CHAPTER VII. "His fair locks waved in sunny play, And if my heart had deem'd him fair, A creature of the sky and air, Oh! how much holier beauty now Lit that young human being's brow !"-HEMANS. DURING their journey home, Marcus expressed a strong desire to revisit the scenes of his childhood, the ferryman's cabin, the Long Moss Spring, old Simon, and the banks of the rushing river, that used to murmur his nightly lullaby. Mr. Bellamy immediately proposed to take his place in the carriage, in exchange for his horse, which would carry him by a by-road to his early home. "I wish I were going too," exclaimed Katy, looking wistfully after him. "Marcus, don't forget to give my love to old Uncle Simon, and bring me some of the moss from the fountain, and some of the leaves of the magnolia that shades its margin." It was with feelings of refreshment and delight that Marcus found himself on horseback in the heart of the cool green woods. Dear as was the society of his friends, just at this time the freedom of his own thoughts was dearer still. Freedom, yes; it was freedom. It was with a jubilant spirit he felt himself free from the collegiate restraints which for three years had bound him. They did not gall him while he wore them, because he never writhed or resisted them, but now they were thrown off he experienced that joy in independence which shows it is the birthright of man. He was happy; he had fulfilled the hopes of his friends; he had attained the reaching. of his ambition; but the spot on which he now stood was only a stepping-place for another and loftier ascent. He looked into the future. According to the promise of his adopted father, he was to enjoy still higher advantages of education in one of the distinguished institutions of New England, and he flew in imagination towards its granite hills, "of eagle hearts the eyrie," with eager anticipations. Delaval was to accompany him. He was to visit him at his own home, called Wood Lawn, after resting a while at Bellamy Place, and they were to start together on their northern journey. We said Marcus was happy. The mysterious joy of a young and growing passion exalted and refined all his perceptions, and even added to the visible glories of creation. It was a little past noon of the third day since he had quitted the university, that the first incident occurred of any interest to the young traveller. He was just coming into the main road. He was riding on a grassy path, and the hoofs of his horse made no more noise than if treading on velvet. He saw through the opening boughs a carriage, standing near a little brook that flowed across the road. Seated on a log by the way-side, in the shade of the tall trees, was a group, whose position drove the warm blood from the cheek of Marcus, quickly and oppressively, to his heart. Mr. Alston, the uncle of L'éclair, was seated somewhat apart, near the end of the log, very much engaged in discussing a luncheon of cold turkey and ham. Delaval sat at the opposite end, his arm thrown caressingly round the waist of L'éclair, whose head reclined wearily, but gracefully, on his shoulder. Her bonnet was tossed on the ground, her hair was loose and sported wildly over Delaval's arm, as the forest vine round the oak to which it clings. An indescribable pang pierced the heart of Marcus, that heart a moment before so glad and glowing. The treachery of Delaval, who professed such indifference to L'éclair,-Delaval, whom he thought the mirror of truth and frankness; the levity and unmaidenly forwardness of L'éclair, in forcing herself on his thoughts, while she was cherishing an attachment to another; he knew not which cut the deepest, the coldest. He could not accost them. Gently turning his horse, (if there was a rustling motion among the leaves, it was drowned in the soft gurgles of the wimpling brook,) he rode back into the woods, without disturbing the noonday siesta of the travellers. As soon as he was far enough removed to be beyond the reach of discovery, he threw himself from his horse, and casting himself down under the first tree he saw, leaned back against the rough bark, immovable as the trunk that supported him. He felt as if he were suddenly transported from the equatorial to the polar regions, such a freezing sense of falsehood and deceit congealed his blood and turned his veins to icicles. Nor did he think of himself alone. He thought of his blue-eyed sister, listening as he had seen her to the artful compliments of Delaval, whose black eyes, riveted on her modest face, seemed to speak unutterable things. He thought of all this, and he execrated the heartless vanity that fed on the wounded confidence of others. L'éclair! ah, what a beautiful vision of girlish enthusiasm, pure and ardent impulses, true and generous feeling, what a promise of glorious womanhood were all swept away. "Oh! colder than the wind that freezes Founts that but now in sunshine play'd, "Never again," thought the youth, when, after an hour's deep abstraction, he left the solitude of the woods, "shall I have undoubting faith in man or woman. Is the world made of elements like these? If it be, save me, my guardian angel, from its chilling contact." Marcus slept that night in a rough hut, belonging to a woodman, for his delay had prevented him from reaching the usual stopping-place. He met with another obstruction, in being compelled to have his horse re-shod; so that he did not reach his old home till towards night on the following day. It was just such a quiet, mellow evening as when Mr. Bellamy rode up, the last time, the same path he was travelling. He saw the smoke of the chimney, lazily yet gracefully curling upward above the forest trees, before the low, dark walls met his view. The thoughts, feelings, and experience of nine years were all crowded into one moment of time, and the heart of the young man was full. He had left that spot a boy, whom peculiar trials had invested with precocious energy of character,-he came, in the dawning of his manhood, crowned with classic laurels, to bathe his lip once more in that sacred fountain, where his father had been baptized with the waters of life. He dismounted and tied his horse to a well-known post, though now infirm, and leaning forward, like a decrepit old man. He saw the old ferry-boat, looking darker and heavier than ever, moored at the same place, the long propelling-poles crossed on the planking. But when a sudden curve in the path brought him within view of the spring, the Long Moss Spring, the waters all gilded and crimsoned by the reflected hues of summer's effulgent sunset-his soul heaved and glowed like those waters; and seated under the magnolia's shade, with his head supported by both hands, sat a figure old and bent, with bare grizzled wool, and a face whose hard wrinkles looked as if carved out of lignum vitæ, blackened by smoke. A threadbare, faded uniform coat, that coat of many memories, covered the shoulders of the old soldier, who sat on the brink of the fountain, watching the eternal flow of its waters, probably musing on the cherished images of past years. Marcus leaped forward and stood on the white stones that surrounded the basin, uttering a joyous cry. The old soldier lifted his dim eyes, and gazed upon the bright, sunny-locked, springing figure, that had arisen, like the young and radiant river-god, near the fountain of the virgin Arethusa. "Simon-old Uncle Simon-old soldier," exclaimed Marcus, holding out his hand to the bewildered old man; "don't you know me? don't you remember Marcus, Marcus Warland, Aunt Milly's pet, and little Katy's brother?" "The Lord save my ole eyes!—you don't say so!" said the negro, in a tremulous voice, slowly rising and gazing long on the youth, who was shaking his hard and ridgy hand with a true college gripe. "Mercy on me- -I do believe it is-I do indeed -Heavenly Master, what a fine young man you got to be! Bless my soul and body-if it isn't master Marcus! and he haint forgot poor old Simon-he haint-jist to think on't— bless his heart-I can now say with good ole Simeon, when he seed the promised land, 'Let thy servant depart-I live long enuff this time.' I've seed young master again-and he 'members poor old Simon." By this time Uncle Simon had wrought himself up to the highest pitch of sensibility, and stopped, weeping and sobbing like a child. "Forget you, Uncle Simon! no, indeed! How could you think me so ungrateful?-you, who were so kind and good to me when a boy? We all remember you, and wish you were with us again, wish you were with the excellent Mr. Bellamy." "And Milly-bless the good ole soul!" cried the old soldier, his recollections fertilized and vivified by the copious shower that had watered them; "how is she? I never, never forget ole Milly; she mighty good to Simon. She used to talk Scripter, too, jist like a book. She mighty knowing woman, Milly was; and little mistress Katy-how she do? She 'member Uncle Simon, too? I tote her many a time to this here spring, and put her head all over in, every bit on't. She big lady now. She got sweetheart-hey, master?" Simon gave Marcus a little punch in the side, and opening his mouth, let out one of his old-fashioned laughs, such as Milly used to echo. While he was thus recreating himself, Marcus stooped over the fountain and quaffed its cold, icycold stream. How beautiful the long moss waved, now deep sea-green, now deep sky-blue below! How white, how pure was the basin, smooth and spotless from the ceaseless lavation of the waters! How sparkling was the foam, how silvery the gush of the rill!—Ah! this was the spirit of the place! The old cabin was dilapidated, and inhabited by strangers; the grounds looked neglected; even the river seemed defaced by the dark old ferry-boat that lay sluggishly on its bosom; but this perennial spring, pure and fresh and clear, was a living, 4 |