if it had to tear every bit of its way through these great black rocks! Whereas down yonder, where we-dem live, it spreads out broad and grand, and smiling as the ocean!”

“Yes.”

“And ef _sich is so_, please tell me ef we follow arter dis river, will we win home at last?”

“Yes.”

“And ef you please, how long will it take us, marster?”

“Nero, if I answer your question, will you stop talking?”

“Hi, marse! to be sure! how I gwine listen, less I stop?”

“Very well; but will you promise not to ask any more questions?”

“I promises—_for de present_, marse!” said the non-committing Nero.

“Very well, then! It is sixty miles from here to Beall’s Ferry, where we shall sleep to-night. It is sixty miles from Beall’s Ferry to River-view, where we shall sleep to-morrow night. There! now don’t open your thick lips again until we get to Beall’s Ferry!”

“Lor’, marster!” exclaimed Nero, in horror, “my tongue’ll grow fast to de roof o’ my mouth!”

But his time of probation was not be so dangerously prolonged. For at midday they halted at the Point of Rocks, where there was a rustic house of entertainment for man and beast, to refresh themselves and their horses.

Here old Nero’s liberated tongue ran at large to landlord, landlady, maid, and hostler.

At one o’clock they resumed their journey, still following the south-eastern course of the river, that deepened and widened every mile, as its banks declined from rocky mountains to wooded hills.

At nightfall they reached the head of navigation, where the river suddenly widens around Analostran Island, and flows onward, the site where _now_ the cities of Washington and Georgetown stand, but where _then_ stood only a rustic tavern and ferry-house, kept by one George Beall and called Beall’s Ferry.

Here they passed the night.

And with the dawn of day and refreshed horses, they recommenced their journey.

At noon they halted an hour at Aquia Creek. And from this place onward, their journey became more difficult. From this point the tributaries of the Potomac were broad, deep, and dangerous to cross. At that early period ferry-boats were not everywhere established, and often our travellers were compelled to turn out of their course, and ride up the banks of some creek, to find a rustic bridge or a safe ford. With these interruptions their last half day’s journey was so protracted, that it was nearly midnight when at last they reached the woods that crowned the hill and shaded the homestead of River-view.

“Marster, may I speak now?” asked Nero, as their tired horses toiled up the side of the hill.

“Yes!” growled the morose youth.

“I think, being midnight, de fam’ly ’ll be gone to bed. What ’ill us do?”

“I neither know nor care! I wish the Indians had finished me,” he added, sotto voce.

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do, marse! I know where Kissiah sleep. I kin throw a pebble up to her windy, an’ wake her to let us in widout waking de fam’ly.”

“Very well; do it, then.”

“Well, I ’clare to de Lord! I might be de greatest prime ’plomatist as ebber plotted, widout getting any ’preciation from my young marse!” mentally grumbled old Nero.

By this time they had reached the horse-block and turn-style at the north wall of the lawn.

All the dogs in the place burst upon them in full cry.

“This is a welcome!” exclaimed the young man, angrily.

“Down, Pomp! down, Tray! be easy, Carlo! don’t you know me, Fidelle? hi! hi! Cæsar! what yer ’bout, Rover? there, there, Sweetlips! lick my hand if you like, but don’t bite it!” were some of the conjurations by which old Nero subdued the insurgent army of dogs, and made them know their master.

“Now, sar!” he said, as he tied the horses to the rack and followed his master to the house. “T’other side, if you please, sar,” he added, as he led the way to the back of the building.

“Kissiah sleep up dar!” he said, as he lifted a pebble and threw it against a back window on the second floor.

It struck with a sharp crack, and instantly they heard some one within, in suppressed and fearful tones, cry—

“Oh, Lord! What dat!”

“Kissiah! it’s me! Kissy! it’s Nero!”

“Murder! fire! thieves!” cried the voice within.

“Hush, you fool! It’s nyther murder, nor fire, nor likewise thieves! It’s me and marse! Come down and let us in!”

“Lord, Nero, honey, how you frightened me! and the head of my bed right agin de windy, too!” said Keziah, putting her white turbaned head out into the night. “But is you sure it’s you and young marse?”

“Yes, you blockhead! leastways it’s what’s _left_ of us after the amber-scalps had done eating. Now, then, look sharp!”

The head disappeared from the window; hurrying steps were heard descending the back-stairs, and the next moment the back-door, at which the travellers stood, was opened.

“How do you do, Keziah? I hope my mother is better!” said the young gentleman.

“Lors, young marse, how glad I is to see you! Yes, to be sure, de madam’s better, which _I_, for _myself_, never thought she was so bad! Come in, marster, chile! I’ll go and wake ’em all up directly.”

“Not for the world! just get me some little refreshment, and give me a bedroom candle, and I can take care of myself until to-morrow.”

“I’ll see about dat, young marse. Nero, you better go feed de poor dumb beases and put ’em up, hadn’t he, marse?”

“Yes.”

And at a signal from his master the old man went to obey.

“Now, marse, come into de parlor where it’s warm,” said Keziah, leading the way into a comfortable oak panneled room, where the hickory-wood fire of the previous evening was still smouldering.

She took her master’s hat, gloves and greatcoat, drew forward the easy chair, brought him a bootjack and a pair of slippers, mended the fire until it blazed again, and then leaving the wearied traveller as comfortable as circumstances would admit, went out to prepare, not “a little refreshment,” but a nice supper.

And in just half an hour a table stood at his side, covered with a snow-white cloth, adorned with a silver service, and laden with fine hot mocha coffee, rice cakes, broiled partridges, currant jelly, and other delicacies.

“This is rather better than the wilderness,” thought the young epicurean, as he watched Keziah pouring the rich coffee from the chased silver coffee-pot into the delicate porcelain.

“Yes! a great deal better than the wilderness,” he repeated, when half an hour afterwards he entered his spacious chamber, where the floor was covered with a soft, rich carpet, and the four-post bedstead and the two lofty windows were draped alike with warm, crimson damask.

“A vast deal better than any thing in the wilderness,” he reiterated, as he sunk into the luxurious crimson-covered chair that Keziah had drawn up before the glowing wood fire.

“Will you have any thing more, young marster?”

“No, Keziah, nothing. But to-morrow, when my mother is up and dressed, and has had her early cup of coffee, then, and not until then, tell her of my arrival.”

“Yes, sar;” and with a curtsey Keziah retired.

“Better than any thing in the wilderness except one——Oh Lionne! Beautiful, terrible Lionne! would that we had never met; or, having been doomed to meet, never parted! What fiend was it instigated me to marry her? And what will be the end?” thought Orville Deville, as he slowly rose and prepared for bed.

Once within his curtains, fatigue prevailed over anxiety, and Orville Deville sank into a sleep that lasted until morning.