ORTRAIT 
 
 
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 ^JBKS 
 
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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE PORTRAIT; 
 
 A ROMANCE OF THE CUYAHOGA VALLEY, 
 
 BY A. G. RIDDLE, 
 
 AUTHOR OP " BART KIDGELET." 
 
 CLEVELAND : 
 
 COBB, ANDREWS & CO. 
 
 BOSTON: NICHOLS & HALL. 
 
 1874.
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, In the year 1873, by 
 
 A. G. RIDDLE, 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at "Washington. 
 
 Stereotyped by John C. Regan, 19 Spring Lane, Boston.
 
 P5- 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. THE PROPHECY 6 
 
 II. MORNING AND MOURNING 11 
 
 III. ALONE 15 
 
 TV. WHAT WAS SAID ABOUT IT 20 
 
 V. GREEN'S TAVERN AND ITS LANDLORD 24 
 
 VI. LAUNCHED UPON THE STREAM 28 
 
 VII. SALLY'S VIEWS 37 
 
 VIII. SIR WALTER 43 
 
 IX. MR. GREEN EXPLAINS 53 
 
 X. A WOMAN AFTER ALL .69 
 
 XI. A NEW PENTECOST ITS APOSTLE THE NEW EVANGEL 
 
 AND PROPHET 61 
 
 XII. IT is A PITY 70 
 
 XIII. A PRINCE OF THE HOUSE OF JUDAH 75 
 
 XIV. THE CITY OF THE SAINTS. BRIGHAM YOUNG ... 81 
 XV. SET APART 88 
 
 XVI. THE PROPHET'S HAREM 92 
 
 XVII. THE VISION AND CALL 97 
 
 XVIII. THE LILY 99 
 
 XIX. THE ROSE 103 
 
 XX. THE CRISIS 107 
 
 XXI. THE CALL OF FRED 115 
 
 XXII. TWICE BOUND 123 
 
 XXIU. THE GREAT PREACHER 129 
 
 XXIV. AUNT MARY DOES HER CHRISTIAN DUTY .... 135 
 
 XXV. TWELVE YEARS. TIME'S CHANGES 145 
 
 XXVI. P.i.i.i.r. MORRIS 153 
 
 XXVII. THE PORTRAIT 159 
 
 XXVIII. FRED 104 
 
 XXIX. THE PORTRAIT STEPS FROM ITS FRAME .... 171 
 
 xxx. j> LT ON TIili DEFENSIVE 180 
 
 1554314
 
 iv 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XXXI. BELLE'S REVERT ......... 185 
 
 XXXII. A WEIRD HUNT 193 
 
 XXXin. THE EXCURSION AND RESCUE 199 
 
 XXXIV. FATHER HENRY QUOTES PAUL TO BELLE . . .207 
 
 XXXV. AN INTROSPECTION 211 
 
 XXXVI. BELLE'S LETTER 218 
 
 XXXVH. A MESSAGE TO FRED 224 
 
 XXXVTLL AN OLD TIME WEDDING 234 
 
 Xxxry. A TRIBUNE OF THE PEOPLE. AN OLD TIME GATHER- 
 
 ING 241 
 
 XL. THE GLORY FADES 248 
 
 XLI. BELLE 253 
 
 XLII. BELLE'S THEORY ... 261 
 
 XLIII. BELLE ARGUES HER CASE WITH M^.UD, AND is 
 
 WORSTED 269 
 
 XLIV. MOSS-ROSES 275 
 
 XLV. AN OLD TIME MURDER TRIAL 282 
 
 XL VI. FRED'S ARGUMENT 301 
 
 XLVTL AUNT SALLY 310 
 
 XL VIII. AFTER . 323 
 
 XT.TX- THE PORTRAIT AGAIN 335 
 
 L. THE STORY 344 
 
 LI. THE CONFESSION 354 
 
 L1I. THE LOVERS 302 
 
 LIII. BELLE SENDS ANOTHER MESSAGE .... , 808
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE PROPHECY. 
 
 ALL the short rainy autumn day, with his bare 
 brown feet, and scant,worn and soiled roundabout 
 and pants, had he been walking and runing through the 
 muddy roads and by-waj's, down through Shalersville 
 to Ravenna, and finally back to Freedom, and so 
 across the woods home. His poor faded mother had 
 been suddenly taken worse toward morning of that day, 
 and he had hastily cut and carried in some wood, and, 
 after a scant breakfast, had hurried off for the doctor. 
 He had gone by yv&y of one of the neighbors, and asked 
 that some one would go and stay until he returned, and 
 was off. He would give the doctor his five mink-skins, 
 that he had caught that fall, along the Cuyahoga, and 
 would do without a new preceptor and spelling-book. 
 Now, weary, famished and disheartened, as the early 
 night deepened in the leafless trees, he hurried towards 
 home, with an unusual depression and foreboding. He 
 nad failed to meet the doctor, and had only left word 
 (5)
 
 6 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 for him at his residence, and the places where his 
 patients lived. All the da}' he had carried over his 
 long and lonely road a sad, undefined presentiment. 
 
 It was already quite dark as he hastened on. He 
 was familiar with all the forest paths, and could trav 
 erse the woods anywhere without a trail, and with a 
 sense of absolute security. As he approached the little 
 clearing, he ran forward and climbed upon the decay- 
 ins: brush-fence that marked its uncertain limits, and 
 
 O 
 
 paused a moment to look at the log hovel but a few 
 rods distant the only home he could remember with 
 its leaky roof, and decaying walls, slowly lapsing to 
 ruiu. 
 
 No window was on the side of his approach, and he 
 could detect no smoke escaping from the blackened 
 opening at one end of the low roof. As he passed 
 around to the front, he stopped to listen at the low 
 door of rough boards that hung on rude wooden hinges. 
 No sound reached him ; and with a trembling hand he 
 pulled the string and pushed the daor open, into the 
 single, dark, silent room. 
 
 " Ma," he called out in an eager, distressed voice, 
 with the tears unconsciously escaping from his eyes. A 
 moan answered him from one corner. 
 
 " Oh, ma, I didn't find the doctor at Ilines's, and I 
 went clear to Ravenna, and they told me he had gone up 
 to see old Mis Roper at the centre of Nelson ; and I 
 went there, and he had gone home by way of Randolph, 
 and I missed him, I hurried fast as I could. Has 
 pa been home ? " Another moan was his answer. 
 
 "Oh, ma! are 3'ou worse?" An undistingui suable 
 murmur was all he heard in reply.
 
 THE PROPHECY. 7 
 
 " Where's John ? Has nobody been here?" faintly. 
 He went to the broken stone hearth of the jamblcss 
 fireplace, and found the shortened wooden poker, and 
 stirred open the ashes, which disclosed the glowing re 
 mains of the charred back-log. Upon the coals he put 
 some pieces of hickory bark, and soon a crackling flame 
 leaped up and revealed the wretched room, with its 
 two or three broken chairs and wooden stools, its 
 ricketj*, rough table standing by the poor thin bed, 
 upon which lay the weak and suffering woman. 
 
 The boy again approached the bed, and Avas frightened 
 by the change in the face, disclosed by the ruddy light 
 of the fire. 
 
 " Ma ! ma ! " said he, in hushed and awed voice. 
 The heavy eyes opened, and the face was with an effort 
 turned towards him. "Fred, is it you? I feared 
 you wouldn't come I wanted to tell ye ye 
 I I ain't ycr mother, Fred I " 
 
 " Ma ! " with a low cry of anguish, and a look in his 
 great innocent eyes like that with which a young fawn 
 would receive a death-blow from its dam. 
 
 " No matter," said the exhausted woman, " yer an 
 angel to me." 
 
 " May I love you, ma? May I love little Johnny?" 
 in a low, plaintive voice. The poor woman moaned 
 again, and tears ran over her faded face, and broken 
 murmurs died on her drawn and shrivelled lips. At 
 last she said : 
 
 "Fred, put yer fingers on my eyes for a little 
 so ," and he stood with his fingers lightly resting on 
 the closed lids, and listening to the slow, low breathing. 
 Slower it came, and then, it did not come again.
 
 8 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 The child listened with a great awe, and a great pallor 
 came into his face, and what next occurred he never 
 knew. 
 
 A plaintive cry from John, lying by the side of the 
 silent, unbreathing form, aroused him, as a little soiled 
 face, and head with tangled flaxen hair, started up. 
 
 " Hush ! hush, John ! " said Fred, taking him from, 
 the ragged bed-clothes. " Hush ! don't cry." Some 
 thing in his manner seemed to awe the child, who stood 
 half naked in the strong light, looking frightened at 
 the elder, and then turning towards the bed, cried out : 
 " Ma, rna ; Don wants micky Don wants micky." 
 
 " Hush, hush, John ! she won't hear you." And 
 going to a shelf he found a pewter basin, from which 
 he poured some milk into a battered cup, and gave the 
 hungry child ; to whom he also gave the remains of a 
 johnnj'-cake. He then drew from under the bed a 
 small truckle-bed, and placed the appeased and sleepy 
 John carefully among its tattered coverings, where he 
 subsided into quiet sleep. 
 
 The boy, used to these offices for the younger, and 
 doing the scanty chores about their wretched home, 
 mechanically replenished the fire, and put two or three 
 things in their places, all the time with a dumb, be 
 numbed feeling, aroused by the words : " I'm not yer 
 mother." He was too young to reason, or reflect, or 
 think ; he could only feel that the world was torn from 
 him ; that his mother was not his, that " little Johnn} r " 
 did not belong to him, and that he must go away, but 
 not to-night ; for they would want him. Then he went 
 on his tip-toes towards the bed, and began to realize, 
 in his childish way, the awful thing that had happened.
 
 THE PHOPIIECY. 
 
 He was nol, afraid of the rigid form, that was dear and 
 tender to him ; but it was the shadowy, unknown 
 thing, Death, and it was there, and he shrunk away 
 a little from it ; and going out, he brought in more 
 wood and placed it about the fire to dry. Then 
 with a gourd shell he brought fresh water from the 
 spring ; and remembering that he was very hungry, 
 drank the remainder of the rnilk, and thought he 
 would bake a johnny-cake ; but when he found tliat 
 there would not be more than meal enough for a cake 
 for breakfast, he gathered up a few dry crumbs, and 
 contented himself with them. 
 
 He remembered that when his sister died, two 
 3*ears ago, they placq^l a clean wet cloth over her face ; 
 and ransacking a small chest, from which the lid had 
 been broken, he found a white rag, which having- mois 
 tened, he carefully and reverently spread over the face 
 of the dead. Then replenishing the fire, he removed 
 his clothes, and tying down by little John, twice or 
 thrice uttered, with folded hands, the little prayer his 
 mother had taught him ; and with a hazy numbness of 
 heart, he went to sleep ; while the strong fire-light, 
 leaping up the open chimney-way, for a time lit up 
 the wretched room, glinted the white covering on 
 the face of the dead, and played lovingly upon the 
 featui-es of the sleeping boys, one round and chubby, 
 with the flaxen locks of infancy, and the other dark and 
 beautiful, with long black eyelashes fringing his brown 
 cheek, and his striking, but prematurely old, face 
 framed in tangled masses of dark damp hair. The 
 rain subsided into sprinkles, and the fitful wind was 
 sinking to little gusts that played among the lew
 
 10 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 belated leaves which still clung to the trees without, 
 Within, the fire burned out and the brands fell apart, 
 throwing, from time to time, a sudden llame which filled 
 the room with ghostly shadows, and then subsided to a 
 red glow, that gave color and warmth to everything, 
 until that, too, faded out. An 03-0 that could look be 
 yond the gross and material world, might have seen the 
 sordid room luminous with a beautifying radiance, in 
 the light of which soft and tender fingers were remov 
 ing the harsh and bitter lines of earth and suffering 
 from the face of the dead, and bestowing upon the 
 mouth the sweet, indescribable smile of serene and 
 beautiful death ; while loving forms were bending over 
 and kissing the eyelids of the sleeping children, and 
 leaving on the brow of the dark one a wreath of min 
 gled light and shadow. Had this sight met the eyes 
 of a seer, he would have prophesied of suffering and 
 final triumph. Was it martyrdom in this world, and 
 crowning in the next? The wreath was very like a 
 garland, and its roses had the hue of earth.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MORNING AND MOURNING. 
 
 MORNING came, and its sunshine lay rich and 
 warm through all the narrow but beautiful val 
 ley of the Cuyahoga, whose scarcely tinged waters, 
 escaping from the Welchfield marshes, plunged through 
 the rocky barrier known as " the Rapids," and sweep 
 ing southerly along the eastern border of Mantua, 
 turned its vehement current, swollen with the autumn 
 rains, south-westerly. Below the bend of the river, on its 
 southerly bank, and a few rods distant, stood the sol 
 itary cabin mentioned above. 
 
 Silent and lonely under the gilding sun, with its 
 rude door and patched and botched window, and all 
 its wretchedness brought out from the night, in strong 
 relief, as the level rays illuminated it. Two or three 
 acres of cleared ground, with little signs of cultivation, 
 and bearing a thrifty eclectic crop of thistles, mullen, 
 dock and burdock, surrounded it, with a little imper 
 fectly paled patch, in which were a few weed-choked 
 vegetables, ripened and shrivelled by the late autumn, 
 without a pig or hen, cow, or even a dog to relieve 
 the squalid desolation of the place. A pathway led 
 down to the river, where, attached to a little tree, 
 with a bark painter, iloated Fred's half-lilled little dug- 
 (11)
 
 12 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 out. Another path led up from a cleaving a little 
 below, along which, with an unsteady step, a slouched, 
 rough-looking man, with bloated face, blood-shot eyes, 
 half-covered with tatters, and the wreck of an old straw 
 hat, broken down on one side of his matted hair, was 
 straggling up. The face may have been good once, 
 but no traces of youthful freshness or purity remained. 
 An unsuccessful effort to troll the refrain of a low- 
 drinking song, employed the small surplus of faculties 
 not used in keeping his feet, as he came through the 
 belt of woods into the field surrounding the hut, but 
 was hopelessly abandoned, as, with a seemingly infirm 
 purpose, he approached not his home but the place 
 where he sometimes got sober. He was evidently re 
 covering from a long and exhausting debauch, and his 
 eye still had the dull, uncertain swimming of inebria 
 tion. He reached and steadied himself on the rotting 
 wooden step, in front of the door, at which for a mo 
 ment he stared with an earnest intensity, as if to 
 remove any lingering doubt of its identity ; then, with 
 a muttered ejaculation, he dashed the door open, and 
 partially stumbling, stepped and reeled over the de 
 cayed door-sill. Recovering himself, and resting with 
 one hand on the door, he sent his stupid stare about 
 the now well-lighted hovel. His swimming eyes stop 
 ped on the covered face at one end of the wretched bed. 
 "What the hell! hullo, old woman! I say; ye 
 sleep with yer yer night-cap over yer 03-68, eh?" 
 Making a step forward, he snatched the cloth from 
 the dead white face, which for a moment struck even 
 his obscured and staggering faculties. The noisy en 
 trance of the drunken man awakened the children ;
 
 MOKSING AND MOURNING. 13 
 
 when Fred, with his eyes staring wide, like those of a 
 timid wild animal, into which in a moment came 
 something of the instinctive courage of the brute, 
 sprang between the man and the bed, and, with all his 
 force, pushed him back. " You shall not touch her ! 
 you shall not touch her ! " he cried ; " she said she was 
 not my mother, and 3-011 shall not touch her ! " As if, 
 somehow, this declaration released him from all respect 
 for the person of the intruder. The man turned and 
 gazed at the defiant boy with uncomprehending amaze 
 ment, while John, who was aroused to the crying stage, 
 put up a dolorous wail. Beginning to be sobered by 
 the umvontedness around him, the still dazed man 
 looked wonderingly about, even a drunken man could 
 not fail to identify the place. Presently he again ap 
 proached Fred, and in a low confidential tone, as if to 
 assure him that he was somehow on his side, if he only 
 knew where that was, "I sa}*, Fred, eh; old feller, 
 yer know, what is't ? " The boy's only answer was a 
 dumb gesture toward the bed. 
 
 " Eh ! come now, tell a feller ; can't ye?" 
 " She is dead ! " with his lip quivering and tears well 
 ing into his eyes. 
 
 "No; yer don't come that on me!" when his eye 
 again fell on the ghastly, changeless face. Something in 
 its immovable rigidity, its stark pallor, seemed to 
 strike his returning senses, and he dashed his soiled 
 hand over his bleared, rheumy eyes, and slowly, 
 and with a doubting reverence, approached the bed, 
 when the wasted and sharp outline of the features, 
 with the unopcning eyes and still bosom, impressed 
 upon the wretched man that he stood in the presence
 
 14 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 of liis dead wife. When that idea had full}' mastered 
 him, "*I say, Fred, when d' this yer 'appen?" in a 
 low, hollow whisper. 
 
 " Last night," said Fred, giving way, in sobs of boy 
 ish agon}*, for the first time. 
 
 John, who had tumbled out of his nest of reeking 
 rags, came toddling to the bedside. " Ma ! ma ! ma ! " 
 in his piping wail. So the three miserable beings 
 the unknowing John, the just comprehending, sobering 
 father, ready to fight or cry, as a feather might incline, 
 and the utterly overcome older child, severed from the 
 world by their poverty, squalor and wretchedness 
 united in their abandoned and desolate cries over the 
 finally extinguished spark that had shed a ray of 
 warmth upon them, the broken band that had feebly 
 united them to home and a bare existence. 
 
 Their grief was interrupted by the entrance of the 
 neighbor below, who, although poor, had occasionally 
 looked upon them with a cheery face and a little help, 
 and who remembered that he had seen none of them 
 for two or three days. Surprised and shocked, he 
 aroused the now nearly sobered man, and hurried him 
 off to call the neighbors to his assistance, while he 
 helped to huddle the scanty clothes upon the children, 
 intending to take them to his house, a half mile below. 
 Fred refused to leave his mother alone, and when in 
 duced to go, he wet and replaced the cloth over her 
 face ; and the wondering neighbor, acting upon the sug 
 gestion, drew the soiled sheet over the woman's head, 
 uiul hurried the children away.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 ON the second day after her death, the remains of 
 the poor woman were put away, with decent and 
 tender respect. In that far-off time, of log-cabins, 
 scattered along the rough highways, of small, rude, 
 stumpy fields, of ox-sleds and heavy carts, of coarse 
 fare, of flax breaks, hatchels, spinning-wheels, hand- 
 looms, and fulling mills ; of tow cloth for summer, and 
 butternut fulled cloth for winter ; of cow-hide boots 
 and fox-skin caps, the " forehanded" were not much 
 better off than the poor. A community of fortune and 
 interest, a common struggle for subsistence with the 
 rugged stubbornness of even a kindly nature in the 
 wilderness, when the coming of a new settler was an 
 event of public importance, and the raising of a log- 
 house a sort of holiday, forbade much real suffering, 
 and toil-roughened hands were read3^ to do the needed 
 kindness to the unfortunate and afflicted. 
 
 The actual condition of the Wardens, made known 
 at the death of the poor woman, was a surprise, and 
 created almost a horror. What could now be done, 
 was done for them. A coffin was prepared, a preacher 
 was procured, and a large concourse assembled from 
 (15)
 
 16 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 the nearest settlements ; a very respectable procession 
 followed the remains, borne by the men, to their quiet 
 resting-place. 
 
 Warden, sobered and decent, Fred, with an extem 
 porized suit and cow-hide shoes, and little Johnn}', with 
 his clarified face and combed hair, led between his 
 father and elder brother, as the sole mourners, were 
 the objects of much comment and commiseration. 
 
 Fred, who went about in a benumbed and dazed sort 
 of a way, came in for the largest share of notice. 
 Living in the woods with his mother, and seldom asso 
 ciating with other boys, and tall for his age, his man 
 ner was shy ; and, accustomed to the solitude of the 
 forest, and loneliness of the river, he was growing up 
 thoughtful and taciturn. As well as he was capable, he 
 had turned over in his mind the words of the d^'ing 
 woman, that she was not his mother. lie remembered 
 to have heard it said that persons, when dying, were 
 often out of their heads, and he thought that these 
 disturbing words might have been spoken in that con 
 dition ; so he went over and over with this subject, 
 and then tried to think of what was going on around 
 him. 
 
 As a group of women stood a little apart, looking at 
 the filling of the grave, "Did you ever hear o' such 
 a thing ? Old Mis Pettibone said that he went mor'n 
 twenty mile for the doctor, and got back jest 'afore his 
 mother died, and he'n the baby's there all livin' alone 
 at the time ; an' that he must a closed 'er e} T es, an' put 
 a wet cloth on 'er face, and him not mor'n 'levin year 
 old ! " 
 
 "Not mor'n nine," was the answer. "His folks
 
 ALONE. 17 
 
 came here 'bout six A'ear ago ; and Mis Warden told 
 Mis Jones that Fred was three year old, then." 
 
 " Du tell ! " and the low- voiced women relapsed into 
 admiring silence, as they intently watched the uncon 
 scious bo}', now as impassive in his grief as a young 
 Indian. 
 
 " What a time she must a' had, all her life. Sam 
 allers away, an' when to hum never sober, and never 
 cloin' nothin', and Mis Blair said there warn't a blessed 
 thing in the house, but a little must} 7 meal ; an' how on 
 airth them children lived, mortal sakes only knows." 
 
 The grave was filled, and the broken turf replaced, 
 the simple ceremony ended, and the saddened neigh 
 bors dispersed homeward. Af the entrance to the 
 buiying-place, a kind woman, who had taken charge 
 of little Johnn} r , resumed possession of him, and 
 placing him in the box of a lumber wagon, drove 
 away ; while Fred, who relinquished his hand, stood 
 with his great, innocent, tender eyes, full of mute sad 
 ness, staring after him, and thought, for the moment, 
 that he must turn back in the twilight, and go alone to 
 the deserted hut by the river ; then he turned again, as 
 if undecided, to the fresh mound of broken earth that 
 hid his mother. At this moment, a man who had 
 attentively and kindly observed him approached, and 
 holding out his hand, "You are going home with 
 me to-night," he said, speaking in a voice so gentle 
 and tender, that the poor child looked up in wonder. 
 The face was a good, strong, homely, inanl}- face, now 
 all aglow with a tender smile, and with moisture in the 
 kindly gray eyes. 
 
 Fred had never met such a look before, and at once 
 2
 
 18 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 held out both his hands to his new friend. As they 
 turned into the highway, another younger, slender, 
 thin-faced, but kindty man, joined them, and took 
 Fred's other hand, which he held with a grasp almost 
 painful. Thus between them they led him eastward, 
 to the Mary field Corners, and so north on the state 
 road, along which they proceeded for a half mile, and 
 then turned off to the east. 
 
 "I understand," said the younger man, as they 
 walked along, " that this young man is quite a trapper, 
 and I don't know but a hunter also." 
 
 "Indeed! Is this the boy that caught the otter? 
 How was that? Is your name Jake?" asked the 
 elder. 
 
 " Fred," was the answer. 
 
 " How was it about the otter ? " No answer. 
 
 " Uncle Bill asks you about catching an otter," said 
 the younger, kindly. 
 
 " The otter? Oh ! " as if awakening, " he broke the 
 trap and got away." It was evident that his thoughts 
 were elsewhere. 
 
 " Poor boj- ! " said Uncle Bill ; " he is overcome and 
 worn out; sha'n't I carry you?" very kindly. "You 
 are not so heavy as a buck." 
 
 " Oh, I can walk ! " cried the boy, aroused partly 
 by the unwonted kindness of their voices, and as much 
 by a wish to appear manly. Not many rods east of 
 the state road, they reached Uncle Bill's residence, one 
 of the few framed houses that then indicated one of 
 the better-to-do. The younger of the two men left 
 them at the gate, and Fred was tenderly received by a 
 kind, matronly woman, who, with a young man and a
 
 ALONE. 19 
 
 boy, about Fred's age, constituted the household. 
 Fred seemed to have been expected, and he was soon 
 seated with his kind host at a table covered by a clean 
 white cloth, and with more and better dishes than he 
 could remember ever to have seen. A tender, smoking 
 venison steak was placed before him ; and when his 
 supper was finished, with a bowl of milk, he was taken 
 into the best room, more sumptuously furnished than 
 he had dreamed of, and sank, wondering!}-, into the 
 bed, and into a slumber deeper than dreams, and 
 longer than the night.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 WHAT WAS SAID ABOUT IT. 
 
 T ATE in the evening, at the new yellow store at the 
 JJ Corners, several men dropped in, Uncle Bill Skin 
 ner and Fenton, just mentioned ; Sim Sheldon, from 
 the Carman neighborhood, and others ; and naturally 
 the talk turned upon the funeral and the Wardens. 
 
 " Brother James had rather a tight fit to bring *er in, 
 eh Uncle Bill ? " asked one. 
 
 " Rather. He left it a leetle in doubt, whether the 
 water had been efficaciously applied, so that if Elder 
 Rider should happen to be there when she arrives, he 
 will make a point against the poor thing. You see 
 they don't hold just alike, on all the vital points." 
 
 " I think," said Fenton, with the broad accent of his 
 Irish origin, " that if brother James should put in Sam 
 b} T way of mitigation of damages, as the lawyers call 
 it, he'd carry his case." 
 
 " Sam's not a bad fellow nat'rally," said another. 
 
 " He was anything but a good husband," rejoined 
 Fenton, with warmth, " to leave that poor woman to die 
 alone with those starving children Free as grace is 
 during a revival, none was ever wasted on him. Why, 
 in that old hovel there warn't enough to draw a 
 mouse, the flies had deserted it." 
 (20)
 
 WHAT WAS SAID ABOUT IT. 21 
 
 "Where do ye s'pose Sam is to-night?" asked one. 
 
 " Down at Green's, drinking that stuff, one drop of 
 which will kill sixteen old rats," answered Fenton. 
 " He loafed off that way, from his wife's grave." 
 
 " There ought to be something done to break up that 
 place," said Shelden. 
 
 "What can be done?" asked Uncle Bill. "He's 
 rich and cunnin', and sly and shrewd, and deep and 
 still." 
 
 " Yes, he 'stils and brews too, and has a devil 
 of a gang about him, and will meet you all the time as 
 smooth, and plausible, and polite, and soft as a basket 
 of chips," said another. 
 
 "Where did he come from?" asked Shelden, "and 
 how did he make his money ? " 
 
 " The devil only knows," answered Fenton. " He came 
 from the South somewhere. He brought up a good 
 team, looked coarse and rough, can't read or write, 
 as you know, rented the old tavern stand over there, 
 and then bought it, and bought other land ; brought 
 a deed for a good deal with him, and has slipt and slid, 
 and worried and wriggled along, nobody can tell how, 
 till I heard Squire Foster say he was the richest man 
 in Portage County." 
 
 " Did Warden come with him? " 
 
 " No, I think he came a few months later," said Un 
 cle Bill. " There must be some sort of relation or con 
 nection between them ; for Sam built that shanty over 
 across the river on Green's land, and Green's sister 
 used to go over there once in a while. I never knew 
 much about 'em." 
 
 " No wonder Green's wife died," remarked Fenton ;
 
 22 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 " such a husband, or such a son as Jake, would either 
 be too much for any woman, and no one could stand 
 both." 
 
 " I never heard anything specific against Green," said 
 Shelden, " except that he has a gang about him." 
 
 " No, nor I," said Uncle Bill ; " but the atmosphere 
 is bad about him ; you don't feel easy in his presence ; 
 and if he laughs, nobody laughs with him ; such men 
 ain't healthy." 
 
 "What will become of the children?" asked Shel 
 den. " There's two or three, ain't there? " . 
 
 " One died a year or two ago," said Fenton. " Mrs. 
 Jones has taken the youngest, and the oldest is at Mr. 
 Skinner's." 
 
 "Do you know, Fenton," said the latter, "that as I 
 sat lookin' at 'em this afternoon, Sam, with his florid, 
 bloated face, and red eyes, and the freckled, round- 
 faced, tow-headed little one, and remembered the pale, 
 flaxen-haired mother, and then looked at Fred, tall and 
 dark, with his splendid eyes and well-cut features, it 
 'peared to me that he belonged to another race ? " 
 
 " Of course he does," said Fenton, decidedly ; " there's 
 blood and race in that boy, you may depend upon that ; 
 you can see it in his motions. Row Lewis said that 
 he treed a wild cat, off in back of Sam's house, about a 
 month ago, and got a ball stuck in his rifle, and that 
 this boy came to him, and staid, and watched the cat 
 till he went down to Giles's shop, and fixed the gun, 
 and went back and shot it. He said the boy never 
 thought of being afraid of it." 
 
 " How old is he? " asked Shelden.
 
 WHAT WAS SAID ABOUT IT. 23 
 
 " I can't tell," said Uncle Bill ; " nine or ten or 
 'levcn maybe twelve." 
 
 "What will become of him?" asked the practical 
 Sheldon. 
 
 u I don't know ; I was so taken with him this after 
 noon, that I told Sam I would take him home with me, 
 till he could see what he could do." 
 
 " You'd better keep him," said Fenton, decidedly. 
 
 "I would, willingly," said Uncle Bill, " if his father 
 would let me have him. The notion has somehow got 
 into my head," lowering his voice, "that Green is in 
 some wa}* interested in this boy." 
 
 The three men looked silently at each other for a 
 moment, and Sheldon gave a low whistle. 
 
 "The devil!" exclaimed Fenton; "the boy is no 
 more like Green \han a }*oung eagle is like a thieving 
 old owl." 
 
 "There are other things besides blood. "We shall 
 see," quietly replied Uncle Bill.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 GREEN'S TAVERN AND ITS LANDLORD. 
 
 TUST below, on the south-east corner, fronting on 
 *J the State Road, stood Green's Hotel, an extensive 
 rambling collection of buildings, composed partly of 
 hewed or squared logs, partly of round logs, and to 
 which had been added, within three or four A'ears, a new, 
 and, for the time, spacious two story framed building, 
 neatly finished and painted. Near these were extensive 
 sheds, and partly in the rear, roomy, well-built barns 
 and stables. The whole place bore the appearance of 
 being much frequented. The bar-room was in the block 
 part, a large, low, and unattractive room ; and on the 
 night after the funeral it was dimly lighted, and deserted 
 by its usual frequenters. 
 
 In an inner room, also dimly lighted, was the pro 
 prietor, a tall, muscular, heavy built, heavy shouldered, 
 heavy headed, heavy browed, rough featured man, 
 his small, quick, deep set, hard, round blue eyes 
 peering stealthily out from his overhanging eyebrows, 
 with florid face, and scanty light hair. Although a 
 heavy man, he was walking up and down the room with 
 a light feline step, and occasionally dropping his head 
 on one side, as if to listen for his own foot-fall, or to 
 see if he could hear what his thoughts were. 
 (24)
 
 GREEN'S TAVERN AND ITS LANDLORD. 25 
 
 He was not alone ; near a table at one end of the 
 room sat Sam Warden, silent, dogged and defiant; 
 sober now, the wretched man seemed to have been 
 surveying the ab}-ss, at whose bottom he found him 
 self, under conditions that enabled him to comprehend 
 its depth and hopelessness. His eyes were on the floor, 
 with the sullen look of a man broken, exhausted, and 
 hunted down, who hoped nothing, looked for nothing, 
 and feared nothing. 
 
 The men had evidently conferred and disagreed. 
 
 " Sam," said Green, gliding up to him like a serpent, 
 and laying his hand upon him like a feather, and breath 
 ing his name in a voice that he intended not to hear 
 himself, while his quick C3'e stole stealthily about to 
 detect any listening shadow, " Sam ! " 
 
 " What ? " said Sam, in a rough, hoarse voice. 
 
 " 'Ush-h-h-h !" with a deprecating wave of his hand, 
 as if urging the shadows to withdraw, " they'll hear ye." 
 
 " Who the devil cares ! " 
 
 " Sam ! " with seduction in his breath ; " Sam, take a 
 little sothin'," holding up to the light a bottle of spirits. 
 " It's brand}- rale fourth-proof try a little ? " 
 
 " Not a dam drop ! " sulkily. 
 
 " Sam, what d'ye want? tell a feller." 
 
 " Not a dam thing." 
 
 " Remember, Sam " 
 
 "I do remember." 
 
 "What d'ye remember?" with a voice of thunder, 
 and a stamp that shook the house ; " what d'ye re- 
 membcr, ye mis'able whiskey-suckin' cuss ! ye poor 
 bloated porpant ! " 
 
 " Porpant ! who made me a porpant ? " springing up,
 
 26 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 and confronting the enraged landlord with a stolid look 
 of defiance. 
 
 With a gasp, half a hoarse bark, lost in an angry 
 growl, the furious Green, with livid face and eyes burn 
 ing with murder, grasped the miserable and helpless 
 Sam by the throat, with the strangling hands of speedy 
 death, and literally lifting him from his feet, shook him 
 as if he had been a figure of cork, and threw him help 
 lessly several feet upon the floor. 
 
 "Uncle Uncle Jarvis," feebly moaned the subdued 
 wretch. With a single step Green stood over him, and 
 hissed, " Say Uncle Jarvis again while ye live, an' 
 I'll murder ye ! " And turned to confront the shadows. 
 
 The cowering wretch lay dumb and trembling on the 
 floor, when Green, bringing a glass of brandy from the 
 table, lifted his head up. 
 
 " 'Ere, drink this ! " The poor wretch swallowed a 
 little, which his stomach immediately rejected. Again 
 and again the dose was repeated, until the liquor was 
 retained. 
 
 u Get up," said Green, " and sit down like a reason- 
 'ble man." 
 
 " Why're ye so 'ard on a feller ! " whined the some 
 what recovered Sam. " What d 'ye want, anyway ? 
 What '11 ye do with 'im ? " 
 
 " What business 's that o' yourn ? as his father, ye s'll 
 bind 'im to me. 'Es'll work in the stable, pick up 
 chips, black boots, an' mebby drive stage. What's that 
 to ye ? " 
 
 " Ye know that she that's dead, poor Betsey, liked 
 'im, an' 'e put a wet cloth on 'er dead face, I seed 
 'im," and the poor creature broke down.
 
 GREEN'S TAVERN AND ITS LANDLORD^ 27 
 
 " Come, come, Sam ! " with his old gammoning way, 
 and waving off' a shadow, " don't be a fool ; take 
 another drink, an' be a man ; put a wet tow'l 'round 
 that neck o' yers, so that yer licker '11 do ye good in the 
 mornin'." 
 
 "There's sothin' in that bo}* oncommon," said Sam, 
 preparing to go. "The mornin' after Betsey died, he 
 pushed me from the bed, an' thar was sothin' in 'is eyes, 
 that that " 
 
 " That what, you fool? " looking about, a little fearful 
 of eavesdroppers. 
 
 " That made me kind o' ." 
 
 " Shet up, will ye ! " with a backward, deprecating 
 
 motion of his hand ; and then, with the old wheedle, 
 
 " Come, come, Sam, ye ain't yerself to-night ; ye '11 be 
 
 better in the mornin'," looking around to see that the 
 
 .way was clear. 
 
 As Sam was about to go, "Say*!" said Green, and 
 coming up with the old noisless tread, with the wave 
 at the shadows, and putting his lips to Sam's ear, 
 " D' ye s'pose she tole 'irn anythiu' ? " 
 
 " Who tole what? 
 
 With another look around, "Betsey Fred?" 
 
 "'Ow could she?" 
 
 "If she did, I'll "
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 LAUNCHED UPON THE STREAM. 
 
 E day after the funeral Fred went down by the 
 grave of his mother, and out across to Jones's, to 
 see Johnny, and then down across the river at Atwater's ; 
 then, turning up the southern bank, went back to the 
 little desolate hut, the only home he had any mem 
 ory of. It was very lonely and silent in the Indian 
 summer sunshine. The door stood open, and, as he 
 entered, he was surprised to find it stripped and empty 
 of the poor and scanty things it had once contained. 
 The hearth was cold, with the extinguished brands 
 and dead ashes lying upon it. A few tattered rags, a 
 broken chair and stool, and a few fractured earthen 
 vessels, amid straw and dust, were all that remained 
 within. How coldly and dumbly it all smote upon the 
 childish heart of the boy who had been so sorely tried, 
 and was so incapable of understanding his own emo 
 tions ! The air and silence oppressed, almost suffocated 
 him. He turned out, and, as he went, he closed the 
 door and latched it instinctively, as if to shut in the 
 impressions that had so smitten him. How jstill and 
 lonely everything lay in the warm sun outside ! Fred 
 looked about him, and went with a saddened face to 
 the side of the river where his little canoe still floated ; 
 (28)
 
 LAUNCHED UPON THE STREAM. 29 
 
 he thought of his two or three traps, set above, but 
 somehow he did not care for them ; and carefully bal 
 ing the water from his boat, he loosed its fastening, 
 and with his little paddle pulled himself across to the 
 other bank. Here he landed ; and pushing his boat out 
 again into the rapid current, bow down stream, he 
 abandoned it to its fate. As the mid-current took it, 
 it shot around a turn, and Fred sprang up the bank 
 just in time to catch a glimpse of it, through an open 
 ing, as it was swept forever from his sight. He looked 
 where it had disappeared, and turned for a moment to 
 the deserted cabin ; then, with sobs of pain, he passed 
 into the woods with an instinctive but incomprehensive 
 feeling that he was entering upon a new phase of life. 
 
 His new friends, in their kindness, were concerned 
 at his da3''s absence, and greatly relieved upon his 
 return. They found him a pleasant, cheerful boy ? 
 apparently observing, and much interested in books, 
 who modestly answei'cd all questions, though disin 
 clined to talk much, and especially about his father 
 and mother. 
 
 The next morning his father called for him, and said 
 that he was to go with him down to Green's. "Without 
 reply or question, Fred took his hat to accompany 
 him. With a word to his wife, Uncle Bill said to Sam 
 that he would go with him. 
 
 On their arrival at the hotel the}* found the proprietor 
 in the bar-room, whom Uncle Bill approached at once. 
 
 " Good morning, Mr. Green." 
 
 *' Good mornin', good mornin', Misto Skinner," in 
 soft voice, and with a very polite and not ungraceful
 
 30 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 bow. " I hope yer well ; and how's yer lady an' the 
 3'oung gents, this mornin'?" 
 
 " Very well," indifferently. " Mr. Green " At the 
 business address, the landlord stepped quickly and 
 stealthily forward, with a wave of his hand to a group 
 in a remote part of the room, as well as the world gen 
 erally, by way of warning not to interfere. 
 
 "You wish to speak to me?" in a low voice. 
 
 " A moment, if you please." Without further words 
 he was conducted politely and obsequiously into the 
 room where the interview with Sam Warden had oc 
 curred. 
 
 "Be seated ; take a cheer, I beg ye." 
 
 " No matter about this bo}*, this Fred ? " 
 
 "What about him?" with a glance and a warning 
 sweep of the hand. He bent low, and his voice sunk 
 to an anxious whisper, as he asked : 
 
 " I feel an interest in him, and want to know what is 
 to become of him," with a straightforward look into the 
 keen and tremulous eyes of the landlord. 
 
 A quick flash out to the right and left, with a slight 
 twitch of the muscles at the corners of the eyes, and a 
 backward wave. 
 
 " Wery kind o* ye ; wery, wery kind o' ye ; the poor 
 boy needs frins," with a tremor in his voice, and a 
 movement of the eyelids, as if to suppress a sudden 
 revolt of the feelings. " 'Ad I knowd, I'd a* talked 
 with ye ; but Sam cum to me and wanted me to take 
 Mm, an' though 'taint the best place for 'im. I con 
 sented, an' he made this paper," drawing a folded 
 writing from a capacious leather pocket-book, carried 
 in au inside pocket, which he handed to his visitor.
 
 LAUNCHED UPON THE STREAM. 31 
 
 " I thought best to 'ave it in black an' white." 
 
 Mr. Skinner saw endorsed on the back of it the omi 
 nous word "Indenture," and below it, "Recorded in 
 the records of Mantua Township, this 10th day of 
 November, 1829." Opening it, he found it pursued 
 the prescribed formula of binding a minor. He ran 
 his eye on down, "until he is of the age of twenty- 
 one j'ears " ; " not less than three months' schooling 
 each year until the age of eighteen " ; "to be taught 
 so much of arithmetic as includes the Rule of Three," 
 which requirement had been placed in the Ohio Statutes 
 by the Yankees of the Reserve. The indenture also 
 provided, that on his reaching said age of twenty-one 
 3'ears, "that Green should pay him, the said Frederick 
 AVnrden, the full sum of one hundred dollars current 
 money, and furnish him with one good freedom suit of 
 fulled cloth." Signed, Samuel Warden (his x mark) , 
 and acknowledged and witnessed as the law directs. 
 Uncle Bill's eye ran back to the descriptive parts, 
 " Frederick AVarden, aged about ten 3 7 ears, born near 
 Danville, Ky., May loth, 1819." 
 
 AA r hile Uncle Bill was carefully studying this paper, 
 Green, at times, threw his whole force into a look and 
 attitude of the most intense interest, with an occasional 
 glance and gesture to imaginary spectators not to inter 
 fere ; that it should be all right ; and occasionally he 
 would incline an ear, as if t^-ing to hear what the silent 
 reader and cogitator thought about it. 
 
 " Three months' schooling each j-eaf," said Uncle Bill, 
 with his full voice, "until the age of eighteen j-ears," 
 and thus repeated several other provisions of the 
 paper.
 
 32 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 "Square Lyman Lawyer Lyman of Ravenna 
 drawn it," remarked Green, by way of assurance of 
 its correctness. 
 
 "The paper's all right," said Uncle Bill, coldly, 
 handing it back. 
 
 " Does the boy know of it?" he demanded. 
 
 " I s'pose Sam's told 'im ; no matter, 'e'll find it out 
 as " 
 
 " Soon's he'll want to know it," interrupted Uncle 
 Bill, regardlesss of the deprecating gesture of the land 
 lord. 
 
 " Call 'im in," said Uncle Bill. 
 
 With a deprecatory gesture to the imaginary specta 
 tors, as if to say, " I'll do it, and save all hard feeling," 
 the landlord stole out of the room, and a moment after 
 stole in, followed by the wide-eyed, wondering l>oy. 
 
 "Ef I may be so bold" with great suavity, that 
 had a little ring of self-assertion in the tone said 
 Green, " I'm the boy's master. You'll rec'lect, pleas'." 
 
 "Master ain't a good word up here," said Uncle Bill, 
 "and you'll recollect that I'm one of the 'Selectmen' 
 of Mantua Township, and live about a mile from here," 
 with a look that took nothing from the remark. 
 
 " Freddy," he continued to the boy, " your father 
 has placed you with Mr. Green to live. You'll be a 
 good boy, do whatever he tells you, and he'll be kind 
 to you. You'll let him come and see us occasionally," 
 to Green. " Good-by, Freddj-. Good morning, Mr. 
 Green." Turning hastily away, Uncle Bill walked rap 
 idly out of the house, and, with a saddened face, away 
 from it. 
 
 " Freddy," said Green to the boy, who stood with his
 
 LAUNCHED UPON THE STREAM. 33 
 
 eyes staring hard at the door, through which his friend 
 had departed, with an expression like that with which 
 he saw his canoe disappear ; "Freddy " and the voice 
 was soft and winning "ye was alone with yer rna 
 when she died ? " 
 
 The boy looked wonderingly at his questioner, and 
 moved a little from him. " Yer 's alone with 'er, yer 
 farther says." 
 
 "Yes sir, Johnny and I." 
 
 "Did she say anythin' to yer? leave any word, 
 anythin' about yerself, or Johnny, or yer pa ? " Fred 
 still stared at him with wonder in his wide, innocent 
 eyes, and without winking, until tears came into them, 
 and ran over their lids. " Nothiu', nothiu', Freddy ? 
 We'll go out now, and look about." An impatient ges 
 ture might have notified the observant shadows that it 
 was not altogether right. 
 
 The place was not new to Fred. He had been there, 
 but not often. Once or twice he had come to look for 
 his father, and a few times to get a small wooden bot 
 tle replenished. 
 
 As he went out through the bar-room, he hurried nnd 
 made a sweep around a group at the bar, behind which 
 stood Jake, with his hard, freckled, repulsive face. 
 "'Ere, Fred, take this pitcher, an' bring some fresh 
 water; ye'll 'ave ter work 'ere. I'll put ye through. 
 Do ye 'ear?" As the boy wonderingly took the pitcher, 
 and went out, Jake added : " If the ole man means ter 
 'ave that little cuss lazin' round, fishin' an' trappin', he'll 
 find himself damly mistaken. I'll make him 'ump." 
 Just then Fred came in, and placed the heavy pitcher 
 3
 
 34 THE PO11TRA.IT. 
 
 on the bar. " There now," cried Jake, " go'n bring in 
 some wood, an' I'll tell ye what ter do next." 
 
 "You'd better take care," said Israel Patterson, 
 just drunk enough to be independent, " he won't stand 
 much." 
 
 "What dam business 's that o' yourn? Drink yer 
 licker, an shet up, or I'll " 
 
 The landlord had stolen in, and his quick glance de 
 tecting none but the ordinary tipplers, "Jake !," with 
 a voice which made the decanters start on the shelves, 
 and under which that youth sunk to sullen silence. 
 When Fred came in with the wood he gave him a 
 quarter, and told him to go over to the stoi'e and buy a 
 paper of tobacco, and when he returned with the change, 
 told him to keep it. The boy looked up wonderingly, 
 but laid the money down on the bar, and walked 
 away in silence. 
 
 " Wai, if that don't beat the devil ! " exclaimed 
 Jake, and all turned in surprise at him. As he walked 
 away the landlord repeated his gesture of uncertainty 
 and warning. " 'E'll larn better'n that," he said. 
 
 From the solitary life of his childhood, in the woods 
 by the river, to that of boy of all work in the stable 
 and kitchen of a much frequented country tavern, was a 
 great change ; and Fred made it, and adapted himself to 
 his new situation, with the plastic readiness of the young 
 backwoods boy. Whatever ulterior views Green may 
 have had in seeking the control of the boy, he evidently, 
 at first, sought to gain his confidence and good-will ; 
 and although he did not spare him from the ceaseless 
 round of chores, his manner was not unkind, and he 
 often, in his stealthy, confidential way, seemed anxious
 
 LAUNCHED UPON THE STREAM. 35 
 
 to penetrate and mould the boy's inner thought and na 
 ture. At such times Fred would turn upon him with 
 his wide, open eyes, in seeming wonder, altogether 
 puzzling to the wily nature of the man, who occasion 
 ally made a beckoning motion, as if asking attention, 
 till he finally saw, or fancied that he saw, in those eyes 
 distrust, and something like defiance. 
 
 When Green moved into Mantua seven or eight years 
 before, from the south part of the State, as he said, he 
 was understood to be a widower, and was accompanied 
 by a middle-aged sister, a stout, coarse, dark woman, 
 and his only child, the unpromising Jake ; the rest of his 
 household consisted of hired men, and a young woman 
 or two, as the exigencies of business required. Save 
 these, few knew of the inside of his household and 
 famiby, and they knew but little of it. His relations 
 with outsiders were of a purcbj' business character, 
 which he conducted with a marked politeness of man 
 ner, and generally fairly. His ways were said to be 
 Southern at any rate of a type different from the 
 Yankee and the marked success that attended his 
 operations, conducted with much cautious enterprise, 
 gained him the reputation of being long-headed and 
 deep ; which qualities, viewed together with his success, 
 inspired men with a certain respect for him, while his 
 sly, stealthy ways, and suavit} r , led his cool and calcu- 
 latino" neighbors to regard him with a wholesome dis- 
 
 O O O 
 
 trust. His tools" were of a style and fashion unknown 
 in Yankee land, immense hoes, and clumsy axes with 
 straight handles, instead of helves ; and, harnesses 
 sewed with leather thongs, he used to drive with one
 
 36 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 line, mounted on a wheel-horse, and used words, and 
 pronounced them, in a way unknown to down-country 
 dialect. Men talked about him, yet nobody knew any 
 thing positively discreditable to him, beyond the drink 
 ing and tippling he permitted upon his premises.
 
 CHAPTER VII. . 
 SALLY'S VIEWS. 
 
 ON the morning after the advent of Fred, another 
 interview took place, in the domain of Sally, be 
 tween that personage and her brother John. 
 
 "Goin' ter change 3'cr sign, I s'pose," said the lady, 
 indifferently. " I see ye've taken a pardiier. It'll be 
 Green an' " 
 
 " Shi-shi ! " hissed John, in alarm, and turning to 
 beat off intruders. " What's the good o' names, when 
 ye don't know 'cm." 
 
 "What's the good o' 'avin' this young catamount, 
 to tear yer eyes out ? I know mor'n ye think I do," 
 snappishly, like a woman. 
 
 "Ye do, do yer ? What dye know come ? Didn't 
 the feller die, an' warn't 'e buried with 'is father? 
 An didn't 'is mother dig 'im up, an cany 'im off 
 come ? " With a triumphant glance at the shadows. 
 
 " Yah-h-h ; an' didn't Betsey break 'er 'art for 'im ; an' 
 warn't the money drownded in the river? if I warn't 
 thar." During the utterance of this sentence, the 
 efforts of Green to prevent interlopers were quite 
 frantic. 
 
 "Sally! Avill ye never 'old yer tongue?" looking 
 dangerous. 
 
 (37)
 
 38 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 "Will ye give me the deed? Warn't ye satisfied 
 liein' 'bout me?" 
 
 "That's long ago. Av course ye knowd }'e'd 'ave it. 
 Wut sho'd I do with the boy ? " 
 
 " Send 'im adrift wi' Sam, if yer afeard o' Mm ; its 
 nothin' to me." 
 
 " Yis, to float 'roun an' turn up nobod} 1 " knows when 
 'cr whar." 
 
 "Better turn up an_y whar than yere. Can't ye see 
 that 'e's goin' ter look like men o' blood ? " 
 
 "Who's goin' to see 'im yere ? if they do, can't 'e 
 be a come-b}'-chance o' 3~ers ? Think o' Bill Conyers." 
 
 " More lies about yer sister," in a wearied, despair 
 ing tone. " An' Jake sa3'S yer to edicate 'im ; an 'e 
 reads a heap now. Yer 'd better chuck 'im inter a 
 ' devil's 'ole ' sora'ers 'bout 3'ere." 
 
 " Sail}- ! Salh r ! " with a ghastly look round at the 
 shadows, " what der ye kno? That's only a nigger, 
 anyway. An' then I 'as Sam on my 'an's." 
 
 " Sam won't trouble nobody long ; only let 'im keep 
 on." 
 
 "An' if this chap sho'd take to ways, bein' 'bout the 
 bar, who co'd 'elp it, 3*er know? " 
 
 " Jest let 'im go ter school, and be made of by the 
 sneakin' Yankees roun' yere, an' ye'll see. Besides, who 
 kno's what Betsey may tole 'im." 
 
 "Do yer s'pose? ' with a scared look around, 
 " but Betsey knowd nothin' ." 
 
 "She didn't, eh? No wonder yer 'feard ; ye'd be 
 W T US cust if yer " 
 
 "'Ush!" with the voice and manner with which he 
 strangled Sam, aud silenced Jake.
 
 SALLY'S VIEWS. 39 
 
 " Wai," said the persistent but cowed woman, " ye 
 allus 'ad yer way, an' what do I keer ? But ye'll see 
 what'll come o' it." 
 
 Food, shelter, a place to sleep, safety to life and 
 limb, with air to breathe, and room to exercise and 
 grow in, are conditions in which young life will 
 thrive and phj-sical development progress. Nothing 
 that breathes has such marvellous adaptability to all 
 possible conditions as the human, and the young hu 
 man. / 
 
 Fred in his little loft, his hard pallet, coarse but 
 abundant food, and scant clothes ; in the stable, water 
 ing horses, riding them bareback with a halter, chop 
 ping and splitting wood, building fires, feeding the 
 young cattle at a stack, rising early, working hard, 
 and going to bed late had the needed conditions of 
 physical life, and his principal business, next after liv 
 ing, is to grow. Thus with immense vitality and almost 
 wonderful physical capabilities, inherited from a fine 
 strain of men, or cropping out anew, as is sometimes 
 the wont of seemingly capricious Nature, this isolated 
 boy is to grow and thrive, be hardy and strong. 
 
 And what of his heart, his soul, his affections, his 
 moral nature ? Love is not so essential to the j'oung. 
 The realm of affection, of morals and spirit, develop 
 later. He is not precocious. He will regretfully and 
 tenderly remember his poor faded and dj'ing mother, 
 and once in a while start off and see little Johnny. 
 Between him and his father the feeling was that which 
 subsists between a .man and 3'oung boy, thrown much 
 together, but not the liking of a son for a father on 
 Fred's part.
 
 40 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 The two nights and- the day at Mr. Skinner's had 
 given him a new and strange glimpse of life, of a 
 home full of warmth and love arid plenty ; and how his 
 heart hungered, at times, for it ! But it was not for him, 
 and he did not tliink of murmuring, even to himself; 
 and finally, when he began to go to school, when he 
 could snatch himself away, and saw the little troops of 
 brothers and sisters come and go, glad and happy, he 
 thought how verj r , very sweet it must be, and that some 
 time, when he grew up, he would live in some pleasant 
 place with little Johnny. But these things were not for 
 him. Still he could not help looking hungrily into the 
 faces of those happy children, going back alone to his 
 round of chores, and his cold, dai'k, and solitary little 
 room, with a feeling which he could not explain or com 
 prehend. 
 
 At first he stood around and looked on, wistfully, at 
 the sports of the other boys ; bnt, when invited, readily 
 and gladly joined with them. It is marvellous how soon 
 children get acquainted. In ten minutes they are the 
 oldest of acquaintances, and in an hour the fastest of 
 friends. The children at first thought him shy and 
 distant, and there was something in his high looks like 
 pride and coldness ; so that they were astonished to 
 find how ready and glad he was to mix in their sports, 
 and what a bright, cheeiy, and joyous nature he had. 
 His teacher found him very docile, and eager to learn, 
 but rather slow, very attentive to his books, and obser 
 vant of all the rules. In a week he became quite a 
 favorite both with teacher and scholars. To Fred, his 
 school and its associations were the opening up of a 
 new life, whole new realms of activity and enjoyment,
 
 s ALLY'S VIEWS. 41 
 
 which lit up his hard, dreary surroundings, imparting 
 to them new and van-ing interest, and developing the 
 buoyant and impulsive hopefulness of his nature ; he 
 was even heard to whistle and sing, and sometimes 
 laugh, about the tavern. 
 
 The fresh life of his face and manner were a new 
 source of anxiety to John Green, who studied him with 
 keener scrutiny than before. 
 
 " There, what did I tell 3-0 ! " exclaimed the trium 
 phant Sally to the discouraged landlord, as the boyish 
 notes came to him; "j-e'll see!" and John thought 
 that he was getting glimpses. Fred was active and 
 attentive to his many calls, and there was no cause for 
 complaint ; yet complaints there were. It cannot be 
 said that Fred felt anything like attachment for any of 
 the family, nor did he spend much time, save compul- 
 sorily, in their presence. 
 
 Sally he avoided on the general principles that had 
 always, perhaps, governed most of his sex in reference 
 to her. Jake he avoided on his own account, from a 
 feeling of aversion. There was a difference of five or 
 six years in their ages, and an irreconcilable difference 
 in their natures. Jake disliked 'Fred from the begin 
 ning, and in a month grew to hate- him, while Fred 
 returned a hearty disfavor. 
 
 It would be difficult to determine what were the feel 
 ings of the elder Green towards the bo} T . He would 
 have concealed them from himself had he known them, 
 and that from the secretiveness of his nature. So 
 accustomed was he to deceive and mislead others, to 
 conceal his purposes and intentions, that he sometimes 
 spoke in au undertone so profound that he was him-
 
 42 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 self in doubt as to what he said, while his real inten 
 tion was often a matter of uncertainty in his own mind. 
 He seemed at times to be fascinated by Fred, and 
 would furtively follow him about, taking all kinds of 
 opportunities to steal upon and watch him. He usu 
 ally addressed him in his soft and bland manner, and 
 sometimes, without apparent cause, in a rough, coarse, 
 almost brutal voice, in accordance with his nature ; 
 and occasionally he seemed actually to fear him. He 
 saw, or fancied he saw, in the bo}*'s eyes a singular and 
 strange expression, as if he thought of something, or 
 remembered something, or knew of something ; but 
 sometimes it was fearless and defiant, and then it was 
 arch and knowing again ; Green would look again, and 
 the expression would be gone, nothing appearing in 
 Fred's face but the frank, innocent, open outlook of 
 young boyhood. That did not please him much better.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. ' 
 
 SIR WALTER. 
 
 E winter wore on, and was like a dawn_of sun- 
 - shine streaked with black to Fred. He was often 
 kept out of school, usually reached it late, and always 
 had to hurry home, or to the place where he worked 
 and ate and slept ; but lie did not much inind the hard 
 ships. So the winter passed, and the spring came, and 
 the snows melted, and the days grew long, and the 
 roads muddy and deep, and travellers' horses had to be 
 groomed. The last day of school came, and the noisy 
 urchins and little maidens divided up into groups for 
 the last time, and went home ; and Fred, looking regret 
 fully at each as the}' passed off, went sadly to the 
 tavern alone. It was not an attractive place, and few 
 boys ever went there unless on errands, all being 
 afraid of the landlord, and none of them liking Jake. 
 Fred felt himself left to unrelieved work and endless 
 chores, without pleasant companionship. Once in a 
 while Uncle Bill called, or gave him a passing word, 
 and a boy friendship had sprung up between him and 
 young Bill. Sometimes Fred saw Fenton at the store, 
 but his position at the tavern was almost complete 
 isolation from the neighborhood. 
 
 One friend and companion had come to him in the 
 (43)
 
 44 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 winter, between whom and himself had sprung up a 
 tenderness and devotion beautiful in itself, and precious 
 to the famished heart of the boy. 
 
 A gentleman had put up at the hotel, attended b}* a 
 beautiful Newfoundland dog, a magnificent fellow, with 
 great intelligent human eyes, and knowing, sagacious 
 ways. The toes of his forefeet were slightly marked 
 with white, and a singular oblong white circle on the 
 upper part of his head, surrounding a spot of black, 
 and a delicate white ring about his neck, united on the 
 back in a knot of white, like a white ribbon tied in a 
 flat, graceful w r ay. He wore a collar, on which was 
 engraved his name, Sir Walter. 
 
 By accident, a day or two before reaching Green's, a 
 carriage had been driven over one of his forefeet, and 
 crushed it, so as to render him a cripple. His master 
 took him into his carriage and brought him forward. 
 At Green's, Fred had devoted himself unremittingly to 
 Sir Walter, on whose account the gentleman remained 
 over a day or two ; and when he felt obliged to go on, 
 the foot seemed to be too bad to admit of Walter's 
 attending him. So, after asking the permission of 
 Green, the gentleman made a present of Sir Walter to 
 Fred. Had he given him a princedom he could not 
 have made him more proud and happy. Tears came 
 into his eyes ; and kneeling down b}* Sir Walter, he put 
 his boy arms about the dog's neck, and hugged him in 
 mute joy, while the grateful and affectionate animal 
 looked up dumbly into the boy's lifted face, as if he 
 comprehended and returned his love, and with the half 
 sad, pitying expression which is sometimes seen in the 
 eyes of the nobler o/ that race. What a possession he
 
 SIR WALTER. 45 
 
 was ! "What a world of love and care and human 
 interest came to him ! Save his little canoe, and two 
 or three traps, this was the sole thing he had ever 
 possessed, and this was alive, a dog, of all things 
 that he had most longed for. With a moistened eye, 
 the gentleman renewed his injunction to Green, accom 
 panied with a five-dollar bill for the extra care and 
 room which Sir Walter might need until well again, 
 and a kindly squeeze of Fred's hand, and " good-by old 
 fellow " to the dog, drove away. 
 
 Walter, whose race and form had never before been 
 seen in that region, was an object of great curiosity in 
 the neighborhood, and under the care and nursing 
 which he received, in the course of three or four weeks 
 he fully recovered. At first he was much petted by 
 Jake, who often asserted his ownership over him, but 
 the sagacious Sir Walter took a very .hearty and 
 natural dislike to him ; indeed, he exhibited no warmer 
 attachment for the elder Green, whom, .however, he 
 treated with the sort of deference which intelligent 
 dogs usually bestow upon the master of a house. His 
 devotion to Fred was something marvellous, and was 
 manifested in a grave human way^ He so far recovered 
 as to be permitted to go at large before the school 
 closed, and always insisted on attending his young 
 master to school. Taking the books in his mouth, he 
 walked gravely by his side to the school-house, and 
 turning back from the door where he usually presented 
 himself when school was out, with a chip, or stick, or 
 straw in his mouth, and his head curbed in, as Fred 
 came out to attend him home again. After several
 
 46 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 battles royal with Salty, Sir Walter was permitted to 
 sleep in the room with his master. 
 
 When school closed, Fred had this one priceless 
 friend and possession to brighten his world, and bless 
 his otherwise lonely and loveless life. The end of the 
 school brought an increase of work to him, and placed 
 him in a more constant contact with Jake, who seemed 
 to regard him with growing malevolence, and began to 
 find opportunities to do him acts of unkindness and 
 spite. As the youngest about the premises, Fred was 
 the servant and menial of all ; and it was in Jake's power 
 not only to increase and multiply his chores, but to put 
 various personal slights and indignities upon him, and 
 the presence of Sir Walter seemed to present an 
 incitement, as well as occasions for augmenting the 
 poor boy's annoyances. It was not quite prudent to 
 kick or strike Sir Walter, but it was easy to shut him 
 up, drive him out of the house or stable, and subject him 
 and his master to many annoj-ances and indignities. 
 The position of a friend to Fred would have been very 
 humiliating to a human being at- Green's : for a dog, 
 it was quite intolerable. 
 
 This state of things continued, and daily became 
 more aggravated and sore. If Green saw or knew of 
 it, as of course he did, he did not interfere, nor did 
 Fred complain of it to him. Jake had never ventured 
 upon any decided personal violence towards Fred, 
 beyond rough, profane words, or an occasional push. 
 That, too, would have been dangerous in the presence of 
 Sir Walter. 
 
 Some time in May, when the threshers had finished 
 the oats in the upper barn, and the bo} - s were set to
 
 SIR WALTER. 47 
 
 clean them up, they were there alone, the younger 
 turning the fanning-mill, and the elder with a scoop 
 shovel feeding it. Jake, as usual, was growling and 
 fretting and swearing at Fred and Walter, who was 
 never far from his friend. The door being open from the 
 barn floor into a granary, "Walter went in there, which 
 Jake observing, closed the door. This made Walter 
 uneasy, and he whined to come out. When Fred 
 heard him he sprang to open the door, but found that 
 Jake had locked it, and withdrawn the key. 
 
 " There, dam ye ! " exclaimed Jake, approaching him, 
 with burning e} T es and clenched hands. " I've owed 
 ye a dam lickin' a long time, an' now I'm goin' to give 
 it to ye." 
 
 Though taken utterly by surprise, the bold and 
 defiant attitude of his -young enemy caused Jake to 
 pause an instant ; and when he finally made a rush for 
 the boy, he was met half way in a desperate grapple. 
 lie had underrated both the courage and strength of 
 Fred, and found himself called upon to put forth all 
 his force to overcome the suddenness and fury of the 
 onset. The struggle was fierce, and superior weight 
 and strength began to tell, when there was a crash of 
 shattered wood and glass, which the combatants heard 
 without heeding, a fierce growl, a black plunge, and a 
 great muzzle fastened upon Jake's neck ; the bully was 
 torn from the sinking Fred as if he had been a rag 
 baby, and lay writhing in the strangling jaws of Sir 
 Walter. 
 
 " Walter ! Walter ! " exclaimed Fred, springing to 
 his enemy's relief, and seizing the dog by his collar. 
 At his voice, the docile animal released his hold, when
 
 48 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 Jake sprang up and dashed out of the barn, not seriously 
 injured. 
 
 Unaccustomed to scenes of violence, the whole thing 
 had come and passed so sudclenty, that Fred stood 
 amazed and excited, not only not knowing what to 
 think, but incapable of thinking at all. He finally 
 remembered to have heard the crash of the window of 
 the granary, through which Walter had leaped when 
 he came to his rescue, and he stepped out to examine it, 
 followed by Sir Walter. He had just turned the corner 
 of the barn when a gun was discharged near him ; and 
 springing back, he came upon the fallen dog, within two 
 paces of whom stood his infuriated murderer, with a 
 devilish exultation on his face. 
 
 " There, God dam ye ! y '11 never 'elp 'im agin." 
 
 Heedless of Jake, with a cry of anguish, as the earth 
 darkened, the poor boy threw himself upon his wounded 
 friend. Not outright was the noble Walter slain. 
 Without a moan or whine, by a great effort he raised 
 himself upon his forefeet, with his hinder parts, which 
 had received the charge, lying helplessly on the ground, 
 and looked with his great, tender, loving human eyes, 
 full of mute compassion, upon the now unfriended bo}-, 
 as if he was the only one to be mourned for, and 
 tenderly licked his face, as if to show his undying 
 attachment. 
 
 " Oh, Walter ! Walter ! Walter ! Oh, Walter ! Walter ! 
 Walter ! " in broken, sobbing gasps, was all the poor 
 boy could say, as, with his arms around his dying 
 friend's neck, he sank with him upon the ground, wish 
 ing only to die with him. 
 
 Anger and indignation throbbed back in the blood
 
 SIR WALTER. 49 
 
 of the passionate boy, and he sprang up to take ven 
 geance on the slayer ; but it was silent and empty about 
 him, with nothing but sunshine and the chippering cry 
 of the returned swallows in the air. How hateful every 
 thing was ! Turning to his dying friend, with a great 
 exertion he lifted him tenderly in his arms, and partty 
 carrying and partly drawing him, got him within the 
 barn, and placed him on a bed of straw. The grateful 
 fellow seemed to understand the kindness, and looking 
 tenderly in his master's face, licked his hands. He 
 made a low plaint, a sound such as that he used to 
 make when he wanted to drink ; and springing for a 
 bucket, Fred brought him fresh water from the pump, 
 of which the poor animal drank eagerly. 
 
 The weapon used was a shot-gun ; and so near was 
 the miscreant, that the charge made a single ragged 
 wound, which bled but little externally, but had shat 
 tered the spine, and destroyed the possibility of more 
 than two or three hours of life to the noble dog, who 
 lay with his sad C3'es upon his young master, with a 
 shadow deepening in them, as if conscious of approach 
 ing death. The poor boy felt that he must die, and, in 
 his desolation, he knew of no mortal to whom he could 
 turn ; his only instinctive thought was to remain with 
 his brave defender, who had sacrificed his life for him. 
 Feeling a sort of shiver in poor Walter's frame, the boy 
 brought a horse blanket from the stable, and lying 
 down b} r his dying friend, drew the blanket over both ; 
 and clasping him about the neck with both arms, and 
 drawing his head up to him, the wretched boy, buiying 
 his face in the long silky hair of Walter's neck, aban 
 doned himself utterly to grief. Never before had the 
 4
 
 50 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 complete isolation and desolation of his life so come to 
 him, as he lay in this rude barn, clasping the murdered 
 form of the only thing that loved him, with the darkness 
 of night falling over the earth, that now held no heart, 
 nor home, nor hope for him. 
 
 Green had been away ; and when he returned at , a 
 late hour, Fred was not there to take his horse. He 
 had not milked the cows or fed the pigs, or brought in 
 the wood, and Sally had not seen him at his supper ; 
 nor was Walter about. Jake was hulking around the 
 bar-room, more sulky than usual ; and, on inquiry, said 
 that he had left Fred at the upper barn with Walter. 
 Thither the now alarmed and misgiving elders repaired, 
 Sally with a sick sensation at the heart, for she 
 remembered to have seen Jake bringing his gun from 
 that direction. 
 
 A few rods brought them to the north door, which 
 they found open ; and on pausing for a moment, they 
 were startled by low, distressed sobs, that came from 
 the dark mass which lay upon the floor near them. 
 
 " Bring a lantern, Sally," said the alarmed brother, 
 who stood at the entrance. A lighted candle was 
 brought, the two entered the barn, and lifting the 
 blanket, discovered the sobbing boy, with his arms 
 clasped about the neck of the dying dog. 
 
 "Fred! what is it?" cried the somewhat excited 
 Green, while Sally shook with apprehension. 
 
 " He shot him ! " cried the bo} r , starting up ; " Jake 
 shot him. He sneaked up behind him, and shot him 
 like a coward." 
 
 The brother and sister exchanged glances. 
 
 "Are you 'urt?" asked Sally, doubtingly.
 
 SIR WALTER. 51 
 
 " No. He didn't have time to hurt me, when Walter 
 took 'im. Oh, Walter ! Walter ! Walter ! " with a voice 
 so pathetic that it even reached the hearts of his 
 auditors, and throwing himself again upon the dog's 
 neck. The presence of thq, intruders seemed to dis 
 turb the dying creature, and he made ineffective efforts 
 to rise. " Better put 'im out o' misery," said Green, in 
 a not ungentle voice, looking about the barn, as if for 
 a bludgeon with which to despatch the dog. 
 
 " You shall not touch him ! You shall not touch 
 him ! " exclaimed the boy, starting up, with desperate 
 defiance. 
 
 " Don't 'urt 'im, John ; it '11 soon be over," said the 
 softened woman ; and whispering something to him, 
 John went out of the barn, when Fred again laid the 
 mass of his shining hair down, and it mingled with the 
 silky mane of Walter. 
 
 With unwonted tenderness the cold and blighted 
 woman approached and knelt by them, and laying a 
 hard, wrinkled, toil-worn hand on the head of either, 
 " Pore, pore Freddy ! pore Walter ! " and for a moment 
 bowed her head to the great wave of womanly tender 
 ness that smote upon and overwhelmed her. The voice 
 reached the hearts of the boy and Walter ; the first 
 gave a cry of relieving anguish, and the latter, turning 
 his tender eyes upward to her, fcebty licked the hand 
 that caressingly slid down over his muzzle. 
 
 Green just then returned to the barn, bringing a 
 lantern and a basin of milk, which he offered to Fred's 
 lips. The boy took it, and attempted "to attract Walter's 
 attention to it, placing it near his mouth ; the grateful 
 brute looked at it, and turned his eyes back to the face
 
 52 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 of the boy near his own. A slight rigor passed through 
 his frame, and the love and light died in his eyes. 
 
 A few minutes later, the womanized Sally unclasped 
 the relaxed hands of Fred from his defender's neck, 
 and lifting him in her strong arms, bore him nearly 
 insensible to the house ; while her brother, wondering 
 at his own weakness, spread the blanket carefully over 
 the lifeless form of Sir Walter, and closing up the barn, 
 followed her.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 MB. GEEEN EXPLAINS. 
 
 happened to be no guests at Green's that 
 night, and an unwonted quiet reigned over the 
 premises. The next morning there were low words and 
 whispers exchanged between the hired men and the 
 young women. They had observed that Walter was 
 missing, and the girl had heard a gun, and late in the 
 night, she knew that Fred had been brought in from 
 the barn. 
 
 A rumor made its way to Delano's store, and spread 
 through the neighborhood, that Jake had the night be 
 fore shot Walter, and wounded Fred ; and at a pretty 
 early hour Fenton, Uncle Bill Skinner, Chapman, De 
 lano, and others, with a constable, proceeded to the 
 hotel together. 
 
 Green received them with more than wonted suav 
 ity and deference, and seemed quite anxious about 
 their several healths. He was interrupted by Uncle 
 Bill, who inquired where Jake was, and also what had 
 happened the night before. At that moment Jake came 
 in, when the constable approached and arrested him. 
 
 "'Ow! What, gentleman? what is't? asked Green, 
 in alarm. 
 
 (53)
 
 54 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 " That's what we came to find out," said Fenton, de 
 cidedly. 
 
 " Jake'll not be hurt." said Uncle Bill, " if he has 
 hurt nobody. Where's Fred and his dog ? " 
 
 " Fred ? Somebody call Freddy," with his assuring 
 wave that it was all right. "You see I's away, an' the 
 boys had a little trouble, an' Jake shot the dog ; that's 
 all." 
 
 "That's all, is it?" said Fenton, quite excitedly. 
 " How was it, Jake? " 
 
 "Ye see," said that 3'oung gentleman, sulkily, "3*6 
 see, I'n Fred 'ad a little scuffle, an' Fred told Walter 
 to take me, an' he kitched me by the throat ; ye can 
 see the marks now ; " pulling awa} r a neckcloth, when 
 quite decided marks were apparent. 
 
 "Look at 'em! took at 'em! gen'lem'," said the de 
 lighted Green ; " look at 'em, all round, gen'lem' ! " 
 
 " I shook 'im off," continued Jake, " an' shot 'im." 
 
 " It's a lie ! It's a lie ! " cried Fred, springing into 
 the room in his shirt and trousers, and confronting Jake. 
 " It's all a lie ! We were at work in the upper barn, 
 and he locked Walter into the granarj r , and then he 
 said he owed me a dam lickin, an' came at me, an' I 
 went at him, an' he hit me here," showing a mark near 
 the shoulder, " an' we clinched, an' he was getting me 
 down, when Walter jumped through the window, 
 an' just as I was falling under, he jumped an' took 
 Jake by the throat, an' dashed him down like nothin'. 
 an' would a' killed him in a moment ; an' I sprang an' 
 took 'im by the collar, an' called 'im out, an' Jake ran 
 out the barn ; an' then I remembered I heard the win 
 dow smash, an' soon, as I thought, I started out to
 
 MR. GREEN EXPLAINS. 55 
 
 see what 'twas, an' just as I got round the corner, I 
 heard the gun, an' I turned back, an' there lay Walter." 
 
 A moment's pause, in which Fred drew nearer to the 
 sulky and cowed youth, and raising his hand, " You 
 came up behind him without a word, and shot him, 
 like a sneaking coward as you are." Had a sculptor 
 wanted a model of boyish indignation, denunciation, con 
 tempt and defiance, it stood before him, with his splen 
 did form drawn up and quivering, his fine head thrown 
 proudly back, and the whole figure posed with all the 
 muscles and veins starting in his bared neck, his sharply 
 cut nostril dilating, and his great black eyes flash 
 ing. The last words came hissing, and were closed 
 with a superb blow downward, with his right hand. 
 There could be no question of his blood, however he 
 came by it. 
 
 A look of amazed admiration greeted this rapid narra 
 tion, and splendid burst. 
 
 "What do you say to that?" demanded Fenton of 
 the silent youth. 
 
 " What does he say? " exclaimed Fred. " Bill said 
 that he had asked him to help him skin him ! " His lips 
 trembled and quivered now ; and laying his finger on 
 the arm of Jake, "You touch him ! } r ou touch him ! " 
 
 " Freddy, Freddy," exclaimed Green, interposing be 
 tween the boys, "he sha'n't touch 'im ! he s'll be buried 
 like a human bein'." 
 
 Uncle Bill proposed to examine the barn, to which 
 Green at once led the wa} T , followed now by the some 
 what numerous party, Jake attended by the constable. 
 The granary was found locked, and Jake reluctantly 
 produced the key from his pocket, when it was found
 
 56 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 that the window, some six feet from the floor, had been 
 carried out, as if by a flying leap, and there, near the 
 corner, was the blood, where Walter had fallen. 
 
 The eager and compassionate men gathered around 
 poor Walter, from whom the blanket was removed, and 
 wondered over and admired his splendid proportions, and 
 again and again went over with the astonishing sagacity 
 of the imprisoned dog, which led him to divine the dan 
 ger of his master, and the agilit3 T , strength, and courage 
 with which he came to his rescue. " It's a pity that 
 Fred called him off," said Fenton, in a decided voice. 
 
 "What if Walter had not been here?" asked Uncle 
 Bill. " And he won't be here any more," remarked 
 Chapman. 
 
 These comments were made in the presence of the 
 Greens. On their return to the house, 
 
 " I know what ye think, gen'lem'," said the elder, 
 " it's nat'ral, but you needn't be afeard ; <Take's to 
 blame, an' ye may prosecute 'iin, and send 'im to jail 
 if ye wish. We's raised different, we's 'ad no larnin', 
 and Jake's mother died amost as soon's 'e was bornd ; " 
 and a quiver of real feeling shook the man's voice, and 
 plaj-ed on his lips. 
 
 " No wonder she died, when she saw what she'd 
 done," remarked the unmoved Fenton to Uncle Bill. 
 
 " Gen'lem'," said Green, " let me see Misto Skinner, 
 Misto Fenton, Misto Delano, and Misto Chapman for a 
 moment ; " and followed by these parties, he led the way 
 to the room where we have seen him before. After 
 closing the door, and dropping the curtains, and with 
 many protesting glances and gestures against all in 
 terference or listeners, he began in words that he could
 
 MR. GREEN EXPLAINS. 57 
 
 not himself hear, and finally, when heard, in language 
 so ambiguous that no meaning was conveyed, to com 
 municate some secret touching the birth of Fred. 
 What it really was, it would be impossible to say. 
 The impression finally produced was, that that young 
 gentleman was a near relative of his own, and a nephew. 
 It was a secret confided to their honor. The father 
 was of high blood, in the South, and no questions must 
 be asked. He made this explanation that they might 
 see how safe Fred, who was ignorant of this fact, must 
 be with his nearest of kin. " His own flesh an' blood, 
 gen'lem'," said Green, with an assuring look, and ges 
 ture to outsiders, that it was of course, now, all right. 
 A few words among the gentlemen themselves, and 
 their minds concurred that there could be no occasion 
 for further interference. No complaint had been made, 
 and no warrant issued, and the matter had better drop 
 where it was. 
 
 On their way back to the bar-room they passed Sally, 
 whose tall, robust frame and dark marked and masculine 
 features seemed to confirm the story they had just heard, 
 not improbable in itself, and which so fully explained 
 some things which before seemed mysterious to them. 
 
 On their return to the bar-room Uncle Bill remarked 
 that the matter had been fully talked over, and that 
 Mr. Green had given them the most satisfactory assur 
 ances that Fred should be well used, and that they 
 thought nothing could be gained by any action in the 
 premises. 
 
 Mr. Green then placed some choice liquors and 
 cigars upon the bar, and in the most gracious way in 
 vited all to participate. Jake was released from cus-
 
 58 THE PORTKAIT. 
 
 tody, and the next hour was very convivial. It was 
 observed that Sam Warden, though present, contented 
 himself with chewing the end of an unlit cigar. 
 
 Late in the afternoon, by a bunch of barberry bushes, 
 under which a deep and shapely grave had been dug, 
 stood Fred and Sally and John Green. Sam Warden, 
 and Bill, the hired man, brought a rough box, in which 
 was the body of the murdered Sir Walter, which they 
 lowered into the grave. Fred dropped some locks of 
 hay carefulty upon the box, and stood intently watch 
 ing them as they filled it. When the work was finished, 
 it seemed to him as if the warmth and light of life had 
 passed from the earth. 
 
 That night a long, earnest, and at times bitter, de 
 fiant, and threatening interview occurred between John 
 and Sally, ending in a seeming acquiescence of the 
 latter with her brother's wishes.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A WOMAN AFTER ALL. 
 
 MANY long, bitter, tossing, burning, delirious 
 days, which ran into weeks, lay poor Freddy 
 in the grasp of a brain fever. Young Doctor Moore 
 attended him with persistent determination, and the 
 tenderness and unwearying devotion with which Sally 
 watched and , nursed him gave fatal confirmation to 
 the confidential communication of her brother on the 
 morning referred to in the last chapter. She permitted 
 nothing to reach him, save from her own hand, or that 
 of Dr. Moore. His great vitality and strong constitu 
 tion brought him through ; and, as he came throbbing 
 back to life, he was conscious only of long blanks, with 
 here and there a snatch of old-time memory, the hut 
 by the river, his pale mother, his little boat shooting 
 out of sight, with wondrous visions of a beautiful 
 woman bending over and kissing him, and calling him 
 names that he had never heard before. 
 
 When he grew strong, and went down, Jake had 
 gone. So odious had his conduct made him, that his 
 politic father had found it wise to send him away from 
 the tavern, to Kentucky, Fred was told. 
 
 The pony had been brought up from the farm, and 
 was waiting until Fred was well enough to ride ; better 
 (59)
 
 60 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 clothes were put on him, and somehow he found that a 
 change had come to him. So sweet and exquisite were 
 the sensations of returning health and coming strength, 
 and so childish and weak did he find himself, in his 
 wants and whims, as well as in his limbs and body, 
 that he almost felt as if he was growing up anew, and 
 too fast to be strong and lasting. 
 
 When he went out it was midsummer. He heard the 
 mowers whetting their sc}'thes, and saw the harvesters 
 with their grain cradles going about for jobs. He rode 
 out, and got the fragrance of the new hay, and saw the 
 dark, rustling corn ; and the grass was drying on his 
 poor mother's grave. lie rode down to the river, and 
 over to the Centre, and up to Mr. Skinner's ; and some 
 how, everywhere, there was a change. People seemed 
 curious to see him, and looked at his pony, but also 
 seemed changed to him. Even at Mr. Skinner's, they 
 did not ask him to stay, or to come again. People 
 seemed to look at him, and turn and exchange looks, 
 as if they meant something. So, as the consciousness 
 of the change grew on him day by day, he finally asked 
 Sally, whom he had come to love very much. She 
 seemed shocked and hurt, and finally told him that he 
 must not mind it, that he was growing older, and was 
 changing, and that he would change more. These 
 people were cold and curious, she said, and not like 
 their people ; some time they would go South ; and he 
 wanted to know about that country, and she told him 
 stories of it.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 A NEW PENTECOST ITS APOSTLE THE NEW EVANGEL 
 
 AND PROPHET. 
 
 A FRESHENING in the religious sensibilities 
 in that far-ofF time, among a people whose 
 sojourn in the Ohio wilderness had freed them some 
 what from the mere conventional trammels of habit 
 and thought, had taken place, and was still agitating 
 the common mind. 
 
 Strong, earnest, and somewhat rude men, with the 
 zeal of the apostolic day, had stood forth among the 
 people, and rcproclaimed the message of Peter at Pen 
 tecost : " Repent, and be baptized, every one of you, 
 in the name of Jesus Christ, for the remission of sins, 
 and ye shall receive the gift of the Holy Ghost." 
 
 Men heard it with amazement. It struck them with 
 the force of a new revelation, and they could hardly 
 believe that it was quoted aright. Many doubted, and 
 shook their heads ; it was heretical and schismatic, 
 this unclothed word, preached with the ffcrvor of a new 
 doctrine. Maii} T gladly received it, and were baptized ; 
 and new associations were organized, without other word 
 or formula than the New Testament. Much of the old 
 spirit of sweetness and love and charity prevailed 
 among them, calling themselves, as they did, " dis- 
 
 (61)
 
 62 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 ciples," and with one accord they were much given to 
 assembling themselves together, seeking to practise the 
 rites and follow the usages of the first disciples, so far 
 as the wide difference in the conditions of the ages 
 and peoples permitted. Feeling certain that they had 
 embraced the full gospel in its simplicity and purity, 
 this people could not doubt that they 'had one and all 
 received the fruition of the promise. It was gravely 
 discussed and hoped that, with a genuine. Christian 
 growth, all the promises and privileges of the prim 
 itive Christians might be realized, the gift of tongues, 
 prophecy, and healing the sick ; and many looked, as 
 Avell the}- might, to a full and complete restoration of 
 all these gifts and graces, and high coinmunings. 
 
 The accepters of these- restored views included many 
 men of consideration through the country generally ; 
 and among them, in Mantua, the j'ounger Atwater, the 
 Snows, Seth Carman, and others, with the Reudolphs 
 of Hiram, and many persons of consideration in the 
 various towns. While the movement which produced 
 this awakening revived the zeal and fervor of the other 
 sects, and led to feebler revivals among them, singu 
 larly enough, it was thought that the} r did not look 
 complacently upon the uprising of the disciples, whom 
 they rather contemptuously called " Campbellites," and, 
 in Portage Couut} r , " Rigdonites." 
 
 Among all the preachers whose fervor and zeal had 
 re-lighted some of the dim or extinguished torches and 
 tapers of Christian faith in Northern Ohio, Rigclon 
 stood preeminent. Then thirty-two or three years of 
 age. he was in the first maturity of his remarkable 
 powers as a popular preacher. Of stout, compact, and
 
 A NEW PENTECOST, ETC. 63 
 
 vigorous frame, endowed with wonderful vitality, with 
 a short neck, large, well-formed head, and good face, 
 Nature had given him a wonderful command of the 
 powers to persuade and move men. He had learning 
 enough to save him from the charge of being illiterate, 
 with a fervid imagination, and copious language ; with 
 large veneration, and a love of worship, he was stinted 
 in the moral make-up. Bold, skilful, and adroit, had he 
 been capable of a lofty purpose, he might have become 
 a religious reformer, like Savonarola ; as it was, he 
 became the apostle of a new delusion, that so gro 
 tesquely caricatured Christianity, that even the rev 
 erent regard it as a fit theme for sarcasm and ridicule ; 
 and which, without the aid of Rigdon's powers of elo 
 quence, and persuasion, and mastery of the weaknesses 
 of human nature, would have perished in its miserable 
 infanc} r . Rigdon had boldly preached that the early 
 gifts to the churches would again be restored to it. 
 
 In the autumn of 1830, rumors had already reached 
 the Mantua settlements of the new revelation that had 
 been made to an obscure young man in Manchester, 
 Ontario Count}', N. Y. ; stories of the angel, the golden 
 plates, the opening of the side hill, of miracles and 
 marvels, were rife among them. Suddenly it was 
 announced that the Prophet, with his brother and the 
 three witnesses, had arrived in Hiram, and were at the 
 Johnsons, near where the college building now stands ; 
 that a miracle had been wrought on the person of Mrs. 
 Johnson, whose withered arm had been restored, in the 
 presence of the Rev. Sidney Rigdon and others, and 
 that Rigdon had become a convert. 
 
 It was said that, in a meeting of a few, it had been
 
 64 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 announced that a wonderful manifestation would be 
 vouchsafed, and that, at the time, the Prophet, who 
 was usually silent, and spoke only upon spiritual com 
 pulsion, had broken forth in a prophetic rhapsod}-, at 
 the end of which he turned to Mrs. Johnson, who, as 
 was well known, had for years suffered with a withered 
 arm, usually carried in a sling, and bade her stand 
 forth ; that she arose, and thereupon he commanded 
 her to stretch forth her arm, and she did, and behold 
 it was\ fully restored ! It was further reported that 
 others spoke in tongues, and that their words were 
 rendered by others ; that Rigdon declared himself con 
 vinced, and gave in his adhesion to the Prophet. 
 
 It is difficult to comprehend the intense excitement 
 and commotion produced by the tales of these marvels. 
 Especially were the New Disciple churches shaken by 
 the course of Rigdon ; and all the more so, when it was 
 known that he in no way changed or varied from his 
 old faith and preaching, and that the new revelation 
 was but a supplement of the old, a realization of the 
 pouring out of the spirit in these last da}-s. It was 
 also said that the text of the new and marvellous book 
 explicitly sustained the special views and dogmas of 
 their churches. 
 
 Those outside of all church organizations, as well as 
 the members of established sects, were under a degree 
 of excitement which cannot be appreciated at this 
 remote time. Indeed, for the most philosophical rea 
 sons, the non-professors, the negatives, are often the 
 more easily taken, and are, in some sort predisposed to 
 become the victims of new religious dogma. 
 
 Very soon it was announced that the Prophet and his
 
 A NEW PENTECOST, ETC. 65 
 
 < 
 
 prosetytes and witnesses would hold a meeting at the 
 South School-house, in Mantua, afternoon and even 
 ing. The room was large ; but, long before the hour 
 appointed, it was packed, while hundreds stood out 
 side, notwithstanding the cold of a late November da} r . 
 
 The Prophet and his party came over from Hiram, 
 and, muffled in cloaks, made their way through the 
 yielding crowd into the building, and occupied an 
 elevated platform, specially prepared. Nothing could 
 exceed the eagerness of the crowd to obtain a sight of 
 the Prophet. What a temptation to turn aside from 
 my little tale to philosophize upon the strange night- 
 side of human nature, that allies it so helplessly to 
 marvels and quackery in medicine, and hopelessly to 
 clouds and mists in religion ! The Prophet, stepping 
 upon the platform, uncovered, turned, and, stretching 
 his hand over the hushed crowd, said, " Peace be with 
 you ! " and sat down. These words were uttered, not 
 without dignity, in a deep and not Unpleasant voice ; 
 and, in the wrought and unhealthy condition of mind 
 of the excited multitude, the words and action pro 
 duced a deep impression. 
 
 The Prophet was then about twenty-five years of age, 
 and nearl}- six feet in height ; rather loosely but power- 
 full}' built, with a perceptible stoop in his shoulders. 
 The face was longish, not badby featured, marked with 
 blue e}-es, fair blond complexion, and very light yellow 
 ish flaxen hair. His head was not ignoble, and carried 
 with some dignity ; and on the whole, his person, 
 air, and manner would have been noticeable in a 
 gathering of average men. He was attired in a m at- 
 fitting suit of blue, over which he wore an ample cloak 
 5
 
 66 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 of blue broadcloth, which he threw back, exposing his 
 neck and bosom, all with a simple and natural 
 manner. 
 
 At his left, sat his fair-haired younger and slighter 
 brother Hiram, the one redeeming strand in the dark 
 web then fabricating ; his face was almost beautiful, 
 with the rapt adoration with which he regarded the 
 Prophet. On his right sat Rigdon, and behind them 
 the three witnesses of the presence of the golden plates, 
 of their delivery, with the silver-framed crystals, the 
 ancient " Urim and Thummim," the spectacles through 
 winch alone could the characters be read to the 
 shining Messenger Moroni, and his flight with them 
 from earth the youthful, handsome, and dainty Cow- 
 dry, the rough, homely, and honest looking Harris, and 
 the stolid, meaningless face of Whitmer. 
 
 The awful presence of the Prophet had of itself im 
 posed upon even the most sceptical ; and when Rigdon 
 arose as the spokesman, it was in a hush of the pro- 
 foundest expectation and awe. His effort, masterh* for 
 its seeming want of art and simplicity of language, 
 was devoted to a summary of the new revelation, its 
 reasonableness and proofs. In his citations and appli 
 cation of Scripture texts, he was ingenious and plaus 
 ible. When he came to the living witnesses, he called 
 first Oliver Cowdiy, whose statement was clear and 
 explicit, and fully confirmed by the others. When 
 they sat down, he challenged any man to produce the 
 same quantity, and as high quality, of evidence to sup 
 port the authenticity of the received Scriptures. He 
 closed with the assertion of the miracle wrought on 
 the person of Mrs. Johnson, in his presence, in confirm-
 
 A NEW PENTECOST, ETC. 67 
 
 ation of which, at his call, that lady stepped upon the 
 platform. Man} 7 present recognized her, and knew the 
 crippled condition of her arm. At his bidding, she 
 removed her shawl, and extended and moved, in various 
 ways, it and its fellow, both seeming to be in a perfectly 
 healthy condition. At this exhibition an intense sen 
 sation ran through the crowd, that several times 
 threatened to break out in irrepressible excitement. 
 But the deep voice of the Prophet was heard rebukingly, 
 " Peace, be still ! " at which the eager, pressing crowd 
 bent backward like summer grain before a wind. Then 
 Rigdon, with a loud voice, proclaimed : 
 
 " Go your way, and tell what things 3-0 have seen 
 and heard, how that the blind see, the deaf hear, the 
 lepers are cleansed, the lame walk, the dead shall be 
 raised; to the poor the gospel is preached;" and sat 
 down in a profound silence, which remained unbroken 
 for a moment, when it was announced that in an hour 
 Mr. Rigdon would preach at the same place, after 
 which the rite of baptism would be administered to 
 believers who had not been immersed according to the 
 gospel, as always preached by him. Then the Prophet 
 and his party passed out amid the most respectful 
 , silence of the audience, man}' of whom retained their 
 places during the interval before the promised services. 
 
 At the hour, the house was, if possible, more crowded 
 than during the afternoon. When the Prophet and his 
 parly resumed their places, Rigdon arose, and reading 
 a simple revival hymn, uttered a fervent prayer, read 
 one of his favorite and well-known texts, and, as was 
 his wont, dashed headlong into his subject. It was the 
 old awful story of the lost and ruined without light or
 
 68 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 hope, and the old and grand expiation, the offer of rest 
 and bliss on the simplest and easiest condition ; the 
 sweeping downward of time, the devious courses of 
 men, the mingling of traditions with the golden strands 
 of truth, the need of a new vindication of the truth, 
 and the vindication of the ways of God to men. 
 
 He was never more thoroughly master of himself, 
 never held his subject with a firmer grasp, and never 
 had his audience more completely in his power. His 
 mastery of the passions and sympathies was perfect ; 
 and the almost awful stillness with which he was heard, 
 was at times interrupted by low moans and heart 
 broken sobs. He uttered the old message of Peter, 
 and closed with a fervid and passionate appeal to the 
 lost and ruined, to acknowledge and obey the gospel. 
 
 When he ceased, men still bent eagerly forward to 
 catch the next accents, when the deep voice of 
 the Prophet broke over the expectant throng : 
 
 " The Spirit and the Bride say, Come. And let him 
 that heareth say, Come. And let him that is athirst, 
 come. And whosoever will, let him take the water of 
 life freely." 
 
 At once, spontaneously, a large number of men 
 and women from all parts of the room arose, and made 
 a movement forward in response to the demand, when 
 Ridgon, as had been announced, and was his custom, 
 passed out with his part}', and collecting the new con 
 verts, extemporized flambeaux and torches, conducted 
 them to the margin of the neighboring creek often re 
 sorted to for such a purpose, followed by a procession 
 of several hundreds. As they reached the dark, wintry 
 stream, suddenly a brilliant flame burst up from the
 
 A NEW PENTECOST, ETC. GO 
 
 opposite bank, burning with a strong, clear, steady light 
 over the scene. Unexpected as this was, it hardly 
 excited surprise ; and had the dead arisen, many would 
 have regarded such a marvel as quite in the order of 
 events. 
 
 Among the many who pressed forward to receive the 
 rite, were John and Sally Green ; and so the new 
 evangel was preached, and so was it received.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 IT IS A PITY. 
 
 THE next morning a group at the store were talk 
 ing over the events of the night before. The 
 Prophet, his person, powers and designs were discussed, 
 as also the relation of Rigdon with him, and the prob 
 able results. 
 
 " If this new gospel can convert and hold old 
 Green," said Uncle Bill, " I'll admit it has claims oA r er 
 the old dispensation." 
 
 "That would prove nothing," contemptuously re 
 marked Fenton ; "genuine grace, like good liquor, 
 would be wasted on him. Universal salvation wouldn't 
 reach him." 
 
 " I think," said Chapman, " it would 'a been well to 
 have let him soak awhile." 
 
 " There 'd been no danger of his drowning," contin 
 ued Fenton, " for if there was ever a man born to be 
 hanged, it's him." 
 
 "I suspect," observed Uncle Bill, "that old Sally 
 had something to do with it. I'll believe in her conver 
 sion. They say, in fact, she's been a changed woman 
 ever since Fred's fight with Jake." 
 
 " So I've heard," said Fenton, " and I don't under 
 stand it at all, if what Green said was true. If she's 
 (70)
 
 IT IS A PITY. 71 
 
 Fred's mother, she of course knew it before that, and 
 they say that she always hated him before." 
 
 u There's no knowin' by what Green says," replied 
 Chapman ; ''he's like Delano's watch, here, the only 
 certain thing }-ou ever can tell by that is, that it is not 
 the time that his turnip says 'tis." 
 
 " Don't compare my watch with Green," said Delano, 
 laughing witli the others, " for it will point at some 
 thing directly, while one really never can tell what 
 Green docs point at." 
 
 " I wonder if they put Jake in? " asked Fenton. " I 
 see he's back again. The washing would have done 
 
 O ~ 
 
 him good, anyway. lie don't look as if he had been 
 washed since the flood." 
 
 "And then he carried an umbrella," added Chap 
 man. 
 
 " I should 'a thought old Sally would 'a taken Fred 
 in," remarked another. 
 
 " Fred wouldn't go," said Uncle Bill. " Though a 
 queer, strange boj r , he knows mor'n the whole on 'em." 
 
 "What a pity!" said Fenton. "These chaps are 
 always as smart as steel ; there's never but one mis 
 take about them. In a }*ear or two he'll take care 
 of Jake, and all the rest on 'em. What a pity ! " 
 
 " It is a pit}-," commiseratingly remarked Uncle 
 Bill ; " of what use is strength, and good looks, and 
 learning, and even monej', to this poor bo % y? He feels 
 it now, though he don't know, and could not under 
 stand it. Even these Green's were so sensitive that 
 they left the South an' came away here among us Yan 
 kees, that they hate as as " 
 
 " Sam Warden does water," suggested Chapman.
 
 72 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 " Yes," continued Uncle Bill, " and onl} r to escape 
 this shame, and it followed 'em, as it always will ; and 
 this boy'll grow up under its shadow, and be dwarfed 
 and warped and made crooked by it. None but the 
 naturals of kings and nobles, in countries where their 
 vices have made such things common, ever escape, and 
 the fame and greatness of such men always disappear 
 when we learn that fact ; we see nothing but the ugly 
 blot." 
 
 "It's in the nature of things," said Fenton. "When 
 we don't know how to explain a thing, we always refer 
 it to the inexplicable ' nature of things.' But think how 
 unjust it is ! We don't think the less of the man the 
 most guilty ; we condemn the woman, though we al 
 ways feel an interest in her, who is often scarcely to 
 blame ; while the child, the only innocent one, and who 
 can by no possibility be in fault, we at once loathe, 
 abhor, and outlaw. What a hero this boy was ! We 
 would have fought for him in a moment ; and }-et, at 
 a word from that dam'd, lying old scoundrel, we went 
 and drank his liquor, and passed off without a word 
 or thought of the boy. Not a man of us would 'a 
 touched him ; and I swear," growing excited, " I be 
 lieve he lied about it all the time. There's some infer 
 nal mystery about it after all." 
 
 " Does the suspicion of this change your feelings 
 towards this boy ?" asked Delano. 
 
 " Not as I know of, although I am ashamed of the 
 feeling." 
 
 " While I think the feeling is natural," said Uncle 
 Bill, " I think it is unworthy and unmanly. It never 
 came home to me before, and I am ashamed to admit
 
 IT IS A PITT. .73 
 
 that it has influenced me, in common with the rest of 
 
 you." 
 
 " How did it get out?" asked Fenton. 
 
 " I don't know," replied Chapman ; "I told my wife, 
 because she ought to know." 
 
 " Exactly," answered Fenton ; " and if she ought to, 
 everybody else ought to, and jvhat ought to be for once 
 was, and is. I had no wife to tell, and before I had 
 a chance to tell anybody else, everybody knew it. It's 
 a great pity " 
 
 " That you did not get a chance to tell it? " asked 
 Uncle Bill. 
 
 " William Skinner," replied Fenton, a little decidedly, 
 " we humans are a low, depraved, malicious, uncharit 
 able set, and I would be glad to believe in the fall and 
 original sin." 
 
 "And have a devil to lay things to, which would be 
 a hand} 7 get-off. David Fenton, I prefer to think that 
 we wretched humans began very low, and are certainly 
 and surely very slowly working our waj r upward, and 
 we- bring with us the stains of our savage wallow. 
 For one, I'm sorry that we have not reached a level 
 where this poor boy could have found rest and friends 
 and home, and where his misfortune, redeemed from its 
 odium, would have so appealed to our sympathies and 
 sense of justice, that he would in some sort have found 
 compensation, and that's the pity." 
 
 "Uncle Bill," said Fenton warmly, "you're a Chris 
 tian philosopher, notwithstanding what you sometimes 
 say. For though you reject Christianity, it has not 
 rejected 3-011 ; its beautiful spirit, for, mock as yon 
 will, it is beautiful. I, who sometimes swear right-
 
 74 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 eously, of course say this: its beautiful spirit pen 
 etrated and fashioned the sources of your nature, how 
 ever unregenerated theologically speaking, that may 
 be, and changed the atmosphere you breathe till you 
 have a desire to be higher and better than we were 
 born, and work for that. The regard in which we hold 
 this poor boy is a prejudice ; it is unworthy, but it is 
 powerful. It is below the level of intelligent discus 
 sion, and cannot be reasoned with. It is universal, and 
 cannot be escaped from. It is, as we say, natural, and 
 cannot be overcome ; and, once again, it is a pit} 7 , and 
 that is all that can be said." 
 
 It was a pity, and pitiable now as then. ,
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A PRINCE OF THE HOUSE OF JUDAH. 
 
 IN that inner room of Green's, for all the afternoon, 
 sat the Prophet and Rigdon, and John Green, who 
 seemed to have been at the confessional ; and now pale, 
 abject, and cowering, on his knees, with his hands 
 clasped, and not daring to raise his eyes, with his 
 blanched and tear-stained face ghastly in its wretched 
 ness, he tremblingly awaited sentence, whether it 
 was to consign his body to a jail and death, and 
 his soul to perdition, or both to earthly penance and 
 contrition. 
 
 " Arise," said the Prophet ; " it doth not yet appear 
 what the spirit shall command. Withdraw." The poor 
 wretch proceeded towards the door. 
 
 " One moment, does she your sister know? " 
 
 " Not all. She 'spicions a 'cap." 
 
 " Go and bring in Oliver, the scribe." 
 
 Green returned with that worthy, who served the 
 Prophet as a secretary, and who now, in the presence of 
 Green from his chiefs dictation, reduced a lengthy state 
 ment to writing ; a magistrate was brought in, and in his 
 presence Green prefixed his mai'k to it, and acknowl 
 edged it to be his free act and deed. The justice sub 
 scribed it as witness, when it was sealed up, receiving 
 (75)
 
 76 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 an impression from a seal ring, worn by the Prophet, 
 who handed it to Cowcliy, and all withdrew but Smith 
 and Rigdon. 
 
 " And so the Mammon of unrighteousness is made 
 to redound to the glory of the Most High," said Smith, 
 with mock solemnity, his blue eyes twinkling with im 
 mense satisfaction. " Sid, this's a devilish good strike. 
 We'll take this poor cuss and relieve him of his sins, 
 that is, his money, so that he'll have nothing to do but 
 to lay up treasures in heaven, eh, Sid? you see, he 
 can't complain, his tongue's tied. He shall be our 
 servant, our ox, our ass, and see his hoards put to 
 goodty, if not godty, uses, and this shall be to him. 
 instead of the law of the Lamanites. He shall be 
 doomed to ten years' penance and hard labor." 
 
 " And his sister, Jo? " 
 
 " She's a knowing one. She must go with us, too. 
 It'll do to keep our 63*6 on her." 
 
 " And the boy ? What of him ? It will not do to let 
 him go, something might come of it if he does." 
 
 The Prophet, who had dropped, as was his wont, his 
 prophetic mantle when with his confidential ministers, 
 was really kind at heart, and this question posed him. 
 
 " This boy," continued Rigdon, who was not then 
 prepared to depart utterly from all recognition of nat 
 ural law, " would seem to have some claims, at least, 
 on his father's money." 
 
 " That's so, though we can't admit them very fully," 
 answered Jo ; " let's have him in, and John and Sally, 
 and settle it at once, Sid." 
 
 At Rigdon's summons, the parties were soon before 
 them, John cowering and fawning, Sally sad-faced,
 
 A PRINCE OF THE HOUSE OF .TUDAH. 77 
 
 collected, and with a restful look ; and Fred wondering, 
 open-eyed, and diffident, but without a particle of fear. 
 He had fully recovered ; his face was bright, and his 
 long, wavy black hair hung negligently about his face, 
 and clown his neck, with a carelessness that would have 
 taken the c}*e of a painter. 
 
 The eye of the Prophet rested kindly upon him. Pie 
 placed his hand on his shining hair, and shook him 
 by his firm shoulder, regarding his promising figure, 
 and frank, handsome face, and open, fearless brow, with 
 approving admiration. 
 
 " It is a goodl}' 3'outh," he said at length, " a child 
 of the lords of the Lamanites. He shall become a 
 prince of the house of Judah. Clothe him in fine 
 raiment, and let him be skilled in all the knowledge of 
 his fathers, and come in and go out before the Lord. 
 And he shall wax, and become a mighty man, and 
 a great captain, and in the great day will lead the 
 hosts of the Lord to battle against the Lamanites and 
 the Gentiles, and shall prevail. So let it be." 
 
 " And for 3-011, man of guile" turning to John, who 
 cowered before him "into whose heart temptation 
 came, that in the end God might be glorified, go forth, 
 to toil diligently with thy hands. Thou shalt care for 
 the herds and swine. Be discreet with thy tongue, 
 penitent and patient in thy heart, constant in prayer, 
 and diligent in works of repentance ; if, haply," and 
 rising to his full height and extending his arm, " if, 
 haply, in the fulness of th}' }-cars, God shall pardon 
 and give thee rest. So let it be." 
 
 The last sentences were pronounced Avith a solemnity 
 and awe that impressed even Rigdon, who looked for a
 
 78 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 moment as if he believed that a real coal from the high 
 altar had touched the Prophet. John shrank murmur 
 ing, and coweringly towards the door ; Sally reverently 
 dropped her head, and tears streamed from her eyes; 
 while Fred, with a half amused, half puzzled expression, 
 stood where the Prophet had left him. 
 
 " Man," said the Prophet, " go and be diligent, 
 rendering accounts to the steward of the Lord. Wo 
 man, remain with him, and care for the goodly youth." 
 And laying his hand for a moment on the head of the 
 latter, as if in benediction, they went out. 
 
 " Ha ! Sid ! old fellow ! " slapping the still astonished 
 Rigdon on the shoulder, " what do you say to that, 
 rather goodish, eh ? " 
 
 " It will do, I think," replied the latter, laughing 
 faintly. " But I'll tell you what," gravely, " that light 
 on the other side of the creek was rather shallow, and 
 won't bear repeating." 
 
 " Oh, well, it won't be necessary to claim anything 
 for that if there's anything said about it ; cotton 
 wicking and turpentine don't cost much. But I was 
 devilish afraid that Olny would give tongue with his 
 unknown jargon, ' Shalang, Shala, Shale, Shalo.' 
 God ! I'd give something for an interpreter of that. No 
 wonder brother Paul discouraged this sort of thing." 
 
 " Let us have none of that here," said Rigdon, decid 
 edly. " Nor will it do to attempt such another perform 
 ance in this neighborhood. There are cool, shrewd 
 heads all about us here." 
 
 "What's the prospect with the Atwaters, and the 
 Snows, and Deacon Carmon ? " asked Smith. 
 
 " I've some hopes of the Snows ; Uncle Oliver is
 
 A PRINCE OF THE HOUSE OF JUDAII. 79 
 
 long-headed, but then he's wrong-headed, and we'll 
 catch him in that. If we do, the family will follow. 
 As for young Atwater, he and the younger Campbell 
 married sisters, you know." 
 
 " I'd like to try Alexander himself," said Jo, a little 
 assertively. 
 
 " You'd wither under his .glance like a plucked 
 pumpkin-blossom in August," said Rigdon, contemptu- 
 ou.sl}'. " His eye is like an eagle's ; and he is as firm 
 and clear as rock costal." 
 
 " 'Urini and Thummim ' in one," retorted Jo, deris 
 ively. 
 
 " I think," said Rigdon, quite decidedly, " that we'd 
 better not remain here long. If we stir up these 
 churches too much, we shall have Campbell after us. 
 I don't care for old Tom, but I'd rather not have Alex 
 ander after me, just now." 
 
 "Well, what's to hinder? Johnson will buy land 
 anywhere, only he must have the title to himself, 
 which is pretty dam'd shrewd for a new convert. No 
 matter ; we'll take this swag, and make a plant, wher 
 ever you say. I wonder if supper's about ready ? and 
 tell Oliver to have some of that brandy on hand." 
 
 The outside world knew that something was going 
 on. All day long a crowd had been about the tavern 
 watching for a glimpse of the Prophet, and wondering. 
 Towards evening, the}' knew that Squire Ladd had been 
 sent for, and had been in ; but he knew nothing, and 
 chose to say less. Late in the evening, the Prophet 
 and Rigdon, with Cowdry, returned to their more per- 
 inanent quarters, at Hiram. 
 
 John Green did not appear again in the bar-room,
 
 80 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 over which Jake, who had been back for some time, 
 sulkily presided, while Fred came and went as usual. 
 
 People had latterly regarded him and treated him 
 in such a queer way, that he had avoided them, and 
 seemed not very communicative.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE CITY OF THE SAINTS. BBIGHAM YOUNG. 
 
 rpWENTY-THREE or four miles east of Cleveland, 
 -L and six or seven south from Lake Erie, and within 
 the township of Kirtland, lie Kirtland Flats, traversed 
 north and south by the Chillicothe road, running over 
 the old trail from the old Indian town of that name, to 
 the lake. 
 
 Through the flats, or rather valley, and one of the 
 loveliest of its tame character, in a uorthwesternly 
 direction, runs Kirtland Creek, on each side of which 
 spreads out a rich alluvial at this point, nearly two 
 miles in width, and of unsurpassed fertility. 
 
 The latter part of the winter and early spring of 
 1831, saw strange sights of the gathering of strange 
 people on the flats, houses and shops, and huts and 
 shanties and boxes, rudely extemporized, dropping and 
 squatting here and there, and teams of horses and oxen, 
 with every variety of strong or rude vehicle, and a 
 motley assemblage of men, women, and children, in 
 which the rude, rough, ignorant, squalid and poor were 
 the prevailing type, until one wondered wjiere they 
 could have come from, with here and there a manly, 
 intelligent face, and well-clad form, and occasionally a 
 beautiful and refined woman, strangely out of place. 
 6 (81)
 
 82 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 And all this various assemblage of the odds and 
 ends, with this j sprinkling of the higher element of 
 humanity, had one thing in common, a cord of 
 fanaticism that vibrated in all alike, and some evi 
 dences of which a thoughtful observer would have 
 seen in their countenances. 
 
 Such a zeal, having nothing to do with knowledge, 
 a reckless abandonment of all the sober considerations 
 of human life ; such an exultant, headlong casting of 
 self upon the ecstasies of the wildest faith, to drift 
 and be borne b\ r the resistless currents of fanaticism 
 gone mad, the earth had hardly seen, since Peter the 
 Hermit, and Walter the Penniless, assembled their 
 hordes for the recover}- of the Holy Sepulchre. Hymns 
 and preachings by day, and praj^ers and shoutings and 
 prophecies, and the jargon of unknown tongues, with 
 visions and trances, ruled the night. 
 
 It was the first gathering of the Latter Day Saints, 
 at the beginning of their marvellous pilgrimage. The 
 voice of the Prophet had gone forth, calling the new 
 elect to come out from the world, and they came. 
 Lord, what a sight ! 
 
 Marvellous success attended the preaching of Rig- 
 don and his associates. Not many of his earlier faith 
 followed him, but two remarkable conversions had 
 already taken place : Mr. Boothe, a leading Methodist 
 preacher of learning and decided ability, and Elder R}~- 
 der of the disciples. The adhesion of these two to the 
 Prophet gave him a real moral power in Northern Ohio, 
 and he had already ordained the twelve apostles, and 
 sent them forth ; the fruits of their ministry were gath-
 
 THE CITY OP THE SAINTS. BUIGIIAM YOUNG. 83 
 
 eringto the New Zion, and, by the first of May, some 
 hundreds had assembled. 
 
 Johnson, of Hiram, had sold out his property, and 
 invested the proceeds in the purchase of the flats, sev 
 eral hundreds of acres, the title to which he had taken 
 to himself, as the Prophet had predicted he would. 
 
 A spacious dwelling, already on the property, was 
 the head-quarters of the Prophet and his immediate 
 suite, counsellors and advisers. A hotel was immedi 
 ately opened, new buildings of a better class were com 
 menced, and, with the exactions and contributions of his 
 rapidly-increasing followers, he found himself in a con 
 dition to subsidize the material, labor, and skill of the 
 surrounding country, which was profoundly excited by 
 the sudden springing up of this outgrowth of religious 
 delusion. 
 
 In June, among others, there arrived from the East 
 a young man by the name of Young, son of a farmer, 
 with a fair English education, a young man of fine 
 person, genial, handsome face, and pleasing manners 
 and address. He soon manifested an unusually shrewd 
 managing mind, with a great capacity to win con 
 fidence, and grow upon men. He had a natural aptitude 
 for affairs, and things on his hands instinctively went 
 right : obstacles disappeared in his presence, and order 
 and method waited upon his footsteps. He contented 
 himself with modestl} 7 doing what came to hand, uncon 
 scious of his own powers, perhaps, and was educated by 
 circumstances and opportunity, which always attend 
 the lives of the naturally shrewd. Not long was the 
 modest young brother Brigham among the saints, as 
 they meekly styled themselves, before he attracted the
 
 84 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 notice of the Prophet, who was quick to discern the 
 qualities of men, and who was not slow to avail him 
 self of the executive talents of the young convert. 
 Brigham was no zealot or fanatic, and he was quick to 
 see the needs of the new situation. Nor was he un 
 fruitful in expedients. Under his hand a much-needed 
 police was organized, a commissariat established, shops 
 opened, and employment found for the idle. The do 
 main was laid off into building lots, with regular streets 
 and alleys, and the relations of the new communit} r put 
 on a more decent footing with their curious neighbors. 
 
 The sudden assembling of some hundreds of idle, low, 
 and often vicious or depraved spirits, freed from the 
 restraints and habits of usual life, with the stimulating 
 effect of association, all firmly believing that they were 
 the elect of the earth, and that after a rapidl}- approach 
 ing day all the rest of the race were to be cut off, and 
 that they were the direct heirs of the universe ; that 
 the earth and its fulness were the Lord's that the 
 earth was given to the saints and that they were the 
 saints ; it was not much to be wondered at that they 
 should, by indirect ways, exceptionally anticipate the 
 day of full delivery to them, to the great inconvenience 
 and loss of temper of their ungodly neighbors. 
 
 Unquestionably, these lawless tendencies among his 
 followers coincided very nearly with the Prophet's prim 
 itive ideas of acquisition, if not with his earlier habits of 
 appropriation ; but the shrewder Rigdon, and the 
 entirely practical Brigham, could easily see that if they 
 would rem'ain in peace with their neighbors, the usages 
 and forms of civilization must be observed, and that 
 buying and not paying, however artificial and uure-
 
 THE CITY OF THE SAINTS. BUIGHASI YOUNG. 85 
 
 generate, were preferable to the simpler and possibly 
 more attractive mode of taking without leave, and 
 attended with less danger. 
 
 Brigham soon developed a talent for speaking some 
 what rare among the followers of the Prophet was 
 called, and ordained an elder, and coming rapidly 
 forward, was finally set apart for missionary service. 
 Tie early strengthened himself by a judicious marringo 
 with a young woman of a good family, a resident of 
 Kirtland, and outside of the church of the saints. 
 
 In nothing is the sublime egotism of the race of 
 men more conspicuous, than in the great powers it 
 claims for all those to whose government or leadership 
 it has submitted itself; and it never will tolerate the 
 idea that it has been deluded and imposed upon, save 
 bj" men of wonderful powers, although it is often diffi 
 cult, as in this instance, to show wherein consisted this 
 vaunted capacity and genius. 
 
 Joseph Smith undoubtedly had a fair share of the 
 lower elements of wisdom and sagacity which we- call 
 cunning ; was fertile in expedients, and possessed much 
 intuitive knowledge of the lower springs and motions 
 of human conduct. lie was naturally courageous, 
 always cool, and his impudence reached the sublime ; 
 while the gambler's faith in luck, with him, was a chronic 
 fanaticism. " I will become the Mohamet of America," 
 was his oft-repeated declaration to his confidants. 
 
 The ideas of veneration and reverence were unknown 
 to him ; and the levity and familiarity with which he 
 joked about the most sacred things, shocked even the 
 practical atheists who shared his cpnfidcnce. The
 
 86 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 nameless One with Mary and Martha, the reasons 
 why his brothers the apostles were sober on the clay 
 of Pentecost, and Paul's excuse for not marrying, were 
 staple topics of irreverent comment. 
 
 His estimate of men was the simplest and most 
 comprehensive. They were knaves or fools, or both. 
 Not without skill in dealing with those about him, 
 he often affected to place them in a nominal rank with 
 himself, and pla3*ed them off against each other. He 
 was without culture, and never acquired the capacity 
 for any sustained extemporaneous speech. He had 
 some readiness in the use of Scripture phrases, and 
 often employed its figures with effect. Sensual, and 
 foud of the society of ladies, like many such men, he 
 was not without address to commen-1 himself to their 
 favor. He had a livebf sense of the ludicrous, and 
 appreciated wit ; and while there was in his speech a 
 prevailing tone of coarse levity, that broke out at 
 times most unseemly, and was always feared, there was 
 also a vein of sentiment almost poetic, which at other 
 times toned him up, and rendered him impressive. 
 He was in no way an original, even in his eccentricities. 
 His self-assurance was unsurpassed ; and after full prep 
 aration and careful rehearsal, he was always equal to 
 his public occasions. 
 
 The secret of the wonderful success which attended 
 him, must be looked for in the common blindness and 
 weakness of the race brought from the caves and woods 
 of its far-off pilgrimage, by a very common human na 
 ture, plastic and impressible, and in the tone and temper 
 of the religious atmosphere of that day.
 
 THE CITY OF THE SAINTS. BRIGHAM YOUNG. 87 
 
 After all, I have a little story to tell ; and I deal with 
 this movement, its sources and course, only as they 
 bear upon the fortunes of one already brought prom 
 inently to the notice of my reader.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 SET APART. 
 
 "TOURING all this time, John Green was a zealous 
 J ' and devoted saint, unremitting in his religious 
 exercises, and faithful in the duties assigned to him. 
 His peculiarities of manner and language did not 
 much commend him to the favor of hi new and 
 strange associates ; but his whining, caressing, and 
 confidential ways had acquired a warmth and earnest 
 ness that seemed to be real, while his efforts to depre 
 cate and prevent intrusion, and give assurances that it 
 was all right that in fact there never was any cause 
 of apprehension were at times ludicrous. Naturally 
 his confession and new faith had brought a momentary 
 rest, almost peace and confidence. He, however, soon 
 began to show signs of physical change. He became 
 slightly stooped, and wrinkles and furrows were planted 
 and ploughed over his large face with a depth that 
 showed that the transforming hand was in earnest ; as 
 if the shadows, whose presence were fictions, assumed 
 to flatter a favored visitor, had become palpable and 
 real, were the mocking attendants of the host. 
 
 Sally had really awoke to a fresh interest in life. 
 The fossil remains of heart and sensibilities, withered 
 or exhausted in early life, had suddenly sprung into 
 (88)
 
 SET APART. 89 
 
 new vigor, called up by a wailing cry of deserted and 
 helpless childhood, and in their renewal embraced a 
 brother with a tenderness never before felt ; even 
 him who, in his callous and criminal selfishness, had 
 not hesitated to inflict the gravest injuries upon her. 
 From a life of the narrow torpor of mere existence, 
 she found herself lifted to the warmth of human love, 
 and the anxiet\ r of a needed tenderness. Fred, thought 
 less, heedless, warm-hearted, impulsive, wayward, but 
 frank and passionate, needed her care, and had the 
 unselfish love of a mother ; and John, old, perhaps 
 criminal, stricken and wretched, misguided, as she 
 thought, in surrendering up everything to Smith, 
 Prophet though he was, was, as she could see, becom 
 ing helpless, how helpless she knew not, for she did 
 not know the full grasp with which he was holden. 
 Partly from her native vigor, and partly from the 
 knowledge that she held a considerable property free 
 from the clutch of the church, Sally received much 
 respect at the house, where she was a sort of housekeeper, 
 and where Jake occasionally came when he was in 
 Kirtland. 
 
 Sam Warden tramped from Kirtland to Mantua and 
 back, an unconverted Lamanite ; his real purpose in 
 visiting Kirtland was to see Fred, whom he really 
 loved, and of whom he was becoming very proud. 
 
 Fred was a favorite with the Prophet, who distin 
 guished him with many marks of favor, and had been 
 placed under the care of a competent teacher, not only 
 in the ordinary English branches, but also in Hebrew 
 and Greek the Prophet having an absurd fancy for 
 the former language and not only required that his
 
 90 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 higher priesthood should acquire it, but even under 
 took it himself, and learned the alphabet. Indeed, his 
 whole polity was a servile copy of the Hebrew original, 
 never full}- carried out till the migration "West. 
 
 Fred developed no remarkable quickness in study, 
 but was docile, and had a great steadiness of applica 
 tion for a boy of his age. He was permitted to retain 
 and use his pony, and often went on hunting and 
 fishing excursions ; yet, in some way, while life was 
 bright and joyous to him, he began to feel the presence 
 of a hidden restraint, the existence of which manifested 
 itself in various ways, and which was the more irk 
 some, as he had no wish to escape, and evaded no 
 requirements. The terms on which he lived there he 
 was never curious to understand, and perhaps no one 
 could explain them. lie was neatly dressed, well 
 cared for, yet who or what managed and controlled 
 him was not apparent. It was the will of the Prophet, 
 which no one questioned. He attended the public 
 worship of the saints, and was attentive to his studies ; 
 he was not instructed in religious matters at first. 
 Nobody asked him questions about himself; nobody 
 asked anybody about him ; he was admired and en 
 vied ; yet who or what he was, if any one knew, no one 
 told. In some way it came to be understood that 
 nothing was to be known of him, and he was thus sur 
 rounded with a nameless mystery. Faces were turned 
 to him, with mute questions, and when he approached 
 they turned away, or suddenly became blank ; whispers 
 ran about him, mentioning his name, and when he 
 turned to ask, they suddenly ceased, and the persons 
 were not talking, were not there. He seemed to be
 
 SET APART. 91 
 
 haunted and isolated, and the poor boy turned inward 
 upon himself; precocious in this, as deep, thoughtful, 
 and isolated children become. If he went out, and 
 met men and spoke to them, they returned his greeting, 
 but made no conversation ; the boys rather avoided 
 him, and little girls looked curiously at him, and were 
 silent. He read books, not main-, for not many 
 were to be had : the intellectual life of the saints was 
 as poor and starved as could well be. He looked in 
 the glass, and saw a tall, well-formed boy, with dark, 
 speaking, grave face, with great, and, to him, sad, dark 
 eyes, and brows that bent almost over them, curling 
 hair, which Aunt Sully he called her so now liked 
 to have grow long. 
 
 What was it in him that people saw and did not 
 like ? It never occurred to him that he looked well or 
 ill, but he sought to find out what it was, and could not 
 discover it. Not as at Mantua was he avoided, but 
 more as one set apart ; while something like an inti 
 macy sprang up between him and the gentle Ilyram, to 
 whom Nature had denied the marked qualities of his 
 brother, compensating him with a more pleasing person 
 and many attractive characteristics. Nor was he long to 
 remain without other companionship.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE PROPHET'S HAREM. 
 
 E social life of the new community brought out 
 J- the features always produced under similar condi 
 tions. Called, by the command of revelation, from the 
 outer world, to a new, tenderer, and warmer brother 
 and sisterhood, from which the forms of ordinaiy life 
 were banished, with their minds liberated from the 
 restraints of old faith, and in a measure from the habits 
 of its old morals, with their moral natures and imagina 
 tions shaken 03* supposed supernatural manifestations, 
 while their minds were perverted and blinded with a de 
 lusion that took the form of an infectious mental disease, 
 in the new freedom of manners and license of association 
 which formed the basis of this singular community, 
 the Mormons speedily gave occasion for the comment 
 of the idle and the strictures of the uncharitable out 
 side observers. 
 
 In the summer and autumn of 1831, many important 
 accessions were made to the new Zion. Some of the 
 new converts were men of wealth and culture, who, 
 with their families, united with the zealous, fervid throng. 
 The wives and daughters of these men, many of them 
 beautiful and gifted, with the accomplishments and graces 
 of culture, were warmly welcomed by the Prophet and 
 (92)
 
 THE PROPHET'S IIAREM. 93 
 
 his chiefs, and became the centre of their society, if 
 not the enlighteners of their counsels, and the possible 
 inspirers of some of the Prophet's revelations. The 
 graces of these fair devotees were not lost on him ; and 
 it was his habit to unbend, in their presence, from the 
 awful strain to which his mission called him, and to 
 find relaxation and pleasure in their societ} T . There 
 was no banishment of the light and sweet graces that 
 spring from the presence of women, and the austere 
 and self-den3'ing virtues and mortifications of the an 
 chorite found small space in the discipline of the Prophet. 
 The violin, and ga}^ joyance of the dance, and little 
 pleasant attentions of gallantly, were rather acceptable 
 to the preacher of the new dispensation, and found 
 ample toleration, if not encouragement, in the militant 
 church of the saints of the last days, and fulness of 
 time. With ladies he affected playfulness, and in 
 dulged in the half abandon of gay banter and persiflage, 
 not unbecoming his years, but which, in the eyes of ladies 
 less favored of nature, or by the grace of the Prophet, 
 seemed not a fitting garland for the awful brow of the 
 specialty called of God. Among his conceits he 
 affected a fancy for old Scripture names, which he 
 applied sometimes, happily, to his favorites of the sex, 
 and which their friends usually reverently adopted. 
 Judith was a young widow, splendidly formed, Avith 
 regal broAV, and straight, thin nose, flashing eye, and 
 a perceptible shadow on her short upper lip. Two 
 beautiful sisters, a blonde and a brunette, Avere Mary 
 and Martha, Avith an aptitude for the roles of those 
 of the old days. One budding brunette of thirteen or 
 fourteen Avas the Rose of Sharon, and another sylph-
 
 9-i THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 like blonde the Lily of the Valley, and so on. He had 
 applied several different names to Fred, but none that 
 seemed to please himself, or that adhered to him. 
 
 Late in the fall, a spacious residence for the Prophet 
 was hurried to completion, in which was a ball-room, 
 with many un apostolic conveniences ; and here, when 
 the Prophet took possession, he was wont to assemble 
 his favorites in the winter evenings, who came and 
 formed about him a sort of court, where, in the absence 
 of ceremony and reverence, joyousness and pleasure 
 ruled. 
 
 It was his wish that Fred, at first shy and bashful, 
 should be present, and take part in these informal 
 reunions ; and he took pleasure in promoting an ac 
 quaintance between him and the romping, saucy 
 Rose, and the gentle and shy Lily ; and it was amus 
 ing to observe the unhesitating advances of the former, 
 half warranted by her superior age, and inspired by 
 her frank and open nature, and the half petulant, half 
 disgusted way in which they were received by the 
 bashful boj-, as yet unpolished by society, and unin 
 formed by the gentle inspirations of nature. Is there 
 in the world a funnier spectacle than a boy thus tor 
 mented by the torturing attentions of an elder fro- 
 ward miss, or in mortal man's experience a position 
 more intensely and painfully awkward? Patience, 
 playful, teasing, and all unconscious Rose ; his voice 
 will change from its treble to baritone, and subside 
 to a sigh ; he will soon be watching for a mustache, 
 and grow anxious about a necktie, and your time, or 
 somebody's time, will come, and }*ou shall take sweet ven 
 geance yourself, or some one of your sex shall for you.
 
 THE PROPHET'S IIAREM. 95 
 
 Naturally enough, Fred preferred the gentler, j'ounger, 
 and less pronounced Lil} r , between whom and himself 
 rapidly sprang up a sweet boy and girl kindness, half 
 friendship, and half the love of brother and sister. 
 Fred was tall and handsome, and it was natural to look 
 up to and cling to him, as she had no brother, and was 
 gentle and sweet and beautiful, almost bcj'ond earth ; 
 and it was natural that the heart of the bo}', the depths 
 and strength of which had never been called out, should 
 go to her, as something to love, cherish and protect. At 
 his obvious preference for Lily, the mock indignation 
 of the avoided Rose, and her pert and sharp speeches at 
 poor Fred's expense, were a source of amusement to the 
 Prophet and his circle. 
 
 The two girls who became fast friends, as young and 
 old girls do with two or three others, were also placed 
 under the instruction of Fred's teacher, and he was thus 
 surrounded by and became a sort of centre of a bright 
 group of young people of about his own age. Pleasant, 
 almost happy, were these days to Fred, and helpful and 
 almost wholly healthful in their influence in form 
 ing his mind and helping to mould the elements of 
 his character. His teacher, though a disappointed, 
 gnarled, and soured man, was not a proselyte of the 
 Prophet, and had much capacity as a tutor. Fred 
 was now in an atmosphere of cultivated and refined 
 people, and at" an age which, while it left him plastic 
 and susceptible, was still too juvenile to permit him to 
 be penetrated and stained by the hot and unwholesome 
 influences which surrounded him. 
 
 Externally, the affairs of the saints seemed prosper 
 ous. They numbered nearly two thousand residents ; a
 
 96 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 large store, a fine mill, and, at last, a bank of limitless 
 issue were established, and friendly relations existed 
 between them and the outside world. So the summer 
 of 1832 found them. 
 
 The foundation of the temple had been laid with im 
 posing ceremonies, and funds, and material, and arti 
 sans were in abundance to cany up its walls. 
 
 Internally, the poison-seeds were germinating, dissen 
 sions were in the presidenc}*, and feuds between the 
 orders of the hierarchies had already arisen. 
 
 A pale, sad-faced woman went silently about the 
 home of the Prophet, and hung, with tearful eyes, over 
 the cradle of the infant Joseph. 
 
 The haughty Judith bent her regal brow suspiciously 
 upon the sisters Man* and Martha, and even looked 
 curiously at Rose ; while Mary and Martha were con 
 scious of an estrangement, though perhaps unconscious 
 of the cause. So the summer ripened into autumn, and 
 faded out into winter.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE VISION AND CALL. 
 
 CONNECTED with the Prophet's residence was the 
 ^-J prophetic tower, in which were the Pavilion of 
 Vision, and the Tabernacle of Inspiration, sacred from 
 all but the Prophet, and such as he chose to admit. It 
 was in the first of these that he received visions, and 
 in the latter, spiritual ministrations. 
 
 Stained glass softened the light, rich carpets received 
 the feet, and elegant sofas and stuffed chairs, and 
 various nameless and some indescribable appliances 
 relieved the tedium of waiting, and offered attractive 
 resting-places to the celestial visitants. Many closets 
 and small rooms opened from the two principal apart 
 ments, always closed to profane feet, and unrevealed to 
 unsanctified eyes. 
 
 On the couch of reception, in the Pavilion of Vision, 
 arrayed in a loose silken robe, which left the throat 
 exposed, reclined the Prophet, in the trance of expecta 
 tion, and so disposed that a circle of softened and 
 rose-colored light rested like a halo about his head. A 
 subtle perfume pervaded the room, in a niche of which, 
 and near the feet of the Prophet, loosely robed in white, 
 and zoned slightly at the waist, with bare feet and bare 
 arms, with her floods of blond tresses dropping in golden 
 7 (97)
 
 98 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 waves and ripples about her, with her lips slightly 
 apart, and her splendid blue orbs fixed adoringly on 
 the Prophet, a rich flush on cheek and lip, and a tumul 
 tuous heaving of the bosom, that her pressed hand 
 could not still, stood the Mary of this advent, breath 
 less and rapt. 
 
 There was a slight motion of the entranced form, 
 the hanging canopy opened, and a golden ray fell upon 
 and illuminated the lips of the Prophet. A smile 
 played over his hitherto moveless features, the lips 
 parted, and in a low, soft voice he spoke : 
 
 " And the spirit said, Lo ! and as I looked, the thick 
 clouds parted, and before me ran the beautiful river of 
 life under the sunlight and margined with flowers, and 
 on the thither bank stood the imumerable hosts of the 
 redeemed, star-crowned, and striking their jewelled harps 
 with gladness ; and at their head, towering above the 
 sons of men, and with the form and beauty of an angel, 
 stood he who had led them there. And the voice said, 
 ' Lo ! he who hath delivered them was born of a virgin, 
 and the Prophet of the Lord.' " The light flashed out 
 for a moment with dazzling birilliancy, when the voice 
 of the Prophet again, in the tones of earth, was heard, 
 " Come ! the Spirit and the Bride say come," stretch 
 ing forth his arms. A rustle of the white robe, the 
 gleam of a white foot, the glance of white arms, and 
 she sank on her knees by his side, murmuring, "My 
 Prophet and my Lord." And the thick folds of the 
 draper}-, like enfolding noiseless night, fell with inute 
 darkness about them.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE LILY. 
 
 
 
 IN a little cottage low down on the banks of the 
 beautiful creek, and under a bluff that juts down 
 to its margin, now hoarse and murmuring with the 
 autumn rains ; under the golden and crimson maples, 
 radiant with a flood of autumn sunshine that poured 
 through a red-lipped rift in the dark October clouds ; 
 in the little sitting-room, warm with the West, reclining 
 in a low rocking-chair, with her wondrous eyes grown 
 large, but with the color still on lip and cheek, sat 
 the Lily of the Valley ; and on a low ottoman at her 
 feet, with his great liquid dark eyes lifted with mute 
 sorrow to her translucently spiritual face, holding her 
 miracles of hands, sat Fred. Too frail for earth, too 
 pure for its atmosphere, the golden-fringed wing of 
 the angel had shaken its shadow of light and blight on 
 the gemmed margin of life only to exalt and purify and 
 beautify heart and spirit and form, as they stepped 
 along the star-lit way that leads down to death and 
 up to God ; a sweeter pensiveness, a dreamy languor, 
 came over her, like the far-off approach of sleep, bring 
 ing tender shadows into her eyes, like coming dreams 
 in the drowsy orbs of childhood ; a lower note in her 
 laughter, a more caressing tone in her voice, just a lin- 
 (99)
 
 100 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 gering in her step, and a clinging in her hand, and she 
 went brightly along the shining way. 
 
 The approach, made in the loveliest form, was per 
 ceived by her widowed mother in the spring. At mid 
 summer the physicians came and looked, and went 
 almost silently away. With the coming of autumn 
 the indications were marked, and in October it was 
 decided that her life could only be prolonged by a 
 flight with the birds, southward ; so it was arranged to 
 carry her to beautiful Cuba. In the morning, a car 
 riage would start with her and her mother across to 
 Cincinnati. 
 
 She was telling Fred of the wonders of Cuba. " They 
 say that in mid-winter it is warmer than our August ; 
 that, day after day, the whole heavens are radiant with 
 white, brilliant light, that dazzles, and that every day 
 brings new and wonderful flowers, and that there grow 
 the wonderful palms " 
 
 " I've seen them," said Fred, in a low voice. 
 
 " You ? When and where ? " 
 
 " In my dreams, I suppose, when I had the fever, 
 perhaps," said Fred, looking puzzled. 
 
 " And then there are marvellous fruits, whose names 
 we've never heard, and oh, when I've seen them, 
 I'll come back, and tell you, perhaps," thoughtfully. 
 
 Fred arose, saying he would come and see her start 
 in the morning. 
 
 " Fred," said the mother, " say your good-by to 
 night. It will be better for both." 
 
 The poor boy looked with pain in his mute, appeal 
 ing eyes, and, turning back, threw himself on his knees 
 by the now agitated child, and, clasping her in his arms,
 
 THE LILY. 101 
 
 sobbed out, " Oh, Lily ! oh, Lily ! " and buried his face 
 in her robes in a paroxysm of sorrow. The poor girl 
 bent over him, hardly less excited. " Don't, don't, 
 Fred, don't ! " 
 
 He remembered that he was almost a man, and 
 raised his tear-stained face, now under control. 
 
 "Fred, there's one thing I want to say to you" 
 with a low, deep voice " which I must say ; don't 
 stay here. It it is not good here. I can't tell, 
 I don't know why ; but it ain't good. Go away ; oh, go 
 away from here ! " s 
 
 " Go ! " exclaimed Fred, " I cannot go ; I'm watched. 
 Where could I go? I have no home, no father, no 
 mother. I don't know who or what I am. A dog was 
 the only thing that ever loved me, and he was slain 
 for it. I would gladly die ! " bitterly. 
 
 " Hush, hush, Fred ! that is wicked. God is with 
 you, and His angels will care for you, if you will be 
 good. I love you ; mamma loves you. You are almost 
 a man, and strong and brave, and can go anywhere, 
 and do anything ; and if I live," said the beautiful girl, 
 " I shall come back, and you can come to us." 
 
 " If you live ! " exclaimed Fred ; " if you live ! You 
 cannot die ! " passionately. 
 
 " Fred, I may never see you again ; " and, putting 
 her lips to his, she murmured " farewell." 
 
 Fred could remember the touch of no lips to his, and 
 none were ever to touch them again till 
 
 Not lovers, as the world counts lovers, were this 
 young girl and boy ; perhaps would never have become 
 such. Possibly, had the young girl ripened into woman 
 hood, she would have carried the image of the youth in
 
 102 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 her heart, and have known no other. Possibly, the 
 youth Who will speculate upon the possibilities of 
 the passions? 
 
 Fred, whose feelings la} r - deep, and who had been 
 alreacty taught the bitter lesson of repression and con 
 trol, without a word passed out of the cottage, and 
 took his way, amid the shadows of the young night, 
 down the banks of the creek, toward the near forest.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 never was such a boy," said the piqued, 
 petulant, and pouting Rose, one evening towards 
 spring, after one of her teasing raids on poor annoj'ed, 
 and half disgusted, Fred. How she had ripened within 
 a few months, with her bright face flushing with au 
 dacity, and her eyes liquid and swimming with sensi 
 bility ! She had stolen upon him, and snatched his 
 book from his hands, and ran away with it, and he did 
 not follow her, the booby, only looked annoyed, with 
 his eyes turned from her. 
 
 "Will it have its book back again? Well, don't 
 cry ; it shall have it, then ! " With a mocking gesture, 
 as if to restore it, and snatching it from his extended 
 hand, again. 
 
 "Oh-h-h, why didn't 'e take it? Didn't want it, 
 did'e?" 
 
 " ' Jack the Giant Killer,' " she said, affecting to read 
 the title. " What do you s'pose Jack would have 
 done if a young lady had snatched his book away? 
 You don't know ? I guess you don't, stupid ! " looking 
 piqued. 
 
 " There, take your old book ! " dashing it down upon 
 the table at his side. " I beg your lordship's pardon," 
 (103)
 
 104 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 with mock humility, taking up the book again, and 
 approaching him with exquisite grace ; " permit me to 
 ask your pardon for my rudeness, and restore your 
 book to you. You won't forgive me? Do now, my 
 poor heart will break all in one small piece, and I shall 
 burst into a tear, " pressing her little jewelled hand, 
 with mock agony, upon her exquisite bust. 
 
 " There now, let us kiss and make up. You won't? " 
 Stepping around in front of him, and placing her hand 
 under his chin, and lifting his face up, with her own 
 dangerously near. "Look up here right into my 
 two eyes do 3-011 know what I've a good mind to do ? 
 I've a good mind to kiss you, right on your two stupid 
 red lips." Fred placed his hand over his mouth. 
 
 " What a fool ! " turning away, and a moment later 
 returning and taking the tip of his ear between her 
 thumb and finger. "Who do you love? Nobody? 
 Who do you like best ? I know, Aunt Sally, since 
 Lily went. Don't mention Lily ? Well, I won't, poor 
 little doll-baby ; she'll make just the wife for you. Yon 
 don't want any wife ? of course you. don't ; and you never 
 will, stupid. You sha'n't dance with me to night. 
 You don't want to? Yes }-ou will, when 3 r ou see Mr. 
 Hyde, and Mr. Young, and Ed Baldwin, and all that 
 set around me, when you can't get me you'll want me." 
 And running back, and stooping down before him, and 
 looking vexed and spitefully into his face, " Your a 
 fool ! " ran out of the room with, " there never was 
 such a boj'," to herself. 
 
 Fred knew he was a fool, and without at all knowing or 
 even suspecting why, poor sweet innocence. He knew, 
 to be sure, that he ought to jump up and run, and romp
 
 THE ROSE. 105 
 
 with her, and kiss her, and play at lover ; but nothing 
 in the world seemed to him so stupid, and he was dis 
 gusted, as he had been a dozen times before, that she 
 should tease and annoy him so. He had found that 
 girls were hateful as a class "made to bother a fel 
 low " except sweet Lily, whom he had kissed, and as 
 he had kissed her he would not kiss another, least of 
 all this saucy tomboy of a Rose. Oh, silly Adonis ! 
 Oh, slowest and greenest of springs ! 
 
 The games of romps played off by the audacious 
 Rose were well known to manj r of the household, who 
 had rather enjoyed the annoyance which they occa 
 sioned that young gentleman. The Prophet had piqued 
 her, laughing at her want of success in winning some 
 response from him ; while the poor boy's want of sen 
 sibility and proper appreciation of opportunit} 7 which 
 so constant!}' flouted him, in the shape of red lips and 
 a supple waist, exposed him to not a little prophetic 
 ridicule and sarcasm. The open manner in which the 
 piquant Rose made her playful attacks, relieved them 
 and her from the imputation of wantonness, or even 
 levity, in the minds of all except Aunt Sally. She 
 did not like it at all. She did not want Fred exposed 
 to the annoyance, and whatever danger might some 
 time come of it as he grew older. She did not feel so 
 certain of this young and premature woman ; she 
 thought that it was her duty to put a stop to the pres 
 ent state of things, and she did change it somewhat. 
 Something she intimated to the thoughtless Rose, who 
 received her words not as might have been expected. 
 Toward Aunt Sally she maintained a composed de 
 meanor and dignified silence, which rather
 
 106 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 fited that primitive lady ; but entering the room of poor 
 Fred, and pointing her finger at him : " And so 'e 'itt'e 
 baby-boy tole 'e aunty, didn't it? well 'e should tell 'e 
 aunt}" 'boutey naughty Rosy, 'es 'e shouldey." A circle 
 of saucy laughter ran about him ; and had it been a 
 circle of fire, it would not have made him more uncom 
 fortable. 
 
 Fred had not the slightest notion what had occurred, 
 nor of course to what she alluded. But her rid 
 icule was so keen and incisive, that its sting pierced 
 him through. He continued to act upon his old and 
 only line of defence, passive and silent endurance ; but 
 he knew that his poor bo} r -face was in a flame, and 
 tears of helpless rage came into his unchanging, unwink 
 ing eyes. 
 
 The girl witnessed the change with surprise ; and 
 regarding him a moment, she approached, and in a 
 tone of sweet contrition, " Fred," she said, " foi'give 
 me ! " and left him to his reflections. Afterwards 
 when she met him, it was always with sweet deference 
 and respect, and a delicate consideration, not alone for his 
 feelings, but as if she cared for his good opinion. Fred 
 was surprised to find how pleasant and charming her 
 presence had become, somehow, and he now observed, 
 for the first time, what a developed and beautiful wo 
 man she had grown ; and as, like a true boy, he had 
 always vaguely, and afar off in the clouds of boy dream 
 land, admired the largest and oldest girl, resting his 
 affections upon substance and weight, so now he began 
 to gather the haze of his fancy about Rose as a dim 
 sort of a halo around a star ; and this transformation 
 was brought about by a girl not sixteen.
 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE CRISIS. 
 
 SPRING was approaching, with an ominous intima 
 tion that it would bring some change to Fred. 
 " "Wait till spring," was the reply to any unusual request. 
 He wanted to go to Painesville. " You shall go next 
 spring, perhaps." He had never been in Cleveland. 
 " Well, if he was all right in the spring he might." 
 Fred thought this referred to his studies. He was a 
 very good grammarian, and made good progress in 
 arithmetic ; was said to have an aptitude for language ; 
 was a fine declaimer, for a boy ; a very fine reader and 
 a good penman, all for his age. 
 
 Little had ever been said to him about religion or 
 the church. Of course he lived in the atmosphere of 
 zeal, fanaticism and credulity, of deception, cant and 
 Irypocrisy. Not much impression, however, had been 
 made on his mind, or the nebulous matter that was to 
 harden into mind. When he first went to Kirtland, a 
 circle was formed to read the Book of Mormon, and to 
 him was assigned the place of reader. He found it 
 dull ; even its marvels could not relieve its opaque 
 dulness. 
 
 It is said that even the gods, when they try a fall 
 with mortal stupidity, are worsted. 
 (107)
 
 108 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 He was nearly fourteen, and it was said that he must 
 take a position ; in short, he was given to understand 
 that, by the marked act of baptism, he must enroll him 
 self unconditionally with the saints. It was explained 
 to him, that when the temple was completed, a new 
 service would be inaugurated ; that there would be a 
 new class of young priests, with special privileges, and 
 for whose duties special training was required ; that he 
 was destined as the first of this new order, and that he 
 and his associates, seven in number, were to enter upon 
 their novitiate on a day in March not yet named. The 
 repi'essive life of the student had formed in him the 
 habit of taking things coolly, and this announcement 
 was met with more than his usual frigidit} 7 . He said 
 he would think about it. 
 
 " Think about it ! " repeated the secretary, with 
 amazement. 
 
 " I said I would," coolly. 
 
 " There ain't but one who thinks here," was the 
 answer. 
 
 " Yes there is ; I think, some," quietly. 
 
 " You ! who the devil are you, anyway, I'd like to 
 know?" 
 
 " So would I," a little sadly. 
 
 With a stare of increased amazement, the messenger 
 of the will of the presidency left, for it was of sufficient 
 importance for the action of that nominal body. 
 
 The next day the Prophet took Fred from the 
 dinner table to a sort of study, and in a kindly 
 manner made known to him his destination : in a few 
 da}-s he would be baptized, and enter upon a different 
 course ; he was specially called to it, his career would
 
 THE CRISIS. 109 
 
 be distinguished, and finally, he would be one of the 
 lenders of the saints. It was the only time he had 
 ever seriously conferred with Fred. At the close of 
 his communication Fred was silent, and the Prophet 
 for the first time noticed something peculiar in his 
 look, that a little irritated him. He did not stop to 
 consider what it was ; he was not given to much con 
 sideration in personal matters of this sort ; nobody 
 questioned or opposed his will. 
 
 Fred had a sort of liking for the gay, good-natured, 
 easy-going Prophet, and had ever seen him in the 
 in ide life of his household ; yet by that sort of instinct 
 which governs the likings of children, he was kept from 
 any close intimacy by a repulsion that he did not 
 understand, and never thought of examining. 
 
 " I've left you too much to your own old Adam ways," 
 said the Prophet, bending his brows upon him with 
 unwonted severity. " You know, bo}', that we can cast 
 out devils, if need be." He now unmistakably saw 
 something in the youth's C3 r es, the same that Sam 
 Warden saw, and that haunted John Green, and that 
 flashed out into the face of Jake. Whatever it was, it 
 looked to the Prophet like the spirit of courage, that 
 had already reached the stage of defiance. He had 
 encountered it in two or three women, and had found 
 that the way to deal with it was not to assail it. 
 
 " My dear boy," he said, blandly, and laying his 
 hand on Fred's head, "we cannot spare you, nor must 
 you leave your studies ; what a handsome young man 
 you are becoming ! The ladies would cr} r if we had to 
 send you to the store ; Rose would break her little 
 heart." And picking up Fred's soft, but large and finely-
 
 110 THE PORTRAIT. ' 
 
 formed hand, and admiring its texture, " This was not 
 made for a stone hammer or a yardstick ; we shall have 
 no trouble," lightly and gayly he withdrew. 
 
 The next da}*, Rigdon, whose sins had been purged 
 away by special act, so that he could be the equal of 
 the Prophet in everything but the prophetic spirit, the 
 monopol}* of which was to be perpetually enjoyed by 
 Joseph, sent for Fred, and in a frank, bland, seductive 
 way went over with the whole ground, and then he 
 reminded him that the}* had taken him literally from 
 a stable, housed and fed, clothed and pampered him, 
 and educated him like a prince, because he had been 
 called, so that he felt they might now urge that they 
 had a claim upon him. Fred winced at this. But 
 then, in his darkened mind, he thought it was funny 
 that if he was called, he should not be given the mind 
 to go. 
 
 Rigdon went on to say that it was his duty to obey 
 the gospel, after which the way would open to him ; 
 that he was old enough to choose and have a mind 
 about it ; adding, " To-morrow, perhaps, j*ou will be 
 asked the direct question, ' Will you obey the* gospel 
 by the outward sign of baptism ? ' " and bade him good- 
 morning. 
 
 Fred was quite prepared to answer then, but return 
 ing the bow of the president, he withdrew. 
 
 As he went out he was joined in the corridor by Rose, 
 who came up with a little of her old assurance, but 
 none of the old banter, -*and passed her arm through 
 his, clasping her little dimpled hands on his arm. 
 Her touch had a strange, sweet charm for him. Look 
 ing up a little timidly in his face, she said, " Fred, you
 
 THE CRISIS. Ill 
 
 will be baptized ; I know you will ; we've all been, 
 even sweet Lily was baptized, say you will! you 
 don't know how much we all wish it. And }-ou are 
 quite a man now," dropping her voice and head with a 
 blush. The little curled head came very naturally 
 npon his tall shoulder ; and it was all so like the things 
 in the stories ; and it seemed to him that he ought to 
 pass his arm about the marvellous little waist, made to 
 be cinctured with a lover's arm. 
 
 Then she raised the little warm face, and turned and 
 looked up into his eyes. " What is it men see in your 
 eyes? I only see coldness," with a fainting tone. The 
 sauciness had gone out of hers ; there was only a sweet 
 pleading in them, and her breath, like a faint incense, 
 came warmly upon his lips. 
 
 " And }'ou will say Yes, and we shall all so love you, 
 and, Fred " the little head went down decidedly 
 on the shoulder. Voices came from a near, open door ; 
 and the unconscious maiden passed it with a natural, 
 gay nonchalance, utterly bewildering to poor Fred. 
 
 There was another intensely interested observer. 
 Aunt Sally still filled the important post of house 
 keeper, attentive to her duties, prudent, discreet, 
 trusted, and in some vague, far-off way, feared. Ap- 
 parentty absorbed and preoccupied, and unobserving, 
 nothing escaped her about the household, and she was 
 the first to note the change in the manner of Rose 
 toward Fred. Nor was she for a moment deceived. 
 Poor blind, unseeing, unknowing, unthinking boy, only 
 beginning vaguely to feel the approaching revolution 
 that was so mysteriously taking place in him, as the 
 new forces of Nature were beginning faintly to pulsate
 
 112 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 through his system ! Alreacty he was beginning to lose 
 the control of his voice, the richer volume of which, fail 
 ing to find utterance through the unchanged, childish 
 organs, would shatter itself into piping quavers, or fall 
 to a grum bass, much to his surprise, and often to his 
 annoyance. Poor boy I he was becoming a man ; and 
 only thought he had taken a funnj- cold, all unaware of 
 the fever that would follow it. 
 
 This, too, had Aunt Sally noted ; she knew also, and 
 better than he, what the Prophet wanted of him, and 
 guessed somewhat the reasons why. She knew, too, 
 the means that would be employed to secure that pur 
 pose, and looked dark!}* at Rose, and anxiously, appre 
 hensively, at Fred. She had not anticipated that the 
 final ordeal would be reached until further lapse of 
 time. But how could she explain, how warn, how 
 inform and put on his guard the unconscious boy who 
 had been walking about this prison-house, for all these 
 months, eating and sleeping, caring for and being 
 caressed by these deadly foes, who might poison his 
 food, and who had poisoned the air he breathed? Not 
 in this order, but brokenly and fragmentarily, all these 
 thoughts had come to her ; and on this da}-, had she 
 been the object of suspicion or of observation, care and 
 anxiety would have been seen on her strong brow. 
 
 Deep in the following night, Fred was awakened by 
 Sally, who brought a lamp into his room, and began 
 with some needless words to allay any apprehension 
 he might feel at her intrusion. Apprehension was the 
 last emotion likely to arise in him. 
 
 " Fred, I want to ask ye one thing. Do ye trust 
 rue, Fred?"
 
 THE CRISIS. 113 
 
 " All the time, aunty." 
 
 "Bless ye! Well, then, 'ave ye been called? 
 asked to be babtized, ye know?" 
 
 " I was told I would be asked to-morrow." 
 
 "To-morrer? Massy! So soon? Do ye want ter 
 be?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Will ye?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " They may compel ye." 
 
 "Compel me?" with immense and contemptuous 
 incredulity. 
 
 " Yer a boy, Fred, an' don't know ; they may force 
 
 ye." 
 
 " Force me? Let 'em try. They may drown me ! " 
 with a frown of angiy defiance. 
 
 " Ye may see a vizyin." 
 
 " I saw plenty on 'em when I was sick," quietly. 
 
 " Do ye like bein' yere? " 
 
 " Not much. Why do you ask, aunty ? " 
 
 " If ye's to go, whar 'd ye go to ? " 
 
 "Somewhere, anywhere, to Uncle Bill Skinner's, 
 perhaps." 
 
 " They'd git ye thar." 
 
 "H'm, let 'em try." 
 
 Aunt Sally stood silent a moment in thought : 
 " Fred ! " 
 
 " Yes, aunty." 
 
 "D'ye like ennybody yere? anybody in petic'ler, 
 mor'n ye do other folks, Rose ? " 
 
 " I like her better than I used to," was the straight 
 forward, unhesitating answer. 
 8
 
 114 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 " Fred " much relieved " d'ye think this yer's a 
 good place ? " 
 
 " Not very." 
 
 "Fred?" 
 
 " Aunty." 
 
 " D'ye ever pray ? " 
 
 " My mother learned me to pray." 
 
 " Yer mother ? Oh, Betsey Warden ! " 
 
 "Was she my mother?" earnestly. 
 ' " Bless yer soul, what a question ! 'Ow should I 
 know?" 
 
 " There, good-night ; " and she went away much com 
 forted.
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE CALL OF FRED. 
 
 THE next morning the Prophet was in a semi- 
 prophetic state, very unusual in the household. 
 Fred was called to the large common room adjoining 
 the breakfast-room, and before that meal, where the 
 Prophet addressed him in a solemn voice. 
 
 "It is a goodly youth. Let the spirit call in its 
 chosen way ; ".and laying his hand upon the unmoved 
 boy's head, u Receive grace to hear and heed," he 
 said ; and spreading abroad his hands, in an impressive 
 manner, he pronounced an invocation and breathed a 
 benediction. At the action of his hands, all the assem 
 bled household reverently bowed, and then took their 
 places at the table, when the Prophet, with his own 
 hands, broke and blessed the bread, saying : " This, 
 with water, be the food of the household of the Lord 
 this day ; and may it become the bread of life." 
 
 To say that Fred was much impressed by this simple 
 and imposing ritual, is merely true : and, impassive as 
 he had become, he looked upon the Prophet quite in 
 amazement. He almost divided with him the attention 
 of the awed spectators. 
 
 The Prophet remained about the house all day in 
 rapt, austere silence. No work, not the lightest chore, 
 (llo)
 
 116 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 no word, not even a whisper, was clone or said ; but 
 in silence or stealth the inmates sat or moved through 
 the house, till nightfall, as if under a frozen spell. 
 
 The day was dark and rain}*, and the night came on 
 with snow and wind. The blinds of the whole house 
 had remained closed during the day, and after night 
 fall the darkness within was pitch}*. 
 
 It came upon Fred, in his own room, on the upper 
 floor, and alone. He was a little faint for want of 
 food, and not without a vague sense of something 
 impending ; but his pulse was at its usual beat, and 
 his veins, like his will, unmoved. All the day long his 
 memory had wandered back over his shadowed, strait 
 ened, stinted life, and found little to linger upon with 
 pleasure. That little boat came again and again into 
 his mind, and he wondered at the impulse that induced 
 him to cast it to the fortune of the river. Whither 
 had it been carried ? Had some happy boy picked it 
 up and kept it? Had it stranded and rotted by the 
 river's side ? Had it been fortunate, and swam out to 
 the far-off great lake, which he had never seen save 
 from the hills at the north? Its little fortune was 
 like him, and the impulse came to leap into the outside 
 current, and let it carry him along. Then the story 
 came into his mind of the youth who, one bright 
 summer morning, was loitering by a river side, when 
 he came upon a little boat, into which he stepped, and 
 pushing it into the current, committed himself to it ; 
 and it bore him down, past flowery banks and dark 
 forests, past eraggy steeps, that threw sombre shadows 
 over him, and finally it landed him near a dark, battle- 
 inented old castle, which the river protected on the
 
 THE CALL OF FRED. 117 
 
 water-side. The }'outh stepped ashore and entered the 
 old castle, in and around which was neither voice, nor 
 sound, nor sign of living thing ; mould, dust, neg 
 lect and desertion, held joint sway over all. He 
 passed an open portal, and picked a rusty dagger from 
 the stone floor, and while he was curiously observing it 
 a drop of red blood distilled from its point, and a 
 form in white entered Fred's room with an unheard 
 step, which so coincided with the rapt current of thought, 
 revery and mental vision of the youth, that when a 
 voice said, " The spirit leads, follow," he arose with 
 out hesitation, and laj'ing down the dagger, as he 
 seemed to do, he followed in silence. Out down the 
 corridor, down a stairway, through other passage 
 ways, up other stairs, through doors all open, and in 
 the darkness all strange, slowly they proceeded, grop 
 ing and hesitating, on Fred's part, from the uncertainty 
 of the way. At last a curtain parted, and Fred found 
 himself he knew not where. A dim light, like that of 
 the ghosts of many lamps, filled the room, if such it 
 was, utterly unlike anj'thing he had ever seen. A 
 pleasant warmth and a faint odor, as the fragrance of 
 fresh violets pervaded the place. Fred's conductor, 
 pointing to a low, spacious couch, motioned him to sit ; 
 and indicated a low table near the sofa, on which was 
 a goblet of water, and some bits of broken bread. 
 The sight of the food recalled the healthful sensation 
 of hunger, and taking up a piece he eagerly ate a 
 few mouthfuls, moistening his mouth with the limpid 
 contents of the goblet. He fancied that there was a 
 peculiar, but not unpleasant, taste in the food or water, 
 and laying himself back on the luxurious couch, mused
 
 118 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 dreamily on his strange surroundings. As he lay, there 
 came the sound as of heavy drapery moving and rust 
 ling in a slight breeze, pleasant to the whilom, over 
 wrought, but now quieted senses of the youth. Finally 
 the light died out, and darkness in hea\y folds seemed 
 to fall about him, and wrap his benumbed perceptions 
 in almost oblivion. Strange forms hovered for a mo 
 ment across the fading margin of consciousness, and 
 the Lily, more beautiful than earth, but shadow}', with 
 her lips to his, and then, utter nothing. * * * * 
 Was he sleeping or waking ? was he still on earth, for 
 earth never saw, even its shadow, nor painter in dream, 
 nor devotee in ecstasy. There in a rosy light it was, 
 not wavering nor shadowy, but firm and real, and 
 within his reach. Was there ever such a face, trans 
 parent, yet suffused, such eyes and lips ? And all about 
 the glorious head the wondrous head such a cloud 
 of marvellous golden hair, flooding down full of spangles, 
 and confined with a golden circle. He dared not drop 
 his eyes from the wondrous face, yet, in the bright 
 radiance which surrounded him, what was not given to 
 his gaze ! The left shoulder was veiled ; from it a bal- 
 drick passed over the left bosom, and below the right, 
 sustaining a shining robe of white. The right shoul 
 der, with the loveliness that only haunts dreams, would 
 assert itself on the entranced vision of the cold, pure 
 boy, and thus framed in the rose-tinted folds, held 
 back by one hand, this marvellous wonder stood. As 
 the eyes looked steadily into those of the boy, a deeper 
 tint seemed to light up the celestial face. " You are 
 called ! you are called ! }"ou are called ! " At first low, 
 and ravishingly sweet, then louder and firmer, and then
 
 THE CALL OF FRED. 11$ 
 
 in a tone that seemed to command as well as announce. 
 The right hand extended toward the youth a slender 
 white wand, with a wavering motion, the light faded, 
 the vision melted, and the heavy folds of darkness 
 again enveloped him. 
 
 Was he asleep or awake? Dead or alive, in trance 
 or dream? He could neither think nor remember. 
 Had the fever returned ? Was it an angel ? Did time 
 move or stand still ? lie had neither the will nor power 
 to move. Then unconsciousness ; and then the vision 
 of his fever, strange foliage and flowers, and palm- 
 trees, and the radiant, happy face, and the name, heard 
 only in dreams ; then suddenly came the face and voice 
 of Aunt Sally, speaking the name of Fred, and the day 
 changed to a lamp. 
 
 This was real. She laid her hand strongly upon 
 him. " Fred, Fred, 'wake ! " low and earnest, " come 
 this minnit ! " With the touch of her hand, the 
 charm was broken ; he arose with an effort, and fell 
 back weak and heavj', as if in a lethargy. There was 
 a ringing in his ears, and a dry burning in his throat. 
 He would have drank from the goblet, but found that 
 it, too, had disappeared. 
 
 Partly dragged, and partly walking, Fred went hurriedly 
 down a narrow, spiral stairway, down and down, till he 
 met a current of sweet, fresh, cold air, and soon stood 
 on the ground. A few steps more, and he found him 
 self in the kitchen, where Sally gave him a bowl of 
 milk, which he drank at a breath, and felt refreshed, 
 though still dazed and uncertain. 
 
 "Fred, for the massy s sake! What 'appened? 
 What did ye see and 'ear? " What a wave of shadow
 
 120 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 and darkness now la} T between the waking, real present, 
 and the vision and dreams of the hour ago ! 
 
 " I must have dreamed strange old fever dreams. I 
 wonder if ni}' head is all right ? " shaking it. 
 
 " You look scared, an' sort o' wild ! " 
 
 "Do I?" 
 
 "Fred, this yer's a wicked, bad place, don't 3*6 
 want to leave it ? " 
 
 " Yes, I'll go now. I won't stay here another hour." 
 
 "War'llyego." 
 
 " AVhere will I? Anywhere, everywhere, Aunt Sally, 
 tell me who and what I am? You know, don't 
 you?" 
 
 "Lord! how excited ye ar' ! 'ow do I know? Jar- 
 vis won't tell." 
 
 " Jarvis ! Who's ! " 
 
 "John, John Green! Oh, we've all changed!" 
 confused and distressed. 
 
 "Aunt Sally !" 
 
 " 'Ush ! 'ush ! they'll miss ye." 
 
 " I don't care. Let 'em come," defiantly. 
 
 " Fred, see ! 'ere's a bundle o' yer things. 'Ere's 
 yer cloak, an' boots, and cap, an' 'ere in this basket 's 
 nice things for ye. Mebbe they'll follow ye, }~e can 
 eat as 3*6 go. Pore, pore, 'omeless boy ! " now break 
 ing down. 
 
 " I don't care if they do follow me," coarsely ; " I 
 wish they would." 
 
 " I've thought it over 'n over. It's near day. 'Ere's 
 a little money for \e. Ye'd better go to Mantua, and, 
 Fred, ye'll 'ear from me when I know. Stay thar,
 
 THE CALL OP FRED. 121 
 
 ware I can find ye ; as sure as the Lord ye'll 'ear from 
 me, when I know." 
 
 The boy had taken another copious draft of milk, and 
 swallowed some choice bits of cold ham. He now put 
 on his boots, there was his rich cloth cloak, with its 
 fur collar, his fur muffler, and seal cap, his warm gaunt- 
 leted gloves, and light-packed valise. He lifted and 
 poised its weight. 
 
 " It 'as as many shirts an' things as I could git in 
 it, an' 'ere's all the money I can raise," putting a 
 small purse in his hands. " Get across to t'other stage 
 route, from Chardon ; an' oh, Fred yer the thing 
 I love best on airth, ye lonely, 'ouseless wanderer ; God 
 will some time bless ye ! " 
 
 A great, dry gasp arose, and was choked down by the 
 poor boy. For a moment, the strong, true arms of 
 Sally were about him ; then he found himself alone in 
 the wet slush of snow and mud, traversing a lane that 
 led out from the rear of the house, to the Chillicothe 
 road. 
 
 With the directness of his nature, Fred walked 
 boldly, though rapidly, along the street. The storm, 
 had subsided, and the approach of day was lighting up 
 the eastern sky. He felt a little sick at the stomach, 
 and heavy about the head, and at first his step was a 
 little unstead}' ; and the cold air struck him with a sort 
 of nervous chill. The exercise of walking quickened 
 the circulation to a pleasant glow. The respiration of 
 the pure cold air seemed to restore the wonted tone of 
 his strong, healthy system ; and above all, the first 
 jo^yous and exultant sensation of freedom, of liberty, 
 of escape, flashed electrically over his nerves, and he
 
 122 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 seemed to tread the air. With what a wonderful glory 
 the eastern sky was glowing, as if the sun was hasten 
 ing up to greet and cheer him ! How limitless was 
 the expanse that bent so far off, and so free over him, 
 while the ver} r earth spread and stretched and ran out, 
 in endless perspective, asking him to traverse it ! 
 
 For a mile or two the road gradually rises to the 
 south, and from its elevated summit Fred turned and 
 cast his eye over the little huddle of houses and huts, 
 of shops and cots, and sheds and hovels, that lay but 
 a step below him, in the midst of which, dark and sol 
 itary, arose the house of the Prophet, and the home of 
 the presidency, with the Tower of Prophecy at one 
 angle. There was Aunt Sally, and Rose, and the 
 Prophet, and there was the scene of vision, dream 
 and trance, fresh in his still distempered fancj", and 
 bright and distinct in the grasp of young memory. 
 Above all, and not far off, seemed the ridge of the 
 lake, vast and boundless as the ocean, from which his 
 eye fell again upon the still sleeping town, from which, 
 with its shows and shams, its pulleys, springs and cur 
 tains, he now turned forever. Mantua was twenty-eight 
 or thirty miles awaj-, and all around him was the bright, 
 free, happy world.
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 TWICE BOUND. 
 
 IN the north-east corner of Mantua was the farm of 
 Deacon Carman. At the beginning of the century 
 he had followed his elder brother into the woods, and 
 chopped and logged, and burned and cleared, and 
 fenced and built ; hunted with the Indians, and "fought 
 against them ; married and reared children ; and now 
 still hale and vigorous, moral and abstemious, honest 
 and religious, he had the year before taken the pre 
 miums for the best farm, and for the largest yield of 
 corn. His farm* lay on beautiful slopes, rolling swells, 
 and wide vales of wonderfully fertile land. An east 
 and west road bounded it southerly, extending into the 
 wooded hills of Hiram east, which it traversed as a 
 trail, crossing the Cuyahoga River at the Rapids, while 
 a north and south highway divided it, and led into the 
 extensive woods of Auburn and Welchfield, north. 
 
 A fine two-story farm-house, barns and out-buildings, 
 occupied the north-west angle, made by these inter 
 secting roads, in front of which was a wonderful pear- 
 tree, flanked by a thrifty growth of cheny*trees of 
 many varieties. The yard was neatly fenced and 
 clean, the house one of the best in the township ; in the 
 rear of it were extensive orchards, enclosed fields, and 
 (123)
 
 324 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 broad pasture lands. Below the highway, to the east, 
 spread out wide and beautiful meadows, through which 
 flowed a stream, formed by numerous springs that 
 arose on the farm. 
 
 In that far-off time, no more valuable, or a better- 
 cared for, domain acknowledged the ownership of any 
 single -proprietor in all that region, now rapidly filling 
 up, and growing in wealth and beauty. 
 
 Mrs. Carman, a stoutish, comely dame, of a little 
 better origin than the average, had a still bright face, 
 flashing black eyes, and a temper that also flashed at 
 times. The eldest daughter, Sarah, was a tall, well-grown, 
 honest, handsome country lass, of fifteen. The only son, 
 Elias, was a - square, broad-browed, promising boy of 
 twelve ; and Martha, the youngest, was a dark, demure 
 little maid of eight. These, with hired help men on 
 the farm, and spinning-girls constituted the family. 
 
 In those days of practical democracy, the hired 
 young men and women were from families of the same 
 level with the master, and had the usual privileges and 
 consideration of the regular members of the family ; 
 and it excited no comment when the eldest daughter 
 of the Chief Justice of the State, a resident of this 
 region, with the entire approbation of her farnil}', mar 
 ried the hired man on her father's farm. 
 
 In this family, to work on this farm as a bound ap 
 prentice, Fred willingiy found himself, a few days after 
 his escape from the saints. 
 
 He had gone at once to his old friend William Skin 
 ner, who had consulted Fenton, Sim Shelden, and 
 especially Judge Carman, the elder brother of Seth ; 
 and it was thought that under the purview of the stat-
 
 TWICE BOUND. 125 
 
 utes, the trustees of the township had power to bind 
 him out, as a destitute, homeless waif, who had as 
 much business to be in Mantua as anywhere, though it 
 was more than doubted that he had any business to be 
 at all. Deacon Carman had been applied to, and was 
 willing to try him. Aunt Mary, as Mrs. Carman was 
 called in her neighborhood, came into the arrangement 
 with pronounced reluctance and great misgiving. 
 
 She did not know about this boy, who came out of 
 the dirt, and nobody knew where, or how, he crawled 
 out, and who had lived two years with the Mormons, 
 and nobody k'new what he had learned there, or Avhy 
 he left. She finally gave in ; and with the same for 
 malities and provisions with which Sam Warden had 
 bound him to John Green, the authorities made him 
 the thrall of the good, pious, and honest Carman. 
 Being now of nominal discretion, Fred had signed the 
 indentures, and out of abundant caution, the mark of 
 Sam was also secured to the instrument. It was 
 thought that possibty John Green might attempt to 
 reclaim him, and hence the action in the premises. 
 
 On his first arrival, madam regarded him with a 
 wholesome and uncomfortable distrust, and for a long 
 time looked at him askance. She carefully kept count 
 of the spoons, and intimated to her trusting and simple- 
 hearted spouse the necessity of keeping the saddles, 
 bridles, and halters under lock and key. The fact that 
 the poor lad was tall and well-formed, and had a frank, 
 honest, open boy-face, and was so quiet, and gentle, 
 and respectful, so seemingly well-bred and modest, 
 was at first all against him. Then his hands were 
 white, and he brought with him broadcloth clothes,
 
 126 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 and seemed so anxious to do, that she was quite de 
 cided that he never would. . He would grow up there 
 with her girls and Elias ; and there was always some 
 thing in persons of his sort that was sure to come out, 
 and often in the line of their parents' offending. It 
 was not here as in New London, in her father's family, 
 where a bound 003* had a place which was not in the 
 family circle. Well, she could only trust in Provi 
 dence, and what was practically much more effect 
 ive, she would watch and manage, and whatever might 
 happen, she would at least have this enduring and 
 accustomed comfort, "I alwaj's told you just how 
 'twould turn out." 
 
 To the kind, true, honest-hearted Sarah, he was at 
 first a pleasant surprise, and then an object of steady, 
 friendly regard. She had not then been away at school, 
 and her Windham cousins did not gain much by her 
 mental comparison. He was not noisy and rough, nor 
 sulky and shy and awkward. He was quiet and gentle, 
 and so anxious to oblige and please. It did not occur 
 to her that he was handsome, or looked well ; she could 
 look right into eyes as honest as her own, and she 
 trusted him. Besides, he helped her about her flower 
 beds. Elias was not, at first, inclined to consort much 
 with him ; but he could manage horses, knew all about 
 guns, and the woods, and seemed brave and fearless ; 
 so that he soon grew to the proportions of a hero. 
 
 Uncle Seth took him with confidence and trust. The 
 poor youth had much to learn, and was not very quick, 
 or very ingenious or inventive ; but he was true and 
 docile. Whatever he was told to do he did, and as he 
 was told ; no obstacle hindered, and no difficulty dis-
 
 TWICE BOUND. 127 
 
 couragcd him. If a hindrance arose, his courage and 
 determination arose with it, when lift mind became 
 quick and active. Before he had been there a month, 
 the old man was satisfied that there was not a hair or 
 fibre in his whole make-up that was not true and manly. 
 
 They found him disinclined to speak of himself or his 
 past life. lie never mentioned the Greens, and avoided 
 all reference to the Mormons. They were surprised at 
 his intelligence, and the extent of his reading, and were 
 glad to note his avidity for books. One thing alone 
 brought a shade of unquiet to the Deacon. Although 
 Fred went cheerfully to the South School-house, and 
 resolutely and ' heroically kept awake through the ser 
 mons of Darwin Atwater, he evinced little interest in 
 religion, and a disrelish for the Millennial Harbinger, 
 and did not take very kindly to Niles's Register. In- 
 wardly, Uncle Seth always had misgivings whether Fred 
 ever did read clear through Mr. Campbell's masterly 
 dissertation upon the Holy Spirit, although he was 
 never heard to give utterance to such doubts ; still he 
 had them, and they troubled him. 
 
 To Fred, how inexpressibly kind *and sweet was the 
 change which had now come to him ! How gently and 
 lovingty the sky bent over him ! How green and glad 
 the earth was to him ! With what wonderful kindness 
 the woods waved their boughs to him ! The springing 
 corn seemed to peep up on purpose to see him ; and the 
 birds sang, and the returned swallows chirruped to him 
 from the sparkling air. How pleasant to care for the 
 sheep, and pick up the weakling lambs ; to nurse the 
 young calves ; to be all the day in the glad, open 
 aii % , rich with the perfume of apple-blossoms ! He did
 
 128 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 not find it hard to plant and hoe corn, or to drive the 
 oxen. He got very tired, at first ; but then how hun 
 gry he would be ! and never was there sweeter food 
 than the profuse plent}* which Aunt Maiy furnished, 
 and which she never stinted or grudged. She was a 
 famous cook and housewife. The nights came full 
 soon, and full of rest and unbroken sleep. 
 
 Did he remember Lily? Did he think of Rose? It 
 is not in healthy nature for a boy of fourteen to remem 
 ber much ; to retrospect or introspect, or think at all, 
 save passingly, as the healthful, sweet breeze of sum 
 mer passes on, and always on, never lingering much, 
 never turning back, and only at times breaking into a 
 gentle sigh. Yet, after all, here, as elsewhere, the old 
 nameless shadow from the never-seen cloud was on 
 him. Had Aunt Mary told Sarah ? What was it in 
 the look with which she soon regarded him? TVhy 
 could he not have one kind, dear, true, unknowing 
 friend ? She was not less kind, perhaps, but more dis 
 tant ; not less considerate, but less talkative. Fred 
 could only lift his eyes, and turn with a mute sadness 
 away. He could ask no question, say no word. His 
 path might cross the paths of others ; his orbit, for a 
 moment, touch that of another ; but, without knowing, 
 he could feel that, in this beautiful, crowded, many- 
 voiced world, he was to journey in solitude, ever aud 
 ever alone.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE GREAT PREACHER. 
 
 AN event of the season was the visit of Alexander 
 Campbell to Northern Ohio, to counsel, comfort, 
 consolidate, and confirm the churches upon the Reserve. 
 Not wholly had they recovered from the secession of 
 Rigdon ; and, although the strong-headed Ryder soon 
 recovered from his momentary tripping, the churches 
 had languished, and minor differences in dogma had 
 sprung up, notably in reference to the many-sided 
 and eminently practical doctrines of the true nature 
 and office of the Holy Spirit. Mr. Campbell had never 
 been upon the Reserve, although his venerable father 
 had ministered much in that field. He had formed the 
 purpose of this mission two years before, and his com 
 ing had long been anxiously looked and longed for 
 among the disciples. Not only among them did the 
 announcement of his coming produce a sensation. He 
 was the most distinguished and formidable controver 
 sialist of his time. 
 
 He had already won the gratitude of Christians by 
 the battle royal which he had fought for the general 
 cause of inspired Christianity, with the powers of the 
 common adversary, led by that amiable and wrong- 
 headed philanthropist Robert Owen ; he was the cham- 
 9 (129)
 
 130 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 pion of Protestantism against the scarlet-robed woman 
 of doubtful reputation ; and, later still, he had laid 
 lance in rest for the comforting dogma of endless 
 perdition. So that, Coeur de Lion as he was, of schism, 
 in the Baptist Church, and general heresy against 
 creed and man-usage, the granite basis of his theolog^y 
 retained the genuine imprint of the most essential Cal- 
 vinistic dogma. 
 
 Late in June, after the second corn hoeing, when the 
 meadow grass was maturing over the ripened straw 
 berries, and ere the turning of the grain, long after 
 the calves had been weaned, and the sheep sheared, 
 whose fleeces in soft, white rolls were running into 
 threads through the rosy-tipped fingers of spinning- 
 girls, and a lull had fallen upon the severer work of 
 the farmer, the great preacher came. 
 
 It had rained the night before ; and that Sunday 
 morning was one of marvellous fragrance and fresh 
 ness, when Deacon Carman, mounted on his favorite 
 bay mare, Kate, and accompanied by Fred, on the 
 snip-nosed chestnut colt, rode out to the great meeting 
 in the woods, near the centre of Aurora. It was to be 
 a primitive gathering, in a grand old beech and maple 
 forest, of all the faithful, of the inquiring and curious, 
 of the adjacent parts of Portage, Geauga, and Cuya- 
 hoga Counties, then as populous as now. To and 
 across the State road, west, and then south-westerty, the 
 ride was nearly ten miles to the point of meeting. 
 They started alone, passed footmen and heavy wagons, 
 and joined other horsemen, till, as they neared the 
 place, the} T were lost in a general procession, that 
 broke up and gathered about the stand. The woods
 
 THE GREAT PREACHER. 131 
 
 were full of horses and carriages, and the hundreds 
 already there were rapidly swelled to many thousands ; 
 all of one race, the Yankee ; all of one calling, or 
 nearl}-, the farmer; hardy, shrewd, sunburned, cool, 
 thoughtful, and intelligent. The disciples were, from 
 the first, emancipated from the Puritan slavery of the 
 Sabbath ; and, although grave, thoughtful, and serious, 
 as they were on this Sunday morning, it was from the 
 gravity and seriousness of the occasion, and little from 
 the day itself, an assemblage that Paul would have 
 been glad to preach to. 
 
 At the hour of eleven, Mr. Campbell and his party 
 took their places on the stand ; and after a short, 
 simple, preliminary service, conducted by another, he 
 came forward to the front. He was then about forty 
 years old, above the average height, of singular dignity 
 of form, and simple grace of manner. His was a splen 
 did head, borne well back, with a bold, strong fore 
 head, from which his fine hair was turned back ; a 
 strong, full, expressive eye, aquiline nose, fine mouth, 
 and prominent chin. He was a perfect master of him 
 self, a perfect master of his theme, and, from the 
 moment he stood in its presence, a perfect master of 
 his immense audience. 
 
 At a glance he took the measure and level of the 
 average mind before him a Scotchman's estimate of 
 the Yankee and began at that level ; and as he rose 
 from it, he took the assembled host with him. In 
 nothing was he like Rigdon ; calm, clear, strong, log 
 ical, yet perfectly simple. Men felt themselves lifted 
 and carried, and wondered at the ease and apparent 
 want of effort with which it was done.
 
 132 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 Nothing could be more transparent than his state 
 ment of his subject ; nothing franker than his admis 
 sions of its difficulties ; nothing more direct than his 
 enumeration of the means he must employ, and the 
 conclusions he must reach. "With great intellectual 
 resources, and great a'cquisitions, athlete and gladiator 
 as he was, he was a logician by instinct and habit of 
 mind, and took a pleasure in magnifying, to their 
 utmost, the difficulties of his positions, so that when 
 the latter were finally maintained, the mind was satis 
 fied with the result. His language was copious, his 
 style nervous, and the characteristic of his mind was 
 direct, manly, sustained vigor ; and under its play he 
 evolved a warmth which kindled to the fervor of sus 
 tained eloquence, and which, in the judgment of many, 
 is the only true eloquence. After nearly two hours, 
 his natural and logical conclusion was the old pente- 
 costal mandate of Simon Peter, and a strong, earn 
 est, manly and tender call of men to obedience. There 
 was no appeal to passion, no effort at pathos, no figures 
 or rhetoric, but a warm, kindling, heated, glowing, 
 manly argument, silencing the will, captivating the 
 judgment, and satisfying the reason ; and the cold, 
 shrewd, thinking, calculating Yankee liked it. 
 
 As the preacher closed, and stood for a response, no 
 answering movement came from any part of the crowd. 
 Men were running it over, and thinking. Unhesitat 
 ingly the orator stepped down from the platform, upon 
 the ground, and moving forward in the little open 
 space, began in a more fervid and impassioned strain. 
 He caught the mind at the highest point of its attain 
 ment, and grasping it, shook it with a half indignation
 
 THE GREAT PREACHER. 133 
 
 at its calculating hesitation, and carrying it with a 
 mighty sweep to a still higher level, seemed to pour 
 around it a diviner and more radiant light ; then, with 
 a little tremor in his voice, he implored it to hesitate 
 no longer. When he closed, low murmurs broke and 
 ran through the awed crowd ; men and women from 
 all parts of the vast assemblage, with streaming eyes, 
 came forward ; young men, who had climbed into the 
 small trees from curiosity, came down from conviction, 
 and went forward to baptism ; and the brothers and 
 sisters set up a glad hymn, sang with tremulous voices, 
 clasping hands, amid happy tears. 
 
 Thus, in that far-off time, in the maple woods, under 
 the June sun, the gospel was preached and received. 
 
 Fred, who had tied the horses in the woods, and 
 placed the saddles between the spreading roots of an 
 old elm, near the stand, in such a way as to form a 
 convenient and elevated seat, sat or stood upon them, 
 and never took his eyes from the face of the speaker 
 during the delivery of his masterly oration. Much of 
 it was within the easy grasp of his comprehension ; as 
 si. whole, it was beyond it, and the labor was too sus 
 tained for his boyish mind to follow. Nevertheless, 
 the impression upon his imagination was very great, 
 and the wish of standing in the midst of an immense 
 concourse, as on the present occasion, its centre and 
 dominant soul and mind, and of pouring out upon it an 
 overswecping tide of irresistible speech, argument, 
 logic and metaphor, and of seeing men move and bow 
 before it, as now he saw men about him, took, for the 
 time, complete mastery of him, and gave rise to dreams
 
 134 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 that ever after haunted him. After the service, he 
 went with Mr. Carman to the house of one of the dis 
 ciples, where they had dinner, and rode home in the 
 cool of the sweet June night.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 AUNT MARY DOES HER CHRISTIAN DUTY. 
 
 X 
 
 A FTER the wheat had been harvested, and hay 
 -^-j- made and stacked ; after the deep noon of sum 
 mer, when the white apples were ripening in the north 
 orchard, and the thick dark corn loaded the breeze 
 with its odor ; when the wild turke3'-hen ventured to 
 glean with her brood in the remote harvest fields, and 
 the shrill voices of the grasshopper and cricket came 
 from everywhere, and idle little urchins, with a many- 
 branched goad, chased the brown-coated, gay-winged 
 " flyers," amid the grass and ragweed, along the mar 
 gins of the lonely highways ; before the wheat sowing, 
 and corn and potato harvesting, and apple gathering 
 and cider making of fall, and the nutting over the 
 chestnut hills ; in the richer, longer, sweeter pause in 
 farm life, from late August to mid September, the Car- 
 mans Uncle Seth, and Aunt Mary, and little demure 
 Martha went to visit the Morrises, in their home 
 near Newton Falls, twenty -five miles away, quite a 
 journey at that day. 
 
 The elders had met two or three years before at one 
 
 of the great gatherings of their common faith ; and 
 
 although there was little else in common between them, 
 
 they became good friends, and the Morrises had the 
 
 (135)
 
 136 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 autumn before made the first visit to the Carmans a 
 courtesy which the latter were now to return. 
 
 The visit was a matter of much anxiety and agita 
 tion. The Morrises were wealth}-, cultivated, and in a 
 certain sense grand people, in their region. They 
 lived in what was great style for the West ; ate with 
 silver forks ; had been to Europe ; were a branch of 
 the revolutionary Morrises, in short. Uncle Seth had 
 been induced to buy a new carriage a sort of a 
 wagon on springs the harnesses were cleaned up, 
 and a pair of fine work-horses had been kept up for 
 many days for the occasion ; and Fred, with his good 
 clothes, was to go as driver, partly because he could 
 handle the horses well, partly because his appearance 
 was creditable, and a good deal because Aunt Mary 
 still maintained her jealous mistrust of him. The little 
 journey was made in mid September, when the weather 
 was splendid, and the roads at their best. 
 
 Mr. Morris, a cultivated gentleman of travel and 
 leisure, had a few years before moved to Ohio, to take 
 charge of a large inherited property, had built a spa 
 cious residence, surrounded it with beautiful grounds, 
 and filled it with elegant furniWre, and a few genuine 
 works of art. 
 
 Mrs. Morris was an accomplished woman of refined 
 culture. The eldest daughter, fast maturing into 
 womanhood, a lovely girl, was with them under an in 
 structress ; and the youngest, Belle, a child^ of ten, 
 with wonderful eyes and hair, rich in possible beauty, 
 with a far away cousin, young Williams, a boy of ten 
 or twelve the last^pf an attenuated race, that had 
 declined under the artificial life of luxury and later-
 
 AUNT MARY DOES HER CHRISTIAN DUTY. 137 
 
 marriage, so fatal to families in large cities consti 
 tuted the family. 
 
 The Carmans were received not only with the warmth 
 that then characterized the intercourse of the disciples, 
 who were preeminently governed by the democratic 
 notions which are the basis of Christian social life, but 
 with the simple naturalness of thorough refinement, 
 that will not endure the clogs and hindrances of cer- 
 emon}', and artificial phrases. They were at once at 
 their ease ; and Uncle Seth always maintained that 
 brother and sister Morris were the most genuine Chris 
 tians he had ever met. So much so that they dropped 
 that endearing title of brotherhood from their conver 
 sation. 
 
 When Aunt Man* decided to take. Fred, it was in the 
 exclusive character of driver, and this fact was duly 
 impressed upon him, and stated to others ; and in her 
 often-repeated programme and rehearsal of deportment 
 to her husband, Martha and Fred, he was reminded of 
 the role he was to fill ; Fred was used to the stable and 
 drivers. lie had not forgotten the first rude months at 
 Green's, nor the promotion that followed it, nor his 
 gilded and pampered life among the saints ; and on his 
 arrival at the Morrises, he expected to remain in charge 
 of the horses, lounge about the barn, stray about in the 
 open air, eat in the kitchen, and sleep anywhere. In 
 deed, he had not thought much about it. He was very 
 glad to go ; liked to drive horses, found almost an 
 ecstacy in riding through the country with little prattling 
 Martha by his side, who was too young to know any 
 reason why she should not love him, who had come to be 
 her watchful, thoughtful, big brother, whom she would
 
 138 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 * 
 
 as certainly admire and love all her childhood and 
 girlhood through. This at least would be his. 
 
 When the carriage drove through the maple and elm 
 avenue that led up to the mansion, Fred was at once 
 relieved of the horses ; and hardly knowing what to do, 
 stood apart while the host and hostess, with their 
 j-oung daughters, received their guests. Mrs. Morris 
 was about conducting them into the house, when, for 
 the first time, her eye fell upon the solitary boy. 
 " And who is this ? " with inquiring surprise. 
 
 " Oh ! that's our driver, our bound boy ; " with indif 
 ference from Aunt Mary. 
 
 " Indeed ! What is his name ? " 
 
 " Fred." 
 
 To the immense surprise of Aunt Man% Mrs. Morris 
 at once went to him, and giving him her hand in the 
 sweetest way, led him forward to her husband, and 
 named her daughters, and young Williams, as if he was 
 of the party. 
 
 Was it possible that these Morrises, with the inher 
 ited instincts of generations of culture and refinement, 
 recognized this sun-browned, modest boy as one who, 
 without question, belonged to them? They acted as if 
 they did ; and Uncle Seth always cited the conduct of 
 " Sister Morris " on this occasion, as proof of the 
 elevation to which the spirit of Christian meekness and 
 charity at once raised its happy possessor. 
 
 Not wholly in vain, so far as his manners and de 
 portment were concerned, had been Fred's residence 
 with the saints ; and not without advantages in this 
 respect, had he associated with sweet and tender Lily, 
 and teasing, coquetting Eose. More than once did
 
 AUNT MARY DOES HER CHRISTIAN DUTY. 139 
 
 Mrs. Morris, during supper, cast her eye to where Fred 
 sat \jy Maud, and study the dark, large eyes, and finely- 
 turned and cut nostril, already thin and beautifully 
 defined, for a boy of fourteen or fifteen, listening to his 
 quiet, gentlemanly answers, and the many questions of 
 the vivacious Maud. 
 
 The false position in which Fred seemed to stand in 
 this innocent circle, disturbed Aunt Mar}-, and she 
 thought that " Mrs. Morris ought to know." True, 
 they should be there but a da}* or two ; still she felt it 
 her duty to tell her, and put her on her guard, as she 
 did everybody ; and Aunt Mary had easily attained 
 that Christian excellence that rendered every duty of 
 this kind a pleasure as well. 
 
 As for Fred, a sort of pleasant glamour came over him 
 the moment he entered the house. The lofty, spacious 
 rooms, with their hangings and pictures, their carpets 
 and furniture, something in the air, somehow, 
 vaguely made impressions, like the haunting memory 
 of a dream ; and he could not help looking about as if 
 from something he would catch a clue to it ; and more 
 than once Mrs. Morris found his 63-68 upon her, as if 
 he \\ould ask a question, and as the impression deep 
 ened on him, perhaps he would have done so. 
 
 During the next day, and while the }"oung people 
 were amusing themselves in the grounds, Mrs. Carman, 
 seated in an arbor a little remote, and exposed to the 
 sun for the benefit of a rare grape that covered the 
 south side of it, discharged her Christian duty to Mrs. 
 Morris, telling in a very straightforward, intelligent, 
 and pointed way, everything which she did not know 
 about the origin and life of her driver. Mrs. Morris
 
 140 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 was surprised and pained beyond measure ; and not the 
 least cause of her surprise was, that her visitor should 
 have told her at all. Perhaps Aunt Mary would have 
 been no less surprised had she known how widely her 
 sense of Christian duty differed from that of the noble 
 and exalted woman who sat looking at her in amaze 
 ment. When she recovered, she inquired, " Does he 
 know anything of this ? " 
 
 " Of course. It is talked about all over Mantua." 
 " No doubt of that ; " quietly, with a little strain in 
 her voice. " Does he ever say anj'thing about himself? " 
 " Not a word." 
 
 " God in mere}' pity him ! Oh, poor boy ! " 
 Fred, who had been strolling about, talking and 
 laughing with the girls, and brighter and happier than 
 he had ever been, was attracted by the ripening clusters 
 of grapes on the arbor, unaware that it was occupied. 
 He reached it just at the pause that followed the per 
 formance of Aunt Mary's Christian duty, and was an 
 involuntary listener to the conversation that followed 
 as above. He heard the whole of it without taking 
 its application ; but the last words gave it point, and 
 smote him like a blow. After a moment of stunned 
 amazement, he turned away with hot tears in his eyes, 
 and his face burning with shame. 
 
 " Oh, poor, poor boy ! " The atmosphere of Mantua 
 was full of this ; but to his ears the words had never 
 before been spoken ; and now the}- were uttered by the 
 woman whom he wanted to kneel down to and worship. 
 He rushed awaj-, clambered over the enclosures, 
 traversed the fields, and found shelter in the woods. 
 More than once he looked up at the sky and sun,
 
 AUNT MARY DOES HER CHRISTIAN DUTY. 141 
 
 and around, to see if his shadow still followed him. 
 He dashed into a thicket of brush on the margin 
 of the field, and gathering the 3'oung stems in his arms, 
 he threw himself on the ground with their branches and 
 leaves over him, and groaned, and longed to die. The 
 shadow that was over him had darkened into a palpable 
 cloud. The invisible chain with which he was so darkly 
 bound was now revealed. 
 
 Death would not come, and he thought of flight ; he 
 would run away, and never stop running. He thought 
 of the little hovel by the river, of the dying woman, 
 not his mother, and of little John, and then of his boat ; 
 why did he not commit himself to it, and float down 
 the river or drown ? 
 
 But he was born to it ; he might not escape. He 
 thought of Aunt Sally, perhaps she was his mother. 
 He knew that he loved her, and she had enjoined him 
 to remain in Mantua, and then came the image of sweet 
 Lily. Mr. Carman, of course, knew it, yet he liked x 
 him ; and little Martha, but she would know, and 
 he arose and wandered about the woods till he grew 
 cooler and more thoughtful. Then his pride came up, 
 and his inborn manhood, and he grew indignant. What 
 had he done? Was he not as perfect in form, strong, 
 and as full of courage as other boys? He would face 
 this world and fight it, and would not be despised or 
 scorned. Beside, had he not always lived alone? 
 
 They should go back to Mantua in the morning, 
 and it \vas now mid-afternoon. He would linger about 
 till evening, and then go in. They need not see much 
 of him ; nobody would want him. He had talked of 
 riding that evening with Maud, and Belle, and Martha,
 
 142 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 and Ed Williams ; hut what would they care for 
 him? 
 
 Fred was missed, and nobody knew where he was ; 
 nobody had seen him, and the girls took their ride 
 without him. As they were assembling for supper he 
 came in a little pale, and looking weary. He explained 
 that he was tempted into the woods, had wandered 
 about, and took the wrong way out ; apologized to 
 Miss Maud, and sat down to the table. He had not 
 looked at Mrs. Morris, and when he ventured to raise 
 his eyes to her, he met her glance full of sweet tender 
 ness and compassion. He didn't want pity and com 
 passion ; he had found his pride ; nobody need pity 
 him, and he avoided her as far as he could while they 
 remained. 
 
 The next morning, after breakfast, the horses were 
 driven around ; kind words were being spoken on the 
 piazza ; messages to Sarah and Elias, and all the little 
 nothings and somethings of leave-taking were being 
 said and done. Fred, who had kept himself reticent 
 and aloof as much as his good breeding would permit, 
 was standing a little apart, and posed naturally against 
 a pillar that sustained the roof of the piazza ; while Ed 
 Williams, who had become his great admirer, stood 
 near him, observing him with silent admiration, with 
 Belle resting her two hands on one of his shoulders, 
 and admiring Fred because Ed did. As Fred returned 
 his kindly look, he could not help contrasting their 
 conditions. True, Ed was an orphan, but he was the 
 heart and centre of this enchanted castle of luxury and 
 love, petted and cherished ; while he 
 
 Patience and endurance, my poor boy ! This page
 
 AUNT MARY DOES HER CHRISTIAN DUTY. 143 
 
 has received something beside the ink that tells your 
 story. Can't you see, by the preternatu rally large 
 bright eyes, shrunken temple, and light thin hair, by 
 the compressed chest and sloping girl-shoulders, that 
 life, and its riches of achievement, of strength and 
 power, are not for him? He may not endure, and at 
 the best may only dream. Endure, work, and grow 
 strong ; be docile, and learn to obey. Grow, spread out 
 your shoulders, let your spine become a column, let 
 your lungs expand and deepen, your blood-vessels 
 enlarge, and the base of your brain increase. No 
 matter about the rest ; unfold and develop slowly. The 
 germs of great events are being deposited here and 
 there, and a wonderful field is to be reaped ; men must 
 spring and grow up for the day of harvest. They don't 
 always come from cities or the old crowded ways. 
 They as often spring up in solitude, and come from 
 obscure places. Of the boys now fourteen years old, 
 no mortal can select one of the ten or fifteen who shall 
 rule forty or fifty years hence ; and probably no man 
 could designate one of the one hundred distinguished, 
 or even of the one thousand prominent men of that 
 coming time. 
 
 It is bitter and sad for 3^011, as you lean against a post 
 this bright morning, so young and friendless and un 
 knowing. But a field shall be listed, the trumpet shall 
 call the champions, with no common men among them, 
 the array shall be set, the charge sounded, strong arms 
 shall wield trenchant blades, and plumes and crests 
 shall be shorn away, and helmets sundered, and skulls 
 cloven ; men shall go down, and standards swerve and
 
 144 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 be lost ; some shall win, and there shall be a crowning 
 for some. 
 
 While Fred and Ed and Belle were thus admiring 
 each other, the adieus had been said, and the horses 
 came forward. Mrs. Morris, coming up to Fred, asked 
 him to accept a beautiful new volume of Shakespeare, 
 which he had admired, saying that he must receive 
 it as a token of the interest she felt in him ; and that 
 if Maud visited Sarah the next spring, he must furnish 
 her with a good riding-horse, and attend her, to see 
 that no harm came to her. This may have been in 
 tended for another as well. Fred, though greatly sur 
 prised, managed to thank her decently and simply. 
 Then they all shook hands with him, when his party 
 entered the carriage, and he drove away.
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 TWELVE YEARS. TIME'S CHANGES. 
 
 "TTTHEN we lose the grasp of details, we lose the 
 V V grasp of interest as well. 
 
 What a long period of time is twelve years to look 
 forward to ! What a little gasp of breath, choked 
 with dead dust and ashes, to look back upon ; on the 
 thither side of that period I linger a moment, to mark 
 the vicissitudes of these years upon the persons of my 
 stoiy, ere resuming the threads of it with such as 
 have survived. 
 
 Jones, with whom was little John, had moved West, 
 taking thai young specimen with him, and Sam War 
 den, somewhat improved since the change in the pro 
 prietorship of the Green Tavern, had migrated with 
 him. 
 
 Lily the sweet and tender lily of the valley never 
 reached Cuba. Her disease developed so rapidly, that 
 from New Orleans her mother carried her home to die, 
 and herself never again struck harps with the saints 
 of the latter days. 
 
 Rose, in time, married a prominent young saint, and 
 leads and lives the life of a woman in Utah. 
 
 Mary Mary found all too soon the inspiration of 
 the revelations made to her that instead of being 
 10 (145)
 
 146 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 called by a miracle to a holy maternity, she was to be 
 come the . This was indeed a true revelation ; its 
 shame and agony drove her mad, and in her frenzy 
 she washed life and memory out, in the waters of the 
 creek. Act of Providence ! 
 
 And Judith, and the Prophet : on the twenty- 
 seventh of June, 1844, the log jail in the dreary little 
 town of Carthage was surrounded by a murderous mob. 
 Inveigled to give himself up on the solemn assurance 
 of safety from the Governor of Illinois, the Prophet, 
 with his brother Hyram, was now to suffer martj-rdom. 
 Hyram, blameless, save as the brother of Joseph, 
 calmly confronted the murderers, arid fell praying for 
 them. Not so the lion-hearted Prophet. He con 
 fronted them with a revolver, which he emptied among 
 them, and then with marvellous strength and agility 
 sprang to a window, supposed to be out of his reach, 
 and, strongly guarded, dashed it out, to fall dead on 
 the outside. As his assassins gathered about him, a 
 woman, with a cry of agon}*, leaped into 'their midst, 
 and throwing herself upon the fallen man, eagerly ex- 
 plore"d the face, the eyes and mouth ; and when she 
 found no sign of life, she rose to the full majest}- of 
 her splendid form, and in her dark and terrible beauty 
 confronted the cowardly slaj-ers, and was left alone 
 with her dead. 
 
 In the struggle for the supremacy which ensued 
 among the followers of the late Prophet, the deeper, 
 shrewder, and more politic Brigham Young prevailed 
 against Rigdon. The latter was contumacious, tried, 
 cut off, and consigned by an elaborate curse to expiate 
 his sins by a thousand years of exile from the commu-
 
 TWELVE YEARS. TIME'S CHANGES. 147 
 
 nion of the saints, and departed. An adherent of his 
 lingered until, by artifice and simulation, he secured 
 certain papers, supposed -to be of advantage to the 
 fallen chief, with which he too departed, some time in 
 the winter following. 
 
 In a small, close, wretched vault of a room in the 
 basement of the Presidency, in the centre of the city 
 of Nauvoo, a strong building, part residence, part 
 castle, half tavern, half brothel, half gambling s"aloon, 
 and all hell ; in a lower sink, strong in wall, strong in 
 stench, and strongest in polyglot filth, grovelled John 
 Green. Long ago, but slowly and very surel}', had 
 John awaked from a delusion which an infirmity in his 
 moral conduct had helped him into, stripped utterly of 
 his money and lauds, while under its first influence, to 
 which fear and remorse lent their help. As he escaped 
 from the thrall of superstition, something of his courage 
 returned, and all of his old greed. At first he hinted at 
 full restitution, then at partial, and finally asked to be 
 placed in some position, or helped to some business, 
 out of which money might be made. He grew des 
 perate, and with desperation came more courage and 
 less prudence, and from begging he changed to threats. 
 These were fatal. The Prophet had become really 
 powerful, and brutal as well, and in a way felt that he 
 was but meting out deserved punishment. He pro 
 nounced John possessed of the devil, and sentenced 
 him to be delivered over for buffeting. 
 
 This was upon the first emigration West, when a cell 
 was constructed on purpose for Green, and where, in 
 the late autumn, after the Prophet's death, emaciated, 
 bent, grisly, tattered, and foul, he lay grovelling, as he
 
 148 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 had done for years, in his vile den, with his sunken 
 eyes peering fearfull}' about in the gray light, with his 
 matted, unkempt hair, in filth}' dangles, hanging about 
 his wrinkled, hideous face, and his shrunken arms, and 
 skeleton, long-nailed fingers reeking with the filth in 
 which they raked. For a marvel, he was not mad. 
 One human being alone hovered near to watch over, 
 aid, alleviate, and possibly love him, and he must have 
 sorely tried the capacity of even woman to love. The 
 sister whose early life he had embittered, whose ma 
 ture life, for his own safety, he had slandered, and 
 whose whole life he had darkened, had followed, 
 waited, watched, helped, and when she could she had 
 cheered and consoled him. She had always held a cer 
 tain consideration in the household of the Prophet, 
 who had a shrewd suspicion that she had aided in the 
 escape of Fred, whom he had summarily cut off, and 
 she found occasions to ameliorate the wretched condi 
 tion of John. One steady incentive urged her to this : 
 the fact that a secret dearer to her than life, she had 
 never been able to penetrate. 
 
 Upon the change of the head of the Mormon polity, 
 Sally had besieged Brigham to release her brother 
 from durance. He knew nothing of the case, and was 
 too busy. When again urged, he found nobody who 
 knew anything of the case, nor did any record or mem 
 orandum show anything of it. Sally had a reputation 
 for honesty and fidelity, and was personally well- 
 known to the new President. Finally, toward the 
 spring of 1845, he gave an order for John's enlarge 
 ment. It did not come a moment too early. The 
 door was finally opened unwoutedly, a party camo
 
 TWELVE YEARS. TIME'S CHANGES. 149 
 
 and, nauseated by the liberated effluvia, fished him 
 out. lie was clarified, and carried to Sally's room, 
 but he never rallied. Beckoning her to him, and pulling 
 her close down to his blue, shrivelled lips, with one hand, 
 while with the other he feebly deprecated the approach 
 of intrusive spirits, with a mental declaration- to them 
 that he would make it all right now, he brokenly and 
 still hesitatingly whispered into her eager ear a few 
 disconnected words, which would have conveyed noth 
 ing to another, and which, after all, he intended 
 should convey nothing to her. Something more she 
 would have known and waited for was about to 
 ask but the voice and the breath that formed it 
 never came again. And the only conscious gleam 
 of satisfaction that solaced that final moment to the 
 dying man arose from the thought that he had con 
 veyed but a doubtful meaning, and was bearing one 
 item away with him, while the onlooking shadows 
 must suppose that it was all right at last. 
 
 A few kind hands laid the remains of John Green in 
 the Potters Field of the saints ; and in the early spring, 
 without money, and a little bundle of worn clothes, 
 on foot, and alone, the faithful and now aged woman 
 turned her face eastward, to fulfil the only wish of her 
 heart. 
 
 Twelve years had brought mam- changes to Mantua ; 
 the settlers had increased, new houses had been built, 
 fields and clearings had spread out, improvements been 
 made, roads were much better, and the whole was rap 
 idly assuming the appearance of an old, long-settled, 
 prosperous, and wealthy community. Uncle Bill, and 
 David Fenton, and Chapman, were little changed ;
 
 150 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 Delano had left the store, and Lewis Turner, who 
 drove stage when we were last in Mantua, and was a 
 friend of Fred's, was now the prosperous owner of the 
 old and greatly improved Green Tavern. 
 
 At the Carmans, to the eye, thrift and prosperity 
 seemed to have dropped from the passing twelve years. 
 The old pear-tree had risen many feet ; the house was 
 newly painted ; the fences were upright and neat ; 
 ornamental trees larger ; the j-ards clean ; the farm had 
 stretched east, and ascended nearly to the summit of 
 the Hiram hill, where it presented a rough and stumpy 
 aspect under the afternoon sun. 
 
 Uncle Seth was as composed, sturdy, and cheerful 
 as when we left him faced towards home, on the return 
 from the Morrises. His face was still to the New 
 Jerusalem of his faith, cheerful and hopeful. He still 
 arose, did the chores, had his breakfast, read whatever 
 chapter was reached in the course, and said the same old, 
 sweet, simple, hopeful prayer ; after which he arose, and 
 supplying his mouth from the same old steel tobacco- 
 box, assembled his workmen on the little north porch, 
 where hung the saddles and harnesses, and announced 
 the day's programme, which, like the syllogism, was an 
 argument of three propositions : the invariable " Fustby, 
 Nextly, and Finally." He still sold his young horses, 
 and took promissory notes, which he alwa3's failed to 
 collect. Indeed, so chronic had this practice become, 
 that when one was paid he looked grave over it, 
 as a strange event, betokening the end of all things. 
 He still sold his young cattle to Heard, who never 
 failed to pay ; and his pork and cider and apples to a 
 hungry, promising set of settlers in the "VYelchfield and
 
 TWELVE YEARS. TIME'S CHANGES. 151 
 
 Hiram woods, to be paid for in days' works, at fifty 
 cents a day, at chopping wood or in haying and har 
 vesting ; and he always spent a week on old Kate's 
 back, drumming these unperforming forces together, and 
 then went and hired two or three good hands, and did 
 up the work in two weeks. He still, on every first da}', 
 drove to the South School-house, and heard Darwin's 
 sermons with unabated interest and profit, and in his 
 quiet, serene way, got about as much out of human 
 life as it will }-ield. 
 
 Aunt Mary was still comely and fresh-complex-ioned. 
 She still distributed flax and wool among her hand 
 maidens, and furnished her harvest tables with the 
 most marvellous dinners. Her face had softened, and 
 the old flash came more seldom to her still black eyes, 
 and her voice was an octave lower. Possibly her 
 views of Christian dmVy may have practically changed, 
 and much had happened to modify them. 
 
 Sarah had matured to a tall, handsome } T oung woman ; 
 had been away to school, was married, and lived with 
 her husband and three beautiful children in Rootstown. 
 
 Elias came home from school at the age of twenty, 
 laid his great square-browed head upon his pillow, and 
 died. He was smitten with a fever ; and when his case 
 became desperate, and the family, worn and exhausted, 
 knew not where to turn, Fred came in upon them, after 
 years of absence and estrangement. In his gentle wa} r , 
 with his cool strong hands and great calm eyes, tender 
 and considerate, and nerves that never knew a tremor, 
 he took him and them in his arms and carried them to 
 the end ; then, without awaiting thanks, went his way. 
 
 Little demure Martha was twenty, a shapely, sweet girl,
 
 152 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 with black piquant eyes, and full of womanly ways. 
 She had been very thoroughly educated, and her hands 
 and presence had shed an air of grace and refinement 
 over and through the farm-house, which such a j'oung 
 woman can only glamour a home with. 
 
 In her maiden reveries, had the thought approached 
 her that it would be sweet to have Fred return in a 
 different role from that of big brother? If it ever had, 
 it disappeared in the presence of an actual lover ; and 
 now the conscious j'oung maiden was the happy prom 
 ised of a deserving youth, to whom May-daj-, or some 
 early day of the coming season, was to see her united. 
 
 And Fred, what of Fred? Do yon really care for 
 him ? Patience, for a little, we shall soon see and hear 
 much of him.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 BELLE MORRIS. 
 
 IN mid December, in Aunt Mary's sitting-room, sits 
 Belle Morris, as she was still called, notwithstanding 
 her marriage, alone and musing, as was her habit ; she 
 rises and walks to a window, against the wainscoting 
 of which she poses with a marvellous unstudied grace. 
 Indeed, her form could never fall outside the folds and 
 lines of grace. It seems at first above the ordinary 
 American height, owing to the perfection and harmony 
 of all that makes up its completed whole. 
 
 Her hair of a rich brown, from which, in her day 
 of half asceticism, she never could expel the wave 
 was disposed of purposely, a little low over the broad 
 brow, to shade its height. Her eyes, also brown, with 
 a violet shade, wide apart, were almost too large for 
 her face, though that was by no means diminutive, 
 and were full of dreamy power. What perfect cheeks 
 and chin, with a mobile mouth, made specially to win 
 and to defy description ! How short its upper lip, and 
 how straight the almost Grecian nose, with its thin, 
 delicate nostril ! The face wore an almost religious 
 calmness, but was warm, and sweet, and alive ; a 
 possible St. Catherine, or St. Theresa, but not a bit of 
 a Madonna ; she had been married, was a widow, and 
 (153)
 
 154: THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 now, at twenty-three, had never dreamed of the latent 
 energy and gtrength that lay under her softness and 
 sweetness ; and she would have been startled, and 
 possibly shocked, at the depth and fervor of the passions 
 that were so deeply hidden, that they had never whis 
 pered of their existence. If they had, it was like the 
 leaves of a tree moved by the breath of night ; the tree 
 feels the stir, all unconscious of the cause, or of the 
 power of a tempest. In all the wide world within ken, 
 what can the eye fall upon that so interests as a gifted 
 woman, perfect in her parts and forces, and all un 
 conscious of her possessions and capabilities, save, 
 indeed, the same woman, fully developed, swayed and 
 controlled, and swaying and controlling by her latent 
 powers? Does she dream to-day, of what? Does 
 she think? What occupies her mind? Does she 
 remember, what images of the past come to her? 
 Does she look forward, for what does she hope? 
 She has suffered, as all do ; she had lost the rarest of 
 mothers ; she had her young husband severed from 
 her oh, years ago! and the image of each came 
 with the tender halo with which time invests all our dead. 
 In the spring following the visit of the Carmans, in 
 that now old time, Mrs. Morris had mysteriously died. 
 Death is always a mystery, no matter how natural the 
 cause, or how clearly foreseen and expected. Why will 
 people die? The blow shattered the family, and sent 
 the survivors abroad. The Ohio propert}- was sold, all 
 but the homestead, so sweetly sacred to the mother's 
 memory, and so haunted with her presence. At length 
 Maud was married to a Philadelphia gentleman, but 
 lived a good deal of the time with her father, -when at
 
 BELLE MORRIS. 155 
 
 his Ohio home, and he really had no other. "Wher 
 ever the father went, he was accompanied by Belle, and 
 young Williams, a ward of Mr. Morris, and a shadowy 
 relation. From an early day, it was the wish of Mrs. 
 Morris, and Edward's mother, that their young children 
 should ultimately become husband and wife. After the 
 death of Mrs. Williams, her son resided with the Mor 
 rises ; and this favorite idea, accepted and acted upon, 
 became the controlling one in the association and edu 
 cation of the young people, who grew up with and into 
 it. There was a vein of religious enthusiasm in the 
 nature of Mr. Morris, which, in a less cultivated man, 
 would have developed into fanaticism. Belle shared .it 
 somewhat, and the idea of a restoration to the church 
 of the primitive faith and practices, and, possibly, of 
 the gifts and graces of the first disciples, always a 
 favorite idea with him, after the loss of his wife, came 
 to exercise great control over him. Into this current 
 the slight, dreanry, imaginative Edward early fell ; and 
 the three, living much alone, and always together, and 
 with few others about them, save the teachers of the 
 children, floated dreamily and pleasantly into unprac 
 tical ways and habits of life and thought. 
 
 When Belle was fifteen, they had spent many years 
 in Europe, and partly by reason of the failing health of 
 Edward, whose physical frame and stock of vitality 
 were incapable of carrying far, or of enduring long- 
 It soon became apparent that a few years would, at 
 the farthest, bring his life to a close. The children 
 were greatly attached ; but their love was purely of a 
 spiritual, unimpassioned type, and such as might well 
 subsist between two enthusiastic young girls. On the
 
 156 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 part of Edward, it was the love of a rarefied devotee 
 for a canonized saint, which no touch of earth had col 
 ored ; on that of Belle, the tenderness of a sister for a 
 helpless brother, elevated by her spiritual sympathies, 
 and an ardent and exalted wish to associate with such 
 celestial essences as a purified soul may become in 
 beatitude after death. As it became apparent that 
 Edward must inevitably soon undergo this change, 
 the desire to be united in the bands of marriage 
 became strong in their hearts, and Belle's father was 
 in a morbid frame of mind, which made him readily 
 acquiesce. Maud and her husband were in America, 
 and no voice was there to suggest delay, or a doubt of 
 the expediency of the proposed marriage. When Belle, 
 who matured slowly, was sixteen, and Edward, who 
 was twenty, and incapable of maturity, at the Amer 
 ican Legation, in Naples, they were married. No dif 
 ference in their relations occurred, and none in their 
 mode of life, save that they occupied a suite of rooms 
 in common ; and when, at the end of six months, the 
 feeble flame of Edward's life grew fainter, and at last 
 went out, the bride, who had become a widow, with the 
 deep, earnest sorrow of a tender and devoted sister for 
 a lost brother, mourned for a husband who was only a 
 bridegroom. Nothing on earth was purer, tenderer, 
 and holier than this union, and noiie so free from 
 the passion and ecstas} r of the lower world. The 
 mourners returned to the United States with the re 
 mains of the lost one. He had lived the full and 
 ripened life allotted him, and performed the only mission 
 possible to him. He had been the love, stay, and hope 
 of a bereaved, unknowing, hoping mother ; had touched
 
 BELLE MORRIS. 157 
 
 the life, without mingling with its deeper current, of a 
 gifted young girl, and }-et with a force sufficient to 
 shape and prepare it for a high mission ; and in the 
 fulness of his time he departed. 
 
 On his return to his own country, Mr. Morris felt 
 a revival of his old interest in human affairs, and he 
 devoted himself to the education of Belle, travelled 
 much with her, and finally, resuming the occupancy 
 of his Ohio residence, felt a return of some of the old 
 health of spirit. 
 
 Within the last year Belle and Martha had met, and 
 formed very suddenly one of those miraculous young- 
 women friendships ; and, while her father had permit 
 ted himself to be called off for a month or two, she had 
 accepted Martha's invitation to spend the time with 
 her. As she was also informed of Martha's engage 
 ment, though removed from the possibility of such a 
 position by her spiritual wifehood, which she regarded 
 as untouched by her husband's death, and which would 
 render any earthly love a spiritual bigamy, she yet had, 
 in an intense degree, a young, fresh, woman's it may 
 be said, a girl's interests and sympathies in the loves, 
 engagements, and marriages of others ; for, with her, 
 marriage was eternal. The wish to be with Martha, to 
 talk over with her all the thousand sweet and interest 
 ing little nothings that spring out of the rich and 
 romantic soil of an engagement and approaching wed 
 ding, for which many preparations were going forward, 
 was much stronger than the wish of joining Maud in 
 Philadelphia ; and so she came to Mantua, as we see. 
 
 Her association with her boy husband, her life with 
 her father, her sisterly intercourse with Maud's hus-
 
 158 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 band, a man of the most refined manners, had given 
 her an exalted ideal of the purity and tenderness of 
 man's nature, while her life, her readings, and studj T , 
 had not led her to explore the annals of his lusts, 
 cruelty, and brutality ; and when instances of his 
 grosser nature fell under her observation, they were 
 the exceptional outbreaks of exceptional monsters that 
 still sprang from the great original perversion of the 
 race. Not without noble uses was her life ; and in her 
 surroundings, especially in Ohio, the objects and oppor 
 tunities for charit} T were rare : such as came to her 
 and she was diligent in searching them out she ac 
 cepted thankfulh', and improved to the utmost. No 
 languishing, shrinking, frail, helpless girl was she, but 
 full of robust health and spirit, and womanliness, that 
 delighted in horses, and out-door, exciting exercise, 
 while the serene and pervasive inner life, in which 
 she impassivety floated and dreamed, was due wholly 
 to the free consecration of herself to the dim shadow 
 of the past, and the absence of any strong and in 
 spiring cause of change or emotion.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 LJ) ELLE brought her riding-dress, saddle and whip 
 JLJ with her, and a plenty of robust disposition to 
 use them, rnaugre the December weather. She had a 
 room adjoining Martha's, and communicating with it, 
 and in the atmosphere of these cultivated young 
 women a little world of glamour and romance sprang 
 up, joyous with mirth, and bright with ripples of 
 laughs, and glad with gay streamlets of womanish 
 talk. Both had deep veins of feeling and sympathy ; 
 both had suffered losses, both had recovered the old 
 buoyancy, and both were healthy in soul, mind and 
 body. They had no beaux, no male callers, were re 
 mote from a town, two miles from a post-office, with 
 no near neighbors. But they had a lover, one who 
 for all social purposes was held in common. Martha 
 had an engagement-ring, and one large room was even 
 then in the hands of a dressmaker from Ravenna, and 
 many bright odd things of brides' wear were in mys 
 terious process of fabrication, or growth, or conjura 
 tion, by the hocus pocus unknown to prosaic man. 
 
 Martha's lover lived in Louisville, was a merchant, 
 and a darling. Next to the luxury of a lover, was the 
 luxury of a friend to confide him to, arid talk him over 
 (159)
 
 160 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 with. These, both in perfection, were now Martha's. 
 There never was such a dear, sympathizing, ingenuous 
 love of a confidant as Belle. It all came out very soon and 
 very naturally. Martha at first was coy about details ; 
 but nothing could resist the pertinacious, coaxing, teas 
 ing Belle, until she knew it all, and the} r talked it up and 
 over, and in reverse, and by enfilading. Plow inex 
 haustible it was ! It was the old story, and contra 
 dicted the poetic maxim. Their true love ran smoothly, 
 from its inception, and as true should and would, if let 
 alone. The curious Belle was anxious that Martha 
 should analyze her feelings and emotions, separate and 
 explain them, so that she might know how she felt 
 towards her lover. 
 
 " I love him ! " with a sweet frankness. 
 
 " Yes, I know ; but how do 3 7 ou feel toward him?" 
 
 " Wh}' , Belle ! and you, who married the youth of 
 your choice, to ask such a question ! Didn't you love 
 him?" 
 
 " Of course ; but different girls may feel differently, 
 you know." 
 
 " Well, how did you feel? Perhaps Ave are alike." 
 
 This seemed fair, and Belle answered : " Well, yon 
 know, Edward and I always lived and grew up to 
 gether ; and our child liking simply grew with us, and 
 in no way changed with our marriage." 
 
 "Was he dearer to you than all the world, your 
 life and soul ? " 
 
 " Of course he was very dear to me." 
 
 " Did you prefer his presence to that of all others 
 under the sun ? " -
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 161 
 
 "All m}*- friends my father, my mother, Maud, 
 and Edward all give me exquisite happiness." 
 
 " Oh, fudge ! " exclaimed the mocking Martha ; 
 " j'ou were never in love." 
 
 " So Maud says, and sometimes she is out of patience 
 with me, and asks me why I cling to that ghost of a 
 shadow. She says our marriage was the union of a 
 doll with a rag baby, and wonders I will regard it as 
 binding." 
 
 "Do you?" 
 
 " It was a marriage, sacred and solemn, and for 
 eternity ; ' the twain became one.' " 
 
 " ' One flesh,' " said Martha, a little contemptuous!}*, 
 " not one spirit." 
 
 " Why, Martha ; you sweet, pious girl, you shock 
 me ! Don't you look forward to an eternal union with 
 your Henry ? " 
 
 " Of course I do. He is a man to me, the one of 
 his sex, my ideal, and I love as a fond, weak, pas 
 sionate girl loves such a man. I believe in him ; I 
 want to be his wife. To serve him, cheer him, make 
 him happ}*, die for him or with him, and go and be 
 with him ! " said the warm-hearted and somewhat ex 
 cited girl. 
 
 " And this is woman's love for man," musingly ; 
 " and man's for woman, the real noble and true, is 
 worship, made up of reverence and tenderness ; cherish 
 ing, sustaining, protecting, carrying ! " And dropping 
 her face for a moment, she arose and went to a 
 window. 
 
 "Oh, Belle! Belle!" said Martha, "with all your 
 11
 
 162 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 wonderful gifts, which the noblest man alive hardly 
 deserves, I wish you'd fall in love." 
 
 " Why, Martha ! I have a husband. You wicked 
 thing." 
 
 -' Well, I do, and I hope to live to see it." 
 
 " Thank 3*011, Martha. Do yon believe- persons ever 
 fall in love, as 3*011 call it? You did not. Do you 
 put so much faith in the poets ? " 
 
 " Yes, I believe it. I believe that it sometimes hap 
 pens that two who are specially fitted for each other, 
 and neither has any existing fancy, may see and feel 
 this fitness at once, and so fall in love. Don't 3*011? " 
 
 " I don't know. The nearest I ever came to such a 
 thing, was with a portrait which I saw in Florence. 
 It was of a man who had died, and the husband of 
 another, and as old as 1113* father. It was the portrait 
 of the last of one of the old Huguenot families of South 
 Carolina. There were generations of that old Norman 
 blood, once ennobled, in him, and 3*ou could see it in 
 every lineament of his face. Something loftrv, and 
 noble, that would easily become haught} T , but was soft, 
 sweet, and somehow compelling. When that portrait 
 it was full length steps down from its sort of 
 rustic frame, like the entrance into an arbor, and comes 
 to me, I shall fear for m3 T self." 
 
 " Wli3*, Belle, you are enthusiastic. I hope 3*ou'll 
 meet him." 
 
 " I used to go every da3* and stand before it ; and 
 the original was one that a noble, true woman did fall 
 in love with, and her life has been tragicall3 r wretched. 
 I will tell 3 T ou the story some time. We were then at
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 163 
 
 her house, every day for weeks, and Edward began to 
 dislike my looking at the portrait so much." 
 
 " Jealous of a portrait ! He was a queer man." 
 
 " No,vpot jealous ; but he thought my interest in the 
 story was, perhaps, almost unhealthy. " 
 
 "Tell it tome, do." 
 
 " Not now ; we were talking of love, and bright 
 things. Wait till some day when we are in the mood." 
 
 " I've been wondering whether Fred might come 
 while you are here. Mr. Skinner said that he saw him 
 last summer, and he said he meant to come to Mantua 
 this winter. I wish he would. He is of the high and 
 noble look of your portrait. Oh ! I'd give the world 
 to have you two fall in love." 
 
 "Tell me about him. I remember him 'as a very 
 handsome boy, and my mother was much taken by 
 him, and I want much to know what became of him." 
 
 " JS T ot to-night," said Martha, pensively. " His 
 story, too, has something of sadness, even the little I 
 know of him, and his last visit here was in that awful 
 time, not to-night ; to-morrow, or some time."
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 FRED. 
 
 promised," said Belle, one day, when the 
 J- girls were in a grave mood, "to tell me some 
 thing about Fred Warden ; do 3-011 feel like it now ? " 
 
 " You will not think ill of poor, dear mother. She, 
 like others, has her peculiarities, and one of them was 
 to dislike and distrust poor Fred. She was honest in 
 the feeling, and could not help it. Poor, dear mother, 
 what would she not give, and all of us, to recall some 
 things of the past ! " very softly and sadly. 
 
 " Fred lived with us for about two }'ears, as a bound 
 boy. How strange that seems to me ! He was faith 
 ful, quiet, and unassuming. You've heard ? " 
 
 " Yes," a little impatiently. 
 
 " Well, of course he knew of that, and seemed very 
 sad for a long time after we came back from your house ; 
 I think he must have heard something while we were gone. 
 He never went anywhere, unless specially asked, and sel 
 dom then ; when not at work he was reading, unless he 
 was in the woods with a gun, or training a horse. He 
 went to school the two winters, and I remember him as 
 very quiet, ver}' pleasant, and thoughtful. Father was 
 very much attached to him, and he and 'Lias became 
 veiy warm friends, .or would have been. Well, mother 
 (164)
 
 FRED. 165 
 
 did not like him, could not bear him ; he could do 
 nothing to suit her, and finally did not try much. She 
 seemed somehow to fear that Sarah would think too 
 much of him, and was finding ways to keep him at work 
 in the kitchen, or somewhere, and I fear he did not for 
 get that he was a bound boy, whatever else he may 
 have had to remember ; and the older he grew, the 
 more attentive mother became, and her watchfulness 
 increased. Father is easy, and perhaps was not very 
 observing, and I don't know what he could do, had he 
 known everything. Fred never complained to father, 
 and never answered mother back ; but I could see, as I 
 grew older, that the poor fellow had a sad life of it. 
 Sarah was gone away a } T ear to school, and then he 
 was less annoyed, but then mother seemed to be afraid 
 of his influence over Elias. When Sarah came home 
 from school, things were worse than ever. She was. a 
 young lad}-, and Fred almost a young man, and could 
 do many things for her. Heaven knows no young 
 man could be mote modest and respectful, and Sarah 
 was very much inclined to treat him as he deserved. I 
 never knew what mother's real intentions were, whether 
 to annoy him, until he would go, or what. It came 
 finally to a crisis. I can't remember don't know! 
 that I ever knew what the last cause was. I fear 
 what preceded it was more than ample. Sarah and I 
 were both present, it was in our garden, and he had 
 been doing something for her, when mother came, and 
 spoke sharply to him for it. Then he turned to her 
 very quietly, and said he was very pale, and there 
 was something queer in his eyes which I will never 
 forget 'Mrs. Carman' he was alwaj-s accustomed
 
 1G6 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 to address her in this way ' Mrs. Carman, I 
 go.' ' Go go where ? you - ' Poor mother had 
 a temper and a tongue ; and " holding down her 
 head "we had to hear her. Sarah walked away. 
 I remained. Fred soon went. He went up to the 
 room which is now mine where he slept, and packed 
 up his few things, and came down. Mother remained 
 under the influence of her temper, and told him to 
 leave them ; that if he went he would go as he came, 
 a - . He laid down the bundle, his overcoat and 
 boots, and, without a word, walked out ; and " with 
 a tremor in her voice " we never saw him for six 
 
 " Martha ! Oh, Martha ! " cried Belle, in anguish. 
 
 After a moment : " Father was away from home, and 
 when he came nothing was done, and little said, 
 father gathered up all Fred's things, had them put in 
 good order, and placed in a small trunk, and took them 
 to Mr. Skinner's, one of Fred's friends ; but he never 
 took them, and I don't know what became of them." 
 
 " If he should ever marry," said Belle, " his wife will 
 reclaim that little trunk, if it is in existence. What 
 became of him?" 
 
 " Oh, I can't tell ! I think he was away for a year 
 or two ; he never did stay in Mantua after that. His 
 aunt or mother she may have been neither gave 
 him eight or ten eagles when he left the Moi'mons ; he 
 showed them to us once when he first came. He 
 bought a few books with some of the money, and must 
 have had the rest when he left. We used to hear about 
 him, and all manner of stories, that he had gone 
 back to the Mormons ; that he had gone off with a
 
 FRED. 167 
 
 circus ; that he was driving stage ; I don't know what 
 all. There was no truth in any of them, as we came 
 to know. When Jo Smith was tried at Chardon, for 
 attempting to murder a man by the name of Newell, he 
 was there as a witness, and seemed to have taken the 
 idea of studying law ; and it seems that he did, with a 
 lawyer by the name of Cartter, at Canton or Massillon, 
 or somewhere there ; and then, for a time, we did not 
 hear of him, and he had partly gone 'out of our minds. 
 
 " Four years ago " after a pause u earty in July, 
 Elias came home from school ill. We did not feel 
 alarmed about him ; he was up and about a week, and 
 then grew worse. Father, in those days, was a full 
 believer in the Thompsonian practice, and had a book. 
 Well, he and mother undertook to cany him through 
 a course of medicine, as it is called, but he grew much 
 worse, and we sent for Dr. Joel Thompson, a son of 
 the Dr. Thompson who lives, or did live, in Shalersville. 
 
 " Oh, dear ! I can't think of those days of horror, 
 and quackery, of No. 6, and lobelia, without anguish 
 and indignation. Every thing was as bad as bad could 
 be ; Elias was raving, delirious. We had never had any 
 sickness, and were ignorant and helpless. Mother was 
 distracted, and father, poor, dear, good, precious father, 
 was helpless. Our uncles, aunts and cousins could do 
 nothing ; father would keep Thompson ; the ha} r ing 
 had come on, the wheat was falling, and everything, 
 everywhere, was as ruinous and wretched as could 
 possibly be. 
 
 " In this distressed and awful condition of everybody 
 and everything, we found Fred suddenly in the house. 
 Oh, Belle, what a wonderful and glorious thing a man
 
 168 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 is ; what an angel he can be ! Fred seemed like an 
 angel; he was beautiful, like an angel, then. What a 
 miracle he worked ! tall and strong, and cool and brave, 
 and low-voiced, with the step and touch of a woman. 
 
 "From the moment he stepped in ho was king, as 
 such men are. Dr. Thompson vanished, and his old 
 steam-tub and pepper went with him. A man went off 
 with his horse on the run, for Dr. Moore and Dr. Earl, 
 who came, and held a consultation, and the battle for 
 Elias's l^fe began in earnest ; father and mother abdi 
 cated, and Fred and cousin Martin took the whole care 
 of Elias. Fred would take him up and handle him as 
 easily as if he had been a baby, and as tenderly. For 
 ten days for ten days I believe he never left him ; 
 and when the fever broke, and he came to, and it was 
 less labor to take care of him, Fred went out among 
 the farm-hands, where everything was at loose ends, 
 and in two or three days he put things to rights. He 
 was born not onhy to command, but to do also. E!ias 
 continued to mend. I remember Fred spent an after 
 noon with us, and how cheerful, and hopeful, and happy 
 we all were ; mother could not do and say enough ; and 
 Fred waved her off, and would not let her talk ; he told 
 her when Elias was well it would be time. He was 
 then about twenty-two, and still boyish, but had that 
 lofty look and wa}* which you described as belonging 
 to that portrait. He told us something of himself. It 
 seems that ever since he heard Mr. Campbell, he had 
 dreamed of becoming a public speaker. He described 
 the trial of Jo Smith, and the advocates, whose 
 speeches made a great impression on him, especially 
 those of Mr. Andrews, of Cleveland, and Mr. Cartter
 
 FRED. 169 
 
 and it seems that Mr. Cartter had taken a fancy to 
 him, and helped him, and he had then just completed 
 his studies and been admitted. He told us, too, how 
 he heard of Elias's sickness, and came to us at once." 
 
 Here she paused for a moment, while Belle sat silent, 
 with eyes fixed intently upon her face. 
 
 " Oh, dear ! Elias had a fatal relapse ; nothing could 
 help or save him, and in two da3 - s he died 
 
 "We lived through it; folks will. I onl\\know 
 that in it all, and through it all, Fred stood in our 
 centre to do and cheer and comfort. Well, when we 
 came back from the cemetery he had gone, and from 
 that day to this. we have never one of us seen him." 
 And she covered her face, and for a moment gave way. 
 
 " Martha ! Martha ! " throwing herself on her knees 
 at the sobbing girl's feet, and clasping her waist, "don't 
 say that ! Surely, surely he would stay to be thanked. 
 You have seen him since?" 
 
 " Never ; and we never quite understood it. He did 
 not go to the grave with us. I don't know why. Per 
 haps he who thought of everything and everybody, was 
 himself forgotten ; nobody asked him to go ; and you 
 know he could not help being sensitive, when you re 
 member " 
 
 " I would have gone after him," said Belle, impet- 
 uously. 
 
 " So would I, now. Father and mother were old, 
 and utterly prostrated. We had no brother ; we wrote 
 him, and all joined in the letter, such a letter as 3-011 
 may imagine. He answered it, a very kind, gentle, 
 but to me, a very sad letter. I won't try to repeat it, I
 
 170 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 will show it to 3*ou some time. Its sadness was more 
 in what it did not say, perh'aps." A long silence. 
 
 "Well, what became of him? Is he alive still? 
 Surely there must be a future for him." 
 
 " He lives at Massillon, I believe, about forty miles 
 from here, and occasionally attends court at Ravenna, 
 and we hear him very well spoken of. Father don't 
 like lawyers. Indeed, the disciples in this region gen 
 erally do not." 
 
 "Martha" from her place on the carpet "that 
 young man should have been brought back here, and 
 you should have been his reward. I don't know about 
 this Henry," seriously. "Would that 3*ou know 
 what have prevented 3 r our loving him?" 
 
 " No ; a true woman would only love him the more 
 and better," decidedly. 
 
 "You are a true woman, Mattie, dear, ain't you?" 
 After a pause : " What a sad story this is ; after all, he 
 could not be quite perfect, or he would have remained, 
 at least, for thanks." 
 
 "Don't blame him; I x won't hear that, if I do con 
 demn rm" own mother." 
 
 u And what does she say about him now? " 
 
 " Xot much ; but I believe she nearly adores him. 
 There would be nothing too good for him now." 
 
 " Oh, Mattie, what a mistake ! He should have come 
 back, and you and he should have loved and married." 
 
 " I think," said Martha, " he will never marry a 
 common woman ; he would not, love such an one. Oh, 
 if he would only come while yon are here ! "
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE PORTRAIT STEPS FROM ITS FRAME. 
 
 SO Belle stood musing at the window, as we see. 
 All the matters sketched in the two last chapters 
 had occurred, and were narrated to her before. Her 
 eyes were fixed musingly on the outer wintry world, 
 her thoughts with her real self were on the storey of 
 Fred, which had somehow very much impressed her ; 
 so much so, that, cool and unimpressionable as she was, 
 she was surprised at it. As her unseeing gaze wan 
 dered along the line of the front fence, from the large 
 gate at the left of the house, where the old pear-tree 
 stood, to the small gate leading directly across the 
 little front lawn to the front door, and over which was 
 a rustic arbor covered with climbing, leafless vines, 
 she started with amazement. Was it a dream? Had 
 her revery, in its strength, grouped all the fragments 
 and elements that had occupied her thought, and 
 framed the wonderful optical illusion that for a mo 
 ment flashed on her vision? For there, framed in the 
 rude arbor's entrance, living and breathing, was the 
 portrait of Florence. The same lofty, noble counte 
 nance and speaking eyes, the half wilful mouth, that 
 would break into a smile, or set with will and pride. 
 There was the brow in its strength and volume, with its 
 (171)
 
 172 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 possible haughtiness ; but now bending with softness 
 over the ej'es, youthful and full of more excellence than 
 mere beauty. It was but a moment ; but it was all 
 there, and real. The figure moved forward, the hat 
 was replaced ; and taking the path that led around the 
 back way, instead of coming to the front door, passed 
 before her eyes a real, veritable man, in the flesh, 
 walking and breathing, and leaving his impress. Did 
 she remember what she told Martha? 
 
 Belle placed her hands over her eyes, and tried to 
 think. She could only see. A mystery was somehow 
 solved, or rather an awful mystery was made palpable 
 to her. She knew, as by revelation, that there must be 
 the nearest possible relation between that portrait and 
 this vision, if it was real. And while she stood still 
 transfixed with this certainty, Martha flashed in, watery 
 and radiant, from the dining-room : 
 
 " Oh, Belle, he has come ! Fred, Fred has come, 
 and more glorious than ever ; " and taking the half- 
 entranced girl by the hand, she drew her into the din 
 ing-room. The vision was very real. There was the 
 veritable young man, bending over the clinging, sob 
 bing, broken, repentant Aunt Mary, and tiying to 
 assure and reassure her, " That he was not one to be 
 loved or regarded. He was only to love and serve 
 others, and go ; he was born to that." 
 
 How the words went into the heart of the 'still won 
 dering Belle ! 
 
 " Fred," said Martha, as her mother recovered her 
 self, "do you remember Belle Morris ?" The }*oung 
 man turned, and never, not even in the Pavilion of 
 Vision, had his eyes rested on such, to him, unimagined
 
 THE PORTRAIT STEPS FROM ITS FRAME. 173 
 
 loveliness. A moment, and recovering his seldom-dis 
 turbed self-possession : 
 
 "Belle Morris? Can this be Miss Morris? Ire- 
 member her, and her kind, very kind mother, perfectly 
 well." Yet wondering if this could be her. 
 
 Belle, still dazed, for the illusion was now real, gave 
 him her little marvel of a hand, and only murmured 
 some indistinct words, like the warble of a bird. 
 
 "Not Belle Morris, I must correct. Mrs. Wil 
 liams ; Mr. Warden." And marking the effect of this 
 announcement, " The case is not desperate ; Mr. Wil 
 liams was always a little shadowy you deserve that, 
 Belle and vanished while Belle was a little girl, 
 and for you, she is Belle Morris." 
 
 " Martha, Martha, you are awful ! " from Aunt Mary. 
 
 " Mother, I'm kind and merciful," said the wilful 
 girl, a little archly. 
 
 " She who wears this," said the recovering Belle, 
 taking Martha's hand, and exhibiting the betraying 
 solitaire, "might, in her happiness, be forbearing." 
 
 " Oh, Martha ! " exclaimed Fred, " let me congrat 
 ulate you," taking the now blushing girl's hand 
 warmly ; "in the world there is at least one very 
 happy man, I know." 
 
 " I hope so," in a little, sweet voice ; " and now I 
 here appoint you two bridesmaid and groomsman." 
 
 " You forget ! I am a widow," said Belle. 
 
 " You a widow ! Why, it was only the other day 
 that you said you were a married woman. We won't 
 be defrauded this way. Maid, wife, or widow, or all 
 of them, if } T OU are not my bridesmaid, I will not " 
 
 " Be married ? " asked Belle.
 
 174 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 "Not have an}" I liope to be married," with the 
 little voice again. 
 
 And now, Aunt Mary, having fully recovered alt her 
 motherly, housewifety instincts, came back in force. 
 
 " You must have some dinner." 
 
 " I had my dinner at my friend Turner's." 
 
 " Have you a horse, or can-iage ? " 
 
 "I walked up from there ; " and after a pause : " Mrs. 
 Carman, may I stay here a day or two? I won't much 
 annoy the young ladies. I came back to Mantua, 
 and the wish to come back here was so strong, that 
 I haven't even called on Uncle Bill Skinner ; for, after 
 all, this is the only home I've ever known." He was 
 not sentimental ; but, spite of him, there was a tremor 
 in his voice and a moisture in his eye. 
 
 " Stay here ! stay here!" cried the again sobbing 
 Aunt Mary ; " you shall always stay here ! Let this 
 alwa3's be your home ! Oh, I'm so glad }'ou came ! I 
 thought I was never to see and thank you, and it " 
 
 " No matter ! not a word of that ! I am a thousand 
 times repaid ! " very brightly and gayly ; and, turning 
 off, he dashed at a dozen things, asked all about Mr. 
 Carman, and Sarah, and her husband and children, and 
 the farm, and old-time things, going back to his res 
 idence, and then about the neighbors, Hiram Spencer, 
 Judge Carman's folks, Uncle Zach, and so on. Then he 
 turned to Belle, and grew grave and thoughtful ; and 
 all the time she watched and observed him, and asked 
 herself a thousand insoluble questions. There could be 
 no mistake ; this was the veritable son ; there was crime, 
 or an awful mistake somewhere. Could there have
 
 THE PORTRAIT STEPS FROM ITS FRAME. 175 
 
 been two sons? And she thought of what was said of 
 the shadow on Fred, and sighed. 
 
 Soon Uncle Seth came in, and broke completely 
 down, and would talk about Elias. That preciously 
 sad subject and dark day had to be gone over with. 
 
 They were almost made happy by the many pleasant 
 things that Fred remembered of him, things many 
 of which they then heard for the first time. So they 
 passed out of gloom again into warmth and sunshine, 
 mellowed and softened by the renewed memory of a 
 great and common loss. 
 
 Aunt Mary was to have company that night two 
 or three distinguished preachers of the disciple per 
 suasion and was under preparation for a supper. 
 Uncle Seth had been beuignantly looking forward to 
 their arrival as a season of refreshing, and even Martha 
 and Belle were not without some exhilaration conse 
 quent upon the expected advent of the ministers, and 
 not without a little anxiety on Fred's account, who was 
 rated an unbeliever ; one of the expected was noted for 
 the honest fervor with which he admonished that class, 
 with little reference to time, place, or circumstances, 
 having regard to eternity alone. 
 
 When the guests arrived, they came in the usual way 
 in farm-houses, and entered by the rear, where they 
 were received by the expectant elders, removed their 
 outer coats and wraps, and lingered for the warmth of 
 the generous hickory fire, always burning in the huge, 
 jammed old fireplace. Then the}' were shown into 
 the front sitting-room, to interrupt a very pleasant 
 flow of talk between Belle and Fred, who, sitting in the 
 glow of the red fire at the twilight, felt wonderfully ac-
 
 176 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 quainted within the two hours since their meeting. In 
 their rambling talk, Belle, in the most innocent wa} T in 
 the world, had told him of a singular name, and how it 
 came. A gentleman, a descendant of the Huguenots, 
 blessed with a beautiful infant son, had a Saxon friend 
 by the name of Ethwold Alfred, and he bestowed both 
 names upon his heir, and insisted upon using both as 
 if they were a single name. The child's mother had, 
 for convenience, formed a new one from the two, by 
 putting the first and last syllables together, and called 
 him Ethfred. 
 
 u Ethfred, Ethfred," repeated Fred, thoughtfully, 
 " I've heard that name ! " 
 
 " That is very strange," answered Belle. " I pre 
 sume /there never could have been but one child named 
 Ethfred." 
 
 " I've heard it ; it has haunted my dreams ; and I 
 never, while waking, could recall it. Ethfred, that 
 is it. I could remember that it had some sound of my 
 own name." 
 
 " The last syllable is Fred ; and by dropping the 
 first, which is not pleasant, 3 T ou would be Fred, as you 
 are," plaj-fully. " What else have you dreamed of, 
 pray ? " lightly and brightly. 
 
 " Oh," laughing, " I had a brain fever when I was 
 twelve, and I know not what when I was with the Mor 
 mons, that was the land of dreams." 
 
 " You must have had some funny experiences. Did 
 you dream of this name there ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I dreamed I was lying on the ground on 
 flowers, with wonderful flowers about me ; the air was 
 full of fragrance, and a beautiful face was over me,
 
 THE PORTRAIT STEPS FROM ITS FRAME. 177 
 
 the face of a woman, who called me ' Ethfred ' I'm 
 now sure that was the name and before me arose a 
 wonderful tree, a palm, such as we see in pictures of 
 the East. I seem to have dreamed this two or three 
 times." 
 
 " It is ver} T funny. Did it ever " 
 
 The door opened, and in strode John Henry not 
 the Rev. John, they never had that title appended 
 a large, gaunt, graj r , coarsely-arrayed figure, with a 
 New England type of head and face, now much out of 
 date. The deep gray eyes, overhung by shaggy gray 
 brows, were shrewd, keen, but kindly ; the voice strong 
 and loud by nature ; his manners were plain to rude 
 ness ; but he was, nevertheless, a man of power and 
 mark in his day and way. He was accompanied by a 
 younger man Morse a gentlemanly person of fail- 
 culture and much ability, and rather reticent. 
 
 " Father Henry ! " cried Belle, springing to him, and 
 extending her hands, which he took very cordially, and 
 bending down to her, with a warm smile lighting up 
 his rugged face, framed in a fell of iron-gray hair ; it 
 never could be white, the iron would never leave it. 
 " Daughter, daughter Belle, bless you ! I fear for thee, 
 precious one, lest the snare of thy comeliness entrap 
 thce in vanities." And holding up her soft little hands, 
 and changing his style of address : " They toil not, 
 neither do they spin, O daughter Belle, but they do 
 meet works of charity and kindness ! " He inquired for 
 Brother Morris and Maud, and bent his brows several 
 times on Fred, who stood near, an amused and inter 
 ested spectator. "And who is this? He looks like 
 a goodl}* son of the unbeliever." 
 12
 
 178 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 " Mr. "Warden, let me introduce you to Father 
 Henry," said Belle, a little anxious to know how 
 they would receive each other. 
 
 "Mr. Henry," said the youth frankly, stepping for 
 ward, and giving his hand with a warm, natural grace, 
 that few could resist, " I've often heard your name, and 
 always with respect ; I am very glad to meet yon." 
 
 " I never heard your name before, and am not very 
 much rejoiced to see you ; I may be next time," was 
 the response. 
 
 " He's not only an unbeliever," said Martha, mis 
 chievously, "but he's a lawyer, one of those awful 
 sons of Belial." 
 
 "A lawyer, and he finds shelter under this roof! 
 Young man, don't you know that lawj-ers were specially 
 cursed ? Woe to }-e lawyers ! " with a sepulchral voice. 
 
 "I've heard of that somewhere, I believe," smiling, 
 almost laughing ; " but then I remember that the same 
 high authority denounces the priests with greater 
 severity and justice." 
 
 " Indeed, young man, you should distinguish be 
 tween the Jewish priesthood and the preachers of the 
 Word." 
 
 " I think a slight distinction might also be drawn 
 between the Jewish lawyer and those of our time. But 
 really, my kind, dear sir, I'm not lawyer enough to fall 
 within the curse," laughing, with infectious good na 
 ture. The old man hesitated in his opening of half 
 banter, as if a little in doubt what turn to take. 
 
 " Brother Henry," said Aunt Man r , rushing in with 
 real apprehension, " this is the young man of whom
 
 THE PORTRAIT STEPS FROM ITS FRAME. 179 
 
 I've told you, who was with us in our days of tribula 
 tion, when our son died." 
 
 " And it is good to remember that. Young man, I 
 think I shall like you, but touching thy profession, it 
 smacks wholly of darkness." 
 
 Then Fred was introduced to Mr. Morse, who evi 
 dently was pleased with him, and very soon the girl 
 called to supper.
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 PUT ON THE DEFENSIVE. 
 
 THE old-time farm-house dining-room was one capa 
 cious room originally, which was kitchen, dining, 
 and family room, generally ; but under Martha's direc 
 tion new space had been found in the L part, and a new 
 wall had separated the dining and family room from 
 the kitchen. In the former, Aunt Mary now received 
 her guests, and seated them at one of her profuse and 
 well-cooked suppers. The little, funny, quaint old 
 teaspoons, the bowl of one of which would hardly 
 admit the tip of a lady's finger, were in regular service, 
 in honor of Belle ; and these were now supplemented 
 with real old China cups of a great-grandmother, im 
 ported by a sea-faring progenitor. 
 
 A large and beautifully-browned turkey was the 
 object of principal interest on Aunt Mary's table, 
 which . Uncle Seth regarded with foi'eboding, sur 
 rounded as he was by guests. He thought of the 
 old time when he was assailed by a raging she-bear, as 
 comfortable and pleasant, comparatively. 
 
 "Mr. Warden," asked Aunt Mary, suggestively, 
 " have you lost 3 T our knack of carving ? " 
 
 " It's part of a lawyer's trade to pull people and 
 (180)
 
 PUT ON THE DEFENSIVE. 181 
 
 things to pieces," remarked Father Henry ; " let us see 
 how cutting he can be." 
 
 " Lawyers, as you call on them, have been known to 
 cut up witnesses and other innocents," said the young 
 man, advancing upon the common enenry, and taking 
 up the formidable knife ; " and as they always carve 
 the whole to themselves, as Mr. Henry will testify, 
 they ought not to object to such a service." 
 
 A rap from that gentleman called the compan}' to 
 order for a short, sonorous grace, when, with a twinkle 
 of his eye that could be kindly, he asked, " What can 
 be done with the .sinner who good-humoredly confesses 
 his sins, but refuses to repent?" Fred, who had no 
 disposition to discuss his profession, and was quite 
 content to accept this as concluding the subject, ad 
 dressed himself seriously to his task. He was that 
 rarity among American gentlemen, especially at the 
 West, an artistic carver. Had he known the approv 
 ing admiration with which his labors were regarded, 
 and that it was fully shared in by Belle, he would 
 have felt rewarded for the, to him, slight labor. As 
 the noble fowl lay in neatly sundered parts, while Fred 
 was learning the wishes of the guests, " I'll warrant, 
 now," resumed Father Henry, " that if he was before a 
 jury, he'd put that gobbler together again, and contend 
 that it was untouched, perhaps that 'twas alive, and 
 ready to strut off." No answer, but a good-natured 
 smile from Fred, who dexterously served the whole 
 party, and gladly took a; seat reserved for him be 
 tween the young ladies. u It is a little remarkable," 
 observed the usually taciturn Morse, " the vehemence 
 and seeming sincerity with which lawyers contend, on
 
 182 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 directly opposite sides ; and that, you must admit, 
 Mr. Warden, leads candid men to doubt the sincerity 
 and candor of all lawyers. One certainly must be 
 wrong." 
 
 " Both may be," quietly remarked Fred, disposed to 
 conclude any argument. " I think I have been in 
 formed that you were formerly a Presbyterian ? " he 
 observed, by way of inquiry. 
 
 " I was, at one time." 
 
 "And that Mr. Henry was a Methodist?" 
 
 " So I am informed." 
 
 " It is a little remarkable," he went on, " the vehe 
 mence and seeming sincerity with which a Presbyte 
 rian and a Methodist clergyman contend on directly 
 opposite sides of the same question, and that too a 
 matter of direct revelation, about which there should 
 be no doubt ; baptism, for instance, in which you now 
 admit that you were both wrong. You must admit, Mr. 
 Morse, that this leads candid men to doubt the sin 
 cerity of all preachers." This grave turning of tables 
 was done with a mock serious voice, that made it irre 
 sistible, and was greeted with a loud laugh from Father 
 Henry. 
 
 " Don't argue with the devil, brother Morse, don't 
 argue with the devil, even on Bible questions." 
 
 u I know one honest lawyer," observed Uncle Seth, 
 quite decidedly' . " Mr. Day, of Ravenna, is an honest 
 man, if there ever was one." 
 
 " And even-thing in the world but a fool, also," said 
 Fred. " I suspect that he must have been counsel for 
 you, in some case." 
 
 u Yes, he was."
 
 PUT ON THE DEFENSIVE. 183 
 
 " I thought so. Our lawyer is always honest. It's 
 the chap on the other side who outruns total depravity." 
 
 " I believe," remarked Aunt Mar} r , quietly, " that 
 Mr. Carman thinks that Mr. Tildin is a very bad 
 man." 
 
 "He was on the other side. Oh, that's too bad!" 
 laughing. " Tildin's heart would compel him to nurse a 
 dying fly ; and that mortal man should suspect him of 
 possible wrong, is too bad." 
 
 " Well, I am not so sure of that," replied Aunt Marj r , 
 with judicious doubt and gravity. 
 
 " Oh, they are a bad lot," still laughing ; " and so 
 bad, that we go into open court, in the face of the court 
 and jury, and in the face of immediate and certain ex 
 posure, and lie, and re-lie, right along, and the fun of it 
 is, everybody, though knowing that we lie, neverthe 
 less feels obliged to believe us, it's too bad. While 
 your only reliable 'men are }'our preacher and doctor." 
 
 " You are a necessary evil, no doubt," obsei'ved 
 Father Henry, who rather enjoyed the play of the young 
 man's spirit in the defence of his profession. 
 
 " Did you ever think what a real compliment that is 
 to the bar? The world is so hopelessly bad, so much 
 worse than we, that it cannot get on without us. Then 
 if it was virtuous, and hoi}', what use would it find for 
 preachers and priests ? Poor, wicked old world, let us 
 each serre it in our way, and not quarrel with each 
 other." 
 
 U I fear the young man was Iborn for a lawyer," said 
 Father Hemy, turning to Belle ; " and perhaps we 
 should not be too hard upon him for what he can't help."
 
 184 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 " Especially," added that young lady, " when he says 
 that he is not lawyer enough to fall within the curse." 
 
 The supper was finished, the guests arose, two or 
 three neighbors dropped in, new groups were formed, 
 and new interests were discussed, with cider, apples, 
 and nuts, by the hickory fires, and the winter night 
 wore on to the hour of retiring.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 BELLE'S REVERT. 
 
 E thoughtful Bell sat, not musing, but thinking, 
 actually and not illogically, as women can think, 
 and often do. How passing beautiful she was, as she 
 sat with her peerless head upon her hand, whose 
 little slender fingers were bent back by the weight, 
 with the ruddy glow from the embers rich on her cheek ; 
 and what funny thoughts for a girl ! He had heard 
 that barbarous name Ethfred in his dreams, he 
 said; but why in his dreams? of what are dreams 
 made ? Then there came into her mind the discussion 
 of dreams between her father and Marbury. Is there 
 a new faculty born of sleep, or do we get new power ? 
 or do some organs sleep and leave others awake, which, 
 thus unbalanced, play such phantasies ? Dreams must 
 be made of something seen or heard, of course they 
 must ; so if he dreamed of this name, he must have 
 heard it, and there never was but one child who bore 
 it. No wonder it brought bad luck. He has seen 
 pictures of palms, and their surroundings, and could 
 dream of them, though he undoubtedly dreamed of what 
 he saw, and the woman bending over him was his 
 mother, and called him by name uuder a palm in Cuba. 
 (185)
 
 186 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 He was not a cousin, for the father had no brothers or 
 sisters, nor could he be a brother, for his name was 
 " Ethfred," and she clasped her hands. It might not 
 be, and not a word would she utter to him until it was 
 made certain. The germs of these thoughts were'intu- 
 itions. They formed their final ciystallization nat- 
 uralby, and by no conscious process. And then the man 
 himself stood before her, warm and gentle, with the 
 mute beseeching light in his eyes, so noble and tender, 
 and so abused by fortune through all the cruel 3*ears. 
 
 Oh, to serve him, to have his gratitude, to have 
 Well, what was the danger? Hadn't she a husband, 
 in heaven, to be sure, but it , did not occur to her that 
 he thus left his widow defenceless. But where was 
 Martha? Could she have stolen off to bed? Did she 
 mean to throw her and Fred upon each other for so 
 ciety? It was like Mattie. Her watch showed that it 
 was half-past eleven, when nine or half-past was ortho 
 dox bed-time, broken over this evening by the elders 
 for company. So she tripped lightly up to her warm 
 room, cheery with the red light of the wood embers, 
 with grave thoughts in her head, and a little glow 
 just a little flutter in her veins. She arrayed herself 
 for the night, and pushing open the door into Martha's 
 darkened room, stepped lightly to 'the side of the 
 sleeper. She stood for a moment, and lifting the 
 clothes, " You bad, bad, Mattie," in a sweet little voice, 
 laid herself in her night robes, close by a warm side, 
 and was about to pass one arm over the sleeping form, 
 when . Shocked, but without sense of injurj r ; con 
 fused, but with clear perception ; alarmed, yet feeling 
 no fear ; repelled, yet singularly attracted, she stepped
 
 BELLE'S REVERT. 187 
 
 noisely upon the floor, and in an instant the door softly 
 closed between the two. 
 
 Poor Fred ! " Poor Fred ? " Yes, poor Fred ! It might 
 mark my page were I to portraj r the low ideal which 
 the average }~oung man has of the purity of woman. 
 It may possibly not be given to the masculine percep 
 tion to fully appreciate the innate, healthy, inner stain- 
 lessness of a true woman. Possibly the language which 
 would express it might convey no meaning to him ; and 
 were I to see it, by some miracle in my text, I might find 
 it cloud}-, transcendental, and needing change. I suspect 
 that nothing so alarms the sensibilities of a woman 
 as when she comes, by a slow succession of shocks, to 
 apprehend as well as she may the gross nature of man. 
 Fred may have shared in his sex's want of discernment 
 in this respect, but like a great, a very great many 
 young men, he had set up in his soul's inner shrine an 
 ideal of womanhood, the crowning grace of which 
 was this uncomprehended purity, a thing to be wor 
 shipped, if not understood ; any profanation of which 
 would be, in his eyes, that nameless crime for which no 
 pardon could be possible ; and in some sort he now felt 
 guilty of this crime. 
 
 Miss Boothe had stepped in late, and he had, with 
 Martha, accompanied her home. When learning that 
 she was alone, Martha had consented to remain with 
 her. On his return, he missed Belle from the room 
 where he left her, and regretfull}' went for the night to 
 his old room, as Aunt Mary had directed, full of the 
 one idea no, not one idea, that is a mental entity 
 and with this the mind, save by perception and con 
 sciousness, had nothing to do. He was full of the image
 
 188 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 of Belle, her grace and beaut}-, and for an hour his 
 own atmosphere had been cleared of the old shadow. 
 
 He entered, without noticing, the old and once fa- 
 Tniliar room, which seemed larger, and in some way 
 strange. Absently he removed his clothes and placed 
 himself in bed ; but when he passed the line of waking 
 unconsciousness to the realm of dreaming reality, he did 
 not know. At some time, however, he heard the low 
 voice of Belle coming naturally into his dream, and, for 
 an instant, she who filled his sleeping vision filled the 
 place by his side, and was gone. Had she actually 
 been there, or was that a phase of his dream? He 
 fully awoke, and she was gone, and there came to his 
 awakened sense the idea of having committed a crime 
 against her purit}'. True, he was in dreamland, and 
 as innocent in thought as act ; but he wondered why 
 her approach had not awakened him, he thought he 
 would know if she approached his grave ; and the 
 shock, the offence to her would undoubtedly be as 
 great as if he, knowing of her mistake, had permitted 
 her to complete it. He was in no condition to reason 
 or think at all. He had long realized that the love of 
 woman was not for him ; that a name tarnished by such 
 a birth, and in a way infamous, he could never offer to 
 any woman. Here now was this one woman of all the 
 earth and heaven whom he should love, whom he felt 'and 
 knew that he now loved ; against her he had so sinned, 
 and she would necessarily regard him with loathing and 
 abhorrence. This would be his punishment. So in a 
 weak, foolish, young man's way, it haunted him the 
 long night through, and he arose languid. How could 
 he meet her again ? He would make an excuse to the
 
 BELLE'S REVERT. 189 
 
 Carmans and go away if indeed Belle had not already 
 left the house and take himself out of her sight ! 
 
 He found Belle standing by the window from which 
 she first saw him the day before, and as she turned, her 
 look betrayed to him something that he translated into 
 suffering, possibly dislike or loathing. She was alone. 
 
 " Mrs. Williams," with humiliation and contrition, 
 " I know not how I can approach you, or how frame 
 a possible apolog)-. I dare not hope for pardon. 
 I was dreaming of you when you approached ; I 
 heard your voice ; I should have spoken, and saved 
 you ; I could not ; I wish you could know how impos 
 sible it is for me to harm woman ; " a pause she had 
 turned away no answer. "I will go. away at once, 
 and relieve you of my presence." 
 
 A little hand came out to him deprecatingly. " No, 
 Mr. "Warden, you will not go; you will stay, vre 
 shall " a little motion of the hand finished the sen 
 tence. 
 
 " Oh, that this should have happened ! I, who have 
 never hoped for the love of woman, and yet would 
 gladly die for you." 
 
 No answer, save a little wave of the hand again. 
 Fred stood a moment ; he could say no more, and Belle 
 would say nothing. He could make no apology, and ' 
 none could be accepted. He could only relapse into 
 the abashed awkwardness of the clownish feeling of a 
 man who blunders into a position to which no human 
 tact is equal. Had he possessed the finer nature of 
 the woman, he would have felt instinctively that it 
 was not a matter for words, unless, indeed, at some 
 blissful future, when everything might find words for
 
 190 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 expression. He saw in a moment that he had help 
 lessly blundered, yet he felt that a woman should have 
 sympathized with a manly effort to apologize ; and as 
 the only thing left he escaped from the room, out 
 through the dining-room, and so past the kitchen, into 
 the back yard, off across the orchard, and down by the 
 cider mill, across the road into the meadow below, to 
 where a young man was feeding a herd of young bullocks 
 and heifers from a hay-stack. He thought it all over, 
 and it did not look to him, on this bleak wintry morn 
 ing, as amid the dreams of last night. It was all like 
 a dream now, and at no time while Belle was in his 
 room, was he well awake. He knew he was uncon 
 scious of the thought of ill, and should she be so re 
 lentless? After all, the Shock to her might be as great 
 as if, with a full knowledge on his part, he had permitted 
 her to commit the error. No matter, there came up a 
 sensation of anger to mingle with the sore feeling that 
 possessed him. What mattered it? She could never 
 be anything to him, and he less than nothing to her ; 
 if she did scorn and despise him, it was but natural. 
 She could not be above the rest of the world. What 
 
 was he, but a . It was not a pleasant frame of mind 
 
 in which he turned back to his kind hosts and their 
 guests, but it would carry him through under the eyes 
 of Belle, or in her presence ; she would not look at him, 
 anywa} T , and he would not care. 
 
 And Belle? She remained by the window, only 
 turning when she heard the door close at his exit. 
 Her face wore a thoughtful, but anything in the world 
 but an angry or disgusted look. Under other circum 
 stances one would suppose that something deep, but
 
 BELLE'S REVERY. 191 
 
 not at all unpleasant, was in her mind ; and withal 
 there was a little look of distrust about her. She 
 turned again to the window, wondering, perhaps, 
 whether that portrait would come again through the 
 arbor, and started to see Martha flash in it a moment. 
 This sight sent her to the glass, to see what her face 
 might tell, but she was evidently satisfied with it, as 
 well she might be, and the next moment turned to 
 scold the truant. u Well, upon my word, if " 
 
 " Don't scold me, Belle ; I expected to return ; I 
 sent back Master Fred ; of course I knew I wouldn't 
 be missed." 
 
 " Indeed ! Miss Martha, take a timely warning if 
 you wish us to cultivate each other. Don't you know 
 that if parties get the impression that friends wish 
 them to fancy each other, and make little conveniences 
 for them, that they take pleasure in asserting their 
 independence? and your friend Fred would be no ex 
 ception." 
 
 " You wise Belle ! I never thought of that. Where 
 is that young gentleman, pray?" 
 
 " How should I know ? He idled through the room 
 but a moment ago, finding it more attractive elsewhere, 
 of course." 
 
 The quick Martha looked keenby at her. " What has 
 happened, you cool, indifferent thing?" 
 
 " You went and left me alone, and without notice ; 
 is not that excuse for coolness?" 
 
 "Answer me one thing, don't you think he is 
 handsome?" 
 
 " He is better looking than handsome," very seri-
 
 192 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 ousl}'. " Don't call him handsome, anj-body might be 
 that." 
 
 "Well, what?" 
 
 " Noble, and true, and good ; any woman would 
 trust him in a moment," seriously. 
 
 " Oh, Belle, Belle, and you a married woman ! Look 
 out ! " 
 
 "I think that it is when a woman sees all these 
 qualities, and keeps them for her own secret admiration, 
 that she is in danger," answered the cool and wary 
 Belle. 
 
 " And you're deep, after all, with your great wide 
 eyes staring about iu wondering innocence. Never 
 mind " as she passed forward to aid about the break 
 fast.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 A WEIRD HUNT. 
 
 TT^RED came in rather late to breakfast, and was 
 remitted to his place between the 3"oung ladies, 
 receiving from Martha a quick, sharp glance, and 
 reproof for his tardiness, and an answer to his excuse 
 that u Pete would attend to the young cattle." Father 
 Henry turned his shaggy brows not unkindly upon him, 
 and pleasantly referred to the discussion of the night 
 before, remarking that brother Morse thought that 
 lawyers were, on the whole, a sort of worldly philos 
 ophers, not without their use, though not very well 
 appreciated. " , 
 
 Fred answered : " That a man with danger on either 
 hand, as 3*ou see me" with a glance at either fair 
 neighbor "has need of philosophy; what can the 
 church do in situations like these?" 
 
 " The church can furnish the exact remedy," sparkled 
 up the piquant Martha, with a mischievous glance 
 at Belle. 
 
 " You are to try your own prescriptions, I believe, 
 which proves your sincerity, at least, Miss Carman," 
 said that perfectly placid person, with a little emphasis 
 on the first word. 
 
 13 (193)
 
 194 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 
 
 Some general talk of the weather, and of the departure 
 of the guests, between the elders, with silence among 
 the younger ones, till the meal was finished ; then 
 a chapter in Mr. Campbell's translation of the later 
 Scriptures, a hymn which Fred helped the young ladies 
 to sing, a sonorous prayer by Elder Hejiry , who pointedly 
 reminded the Lord of the existence and outside con 
 dition of Fred, and recommended prompt measures in 
 his case. Then the preachers went their way, attended 
 by Uncle Seth, with the understanding that they would 
 return the second evening after. 
 
 Somehow, it was a dull day at the farm-house. Belle 
 was silent and thoughtful, and went to her room 
 to write letters, and was b}* herself most of the day. 
 Martha, with her vivacious nature and sweet thoughts, 
 relapsed into her little demure ways, and Aunt Mary 
 was uneasy about the mj-sterious absence of Fred, who 
 had disappeared. 
 
 In the afternoon, Pete relieved this anxiet} r , by saying 
 that Fred had passed by where he was chopping in the 
 east woods, with Hiram Spencer's rifle, making over the 
 chestnut ridges towards the mouth of Black Brook, he 
 presumed for turkeys. It was quite late, however, 
 when he returned ; and the three women in the fire-lighted 
 room were waiting in the weird loneliness that may 
 come about women at this hour, in the absence of the 
 masculine element, that at least sheds about a lonely 
 farm-house, at the oncoming of night, a sense of pro 
 tection and safety. Three rather sombre faces broke 
 into warmth and gladness when he came in. 
 
 " How now, you runaway ! " exclaimed the vivacious 
 Martha, springing to him ; " don't you know you've
 
 A WEIRD HUNT. 195 
 
 behaved very badly, running off to the woods, and leav 
 ing us alone all da}' ? " 
 
 "Excuse me, but really, when your good mother 
 consented to harbor me for a day or two, it was on the 
 express condition that I would not annoj' the young 
 ladies, you remember." 
 
 " I don't know any such thing ; and besides, you 
 should wait till we showed our anno3'anee." 
 
 " A gentleman would prevent the possibility of }'our 
 being annoyed." 
 
 " Well, we are annoyed, you see." 
 
 " I can only implore your pardon," meekty. 
 
 " We won't forgive you now, I hope you haven't 
 killed anything, } r ou unlucky wretch, running off to 
 murder things ! " 
 
 "Only a very dark day, and a very black turkey, 
 notwithstanding the maxim that assigns luck to fools." 
 
 Supper was announced, at which Martha asked an 
 account of the day's adventures, and how he came to 
 act so. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Spencer had told him of a flock of tur 
 keys, over by the Dean Place, and offered him his rifle, 
 and he thought Mrs. Carman would like a bird for her 
 table, on the return of her guests. So he went out, 
 and had struck the fresh track of deer, and was enticed 
 to follow it." 
 
 " Just like a man ! " put in Martha. 
 
 " Well, he came upon the deer, and his gun snapped." 
 
 " Served you right ; and the deer snapped her fingers 
 at you, I s'pose." 
 
 " Exactly ! Well, he saw it several times ; it had a 
 funny way of disappearing, and then suddenly being
 
 196 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 before him, like the white witch doe, that nothing was 
 to kill, and finally away across Black Brook, he found 
 himself lost." 
 
 " The Irishman found himself lost ! " exclaimed 
 Martha. " Well, sir, when did you lose yourself found 
 again?" 
 
 " Not till now. Well, having got me hopelessly 
 snarled up, the deer disappeared." 
 
 "Appeared to disappear, perhaps," suggested Mar 
 tha. " and served you right for disappearing yourself. 
 Let this be a warning." 
 
 " Well, I didn't look for her, him or it, but thought 
 of Hiram's turkeys, and found myself so bewildered 
 that I really thought of nothing. Finally, I found 
 myself somehow in the midst of a flock, and shot a fine, 
 large, and glossy black young torn, when " 
 
 "You piously thanked your stars, and gratefully 
 started for home." 
 
 " I started, but for no definite where, as I found. 
 I finally grew weary of canying the young torn, threw 
 him down, consulted the moss on the trees, and made 
 a veiy direct course for home." 
 
 "Of course, well?" 
 
 " After a half-hour's walk I came upon a fine, black, 
 young torn turkey, that somebodj* had just shot, which 
 looked somehow familiar ; and sure enough, close by, 
 was a track which my boot just fitted." 
 
 Laughter from the ladies. 
 
 "I resumed the turkey, and my journey. That par 
 ticular torn had the peculiarity of rapidly growing 
 heavy, and I soon abandoned him, notwithstanding 
 Mrs. Carman's possible wishes."
 
 A WEIRD HUNT. 197 
 
 "Well? " 
 
 "Well, I came upon another freshly shot young 
 torn turkey, in a few minutes, and, as he was rather 
 fresh and fine, and thinking Mrs. Carman might find 
 him acceptable, and as he was thus providentially 
 thrown in my way, I thought I would carry him to her. 
 After a little tramp, I changed my mind, remembering 
 that she had turkey last night ; so I dropped him also, 
 but somehow he wouldn't stay dropped, for within ten 
 minutes I c;yne upon him again. You see, ladies, go 
 where I would, do what I would, that particular and 
 very unlucky }*oung torn haunted me. This time I 
 took a very deliberate survej 7 of him, and of myself, 
 mentally, and of my whole life." 
 
 " What an ugly view you must have had ! " 
 
 " I did, I assure you." 
 
 " Well, what was your conclusion ? " 
 
 " To adhere to that torn, and change my course of 
 travel, and possibly of life." 
 
 " That was profound, though late. Well ? " 
 
 " It was not well. I soon found myself in the 
 trail leading up through to Troy I believe Welch- 
 field is now called and of course thought that my 
 resolution had met with an immediate blessing. I had 
 gone perhaps a mile, when just at that moment the 
 clouds lifted at the horizon, and the sun shone out 
 exactly in the east ! It was apparent that the world or 
 I was very much turned around ; and as it was easier 
 to reverse myself, I turned immediately the other way, 
 and am here, ladies," with a bow to each. The man 
 ner was very vivacious, with a little flavor of irony. 
 
 " And the turkey ? " gravely asked Martha.
 
 198 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 " Is on the porch, or was. I won't answer for that 
 young torn, however." 
 
 " Susan ! " to the girl, " take a candle and go and 
 see ; this tale needs confirmation." Sue soon returned, 
 bringing in an immense and glossy black turkey, so 
 black that it seemed to shed twilight through the 
 room. 
 
 " Why, what an unearthly, weird monster it is ! 
 Take it out," with affected fright. 
 
 " Fred," resumed the young lady, w^th immense 
 solemnity, " let this day's wanderings and misadven 
 tures, with its warnings and sufferings, remain an 
 awful lesson to you, so long as you live and remain 
 young, and unmarried never again to desert two 
 distressed damsels, one of whom is a widow, and the 
 other has not a lover within five hundred miles ; and 
 that the lesson may not be without improvement "by us 
 all, Susan shall dress the J'oung thomas, and maybe 
 he will inveigle two hungiy preachers, and the rest of 
 us, with other woes. It is our dut.y to submit to these 
 trials of the flesh, when it promises to be savor}-." 
 
 During the delivery of this unctuous exhortation, 
 Fred had drawn down the corners of his mouth, and 
 dropped his ej^es, with ludicrous contrition, and ex 
 pressed his acquiescence in a sepulchral "Amen" at 
 its conclusion.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIH. 
 
 THE EXCURSION AND RESCUE. 
 
 TT^RE they left the table, Martha informed him that 
 -L^ the State-road young people, the Reeds, one or 
 two of the Mays, and others, had sent over, and asked 
 them to go the next morning, with a little part}*, to 
 the Rapids. The ice above was splendid, and they 
 would skate and drive on the river, have a dinner at old 
 Furman's, and a good time, and would he go? Belle 
 had consented. 
 
 Of course he would, and gladly. He had an im 
 mense relish for outdoor sports, in which he excelled. 
 It would furnish him employment, and be an excuse for 
 remaining near Belle, who had been almost bodily 
 with him all day, notwithstanding her contemptuous 
 rebuff that morning, and her silence this evening. 
 
 The rest of the evening was spent in the front sit 
 ting-room. Fred distrait and silent, notwithstanding 
 his evident effort at careless gayety, in which he sig 
 nally failed. The charitable Martha attributed his 
 manner to over-fatigue, incident to the forest enchant 
 ment of the bewitched doe. Aunt Mary kindly insisted 
 on his early retirement, while Belle seemed somewhat 
 lost in a revery. Martha fell back upon her own ex- 
 haustless, happy thoughts. Fred was up early. He 
 (199)
 
 200 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 found Elias's skates, and restrapped them. Uncle 
 Still bad driven off the cutter, an old one was hunted 
 out, a pole extemporized, a seat fixed up, and a harness 
 and pair of horses adjusted to it. One of the horses 
 was young, unaccustomed to work, and quite unman 
 ageable ; Belle, from her window, admiringly watched 
 the skill and address with which Fred controlled and 
 .finally subdued the spirited animal. The morning was 
 brilliant, with sun, snow and frost ; about mid-fore 
 noon the State-road party arrived, and Fred had his 
 horses ready to start with them. 
 
 When they were about to go, Belle, under pretence 
 that his sleigh was scant of room, having but a single 
 scat, accepted a place in another. The excuse was 
 sufficient, perhaps, but the sharp-ej-ed Martha saw that 
 the act cut Fred like a knife. No remark was made 
 about it between them, and the party proceeded south, 
 towards Judge Carman's, and took the old diagonal road 
 that led down past the old Elam Spencer place, and 
 thence east into the road up the hill, and across the in 
 tervening table-land, past the Norton place, and so 
 finally down the slope into the valley of the Cu}-ahoga, 
 to Furman's, a quarter of a mile from the river. The 
 whole way was still an almost unbroken forest, and 
 one of the most wonderful growths of splendid chest 
 nut-trees on the continent. 
 
 After a little pause at Furman's, the party pulled 
 up on the still solitary banks of the river, just at the 
 upper end of " the Rapids," where the waters, breaking 
 through the sandstone ridge that here, cropping out, 
 had imprisoned them, and caused them to stand and 
 flood back, deep and still, for miles, and finally go
 
 THE EXCURSION AND RESCUE. 201 
 
 madly plunging and foaming through and over the 
 broken, worn, and torn fragments of rock below, now 
 an impassable, dangerous, wintry torrent of consider 
 able width and depth. Immediately above, the ice was 
 smooth and firm, and for any extent upward. Sam 
 Furman had a cooper's shop near the bank, which the 
 party took possession of, and which was warm with a 
 roaring fire. 
 
 The sleighs and cutters were driven at will on to the 
 firm surface ; skates were adjusted, and very soon the 
 young men were flying over the ice, and sometimes 
 pushing the young ladies in chairs, or some other ex 
 temporized means of conveyance, before them. At that 
 time young ladies seldom skated. 
 - One of the young men, who drove a single horse, 
 and had two }'oung girls in his sleigh, amused himself 
 and them by driving up and down on the river. At 
 one .time he incautiously approached too near the 
 margin of the ice, where the boiling water broke from 
 it in its swelling plunge down the Rapids ; he 
 headed his horse about in time to save him, but the 
 momentum carried that sleigh over the smooth ice, so 
 near to its edge, that it broke with the weight ; and 
 although the spirited horse, at the call of its excited 
 driver, took the carriage away in safety, one of the 
 girls, a little Hebe of fourteen, in her fright, finding 
 herself sweeping in a gidd}- circle out over the water, 
 sprang from the sleigh into the current. Her clothes 
 buoyed her for a moment, and the rushing torrent car 
 ried her below. Her red hood floated at the surface 
 an instant, and disappeared. 
 
 The accident was witnessed by many of the party,
 
 202 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 who, at the apparent clanger, raised a cry of alarm, 
 when, under an apprehension that the ice had given 
 way generally, everybod}' in terror sprang toward the 
 shore. Fred was a few roods away, pushing the 
 laughing Martha before him in a chair. He had dis 
 covered the approach of the sleigh, raised his voice in 
 warning to the driver, abandoning Martha, and was 
 already in full career for the scene of peril. With an 
 almost perfect form for strength and activity, strong 
 and agile, he sprang forward. Dropping Jus gloves 
 and cap, and flinging his coat from him, he leaped into 
 the open water and disappeared. A moment, and the 
 red hood reappeared, and then the upper part of Fred's 
 person, sustaining the insensible girl. So far clown 
 now were they, that the current, in its first leap, dashed 
 him downward a rock projecting stayed him when, 
 with a prodigious effort, he reached the flat surface of 
 another, over which the waters ran smooth, but with 
 almost irresistible force. Unable to stand with skates, 
 he sprang forward, stemmed successfully a deeper cur 
 rent, and under his burden reached the margin, in 
 which, standing to her knees in swift waters, stood 
 Belle, with her arms mutely extended to him, and a 
 light in her great eyes such as he had never seen be 
 fore. From this point she aided him ; a sleigh was 
 standing near ; pushing the loose seats aside, they laid 
 the girl on the straw in the bottom. " Take her on 
 your lap," said Fred, in a low voice ; " so, now roll 
 her to and fro." Seizing the lines, he headed the 
 horses towards Furman's, and lashed them to their ut 
 most speed. u Tear open her dress, if possible," were 
 the only other words he said.
 
 THE EXCURSION AND RESCUE. 203 
 
 Ere they reached the house, the nearly drowned girl 
 showed signs of returning consciousness ; and when Fred 
 took her in, she was struggling and breathing, though 
 with difficulty. " Strip and wrap her in hot flannels at 
 once," he said to Belle, to whom he resigned her ; 
 " and care for yourself, 3~ou are drenched." 
 
 He removed his skates, one of which was broken at 
 the toe, and ran back to the river, meeting on his way 
 the whole terror-stricken party. His cap, coat and 
 gloves were restored to him ; and directing one of the 
 3*011 ng men to go for the nearest doctor, he entered the 
 now deserted shop. 
 
 An hour later, limp and stained about the bosom, 
 with his hair still damp, he entered the Furman house 
 to learn that the rescued girl was doing very well. 
 There the whole party were, and now gathered about 
 him in eager and rapturous applause. Oh, it is much 
 to be the hero of even a moment, and feel the strong 
 rush and gush of human praise and admiration ; and so 
 did it overwhelm poor Fred, that he could make no re 
 ply ; a choking sensation arose in his throat, tears 
 came to his eyes, and a devout thankfulness went up 
 from his burdened heart ; and all the time he could 
 feel a pair of great wondrous eyes upon him, that he 
 would not turn to meet. 
 
 " Miss Carman," said he, finally addressing that now 
 radiant }'oung woman, " I owe you an apology. Per 
 mit me to beg your pardon for the very unceremonious 
 manner iii which I left you on the ice a few moments 
 ago." 
 
 " I will not only forgive you for that, but for all past 
 and all possible future transgressions. How glad you
 
 204 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 should be that you are a great, brave, heroic man ! " ad 
 miringly. 
 
 "And Mrs. Williams" he had now found his 
 tongue, turning, but still avoiding her eyes " I owe 
 you a thousand thanks for coming to help me out of 
 the river ; and the poor girl is indebted to }*ou for your 
 care in the sleigh." 
 
 " Oh, I am so glad ! " said the sincere girl, " gladder 
 than I can sa} r ." 
 
 Then all resumed their interrupted versions of the 
 matter, and each of the young men explained very 
 clearly why it was that he did not also plunge into the 
 mad and boiling waters, and carry out the drowning 
 girl. 
 
 " Oh, boys ! " exclaimed the appreciative Martha, " it 
 is all perfectly clear, you all cleared out. In a mo 
 ment j'ou rendered it the clearest case that ever was 
 clarified, no use to protest, Dave : I saw you climb 
 ing a tree, you thought that there was a miraculous 
 rise in the river. Well, we weren't all born to be heroes. 
 You all wish that 3 r ou had done it, and we are all too glad 
 that it was done, and well done, because it was done 
 quickly. Fred, ain't that a little Shakespearish, or 
 something." 
 
 " That, or something, certainly," laughing. Then 
 the young lady wanted to see her deliverer ; and Mrs. 
 Furrnan, with Belle and Martha, took him into a large 
 warm room, where, in a bed, propped up with warm 
 woollens about her, a sweet bright face, and mischiev 
 ous black eyes, were anxiously awaiting him. Her 
 face was warm with color ; and poor Fred approached 
 her blushing, the only embarrassed one in the room.
 
 THE EXCURSION AND RESCUE. 205 
 
 The attendants made way, and putting up towards 
 him her honest brown hands, she said, "I want to 
 thank you and can't ; " and pulling the poor youth down 
 to her, she kissed his check. " God bless you, God bless 
 you, and of course He will ! " 
 
 When they had a little recovered from this natural 
 exuberance of feeling, "There," said Martha, "that 
 must do ! You are a precious little puss, Millie, for 
 jumping into the river. There ain't another girl in the 
 world who would have done it, and we are ever and 
 ever so much obliged to you for it, and so is Fred ; 
 for how could he save you if you hadn't? But, you 
 see, you mustn't go to falling in love with him and 
 being unhappy. Of course, it would be your duty to 
 marry him, but }~ou won't have to, for I've promised 
 him in another direction ; so }"ou'll have nothing to do 
 but remember him in your pikers, you precious little 
 goose you ! " Then Fred was permitted to go out with 
 out a word. Indeed, the case was a little too trying 
 for him, lawyer as he was. 
 
 After dinner the teams were brought around, and, of 
 course, the party went home, the young girl remaining 
 till a later hour, for more complete restoration. 
 
 Fred was desirous of going to Turner's, Avhcre his 
 baggage was, and turned down a new road, which 
 followed the river valley, accompanied by Martha. 
 The strain of the last two or three days had been 
 severe upon him mentally and plrysically ; and if Martha 
 found him a less pleasant companion than he otherwise 
 might have been, with a woman's tact she accommo 
 dated herself to his man's moods uncomplainingly. As 
 they approached the neighborhood of Fred's young boy-
 
 206 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 home, he became alive to the surroundings, and pointed 
 out to the sj'mpathizing Martha various localities ; 
 among others, to a little heap of stones and one or two 
 apple-trees in a deserted space, which marked the site of 
 Sam Warden's hut. Further on, he pointed to a little 
 knoll in the now thin fringe of forest that bordered the 
 river where he stood when his little boat passed for 
 ever from his sight. Never before had he said so much 
 of his old-time life, and he now suddenty relapsed into 
 his wonted reticence, saying little more upon any sub 
 ject, and left his companion to wonder over the light 
 that his words let in, not so much upon his history, as 
 on his inside life and experience. 
 
 They remained long enough at Turner's to permit 
 Fred to make the needed change in his dress, called 
 at the post-office, and returned home by Uncle Bill 
 Skinner's, where the3 T made a brief pause. When they 
 got home it was already twilight ; and when Fred 
 returned from the barn where he drove his team, he 
 thought, at first, that the sitting-room was deserted. A 
 moment later, Belle stepped out from the shadow, and 
 came forward, holding out her hand. 
 
 Fred grasped it with both his own, pressed it for a 
 second to his face, and abandoning it, wet with his tears, 
 hurried from the room.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 FATHEU HENRY QUOTES PAUL TO BELLE. 
 
 ON their way home, Mr. Carman and his guests 
 heard very exaggerated rumors of the incident at 
 the Rapids. They reached his house a moment after 
 Fred, much excited, and entered the sitting-room 
 just as he returned to it. As he came in, Mr. Henry 
 stepped up to him : " You can tell us all about this 
 wonderful deliverance," he said, in a way which was 
 an assertion, a request, and command as well. 
 
 " There is not much about it," said the now fully- 
 recovered 3'outh. " We were all on the ice, when 
 that little waj-ward Way girl jumped, or fell, or was 
 spilled into the water ; . and as she did not get out 
 immediate!}', a fellow skated along and skimmed her 
 out," with a gesture of his hand, as if dipping a 
 butterfly from a pool. 
 
 " Skimmed her out, did he?" asked Father Henry, 
 very incredulously." 
 
 "Father Henry," said Belle, coming forward with 
 a beautiful enthusiasm, "the young man who was 
 driving the sleigh in which the young girl was, 
 turned suddenly too near the edge of the ice, just 
 where the water, deep and black, begins to move, 
 and that sent the sleigh around in a circle, when 
 (207)
 
 208 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 this little Millie, in her fright, attempted to jump out 
 on to the ice ; but when she sprang, the sleigh hud 
 moved so far that she jumped into the water. She 
 gave a shriek as she went in, and everybody was 
 frightened, and hurried off the ice. She floated a 
 moment, and went down ; just at that instant Mr. 
 Warden came flashing over the ice, throwing away his 
 gloves and cap and coat as he came ; at the edge of 
 the ice he sprang into the air, and I thought he would 
 leap to the shore. He struck the water just where the 
 girl disappeared the woi'ld whirled a moment and 
 then I saw the red bonnet, then Mr. Warden with 
 Millie ; then the current dashed him down to a large 
 rock ; from that he seemed to spring to a shallow place, 
 where he plunged toward the shore with Millie in his 
 arms. It was a brave, noble, heroic act, such as few 
 men in the world could perform, and such as the world 
 is better for having done in it. I saw the whole of it." 
 Her voice trembled, and a sweet dewiness came into 
 her eyes as she closed. 
 
 " And so, young man, your statement was not quite 
 true ? " with affected, but ver}* kindly, severity. 
 
 " Would you have him become a braggart? " asked 
 Belle, laj'ing her hand on the old man's arm, and look 
 ing up into his face. 
 
 " And she has not told you," said Fred, in a soft 
 voice, " that when I was almost overcome, and strug 
 gling on m}' skates against a sweeping current, she 
 plunged in to her waist, and helped us out, and that she 
 brought the "drowned girl to herself." 
 
 " He told me what to do," said the generous girl. 
 
 The old man looked with a softened surprise from.
 
 FATHER HENUY QUOTES PAUL TO BELLE. 209 
 
 one to the other of the noble pair standing so near him, 
 each so anxious to praise the other. 
 
 " Let this noble act be a bond of union to you." 
 And turning to Belle, " It is a goodly youth, and ' the 
 unbelieving husband is sanctified by the wife ' ; let U3 
 return thanks for this great deliverance ; " which he did 
 in a few sonorous words, to the great relief of the 
 blushing Belle. As for poor Fred, broad as the 
 allusion was, it conve}-ed no meaning to his dazed 
 perception. Supper was announced, where all the 
 details of the interesting incident were talked over 
 in all their relations, and man}' similar incidents called 
 to mind. Father Henry was interested to know what 
 were the mental exercises of Fred accompaning his 
 act. 
 
 " What did you first think? " 
 
 " That I would save her." 
 
 "Well, what next?" 
 
 " I was afraid I would be too late." 
 
 " Weren't j*ou afraid of losing your own life ? " 
 
 " I never thought of that, I thought only of her." 
 
 " When did } T OU gain sight of her ? " 
 
 " Just as I leaped, and I feared I might strike her ; 
 she was partly down on the bottom. The water was 
 but a little over my head, but it had an awful suck." 
 
 " Weren't you afraid you would not get her out? " 
 
 " I knew I should ; I pushed out, came near falling, 
 caught my foot in some rocks, and broke the skate iron 
 that turns over the toe ; just as I thought I would fall, 
 I saw Mrs. Williams within two yards of me, and, 
 of course I got out then easy enough," with a soft and 
 14
 
 210 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 falling voice, a silence with expressive looks that 
 Fred did not see. 
 
 " Didn't you nearly freeze? " 
 
 " I never seemed to know I was wet until I found my 
 clofhes frozen. The water was genuine Cu}-ahoga. I 
 turned two~quarts out of each boot with the true Black 
 Brook tint, from away above Ma}-'s mill-daui ; " and so 
 he went gaj'ly on in answer to questions. 
 
 A little later, Lewis Turner came in, as he said, 
 to carry Fred off. He had not seen any of his friends 
 at the Corners yet, and he would return him in a day 
 or two. Before Fre<i left, he had some conversation 
 with Martha about a visit to Sarah, whom Fred had 
 not seen for j-ears-. It might be too much to ask her 
 to leave Mrs. Williams to go with him, and he hardly 
 had the courage to ask her to go, he said, with a 
 deprecating look at that conscious young woman. 
 
 " I will be very glad to go," was the prompt 
 response to the look. 
 
 So it was arranged, when, with kindest adieus from 
 the other guests, and man}' admonitions from Father 
 Henry, he took his leave of the rest, and went out.
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 AN INTROSPECTION. 
 
 ~T TNTIL long after midnight had Fred, with a cease- 
 ^ less stride, tramped up and down his room at 
 Turner's, in the vain effort to analyze himself, and the 
 emotions and vicissitudes which he had experienced 
 within three days. The prominent incidents he went 
 over and over with, his arrival at the Carmans, his 
 meeting with Belle, the impression she made upon him, 
 the strange incident of the night, his attempted expla 
 nation and apology, and the disgust and contempt with 
 which she extinguished him, his wandering in the 
 wood the next day her seeking a seat in another car 
 riage, with strangers, that morning the exciting 
 events at the Rapids, her bold plunge into the river 
 to aid him, her look, her joy at his commendation, 
 above all, her meeting him that night, and her glowing 
 recital of his conduct. Then he recalled his own emo 
 tion, when he took her hand ; his intention to kiss it, 
 which he dared not do, and his weak breaking down 
 over it. What did that matter? She must have seen, 
 before that, exactly what were his feelings toward her. 
 Over and over with it all, and then he thought back of 
 his fruitless quest, a hunt at the South for the place 
 whence he supposed the Greens came, if mayhap he 
 (211)
 
 212 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 might lift the veil from his origin, and of its fruitless- 
 ness. Then he remembered how the name Jarvis had 
 escaped Aunt Sally, and other remote things, and theii 
 his thoughts came back to Belle. 
 
 Finally, he sat down, from physical weariness, to 
 endeavor to think, to strip and lay himself bare to 
 himself. Who and what was he? It all seemed acci 
 dental and purposeless, tending to nothing. He was, 
 because he had to be, and not because anything was to 
 come of it. It was all the result of an accident, that 
 should not have happened, an oversight of Providence, 
 and hence no provision was made for it, and none ever 
 would be. He was to go on, or rather other things 
 would push him on. He was mixed in with others, 
 who were going on that way, and the current they made 
 took him along ; that was all. He was to have noth 
 ing on the route, no basket had been filled for him, and 
 nothing awaited him when he got to the place ; indeed 
 there was no place for him. When the rest landed, he 
 and the stream stood still, and became stagnant ; he 
 would float about decaying on the surface, until he 
 acquired the power to sink, and would finally rot on the 
 bottom with other drift. Why should he have this 
 stain? What had he done ? Wiry should children ever 
 inherit disease, and depraved appetites, and abnormal 
 tendencies from their parents? It wasn't the fault 
 of the child, and yet he was born to it as certainly as if 
 the transgression was his personal crime. But why 
 were people made so? Why were thej^ made at all, 
 for that matter? He had inherited a disease in the 
 form of an infamy ; why had he escaped the condition 
 of Jake and Saui ? Why not remain low, and coarse,
 
 AN INTROSPECTION. 213 
 
 and brutal, and so remain down, where the mark had 
 not struck and stung him? No man had ever got 
 above it. The proudest in history always carried it. 
 
 The great Bourbon, was a , to the end, and is never 
 
 named now without this reminder. He used to rage at 
 this, and wander through thick dark nights, conjuring 
 up shadows to buffet, and had at times grown familiar 
 with the thought of death. Then would come some 
 shadow of a thought that it might not be, after all. 
 What comfort was there in that possibility ? Nobody 
 doubted it, and never would. Now he had met this 
 Belle. He had seen ladies before whom he could have 
 learned to love, and would have gladly set himself the 
 easy task had he felt free. Now at once, without 
 thought, without warning or note, he loved her deeply, 
 intensely. pshaw ! he had only seen her two days 
 before. Out of poems, was there ever such madness? 
 Yes, it was a madness, a mere rioting of the fancy. 
 Lord ! what inspiration came to him, fainting and 
 staggering in the icy waters from her eyes, as she 
 stood braced against the current to help him ! Oh, 
 if her love was for him, of course she knew. Why 
 should he go back there ? Why should he go away from 
 her? If he had never seen her, he would never have 
 known what a wonder of loveliness the world held. He 
 was glad he had seen her. Then he sat, and tried not 
 to think. He was done fretting at or with the world. 
 He was in it. could not mend it ; indeed, the world was 
 seemingly well enough to others. Belle? of course he 
 should love her. Oh, was it not for this, he would 
 win her. He would compel her to love him. She 
 should be made to see and feel, not that he was worthy
 
 214 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 of her no man was but that he was not wholly un 
 worthy. But a bah! 
 
 He certainly had not appeared very well in her eyes, 
 saving his experiment in hydraulics. That certainly 
 wasn't much of an exploit. Oh, if it had been Belle, 
 and if she had been with him in the very grasp of 
 death, and he had dragged her hence, with just enough 
 strength to lay her on the shore, saved, and had then 
 sunk down by her side and died, what a joy had 
 been his ! But this little girl in the Rapids, which he 
 had waded in the summer, and where he had speared 
 suckers, faugh ! somebod}*- would laugh at the idea 
 of such an exploit ! 
 
 And higher and nobler thoughts, such as he was 
 wont to cherish, came back, old aspirations and inspir 
 ations. He had been marked, came such from birth. 
 The ordinary lower channels of human action were in 
 some way clogged and choked up, and his life would 
 not flow in them. He must vault above, and solitary. 
 Was not this blot upon him merely on the outer wall 
 of life, a wretched placard, by which prejudice adver 
 tised the faults of his parents? Did it reach the 
 essential self, the soul ? Was not that pure, and 
 good, and elevated? Were not his sympathies quick 
 and warm, his aspirations noble and great? Was there 
 anything mean and sordid, low and base, in him ? Had 
 he not alwa3"s jealously watched every thought, and 
 the springs of thought, every turn and bent of mind ? 
 Had he not familiarized himself with the thoughts and 
 lives of the pure and essential^ great, and proposed 
 for himself a pure and elevated career of labor, and 
 devotion, and self-sacrifice ? What if men turned from
 
 AN INTROSPECTION. 215 
 
 him? What, after all, were the few years to which, at 
 the most, life was limited ? "What did it really matter 
 how this first gasp of time was spent? What were 
 sixty 3~ears to eternity? Had he not a soul, capable 
 of strong and steady upward soarings? He opened 
 a window, and looked out and up into the studded 
 vault. " What an awful sight, and }~et comprehending 
 somewhat at least feeling its sublimity I confront 
 it. I am not abashed and overwhelmed by it. Some 
 thing of the Father God is within me, and I look into 
 these shadowy realms, which darkness makes palpable, 
 as something belonging to me, and I to it. I am an 
 atom of even infinity, that cannot be lost. What 
 matter these few days and pangs, and shames and 
 abasements? " 
 
 Looking again, long and anxiously : " Yet where is 
 God, who so reveals His works to us and hides Him 
 self? B} r what means does He work, and with what ? 
 Where does He hide His awful powers, and store away 
 His incomprehensible energies ? Is He still creating in 
 the measureless infinities of space away from us? Still 
 fashioning and finishing ? And when these new universes 
 are complete, will He return, and bring to our dark 
 ened worlds the summer of His presence? Or does 
 He occupy Himself with merely ruling these worlds ? 
 How idle that would be for Him ! Does it cost Him 
 much outla}' to govern us and misgovern if men 
 say truly? What braggarts, to suppose that much time 
 or thought is spent on us. How weak and base we are, 
 born base, some of us, and, when we confront these 
 blazing worlds, we know that we cannot be God's 
 noblest work. What creatures He might have made
 
 216 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 us, had it minded Him to. Yet -we may aspire, and in 
 this lies our marvellous excellence. We may hope, and 
 grow, and lift ourselves up, purify, and be ennobled ; 
 contemn ourselves, and sordid lives and surroundings, 
 and escape from the darkened atmosphere of earth 
 and its night-projecting shadow. I feel something of 
 this;" and he closed the window and sat down. 
 
 "Oh, I will struggle to purif} r m} T very soul and 
 heart, and thought and desires, and be familiar with 
 none but the pure and good and holy ; and yet I am 
 so lonely ! Surety God means companions for us, 
 and this beautiful one, she may some time know and 
 feel that in spirit, in soul, I am not wholly unworthy 
 of her. Is there such a thing as love and communion 
 beyond the earth, outside of the flesh, and above the 
 senses? Has it ever been felt or found in this .world? 
 Has it not been sighed for, prayed for, and felt, and 
 found only to be rags and filth, in which seething sense 
 and lust have generated maggots such as, horror! 
 Why do I come back to this ? How low and earth}- 1 
 am, not good enough to preach. Oh, what a luxury 
 to go up on hill-sides, or in wooded valle}*s, and call 
 men about me, and tell them of God, and lead them 
 from their sordid lives. I? Ha, ha ! I can't bear to 
 think of what I am, or where I begun. What a 
 preacher I'd be ! I should avoid churches and meet 
 ing-houses. Lord, how the old theological pot-shells 
 should be pulverized ! Oh dear, I would never be good 
 enough to preach, when I begin *by this self-glorying. 
 Then it might not do to preach the love of God as I 
 would be glad to do. After all, do men ever accept a 
 higher faith until they are fit for it? When they
 
 AN INTROSPECTION. 217 
 
 really believe it, it saves them. If they did not, they 
 would be under the old restraining fear and healthy 
 slavery of the devil ; so ne harm would come in any 
 event" a pause. " To go forth as in the older time, 
 or now, in the pure spirit, and preach a pure gospel, 
 with a high-born and beautiful woman, sweet and 
 angelic, to love as such might, and encourage you, to 
 let you come ' to her, after long absences, worn and 
 poor, and to be cheered and nursed back to new 
 strength and life by her ! " He thought of Belle conse 
 crated to her husband in heaven, yet loving and sus 
 taining one on earth, and ever in unapproachable 
 purity.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 BELLE'S LETTER. 
 
 RED finished this somewhat memorable visit to 
 4- the old home of his childhood, and went away 
 as he came, quietly and without notice. He went 
 about among his earby acquaintances, visited Sarah, 
 accompanied by Martha and Belle, and brought his 
 satchel down the next morning after the return ; and, 
 when breakfast was over, he arose, and unexpectedly 
 bade them good-by. He walked out through the little 
 arbor, where he paused a moment, and turned to flash 
 back, upon the still astonished eyes of Belle, the Flor 
 ence portrait. There was alwaj's much of admiration 
 for him in Mantua, and now they found him so mature 
 and manly, so modest and gentle, and so intelligent 
 and well-informed on all possible subjects, upon all of 
 which he spoke well, that well-read men and Mantua 
 had many were surprised at the extent and accuracy 
 of his information. He was not what men call showy, 
 but sensible, and waited to be drawn out ; and, 
 though plainly dressed, he had a careless way of wear 
 ing his clothes, at once elegant and free from puppy 
 ism. It was noticed that he did not wear a ring, or 
 chain, or pin, or marked color. His manner was a lit 
 tle reserved, like that of one who thought better of 
 (218)
 
 BELLE'S LETTER. 219 
 
 himself than he supposed he was rated by others, and 
 who waited to be asked before opening himself out. 
 
 To say that he was not observed, and closely, by 
 Belle, would do the perceptions of that young lady 
 injustice. Accustomed to the ease and refinements 
 of the best forms of culture in the United States, 
 and having passed many years in Europe, whatever 
 else she may have found or fancied about him, she 
 found his manners and address very attractive. She 
 especially admired the unconscious elevation of his 
 sentiments, as well as the delicacy and purity of his 
 tastes and manner, and the ease and felicity with 
 which he expressed himself. 
 
 On the evening before his departure, Uncle Seth, 
 who was somewhat hoarse, asked him to read the even 
 ing lesson from the Bible, and pointed him to the fourth 
 chapter of Matthew, which Fred rendered so simply, 
 naturally, and beautifull}', that his listeners asked him 
 to go on, as he did, through the fifth, sixth, and sev 
 enth. His voice was rich and soft, his sensibilities 
 very quick and deep, and he seemed to deliver the nar 
 rative, and the grand, simple utterances of the Great 
 Teacher, in the purity and spirit which inspired them. 
 As he went on, a deep fervor seemed to grow up 
 and glow, until the far-off scenery, with the spirit of 
 loneliness stamped upon the Orient the primitive and 
 curious multitudes, and the wonderfully serene pres 
 ence, calm and sacred, of the young Christ seemed 
 to be brought before the vision of his wondering, 
 rapt, and exalted listeners. "When he reached the 
 last sentence of the Sermon on the Mount, his voice 
 trembled in a softened cadence, and ceased. His audi-
 
 220 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 tors listened for a moment, breathless, as if expecting 
 he would proceed, and a shade of regret fell upon their 
 faces when they saw he had ended, and the young 
 women turned dewj r eyes upon him, as if he were a 
 young prophet. Xo one thought of asking him of his 
 faith, and no one for a moment doubted it. The face 
 of Belle, in particular, wore a very sweet and satisfied 
 expression ; and, when he took leave of her the next 
 morning, they happened to be a little apart from the 
 others, and, whether either spoke a word, the anxious 
 and attentive Martha never knew. Something mys 
 terious there was between the two, she knew, some 
 thing unusual. Was it repulsion ? Was it attraction ? 
 She could not tell ; and, somehow, this deep Belle 
 wrapt herself so completely from her approach, that 
 she scarcely made Fred the subject of a remark to 
 her. She thought, on the whole, that Fred had not 
 been appreciated ; and for nothing will a woman suffer 
 sooner in the estimation of another woman, than for a 
 want of sympathy in her admiration for her favorites 
 of the other sex. What and whom does she like? 
 thought Martha, and who does she suppose will come 
 for her? If she thinks as I think she thinks, I think 
 she will live to think differently, that's all ; with 
 which thoughtful reflection she only mentally attached 
 herself the more closely to the side of her unfortunate 
 favorite. 
 
 Within a da}- or two after Fred's departure, Belle 
 announced that a carriage would come for her the last 
 of the week. 
 
 " Belle ! " She arose, and went frankly to Martha, 
 and looked her fairly and honestly in her eyes for a
 
 BELLE'S LETTER. 221 
 
 moment, then bent down and kissed her. " I've over 
 stayed my time for some days. I am expecting that 
 a letter has by this time reached home, which will 
 require serious attention." 
 
 For a day or two she was a little just a trifle 
 restless and abstracted, and less talkative than usual, 
 a little coy of words, and not so much given to look 
 ing up when Martha called to her, nor always when 
 she answered ; and she seemed not to hear so quickly 
 as usual, and answered a little away from the matter 
 in hand at times. 
 
 The fourth day after Fred left, late in the snowy 
 afternoon, Belle saw a youth enter the gate, and look 
 towards the house, holding a letter in his hand. She 
 stepped to the door. " Mr. Turner told me to give 
 this to Mrs. Williams," he said, as if doubting that the 
 young-looking girl before him was the lady. " Thanks 
 to Mr. Turner, and this for you," said Belle, taking the 
 letter, and giving him a gold coin. Martha had gone 
 down to the Judge's, and she was alone. She never 
 theless went to her room, without looking at the letter. 
 When she entered it, she stood and studied the firm 
 hand of the address, in the way of people who so phil 
 osophically question the outside of a letter as to its 
 contents. Perhaps she did not care to know what it 
 contained. She finally opened it, spread the pages 
 out, and looked at the strong, firm, man's handsome 
 hand, not like that of a clerk, yet full of character, 
 and, in places, thrown on as if by unrestrained im 
 pulse. 
 
 The first part of the manuscript was regular, easy 
 and flowing ; then the' characters grew large and sharp,
 
 222 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 running and rushing with gaps and blots, and some 
 times illegible, as if the writer had, in frenzies and 
 spasms, dashed himself in broken and abrupt sentences 
 upon the paper, and at moments with both hands. 
 
 Belle read in fits and starts, looking frightened, and 
 casting her eyes about as in momentary apprehension. 
 Thus it finally rendered itself to her on her last reading : 
 
 " I hurried abruptly from you, ere I should alarm or 
 overwhelm you with the rhapsodies of passion. I 
 must speak, and as you must have felt I would. 
 You may be amazed at what I set clown here, but not 
 at all that I write you. Why do I ? Why do the waters 
 finally break and rush? 
 
 " Oh, loveliest one most beautiful that makest 
 the earth glad with thy loveliness, and yet a solitude 
 in thy unapproachableness. I love thee, I love thee, 
 I love thee ! Dost thou hear and comprehend ? It 
 is for woman to hear her lover, but she cannot compre 
 hend, nor does he, the strong outgoing onrushing 
 tide that would sweep about and encompass her with 
 an ocean of worship and reverence. I would not pipe 
 to thee on the lover's thin reed, nor sigh and bring 
 flowers, and twist garlands of meaningless praises, but 
 create a solitude, in the midst of which I would en 
 throne thee. I would snatch from the day its gloiy, 
 and pluck from the brow of night its stars to crown 
 thee, and then men, with palms and -garlands, should 
 come to worship thee. I would ask nothing, seek 
 nothing, but to worship in distance and in silence. 
 
 " I am not frenzied ; I am not one to go fanc3 T -mad. 
 This is not the fantastic, frantic cry of a weak soul and a 
 shallow nature, but from depths and strength my voice
 
 BELLE'S LETTER. 223 
 
 goes, will go out to you; nature, art, man, God, 
 almost, have conspired to manacle, to imprison me, 
 wall me out from your presence, so that I may not 
 go as a man would go, and tell you his love. I assert 
 myself, wrench from around me these chains, and dash 
 the walls of my prison-house into shatters. I rush 
 into j'our presence, and kneel at your feet, and tell you 
 that I love you. Only that, only that ! and then I put 
 my lips in the dust, and, without cry or moan, remain 
 forever mute. 
 
 " A 3'oung barbarian, from the depths of savager}*, 
 comes out upon the margin of the hoar and shaggy 
 forest, out of night and darkness, and beholds for the first 
 time his star. He knows that it is his, and falls upon 
 his knees in adoration, and longs, oh, so passionately 
 and yearningty ! that the star should know of his 
 worship." 
 
 That was all, no name or initial was appended to 
 it. Twilight deepened into darkness about Belle, as, 
 with great heaving, gasping sobs, she still lay with her 
 head buried upon the table. Is she woman ? or more ? 
 or less? An hour later she appeared below, having 
 suffered from a sudden headache, as women sometimes 
 do. She was very quiet, and Martha, who was given 
 to observation, thought that she had never seen so deep 
 a light in her wondrous eyes. 
 
 When she left for home, two days later, she told 
 Martha that she meant to be at her bridal, but that she 
 thought that a widow should never be a bridesmaid, and 
 that Fred certainly ought to be differently matched, 
 on that occasion.
 
 I 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 A MESSAGE TO FRED. 
 
 N mid Marchj the whole State of Ohio and the 
 country generally were startled with the account of 
 a murder. In the limits of the newly-formed county 
 of Mahoning, made up of the old counties of Portage 
 and Trumbull, just on the margin of a wood, in the 
 newly-settled part of one of the townships, the body of 
 a man was found, just by the wayside, murdered. He 
 was a stranger, middle-aged and dark, and nothing 
 was found on his person indicating his identity. He 
 was well clothed, and had spurs on his boots ; about 
 a mile from him, tangled in its bridle, saddled, and well 
 caparisoned, was found a horse, supposed to have 
 been ridden by the murdered man. It was said that he 
 had been seen, at several places west of the point 
 where found, mounted on this or a similar horse ; and 
 finally it was rumored that he had been followed 
 by one, and some said two, men from the West. Later 
 still, it was reported that he was a seceding Mormon, 
 and had been followed and murdered by some of the 
 Thug baud of Danites, doubtless under instructions 
 from the new head of the church. 
 
 Intense excitement prevailed all through the country. 
 Acts of violence were rare, and in many of the Reserve 
 (224)
 
 A MESSAGE TO FRED. 225 
 
 counties a homicide had never occurred. The news 
 papers were full of the tragic event, and the wildest 
 and absurdest rumors prevailed among the people. 
 The authorities, unfamiliar with such cases, were on 
 the most confused alert, investigating and blundering 
 in the most compendious way. 
 
 The coroner called a jury and held an inquest on the 
 body, where it lay in the woods, with the March flowers 
 crushed under it. Hundreds of people attended, and 
 many from twenty miles distance. It was in proof 
 before the jurj^, that a man similarly dressed, and 
 riding the horse afterwards found, was seen to enter 
 the woods just at twilight, a mile from the scene, and 
 that a young man, on his way to his sugar-bush, found 
 the body early the next morning. Three or four 
 doctors concluded that death was caused by a blow 
 from a bludgeon upon the head, and other evidence 
 Avas given that the body had been robbed. Finally a 
 man came forward, who identified the body as that of 
 Oliver Olney. The horse was produced and inspected. 
 The jury returned that the man known as Oliver 
 Olney came to his death by a blow from a bludgeon in 
 the hands of some person to the jurors unknown. Two 
 days later, the body was buried with great solemnity in 
 the presence of a concourse of more than a thousand 
 people. The officiating clergyman preached a most 
 acceptable sermon from the words, " Whoso sheddeth 
 man's blood," etc. 
 
 About ten days later, Fred received, at his office in 
 Massillon, the following note : 
 15
 
 226 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 " CANFIELD, March 26, 1845. 
 " FRED WARDEN, ESQ. : 
 
 " Sir, Your old enemy, Jake Green, is now in jail 
 here, charged with murder. He is without counsel, 
 money, or friends." 
 
 There was no name signed to it ; nor was there on 
 the envelope any mark or clew to the writer. The note 
 was in a man's hand, unmistakably. 
 
 Jake had been arrested in Coshocton a few days 
 after the murder, while making towards the lower part 
 of the State. He had been followed from the vicinity 
 of the tragedy, near the scene of which he was observed 
 on the morning of the discovery of the body. It was 
 said that many things some mysterious papers were 
 found on him, going to show that the deceased was 
 Oliver Olnej", a former resident of Geauga county, an 
 early convert to Mormonism, and a supposed adherent 
 of Rigdon's, and who, it was said, had fled from Nauvoo 
 recently. It was rumored that Jake and one other had 
 followed Olney from Nauvoo, and, as was believed, 
 had come up with, waylaid and murdered him. The 
 case was said to be ver} T clear against Jake ; and popular 
 feeling, even among the cool, law-loving citizens of 
 Northern Ohio, was intense against him. The bad 
 reputation of Jake about Mantua soon reached the 
 venue of his alleged crime, and tended much to 
 deepen the feeling to his prejudice. 
 
 Jake had been absent from Northern Ohio for some 
 years, and was supposed to be with the Mormons, 
 among whom, as was thought, his father and aunt still 
 resided.
 
 A MESSAGE TO FRED. 227 
 
 At his arrest he began by a denial, and then main 
 tained a sullen, dogged silence ; proof, of course, of his 
 guilt. The popular rule bears hard on a suspected 
 man. If he talks, it is to deny and mislead. If he is 
 silent, it is of course because he cannot deny his guilt. 
 
 Jake, a sturdy, sullen villain, whom the officers could 
 hardly protect from violence, was heavily ironed, and 
 lodged in the strongest cell of the new prison. Hun 
 dreds had been to gaze through the grated windows, and 
 wonder and jeer, mock and taunt him ; none to speak 
 kindly, or express the slightest sympathy in his fate, or 
 pity for his condition. He was the obtuse, hardened, 
 blood-stained murderer, whom it was useless to try, save 
 as a compliance with the useless forms of law, and to pit}' 
 whom was a crime against justice and a sin against 
 humanity. Whenever the jailer attended upon him it 
 was alwaj-s under the protection of an armed guard, 
 and the outside world was daily startled and horrified 
 with some new tale of the poor wretch's guilt, this 
 being the thirteenth or fourteenth murder he had com 
 mitted. 
 
 On the afternoon of the fifth day of his confinement, 
 when the western sun lit up his cell from the one 
 small barred window, his prison-door was opened, and 
 a tall, commanding, open browed, kindty-eyed j'oung 
 man stepped lightl}* in, and the door was locked on 
 him. So bright and gentle and kindly beamed his 
 face, that Jake did not recognize him, till the voice, 
 "Jake, old fellow, how are you? "and Fred frankly 
 held out his hand. Jake took it mechanically in his 
 hard and manacled hand, and looked wonderingly and 
 abashed into the face, the lines and features of which
 
 228 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 came slowly back. " Fred, Fred, is this yer? Do yer 
 come ter dam me ? " 
 
 " I come to help you ; of course I do. We are old 
 acquaintances, and relations for aught I know ; at any 
 rate we are both human, and one of us wants help." 
 
 " Fred," said the touched Jake, " I killed yer dog 
 when " 
 
 "Never mind that now. Poor Walter would 
 have died long ago. I am a man now, Jake, I am a 
 law}*er ; have been a good deal in the courts, have 
 earned a little money, and I came on purpose to defend 
 you, and get you out of this." 
 
 " Do yer mean it, raly, Fred ? " breaking down. 
 
 " Indeed I do. I came for no other purpose under 
 the heavens." 
 
 They sat down for a long and earnest conference ; 
 Jake was broken and incoherent, and Fred held him 
 and questioned as the nisi prius lawyer of all mortals 
 only knows how to do ; Fred had seen four j-ears of 
 considerable practice, was accustomed to go to his books 
 instead of begging broken morsels of law of his elders 
 in the streets, and had early learned to depend on 
 himself. It is a marvel, the rapidity and clearness 
 with which a strong legally-trained mind grasps, 
 arranges and analyzes facts, and leaps to conclusions, 
 while an unaccustomed mind, however strong and intel 
 ligent, is struggling with an undigested mass of details 
 complex in their nature, and confused from want 
 of method. They have crystallized in his ; he steps 
 from one governing point to another, and is at home, 
 while the other still struggles with the tangled skein.
 
 A MESSAGE TO FRED. 229 
 
 Fred made a few notes of names and dates, and at the 
 end of an hour arose to go. 
 
 " Have you any money, Jake?" 
 
 "No but I " 
 
 " Take that, for the present," giving him a ten- 
 dollar note. 
 
 At his call, the jailer came. 
 
 '"Why is this man in irons?" demanded Fred, with 
 grave indignation. 
 
 " Why, to keep him safe, I s'pose." 
 
 "Safe, eh! Has he attempted to escape? Did he 
 resist?" 
 
 " Not's I know on." 
 
 " Call the sheriff, if you please." The sheriff came. 
 
 " 1 am Fred Warden, a lawyer, and counsel for this 
 man. May I know by whose order he is fettered and 
 manacled here in this cell? " The tone was very quiet, 
 but Fred was very earnest, and men were very much 
 in the wa} r of heeding him in that mood. 
 
 "Well, 3*ou see, Mr. Warden, that there is a great 
 deal of excitement against him, and " 
 
 " You chained him to keep the ignorant devils from 
 hurting him, I suppose?" 
 
 " Well, not quite that." 
 
 "What then? Your prison is new and strong. 
 IIo is not condemned, is presumed, to be innocent, 
 whatever excitement there may be against him. Do 
 you know of any provision of the Ohio Statutes that 
 warrants this?" 
 
 " Not as I know of." 
 
 " Will you remove those chains?" 
 
 " Certainly, if you wish it."
 
 230 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 " Most certainty I do ; " and the jailer was called, 
 and poor Jake's limbs were liberated. 
 
 As he went out, the sheriff was very much impressed 
 with the idea that Jake would be defended ; and there 
 was something in Fred's way and manner, something 
 of force and strength, of undeveloped power, that 
 would make light work of ordinary difficulties. 
 
 From the jail Fred went to the office of a young 
 law}-er of the name of Wilson, with whom he had 
 a long conversation, and the next morning the}' both, 
 on horseback, proceeded to the scene of the murder, 
 where the}' were met by a surveyor with his chain and 
 an assistant. The young man who made the discovery, 
 and others who saw the place before it was disturbed 
 and tramped over, were summoned, and the most careful 
 examination of every possible thing, and all the sur 
 roundings for a considerable distance, was made ; dis 
 tances were accurately measured, and a plat of the 
 whole ground was prepared with great care. 
 
 The various witnesses were of course very willing to 
 talk, and under Fred's questioning, were surprised at 
 the numberless wholly unimportant things he called 
 out and noted, and committed them to, so that it 
 would be hard to vary from their statements, made in 
 the presence of so many. What under the sun he 
 wanted of it all was a puzzle to them ; " and all the 
 time he looked so pleasant and quizzical, and as if he 
 did not care a cuss," as one of them said, in his ac 
 count of the matter. 
 
 The proceedings concluded with a disinterment of 
 the remains, and a most careful and scientific exam 
 ination of them., conducted by Dr. Ackly, of Cleveland,
 
 A MESSAGE TO FRED. 231 
 
 in the presence of a distinguished practitioner from 
 Warren, and one from Ravenna. This act was thought to 
 be little short of an outrage upon public decency and 
 propriety ; and folks said that if there was no law to 
 prevent such shameful carryings on, it was time there 
 was. What earthly use was there in digging up a 
 dead man, as if he could be made to tell anything on 
 their side of the case? Of course, that was all the 
 doings of the doctors ; they would make anything an 
 excuse to dig up and cut into a body ; and it was 
 popularly believed that Dr. Ackty actually carried off 
 the head of the murdered man to Cleveland, and 
 pickled it in spirits, and that each of the others took 
 some choice bit. At last Fred finished his survey and 
 preparation. Before he left, he had an interview with 
 the prosecuting officer for the county, who said that he 
 should push the case to a trial early in June. When 
 Fred suggested the difficulty of getting everything 
 rend}-, he replied that it was an atrocious murder, and 
 public opinion demanded a speedy trial and execu 
 tion. Fred ventured to say, that in the present condi 
 tion of public opinion a fair trial was hardly possible, 
 and was assured that there could be no possible doubt 
 of Jake's guilt, and that it was his own fault that pub 
 lic opinion was against him. Fred left him, with an 
 intimation that the rules governing the continuances of 
 cases of this importance were inflexible, and that a 
 man would exhibit little invention if he permitted such 
 a case to be tried until he was entirely read} r . 
 
 Whatever may have been Fred's purpose in seeking 
 this interview, he left in the bosom of the prosecuting 
 attorney of Hahoning County, a healthy determination
 
 232 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 to try the case at all hazards, at as earty a day as pos 
 sible. He rightly judged that the cool, quiet, and 
 unassuming young man who acted for the prisoner 
 might, with time and delay, get up an embarrassing 
 defence, plain and undoubted as the case was. 
 
 The scene of the exciting labors of these few days was 
 not many miles distant from Newton Falls, and many 
 times there came a passionate longing into the young 
 man's heart to invent some excuse for going, or to go 
 without any, into the neighborhood, only to look upon 
 the house, haunted and made paradise by the presence 
 of Belle. Reluctantly, and with sadness, he turned 
 him homeward without this seemingly poor luxury. 
 Pie had not heard a word of or from her since he left 
 Mantua, four months before. He knew he could re 
 ceive nothing from her in reply to his letter. He 
 knew he ought not to have sent her that, but he 
 couldn't help it. It went tearing and crashing out of 
 him, would go. He could not recall what it was, 
 and did not feel much contrition for it. He felt that 
 she was true and noble, notwithstanding her quiet, 
 dreamy, nun-like life. When men fled in mortal 
 fright, did she not dash into a wintry torrent to aid 
 him in saving the drowning maiden? Not on his 
 account, of course, but no common woman would have 
 done anything but stand and shriek, if she had not 
 fainted. Surely, would she not be willing that he 
 should love her? Would she not come to see, in time, 
 that no harm, no hurt to her purity, could come to 
 her from his distant and sacred worship? Would he 
 not struggle to make his . soul not unworthy of hers, 
 and might she not some time come to know and admit
 
 A MESSAGE TO FRED. 233 
 
 that ? Would she be at Martha's wedding ? He doubted 
 it. He should go, and would at the least hear some 
 thing of her. If she was there, what could he say to 
 her ? He now regretted that awful letter ; it would 
 keep her away, for fear of meeting him. So he mused 
 over it all, and rode home, as he worked now, in the 
 daily light of his great love.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 AN OLD TIME WEDDING. 
 
 IN the far-off old time of which I write, ere the beau 
 tiful slopes, and hills, and valleys were denuded 
 of the wonderful forests that once furnished homes, 
 haunts, and hunts for Indian and beast ; when the 
 openings and clearings, protected and fenced in from 
 winds, and traversed by innumerous small streams, 
 which, in the absence of great evaporation, found 
 head in every swale or cat-swamp, and a course or 
 channel in every little vale, the tone of the climate 
 was softer, the winters more moderate, and there was 
 still an actual spring, out of the almanac and pastoral 
 poetry, all over beautiful Northern Ohio. 
 
 The Carman farm, behind its protecting mass of 
 timbered land which fenced it on the north with its 
 southern inclination, and its rich warm soil, was alwa^ys 
 the first to feel the kindling glow of spring ; and now, 
 on May-day, was radiant and fragrant with light and 
 blossoms. In the woods the shad-bush and dog-wood 
 made little gay clouds of white, under which blos 
 somed the blood-root, squaw-blow, adders-tongue, la 
 dies' slipper, and myriads of the gay and unnamed 
 children of April ; the grand old pear-tree arose in front 
 (234)
 
 AN OLD TIME WEDDING. 235 
 
 of the house, a marvellous fragrant white pyramid, 
 one mass of blossom ; the cherries, peaches, and plums 
 were failing, but the great orchards were one wil 
 derness of red and white, while the whole air, faint 
 and weighted with perfume, was traversed everywhere 
 with little streamlet-like hums of loaded brown 
 bees. 
 
 It was a great day at the old red farm-house. All 
 along in front of it, tied to fence or tree, were many 
 horses and carriages ; and men and boys, matrons and 
 maidens, thronged on the grass in the yards, under the 
 piazzas, and in all the rooms that were open, all in 
 gala dress, and with bright faces. 
 
 It was Martha's wedding-da}*. All the family rel 
 atives were there : all the Carmans of Mantua, of 
 Warren and Aurora ; the Sheldons, the Higleys, from 
 Windham, many prominent persons of Mantua, and 
 all the neighbors. 
 
 Uncle Seth, in his best plum-colored home-made, 
 with his calf-skin boots newly greased, with his serene, 
 fme face that always had a touch of sadness for a wed 
 ding, and a ray of light for a funeral was about busy 
 with his guests, while Aunt Mar}*, in her rich old 
 satins, with the color bright on her cheek, and the life 
 quick in her 03*0, whose housewifely instinct had be 
 came an outstinct as well, managed and controlled 
 everything as was her wont. 
 
 A little buzz a lull of voices and then a crowd 
 ing into doors and up to open windows. The word 
 had been given ; the sitting-room so often referred to, 
 in which were the nearest friends, was opened ; and 
 from the inner penetralia. Aunt Mary's best room
 
 236 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 too sacred to be mentioned came the bride, and her 
 manly, handsome bridegroom, and took the places desig 
 nated. Near them, with a faoe thinner and a gather 
 ing moisture in his eves, stood Fred, and with him 
 her hand in his and her eyes on his face stood the 
 little Hebe whom he had plucked from the Cuyahoga. 
 Belle was absent. 
 
 Father Henry was there, and, in a few simple and 
 impressive words, performed the sanctifying ceremony 
 that made them one, amid the sympathizing tears of 
 the women, and the grave, grim silence of men. 
 
 If there is one thing in the world more incompre 
 hensible than others to the average masculine mind, 
 it is the feeling with which a woman always witnesses 
 the marriage ceremony. Of all sublunary or celestial 
 things, the farthest from the mind or heart of the 
 bridegroom are the ineffable thoughts and emotions 
 of the trembling one whose hand he holds, when she 
 literally gives herself to him. The abandon, the devo 
 tion, the unreserve of that act, he docs not understand, 
 and the words that would express it would convey 
 little meaning to him. To him, a little pause in a wa}-- 
 faring career a bending for her hand a slight 
 sidelong deviation that he may receive her, only that, 
 and nothing more. To her, a perfect moral, physical, 
 and mental revolution, a coming out from her maiden 
 life of dream and hope, of color and fragrance, to the 
 world which she does not know ; coming out from the 
 beautiful mysteries of her inner self, of which she 
 knows as little, and placed at once in contact with the 
 strong, coarse, and often vulgar and base fibre of man's 
 compelling nature, that cannot understand, and would
 
 AN OLD TIME WEDDING. 237 
 
 not regard, if it did, the subtle and delicate fibre of 
 hers. No wonder that matrons, always from expe 
 rience, and maidens from i^resentiment, weep at her 
 sacrifice. Man extends one hand, with one side of his 
 heart to her, while she abandons her whole self to 
 hirn. 
 
 The ceremony was short, simple, and impressive ; and 
 Martha, sweet and arch, and blushing, was given over 
 to the congratulations of her friends, while Fred did 
 what he could to sustain the bridegroom under the 
 untowardness which is so trying to a man on finding 
 himself in a position subordinate to a woman. I trust 
 this will finally be found to be but " inherited expe 
 rience," and not nature. 
 
 Great baskets of rich cake were passed about the 
 crowd, to be devoured by the men and preserved and 
 carried home by the women. 
 
 Wine, cider, and other liquids were not wanting, and 
 an hour was given to the hearty, not rude or vulgar, 
 festivity of an old time country wedding, from which 
 the guests departed with the day ; and the bride and 
 her groom were remitted to the seclusion of her room, 
 in the sanctuary of her father's house. 
 
 Fred had not expected that Belle would be there, 
 but yet more bitterly was he disappointed at her ab 
 sence than can be told. Martha had hardly heard 
 from her since she left. She had never, till recentl}', 
 been acquainted with her, and she had acted very 
 strangely, as she thought. She had written to Martha, 
 soon after her return home, that matters of the gravest 
 importance had arisen that demanded her immediate
 
 238 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 personal attention, and that she should go South, and 
 possibly went at once, as Martha supposed she was 
 now absent. She did not tell Fred that, in her letter, 
 Belle had not named or made the slightest reference to 
 him, which she thought very strange. Indeed, she felt 
 disappointed in this Belle. 
 
 Upon the dispersion of the guests, Fred, under the 
 melancholy that oppressed him, rode over the lonely 
 road, through the woods, to the Rapids. Night was in 
 the forests with its shadow, but musica.1 with the plaint 
 of the whippoorwill. How wonderfully sweet and melan 
 choly to the ear of the pensive } T oung man came the many 
 voices of the shrunken river, no longer plunging madly 
 over the rocks, but murmuring and gurgling musically 
 in the channels between and around them. He rode 
 across the river, and stood under the shadow of the 
 unbroken wood on the east side. 
 
 With what force it all came back to him, the 
 bright sun and sparkling ice the cry, the race, the 
 disappearing red the plunge into the mad, boiling 
 waters the grasp, and desperate struggle the al 
 most failure at last and then the marvellous rescue 
 of Belle's eyes first, and then her hands. He rode 
 back, and slowly home through the darkened woods, and 
 as he went he thought it all over : her repulse of his 
 attempted apology ; her avoiding him on the morning 
 ride to the river, with every detail, upon which his now 
 morbid fancy threw a strong adverse color. The rude, 
 violent, and unmanly letter of his may have been 
 coarse and vulgar to her ear and sense. She may 
 have burned it without reading. But, in any event, it
 
 AN OLD TIME WEDDING. 239 
 
 was a crime against her delicacy and self-respect. It 
 had kept her from Martha's wedding, and would for 
 ever bar him from her presence. Could he apologize 
 for this? Would it not aggravate his offending? After 
 all, was he not entitled to some consideration as a 
 human being? Was it not a part of his life and 
 fortune, the recoil of the invisible, alwaj-s-felt chain 
 that so darkly bound him, alwaj's most tense and 
 galling when its absence alone could produce peace or 
 render life endurable ? He would address her one more 
 letter : 
 
 "Ax THE CARMANS, May 1, 1845. Evening. 
 " MRS. BELLE WILLIAMS : 
 
 " Madam, You were not here to-day, and the fear 
 of my presence compelled your absence. I am hateful 
 to myself. Inadvertently I was the cause of a deep 
 wound to your delicacy. I was foolish enough to at 
 tempt an apology. Invention could find no words in 
 which to frame it, and you turned 3*our face from me 
 in horror, and rebuked me with your hand. 
 
 "In my madness and folly, I dashed the fury and 
 passion of my love for you upon paper, and sent it 
 to 3*ou. 
 
 " It is a love that does you no dishonor. Tour hus 
 band in heaven would not reproach me for it. It 
 would give me infinite peace to know that I had not 
 offended beyond pardon, by some word or token a 
 bit of soiled paper, a withered leaf the most worth 
 less trifle the world holds, anj'thing from you. If 
 I may not receive such, I shall know I am to remain a 
 stranger. If I do, I shall count upon only a distant,
 
 240 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 casual acquaintanceship, which is never to pass the 
 line of cold recognition, at accidental meetings. Is 
 this too much for me to ask ? 
 
 " Ever, with profoundest respect, 
 
 " Your obedient servant, 
 
 " FRED."
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 A TRIBUNE OF THE PEOPLE. AN OLD-TIME GATHERING. 
 
 HOW singularly remote events sometimes influence 
 the fortunes of ordinary persons ! 
 In the autumn before, the u Creole " cleared at Nor 
 folk for New Orleans, with a cargo of one hundred and 
 thirty-six freshly-imported Africans, slaves, as we 
 called such folk then. When at sea, under the in 
 spiration of winds and waves, they mutinied these 
 deluded Africans without the least reverence for the 
 Constitution, the greatest work of man, and with slight 
 regard for the freest and best government God ever 
 inspired man to make, the heathen. They overcame 
 the captain and crew, and then, under threat of death, 
 ordered them to steer for the coast of Africa. They 
 were taken to Nassau, and delivered to the British 
 authorities. Mr. Webster the god-like in this at 
 least, his action was inscrutable then Secretary of 
 State, demanded that they be returned into slavery, 
 Onessimus-like. Great excitement followed ; and early 
 in the present March, Mr. Giddings introduced a series 
 of resolutions into the House of Representatives, de 
 claring that at open sea, outside of the reach of State 
 laws, these wretches were free, and might assert their 
 16 (241)
 
 242 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 right to freedom by rising upon their jailers, as they 
 had done. For the utterance of this heretical formula, 
 Mr. Giddings, on motion of Mr. Botts, of Virginia, was, 
 b}' a vote of the House, condemned, and formally cen 
 sured by a majority sufficient to have expelled him. 
 He at once resigned, returned home, demanded from 
 the Governor of Ohio an order for a new election, and 
 went boldly to the people. The "Whig leaders, at that 
 time, even those of anti-slavery tendencies, condemned 
 his course as impolitic. His sentiments were sound in 
 the abstract, but it was inexpedient to put them forth 
 at that time. Alas for abstract truth ! the time for its 
 utterance never comes. Most of those who voted to 
 sustain him did so reluctantly, were glad of the cen 
 sure, and thought his true course was penitently to 
 submit. At home, the leaders stood away from him. 
 The Democrats did not think it expedient to put a 
 candidate in the field, and the leading Whigs, standing 
 coldly aloof, permitted him to go over the course with 
 such chilling cheer as they managed to give him. 
 
 The day of election was early, the time short, and 
 Mr. Giddiugs was left to make such a canvass as he 
 could. He came back quivering under the insult he 
 had received, and indignant at the cowardly coolness 
 of the party leaders, and went upon the stump, first set 
 up on the Reserve in the campaign of 1840. 
 
 Fred, who was nominally, at least, a Democrat, had 
 made some reputation as a j'oung speaker in 1840, to 
 which he had added in the Clay-Polk canvass of '44, 
 and by many was thought to give much promise as an 
 orator, was attending court at Chardon when Giddings 
 spoke there, became much interested, and, at Mr. Gid-
 
 A TRIBUNE OP THE PEOPLE. 243 
 
 diugs's earnest request, attended some of the called 
 meetings with him. 
 
 Among the personal and political friends of Mr. 
 Giddings was a prominent man of Turnbull Count}-, 
 not a politician, but of great wealth and personal influ 
 ence. He was at much pains and expense to get up a 
 gathering of the people for Mr. Giddings, which came 
 off a few miles from Warren, about three weeks after 
 Martha's wedding. A spacious out-door stand was 
 erected, a band secured, immense posters placarded 
 the adjacent portions of Geauga and Portage, flags 
 and mottoes were extemporized, and with the day 
 came the people also. They all came, came with 
 their wives and children, in their wagons and carts, 
 carriages, buggies and carryalls. They formed pro 
 cessions on all the roads of approach, and, with old 
 Harrison flags and banners, the log cabins and canoes 
 of 1840, and the flags and banners of the last cam 
 paign floating and flying, with martial music, fifes, 
 drums, and bugles, the}- came. 
 
 The meeting was in mid-da}* ; for all these people 
 were to return in time for many duties at evening. 
 
 Mr. Giddings arose amid breathless silence, and, 
 under the tension of his feelings and convictions, he 
 was never so thorough a master of his best powers as 
 now ; never in his long career was he so effective as 
 during this short canvass. The hesitation of speech, 
 and lack of language, which sometimes marked and 
 marred his speeches were absent, and a steady flow of 
 strong, nervous language carried out and delivered his 
 meaning as he would. Simply, clearly, and grandly, 
 he opened out the whole matter ; and then giving him-
 
 244 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 self up in his heightened warmth, he closed out a two- 
 and-a-half hours' speech, almost sublimely. 
 
 Repeated cheers greeted and helped him on. He 
 was one to be so helped ; and when he sat down, three 
 times three, as in the old Tippecanoe campaign, evi 
 denced the fervor of this usually cool, calculating, and 
 phlegmatic people ; then the band played a stirring air 
 when the young Democrat was announced, and Fred, 
 from the rear of the stand, went forward to the front, 
 standing upon its edge by the end of a table. He 
 paused for a moment, silent, and the curious crowd 
 bent eagerly forward to get sight of him. There he 
 stood, in the simple beauty and grace of young and 
 almost perfect manhood. The crowd expressed its 
 satisfaction with rapturous cries of applause. 
 
 He began, falteringly and hesitatingly, the little sim 
 ple formula which his experience had taught him to 
 have ready until he was sure of himself. In a moment 
 he did not hear his own voice, for just then the crowd 
 parted at his right, and a carriage was permitted to 
 occupy the space ; in it, on the front seat, and so near 
 him that he could have tossed a bouquet into her lap, 
 sat the peerless Belle. Not a lisp or whisper had she 
 responded to his plaint. He was despised and scorned, 
 and there she was, with her face at that moment color 
 less, but with her great wondrous eyes full of the light 
 that came to him over the mad waters. In some way 
 in his mind he at once identified himself, contemned, 
 walled around all his life, and now scorned, with the 
 insulted representation, the contemned constituency, 
 and the abused freedom of speech. He was indignant, 
 excited and exalted, and he was one who would bear
 
 A TRIBUNE OF THE PEOPLE. 245 
 
 any amount of inspiration. For a moment he did not 
 hear his voice ; and the next, it sounded to him like the 
 voice of one near him, ringing out clear, silvery and 
 sonorous, like a trumpet-call. How his few formulated 
 sentences glowed and flashed ! and how, almost joyously 
 in the pride of his young, and never before so fully real 
 ized strength, did he leap from the last round, and open 
 out his pinion for sustained flight ! How real every 
 thing was to him, and how palpable ! How he ignited 
 everything he touched, and shed a glow on all he 
 passed ! Men crowded close to him, and gave him the 
 full might of their lifting, inspiring power, and bore him 
 onward. 
 
 He clutched the theme, the outrage upon the free 
 dom of speech, and debate, and thought, and held it 
 up in bold and striking lights. " And it was done by 
 shivery, which had dethroned God, razed out the Deca 
 logue, and smeared the page with its own Gospel. It 
 fashioned legislation, moulded judgment, poisoned the 
 sources of thought, till at its command the minds of 
 men warped and tortured the promise of salvation, to 
 the threat of damnation. It laid its hand on our 
 mouths and commanded us to be dumb. It placed its 
 fingers on our pulses and commanded them to stand 
 still. It turned the red-tide back upon the heart, which, 
 in its grasp, it commanded to grow cold and cease to 
 beat. But that heart shall store its accumulating en 
 ergies, until, with one indignant throb, it hurls this 
 silenced tribune of the people back upon the floor of 
 Congress, where, throb by throb, it shall sustain him, 
 and a shivering ciy, a glad shout, shall hail this tri 
 umph of freedom. The capitol shall hear it. The
 
 246 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 waters of the j'ellow Potomac shall catch it up, and, in 
 their downward sweep to the sea, they shall whisper to 
 the Great Sleeper on their banks, that the city which 
 bears his name is again worthy of it." 
 
 The rising of the slaves on the crew of the " Creole " 
 at sea, furnished a splendid theme for his masterly 
 powers of graphic description. 
 
 At first, repeated bursts of applause interrupted him, 
 but it was soon discovered that these anno3*ed him, 
 and he was permitted to go on ; soon the interest be 
 came so intense, that nobody thought of applause. 
 "When his voice finally ceased, men bent forward to 
 listen, as if it must go on, and then they looked into 
 each other's faces, and again to the stand which they 
 saw was empt}' ; then they knew that the spell which 
 held them was broken. They murmured, and then 
 shouted, shout after shout, as if the pent and ravished 
 feelings could find relief only in shoutings. 
 
 And Belle, through the whole flashing hour, with her 
 eyes never wandering from the 3'oung orator, and her 
 color coming back, and the light of her eyes deepening, 
 and leaning forward in unconscious grace in her eager 
 ness, helped to carry him on ; and when he sank back 
 from the front, at the close, her glorified face went down, 
 and was veiled from sight. 
 
 As he stepped back, Mr. Giddings caught him in his 
 arms in an eager, grateful congratulation. The band 
 recovered, and struck up, and the enchanted people 
 lingered to catch a glimpse of, and perhaps shake the 
 hand of, the young orator, who had surpassed their con 
 ceptions of fervid and sustained eloquence. 
 
 Then it was remembered that he was to defend Jake,
 
 A TRIBUNE OF THE PEOPLE. 247 
 
 and there was some vague sort of an idea that he 
 would acquit him, and it was hoped he would, and the 
 poor devil might be innocent after all. What a funny 
 thing is the people 1
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 THE GLORY FADES. 
 
 HOW gloriously possible even heaven seemed to 
 Fred, for the last part of that hour. It is 
 curious how the rnind and faculties of a man aroused 
 will act and play when at their best. While his main 
 forces were concentrated intensely upon his speech, 
 a score of little imps of fancy were in play, as they 
 always are, all about and over the field, flashing 
 ahead, and glancing at the ground ; backward, along 
 the track, and anon away upon things having little to 
 do with the immediate labor. And all about sweet and 
 glorious Belle. There was some mistake. He should 
 go to her, and take her in his arms as his, and with 
 her sweet consent. Didn't she look all this ? even that 
 she would come to him, almost ! Dear, deluding 
 imps ! and as he sat down, and then got down on the 
 ground, he knew he was on the earth again. He felt 
 that his speech was a triumph ; but what did he care ? 
 His cheating fancies, with their rainbow glories, faded 
 and died in a moment, and he was the poor contemned 
 wretch that arose an hour ago. 
 
 It is one of man's delusions that a woman always 
 loves or hates, adheres to or opposes a cause, as it is 
 represented by some man whom she loves or hates, 
 (248)
 
 THE GLORY FADES. 249 
 
 worships or despises. It is one of the oldest and most 
 firmly fixed, as it is the most fallacious articles of the 
 man creed, that a woman can never comprehend and 
 accede to, or deny a proposition, or appreciate a cause 
 in the abstract. But it was an error that Fred did not 
 fall into in reference to Belle. It was, of course, 
 her intense anxiety for the safety of the drowning girl 
 that led her into the icy river ; as it was her noble and 
 instinctive womanly sjTnpathies for the cause of free 
 dom and justice, that made her lean from her carriage 
 and cheer him so with the inspiration of her eyes and 
 manner. "What did she, what could she, care for him? 
 He almost despised himself, that he could languish for 
 other reward than the consciousness of doing his duty. 
 Duty ! what a word was that to a despairing lover ; 
 what were any words? All this ran through his mind, 
 as, surrounded by a crowd of admiring young men, he 
 was walking from the stand to the house of their enter 
 tainer near by, catching their words and answering 
 back mechanically. 
 
 As they entered the house, the host came forward, 
 and taking him by the arm, led him into a parlor, and 
 introduced him to several : among others, to Mr. Morris, 
 Mrs. Marbury, and Miss Belle Morris, as she was called. 
 This ceremony called up and aroused his pride to 
 almost hauteur. Mr. Morris started to come forward 
 as if to meet him, but evidently Fred's manner of 
 dignified coldness repelled him. Fred made the pro- 
 foundest of bows to the ladies, and, spite of his arctic 
 manner, Maud, almost as beautiful in her way as her 
 younger sister, managed to receive his hand. She 
 even ventured to congratulate him on his speech, but
 
 250 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 his host brought others to his relief, and he made his 
 wa\~ to other parts of the room. 
 
 Soon after, a dinner, more nearly a supper in the 
 country, was announced, and upon reaching the spacious 
 dining-room, Fred, to his dismay, was conducted to a 
 seat near Mr. Giddings, and between Maud and Belle. 
 No woman can comprehend or sympathize with all the 
 feelings of Fred in this position. She cannot compre 
 hend why every man is not a gentleman, and why he 
 should not, under all circumstances, be at his ease with 
 ladies. She knows that he will always receive proper 
 consideration, and why her presence can ever embar 
 rass him, she is unable to understand. But a man of 
 quick and nice sensibilities will fully appreciate his 
 position. Here was the one woman of all the world, who 
 was the all to him, who shared the common preju 
 dice against him, to whom he had declared his love, 
 and of whom had abjectly begged as a boon the bai-e 
 favor of a cold recognition of his existence, and it had 
 been refused. Here now was he, the scorned lover, 
 as a special mark of distinction, placed by her side. 
 With a few commonplace words he took his seat, and 
 under the pressure of a 'crowded table, as near as the 
 seats would permit. So abject had he become in his 
 own esteem, that, spite of himself, he was conscious of 
 the charm of her presence, which he seemed to inhale 
 as a subtle and entrancing aroma ; all the time, 
 too, he was conscious that he was elosehy observed by 
 Maud, who with womanly tact was making such diversion 
 as she might in his favor. Had he exercised the least 
 perception, which, as we see, he never did where Belle 
 was concerned, he would in a moment have discovered, by
 
 THE GLORY FADES. 251 
 
 Belle's look and manner, that the position was quite as 
 embarrassing to her. Indeed, her face indicated not 
 embarrassment, but anxiet} 7 , if not pain. The glow 
 had gone out of it, and the wondrous light of her 
 eyes had died in them ; her air was not so much that 
 of coldness, as of passive resignation. But Fred was in 
 no mood to perceive or know anything. Humiliated 
 and abased, he was thoroughly wretched, as must have 
 been shown by his countenance and the tone of his 
 voice. Men were staring at him, and calling to and 
 at him, and he was, in a dim, confused, miserable way, 
 trying to be interested in the complimentary remarks 
 which he did not hear, and toying with food which 
 he could not eat. Belle made no effort to talk. Once 
 or twice her hand was raised to a bunch of beautiful 
 half-blown moss rose-buds, fastened over the unimagin 
 able loveliness of her bosom, and once she answered 
 her father, who sat next her. 
 
 They had been a few moments at the table, when 
 word was brought Fred that a gentleman outside 
 much wanted to see him for a moment ; and although 
 many protested, yet, with a worcjl to the host, Fred 
 arose and went out ; a few minutes, and a note was 
 sent from him to Mr. Giddings, who looked at it in 
 surprise, and then read it out : 
 
 " Mr DEAR MR. GIDDINGS : I am suddenly called 
 to Canfield, and go at once. I will try to join you at 
 Warren to-morrow. Make my excuse to the host. 
 
 " FRED." 
 
 The call was a relief to Fred ; he took his place with
 
 252 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 alacrity in the carriage, glad to fly even from Belle, 
 and drove away in as wretched a frame of mind as he 
 had ever known. 
 
 Had he returned to the table, he would have found 
 that bunch of beautiful rose-buds oh his plate. It never 
 resumed its place, and probably not more than one knew 
 its final fate.
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 BELLE. 
 
 IT is a sufficiently difficult task to sketch with graphic 
 accuracy the character of a man whose traits are 
 pronounced, whose characteristics are marked, and the 
 springs and workings of whose mind are often obvious, 
 of a man who is permitted to speak and act directly 
 as a primary and controlling force, and manifests him 
 self more or less openly. 
 
 Who shall confidently attempt the character of 
 woman, the lines of which are often so delicately traced 
 as to be invisible to the eye of a man, and which may 
 nevertheless control? Who shall estimate her emo 
 tional nature, and the balancing or controlling power 
 of her affections ? Who can tell where the springs of 
 thought or sources of impulse lie, and how or why or 
 w,hen either may act, and how either will influence the 
 other, or what shall determine or control their action ? 
 and what the result of both acting together. Accus 
 tomed to act through others, and effect by indirect 
 means, becoming used to not having her wa} r , until 
 the way itself is not obvious ; denied all play of ambi 
 tion, until its possession is deemed unwomanly; per 
 mitted only to persuade, until it is a crime to argue, 
 and treason to command ; taught that her only strength 
 (253)
 
 254 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 is in absolute weakness, her greatest power in abject 
 submission, that her true independence is helpless sub 
 jection, and her sole possession is to be the absolute 
 property of another, her real empire servitude, and her 
 crowning achievement constant self-sacrifice ; that she is 
 aggregated negatives, is not to do, is not to have, is 
 not to be, is not to go, is not to see, is not to hear, to 
 speak, or think, or know, and that her highest acquire 
 ment is to become nobody and accomplish nothing, and 
 that in this she can alone occupy and fill her sphere. 
 When the delicacy of her organization is remembered, it 
 is apparent that her character may present difficulties 
 that the ordinary artist, if he apprehend them, might 
 hesitate to attempt. I might protest against these con 
 ditions which in all of the ages of man have changed 
 the nature of woman to un-nature, but it would in no 
 way help me to sketch the beautiful Belle. 
 
 It has been already mentioned, that Belle, reared in the 
 atmosphere of the highest culture and refinement, from 
 the singular currents of her existence, and the tenden 
 cies of the lighter elements of her nature, had floated 
 dreamily in the sheltered and colorless streams of a half- 
 nun life, touched and tinged alone with the ecstacies 
 of a devotee, and only disturbed at times by the vague 
 stir of the elements of a strong rich nature, lying 
 so deep that their very existence was unsuspected. Her 
 mystical, shadowy association with an imaginative youth, 
 with whom real marriage was impossible, whose clear 
 est perceptions took the form of misty visions, whose 
 highest exaltations were feeble ecstacies, whose powers 
 were too weak for fanaticism, and whose only hope 
 and aspiration was languishing for the company of the
 
 BELLE. 255 
 
 angels. That the accepted and constantly acted upon 
 idea on her part that their union remained in full, binding, 
 present force, and that their actual association was but 
 temporarily suspended, had singularly isolated Belle 
 even in the society of her equals, among whom she had 
 freely mingled for the last four or five years. She 
 could not fail of being very attractive to gentlemen, and 
 frankly admitted the pleasure derived from their society. 
 She was not now ascetic or prudish. She only and 
 always conducted herself with the innate, unstudied, 
 and exalted propriety of a devoted wife in the absence 
 of her husband, and from this course she had in no 
 instance departed. Gentlemen unexceptionable, with 
 the profoundest admiration, would have approached her 
 as possible lovers, but had never been able to do so. 
 Her father had playfully chided her for her devotion to 
 a shadow, and sometimes had seriously combated her 
 notions ; while Maud, after pursuing her through every 
 shade of badinage, had closed the light campaign with 
 the declaration half a wish and half a prophecy 
 that she would some day fall in love ; it would not 
 come through liking, or by any of the channels of 
 growth, but she would fall into it, and under the in 
 spiring logic of a lover new light would be thrown on 
 this phantasm. To which the laughing Belle answered 
 that she always avoided precipices, and even in her. 
 romping days never had a tendency to climb. Maud 
 ran and pinched her cheek, and then kissed her with, 
 " We shall see." But with the hopeful watchfulness 
 of three or four years, she had not seen. 
 
 Belle's vision of the portrait stepping from its frame, 
 is perhaps remembered. The impression so singularly
 
 256 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 produced was very deep. It was not only deepened, 
 but became bewildering ; when, instead of its proving a 
 mere optical illusion, she found, when thrown into 
 Fred's immediate presence, that under the varying 
 lights, change of attitude and play of expression, his 
 resemblance in feature, from general effect to the 
 minutest lines, seemed to her memor}', and excited im 
 agination, perfect ; and then, like an electric shock, 
 came the thought that here was the mysterious solution 
 of an old mystery, a new link in the chain of events, 
 which made up a story of tragic love, that had fixed 
 itself in her memory as tenaciously as if the events of 
 it had occurred under her e}*es. As she looked, that 
 thought grew to belief, and passed at once into the 
 form of enduring conviction. 
 
 Then her mind, quickened by this assurance, recalled 
 the curious name which seemed familiar to Fred, as 
 well as the other coincidences of which he thought he 
 must have dreamed. She felt and knew that she was 
 strongly drawn to him almost irresistibly and that 
 she thought him the handsomest, no, not that she 
 didn't like the word but something brave, strong, 
 and noble man she had ever seen. Then there was 
 the mystery of his birth. If not this child, who was 
 he ? It was this mj'stery , and her interest in the story 
 which must be his, that attracted her to him, of course. 
 But then he certainly had beautiful eyes, a deep, rich, 
 manly voice^ and the same silky black side-whiskers as 
 the portrait, and the same wilful, finely-formed mouth ; 
 he must be the son. 
 
 As to the mistake of that night but so pure was 
 she in heart and soul that her purity was not alarmed
 
 BELLE. 257 
 
 she did not blame him ; of course he was asleep, was 
 dreaming of her. How funny that was ! and she was 
 careless ; but then he knew how it happened. She 
 knew the adventure was sacred in his mind. It was a 
 rude shock to her delicacy ; she could hardly think of 
 it, and it must have shocked him as much. 
 
 Would he mention it in the morning? Was she 
 afraid he would? Did she wish that he-would it was 
 not necessary ; she thought he would not, but then men 
 are queer sometimes ; she wondered how he would look 
 by daylight. Of course she was not quite certain of 
 his looks. Then he came in, and she saw by his look 
 that he attached much gravity to the occurrence, and 
 it shocked her ; she could not face him when he spoke. 
 But his words, that he dreamed of her, and that she 
 was the only woman for whom he would gladly die ! 
 How these thrilled ! That was not gallantry. The quick 
 ened blood came to her face, and when she turned 
 around he had gone. He was somehow disturbed, 
 and she could not quite say to him what she would. 
 No matter ; that was got along with now. A seat 
 was offered her that morning, and though she would 
 much prefer to ride with Martha and Fred, yet, as there 
 was but one seat in their sleigh, she took the one offered. 
 Then came the accident and rescue. Belle thought of 
 and saw only Fred. She was not frightened ; the world 
 swam a little when he disappeared, but then she knew 
 he would come out, and she could not help rushing in 
 to help him. How glad she was that the poor little 
 maiden was saved, and mainly because Fred saved her ! 
 How like a river-god he looked, coming out of the 
 water ! How glad she was when he praised her ! She 
 17
 
 258 THE POETRAIT. 
 
 did help bring the girl to, but Fred told her what to do. 
 Then she recalled his conduct when Martha's brother 
 was sick. He was gone a good while with Martha that 
 afternoon, and she was very glad when he came, and 
 was a little afraid to meet him ; he took her hand in 
 both his, and pressed his cheek and the side of his face 
 to it, and left tears upon it ; what did it mean? Did he 
 love her ? "Was this love, a man's love ? a real, splendid, 
 heroic man's love, and for her, Belle? What a 
 heaven ! How she choked, and how her heart throbbed ; 
 could it be love, and did she feel the same way to him? 
 Of course, when he turned away from her the tears 
 dropped from her eyes ; but then she was a woman. 
 She had never felt such a strange, sweet, exquisite 
 thrill. How warm and clinging his hands were ! Was 
 it love? Surely, this was not all interest in him, because 
 he must be the son of her friend Mrs. D'Arlon. But 
 then, it could not be; people could not fall in love 
 so suddenly as this. Besides, she was a married 
 woman, and a woman with a husband could never fall 
 in love, or was it something that people sometimes 
 called love? It was not that, she knew. Something 
 of fear, shame, apprehension of guilt must come with 
 that. Then she had watched Fred, been near him, 
 heard his voice, seen the light in his eyes, and found 
 somehow that she. did not like to meet his gaze, and he 
 was often turning to look at her, and that did not 
 offend her. 
 
 She thought of his birth, what if she was mistaken, 
 what if the general impression of him was true? It 
 could not matter to her, it should not to anybocty. If 
 anything, he was entitled to the more credit for the
 
 BELLE. 259 
 
 position he had gained alone, and in spite of it. Of 
 course he would be a great man, and would marry 
 somebody. Would he? Not if not if of course 
 lie did not love her. He had no business to love her ; 
 she was a married woman, and he knew it. But he did 
 not know that seriously he must not love her as men 
 sometimes loved women they wished to marry. Pshaw ! 
 what a silly girl she was ! What had come over her? 
 She never had such thoughts before ; but then it was a 
 whim a fancy and would pass. She found that 
 she did not want to talk about him to Martha ; Martha 
 would suspect something. So it ran on more and 
 deeper ; and Fred left, and could not speak when he 
 went. She wondered if he would write. Of course 
 not to her ; but when his letter came, she was not 
 much surprised, and not at all frightened. 
 
 Somehow, the fierce and stormy way in which he told 
 his love exhilarated, aroused, and almost intoxicated 
 her, and for a moment seemed to carry her to the 
 inner heavens not the home of abstract, celestial, 
 angelic, of cold, colorless bliss but a heaven like the 
 earth transfigured and glorified, with a thousand suns 
 and endless flowers, and warmth, and glad and joy 
 ous singing, happy things. This was love passion 
 ate, intense, strong but oh, exquisitely sweet and 
 beautiful ! Then came the memory of Edward ; she 
 who, as his wife, was so loved, and was glad and 
 happy for it, she, oh, horror! felt no guilt and no 
 shame, no trembling, no possible danger, but thrilling 
 gladness. No, this could not be love, it it must be 
 that alluring fascination which she had heard that some 
 men could throw about some women, which disarmed
 
 260 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 fear, and changed the poor wretched woman's nature. 
 "What if this strong and fascinating man should insist 
 on her loving him with what people would call a mar 
 riage ? Then she turned and found exquisite consola 
 tion in the last two or three lines of his letter. He 
 only wanted to worship as the j'oung barbarian would 
 worship his star ; and only wanted that the star should 
 know. Was there ever anything so beautiful, yet 
 exquisitely touching ? How unhappy he was, and why 
 might he not love her ? And why might she not joy in 
 knowing that he did? But but could a married 
 woman innocently be the object of such worship ? not 
 of soul worship, soul love ? Why not ? She distrusted and 
 doubted, as well she might. Did not this come wholly 
 between her and the memory of Edward ; between her 
 and him in heaven ; transforming heaven, in which 
 he was, only to an unregretted memor}', an uncher- 
 ished dream? True, her form would remain pure, but 
 her heart and soul oh, blessed heaven, and all its 
 hopes and joys, were never so shadowy and vague, so 
 poor and filmy were not heart and soul lost already ? 
 Had she erred in thought or dream? She could not 
 feel that she had, and she felt that she ought to be 
 sensible of guilt. Was there adultery of the spirit? 
 Might they not commune with no thought of earth? 
 She knelt and prayed with the deep, sweet, hopeful 
 fervor and restful faith of the pure in heart, soul and 
 thought.
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 BELLE'S THEORY. 
 
 ~l TNDER the inspiration of her love, whatever she 
 *^J may have called it, her mind, naturally strong 
 and quick, and now doubly so in everything that had 
 reference to Fred, and the conceded mystery of his 
 birth, was, as we see, suggestive and inventive. The 
 thought, of course, occurred to communicate her belief 
 and its reasons to him, as the one most interested, and 
 whose energy, knowledge and sagacity would be strong 
 allies in an enterprise of his own. But after all it 
 might prove that she was mistaken, and then, how 
 cruel to him, who had suffered so much ! She had only 
 a portrait which she had not seen for years, a story, the 
 names, places and dates of which she had only a vague 
 idea of. Besides, deep in her woman's heart was the 
 wish, strong as life, and which might lead her to con 
 front death itself, to do this thing for him, to restore 
 him, crowned with his birthright, and let him owe her 
 for it. Oh, what exquisite luxury ! And these thoughts 
 and voices of her inmost heart this struggle with her 
 soul must all be stilled ; perhaps she might be mis 
 taken even in her duty to the dead, and her estimate 
 of her real relations. Oh, what a surprise to Fred it 
 (261)
 
 262 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 would be ! and what would she not deserve at his 
 hands ? 
 
 Nor would she communicate to Fred's mother, then in, 
 or near, Boston. She would invent a pretext, and ask 
 her to send her the requisite dates and names, places, 
 and so forth, and she would at once enter personally 
 upon the investigation. She was exhilarated at the 
 thought of travelling, of going out and of attempting 
 this adventure, and was amazed at the energy which 
 the thought called up. 
 
 She wrote to Mrs. D' Avion, and arranged to return 
 home. On her arrival there, she found the desired 
 answer. In substance, Mrs. D'Arlon stated that her 
 husband, in the month of September of 1821, with their 
 infant son, then about two years and a half old, left 
 Charleston to go into Virginia. He travelled in his 
 own carriage, with two servants, and had with him a 
 large sum of mone} T ; that in the mountains of North 
 Carolina, a few miles west of Linvill, in attempting to 
 pass a swollen stream, his coachman was drowned, his 
 baggage and money lost, and himself fatally hurt. His 
 servant, with some assistance, rescued him and their 
 son, and he was taken to a sort of tavern in that wild re 
 gion, kept by a man of the name of Jarvis Bibb, where 
 he soon after died. The son, Ethfred, was placed with 
 a poor man in the neighborhood named Sam Warren, 
 a cousin or nephew of Bibb's, but was taken sick soon 
 after, and also died. The servant disappeared, and had 
 never been heard of since. She, the writer, was absent 
 in Cuba, prostrated with illness, and months elapsed 
 before she, or any of her friends, had learned the fate 
 of her husband. When she finally visited the region,
 
 BELLE'S THEORY. 263 
 
 to remove the remains of her dear ones, all these mat 
 ters were fully confirmed to her. She had understood 
 from her husband, that a little time before his marriage 
 he had travelled over this road, and Bibb told her that 
 he spent a few days at his place, hunting in the wild 
 region, some three years before the fatal accident. In 
 the face of this statement, Belle, woman-like, believed 
 that Ethfred and Fred were the same ; that possibly 
 the money was not lost, and that it might furnish 
 inducement to Bibb to change his name, and so forth. 
 At any rate she would go to North Carolina, and if 
 Bibb and Warren were there, she was mistaken, and 
 would abandon the quest, unless, well, she didn't 
 carry out the chain. Her father was still absent, and 
 she at once went to Philadelphia, and took Maud and 
 her husband into her confidence. 
 
 " Oh, Belle ! Belle ! Belle ! " exclaimed Maud, " what 
 did I tell you? This is the disguised young prince, is 
 it, who comes to break the spell and liberate the prin 
 cess ? What did I tell you ? " 
 
 " Maud, you may shake your head, and look wise, 
 and laugh as much as you please ; I am decidedly in 
 earnest in this." 
 
 " So I see ; and as decidedly in love with this hand 
 some young lawyer as any Miss of fifteen. How 
 romantic ! How exquisite it is ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 At first, Marbuiy and Maud were little inclined to 
 give heed to her hypothesis, but soon found that she 
 Avas inflexibly determined to pursue the enterprise. At 
 Marbury's suggestion, an experienced detective was 
 called, who, under the inspiration of a large fee for a 
 not unpleasant service, did see much in the facts sub-
 
 264 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 mitted, and declared that Belle was a born detective. 
 Belle determined to proceed at once to North Carolina 
 with the detective, and of course was attended by Mar- 
 bury. They had little difficult}- in finding the locality, 
 still wild and thinly inhabited. Some of the people 
 remembered the cirqumstances for which they inquired. 
 The sum of the information was, that D'Arlon died of 
 injuries occasioned by the upsetting of his carriage, 
 four or five days after that occurrence, at Bibb's, who 
 did not maintain a good reputation. That the child 
 (some thought that it was a girl, and some that it was 
 a boy) was taken to Warren's, as Bibb's wife was 
 dead, and died soon after ; although there was a story 
 that it was Warren's little girl that died. Nobody 
 remembered the name of the child. Bibb had a sister, 
 named Sail}*, who was away at the time. The servant 
 disappeared the day after the accident, and there were 
 stories that Bibb made way with him, and some of the 
 money, and that the winter following he and his sister, 
 and the Warren's, packed off for Tennessee, and had 
 never been heard of since. All this strongly confirmed 
 the general outline of Belle's theoiy. Descriptions of 
 Bibb and his sister, and the Warrens, were taken with 
 as much accuracy as possible, and the party returned 
 directly to Ohio, where the}* found Belle's father, and 
 where they were soon joined by Maud and her children. 
 The next point was to identify Bibb with Green, or 
 Warren with Warden, and inquiries were quietly made 
 about Mantua, with no result save the confirmed mys 
 tery of Fred's birth and person, and something of a 
 paper executed before Esquire Ladd. Then it was 
 resolved to pursue Sam Warden, who was necessarily
 
 BELLE'S THEORY. 265 
 
 Warren, and also trace out the fortunes and whereabouts 
 of John Green and Sally. Soon after their return from 
 North Carolina the murder of Olney was committed, fol 
 lowed by the arrest of Jake Green. The detective had an 
 interview with Jake, who was reticent, but informed 
 him that his father and aunt were at Nauvoo, and he 
 believed Warden was with Jones in Missouri. Nothing 
 could be got out of him, if he remembered anything, 
 as to the matters of immediate inquiry ; and \ct it 
 seemed, from what he did saj", that his father had 
 rnoved several times. Belle, herself, at her own sug 
 gestion, had written the note to Fred which called him 
 to Jake's side, and Marbury copied and mailed it. The 
 enthusiastic and romantic girl was full of the generous 
 confidence that Fred at once, without fee or its hope, 
 would magnanimously rush to the defence of his old 
 enem}*, and the son of the man who, as she believed, 
 had done him the greatest wrong had perhaps mur 
 dered his father and how wonderful that would be ! 
 The inquiry in North Carolina had shown that her 
 conjectures as to Fred might be possible, unless, 
 indeed, he ma}- have been Sally's son, which seemed 
 improbable under the light of the ascertained facts. 
 Warren had a child, which, with the Darlon or D'Arlon 
 child, were the only ones known. If Sally had one, then 
 there were three, and one only had died, which may 
 have been Warren's ; and there was no rumor in that 
 neighborhood that Sally, whom her brother was said 
 to have ill used in some matter of their father's prop 
 erty, had ever had a child. Yet this was possible, and 
 it had been suggested, after inquiries in Mantua, that 
 it was doubtful whether the Wardens had ever had a
 
 266 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 child as old as Fred ; they may have taken Sally's, and 
 the fact that Bibb sent the Darlon child to them, 
 seemed to furnish some shadow for this also. 
 
 In the latter part of March, Belle, now accompanied 
 l>y her father and the detective, started for St. Louis, 
 intending to go to Nauvoo, while a trusty man also 
 went with them, who was to hunt up Sam Warden, and 
 secure his return to Ohio if possible. 
 
 'All that was learned at Nauvoo was the death of 
 John Green, and that Sally had a month before started 
 east, intending, it was said, to return to Mantua. She 
 was traced to the river ; but whether she took a boat 
 down, or what became of her, they could not ascertain. 
 No result attended the inquiries of the detective con 
 cerning the writing executed by Green in Mantua. lie 
 found many old acquaintances at Nauvoo, prominent 
 men among the Mormons, but no one seemed to have 
 heard of it. A little depressed, but with her faith in 
 no wise shaken, Belle returned home, not without the 
 hope of finding Sally at Mantua, and to await news of 
 Sam Warden. All that was known and rumored about 
 Mantua had been carefully collected and collated ; and 
 notwithstanding Sam Warden had bound Fred to John 
 Green as his son, Belle had contended that this was 
 more than met by Green's own assertion that he was 
 of his own blood, Sally's child, in short ; and that it 
 was very plain to her that Sally never had a child. It 
 was true, of course, that Sally had seemed very devoted 
 to Fred ; but then, any woman would love him in a moth 
 erly way when he was small. Many of the Mormons 
 remembered Fred at Kirtland, where the impression 
 was that he was a son of Sally by some Southern gen-
 
 BELLE'S THEORY. 267 
 
 tleman ; and it was understood among them that Sally 
 was a party to his escape, which was inconsistent with 
 her being his mother. Why did she not keep him, or 
 why not go with him ? 
 
 Esquire Ladd had told all he knew of the paper 
 acknowledged before him. It was a lengthy, closely- 
 written document of several pages, of which he knew 
 nothing, save that it bore the mark of Green and his 
 own signature as a witness and justice ; he could not 
 remember that Smith or Rigdon signed it. 
 
 What was this writing? It undoubtedly was the 
 written history of Green's life, and as undoubtedly con 
 tained the story of Fred and his father's fate. So Belle 
 claimed. The descriptions of Green and Bibb coin 
 cided ; Bibb's sister's name was Sally, and Warden's 
 name was Sam. Of course, if they removed from North 
 Carolina for any crime of Bibb's, their names would be 
 changed ; they might go to many places and change 
 many times. Green had probably made a confession 
 to the Prophet, and this placed him and his money in 
 Smith's power. The Mormons would be likely to want 
 to keep and train Fred in their faith and ways, for fear 
 he might himself, in time, discover his birth and de 
 mand his rights. In this opinion the detectives and Mr. 
 Morris concurred. It was strengthened by the account 
 of the Mormons, that Green was very poor, became 
 craz}', and was kept in confinement, and died there. 
 From an examination of the land records of Portage 
 county, it was ascertained that at the time of his conver 
 sion he was an extensive landowner, and that soon after 
 h had sold all his real estate. Thus the case stood, 
 when Belle returned home. Not all at once, nor by any
 
 268 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 continuous argumentation, had Belle's conclusions been 
 reached, nor could she tell how or where the various 
 elements and processes of it had taken form. Nor had 
 she reached them unaided ; numerous and repeated 
 discussions and arguments had been holden upon every 
 fact, incident, and rumor connected with the case, 
 from which her mind, and those of her assistants, had 
 outlined the final course of thought, till what seemed 
 likely and probable to others, were settled convictions 
 with her. 
 
 She returned to hear the rumors of mysterious papers 
 found on the person of Jake, for which he had probably 
 murdered Olney, and which might prove to be the writ 
 ings acknowledged by Green. They all looked forward 
 to the trial of Jake as an event that might throw im 
 portant light upon the mj-ster}-, perhaps clear it all up. 
 To Belle, there was beautiful and retributive justice in 
 Fred's being thrown into such an important position in 
 reference to the case ; he was actually to defend Jake 
 as his counsel. Vaguely, the dim and wondrously 
 fascinating outline of a dramatic, almost poetic ro 
 mance was dawning upon her woman's vision, in which 
 she, too, was deeply involved. Was she to unravel it, to 
 be in some way a sort of heroine in it? How sweet and 
 entrancing the fancy was to her, too exquisitely sweet 
 and delicious to ever be more than a dream. 
 
 "YVansor, after ineffective pumpings of the truculent 
 and sealed-up Jake, now under the advice of counsel, 
 made advances to the prosecuting officer, who finally 
 found, as he thought, that the shrewd Wansor had 
 useful information for which he might exchange a secret 
 of State, not to be divulged till after the trial.
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 BELLE ARGUES HER CASE WITH MAUD, AND IS WORSTED. 
 
 OH, Belle, what a marvel you have become ! I look 
 upon you with perfect amazement ! You, my 
 dreamy, mystical, romantic sister, who looked upon all 
 men as so many big brothers, to be believed in, with 
 never a lover among them all, here you are a perfect 
 heroine, making long and dangerous journeys in the 
 winter, and leading and managing men as if they were 
 so many little boys." 
 
 This conversation was had the first night after Belle's 
 return from the West, and after she had recounted the 
 particulars of her journey, and Maud was now sitting 
 at her feet. 
 
 " And, Maudy dear, I'm a wonder to myself; I won 
 der at my .strength and courage and energj*. Oh, 
 I've dreamed all my life till now, and how glad I am 
 to wake up ! You don't know the exhilaration and al 
 most ecstasy of doing, or of tr}-ing to do things, to feel 
 your faculties like new fountains stir, and hear their 
 voices calling, like new sounds. How we women live 
 out of the world ! And to find these men out, to see 
 what dear, delicious humbugs the}' really are. Just to 
 sit and hear them argue, for instance, is too funny 
 for anything in this world. Our father and Mr. Wansor 
 (269)
 
 270 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 would not at first agree upon anything. Our dear 
 precious is more unworldly than even a woman ; 
 and "Wansor, in a small way, is shrewd and subtle. 
 He does everything indirect!}'. He'd rather not know 
 a thing unless he can draw it out in a cork-screwy 
 ^way. He always supposes men act from the basest 
 motives. Indeed, he don't believe that any others 
 exist ; and he and our father argued and settled, and 
 unsettled everything ; no matter whether it was of the 
 least importance or not, or whether they could connect 
 it with anything, it had to be settled, and then talked 
 over, and then set down for argument. And then, 
 Maud, if J T OU could see how these Mormons live, poorer 
 than the whites among the mountains, so squalid, and 
 the women, poor things, so ignorant, and yet such 
 enthusiasts, that it was almost beautiful. But what a 
 horror Nauvoo is ! What dreadful men must have 
 congregated there ! And then, Maudy, men are coarse- 
 fibered. I suppose they have to be ; one cannot asso 
 ciate two months with a detective and hear his uncon 
 scious talk without thinking less of the sex. They 
 make such innocent revelations of themselves. Of 
 course, dear, our father, and your James, and " 
 
 " Your prince, Belle, are exceptions. Dear, I know 
 all that ; let them go for the present. You are just a 
 shade thinner, look a little worn, and yet, somehow, 
 you are lovelier, have more character. I only fear 
 that this hero may not be worthy of you, after all. 
 Dear stupid ! mooning around, unknowing, and you 
 worrying your brain and soul out for him ! Oh, if he 
 don't worship you when he knows, no matter how it 
 comes out ! And, Belle, dear, I half suspect that this
 
 BELLE ARGUES HER CASE WITH MAUD. 271 
 
 letter is from him," holding up Fred's note from 
 Mantua. " It has been here many da3~s." As Belle's 
 eyes fell . upon it, they filled with the old, marvellous 
 light, and just a bright suffusion kindled up lip and 
 cheek. She opened it with a hand that trembled, ran 
 her eye over it, and, with a cry of anguish, threw her 
 face down upon the bosom of her wondering sister, and, 
 for a moment, abandoned herself to tears. 
 
 " My poor, poor Belle ! My precious one ! " And 
 with tender words and gentle caresses from Maud, Belle 
 recovered, and, placing the letter in Maud's hands, 
 walked away to a window ; then she came back, and, 
 kneeling by Maud, looked mutely up into her moved 
 face. 
 
 " Belle, Belle, do you not love this so sorely-stricken 
 and beautiful young man ? Oh, I forgive him his inno 
 cent stupiditj" ! " 
 
 " Oh, Maud ! and you a woman, to ask me this ! " 
 
 " And how do you love him?" 
 
 " With heart and soul and mirfd and strength, as 
 a woman may worship her idol ! " dropping her face 
 into Maud's lap. Maud's arms went about her sister's 
 waist. 
 
 " "Why should }*ou and he be longer unhappy, then ? 
 Belle, I cannot understand }'ou ! " 
 
 "Am I not a wife, with a husband only just a 
 little away from me?" with a deep, earnest, hollow 
 voice. " Oh, Maud ! If by any unheard-of evil miracle 
 a man, an ideal one, should love }'ou, and your whole 
 self was drawn to him with more than answering love, 
 and he should ask for a token, no matter what or how 
 small, from you, what would you answer ? "
 
 272 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 " But he only asks for a sign that you forgive him 
 the good Lord knows what for ! that he may be but 
 your casual acquaintance." 
 
 "Maud, don't mistake, the smallest, tiniest thing 
 that is, would grow to be the largest in the world ; it 
 would be a token of love ! " 
 
 "And why shouldn't you give him a token of love, 
 pray ? and your full heart and whole self, I beg to 
 know?" 
 
 " Because, can't you understand, Maud ? " 
 
 " No, I cannot. Oh, my poor, precious Belle ! too 
 pure and precious for-earth ! Can't you see that this is 
 a phantom? Don't you feel that it is, in your heart and 
 soul?" 
 
 " I begin to feel that it is, but I cannot so see it ; " 
 with a lower and smaller voice. 
 
 Maud was too wise to press the question. She would 
 leave it to the logic of love, the only logic she had 
 much faith in. 
 
 " And this Fred, this D'Arlon, and what is to 
 become of him, Belle? What if he comes, finally, and 
 demands your love demands you comes and takes 
 you ? It is in his old Norman Norse berserker blood, 
 perhaps." 
 
 " He will not, Maud, when he knows all." 
 
 "Don't delude j'ourself, Belle. Man is born to do 
 minion. To covet, with him, is to acquire. When he 
 wooes, he will win ; and it is our poor nature, Belle, to 
 be wooed and won. Where a woman's heart has gone, 
 she is very apt to follow." 
 
 " Don't 3'ou believe, Maud, that there are men cap 
 able of loving women generously, purely, and self-
 
 BELLE ARGUES HER CASE WITH MAUD. 273 
 
 sacrificingly ? and that there are women who can be 
 so loved, and who will not permit themselves to be 
 loved in any other way ? " 
 
 " I do believe both. But, Belle, if this youth is what 
 3'ou suppose, or if he is not and it makes no differ 
 ence, as I see would you doom him to a solitary life, 
 a cold asceticism, without home, or wife and chil 
 dren ? " 
 
 " Might he not finally marrry ; and would he not 
 love his children?" 
 
 " And you hold the first place in his heart ? What a 
 wrong to some sweet, pure woman, and what an out 
 rage to him ! " And stepping to the nursery door, 
 where her beautiful children were with an attendant, 
 just being put to bed, "James, come here!" In 
 tripped a child of wondrous beauty, with cherub face 
 and locks, and in an earthly night-dress, "Jimmy, 
 go and climb into Aunt Belle's lap, and put your arms 
 about her neck, and call her mamma ! " and the frolick- 
 some boy obeyed. Springing to her lap, and throwing 
 his arms about her neck, he nestled himself upon her 
 bosom, with, " Mamma ! oh, my beautiful mamma ! " 
 Then, releasing his arms, came back for his mother's 
 kiss, and sprang to his bed. 
 
 " Belle," said the sweet and thoughtful mother, " sup 
 pose that Fred was the father of that child, would 
 it not be agony beyond endurance, the thought that 
 another woman was his mother? Oh, Belle !" 
 
 "Maud ! " from the innermost depths of her being 
 spoke the strongly-agitated girl "the most sacred and 
 the holiest thing in the world is to be a mother. The 
 18
 
 274 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 mystery of the first creation is no greater miracle than 
 this wondrous thing." 
 
 " And loving as you do, Belle, would you put all this 
 from you ? " 
 
 " Oh, Maud ! Maud ! Maud ! Ask God to help me ! "
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 MOSS-ROSES. 
 
 MARBURY'S trip South had given him new views 
 of slaver} r , which were largely sympathized in 
 by Mr. Morris ; and the announcement that Mr. Gid- 
 dings was to speak within two or three miles of them, 
 induced them to attend the meeting. On the morning 
 of the day, it was rumored that the eloquent young 
 Democrat mentioned on the placards was no other 
 than Fred, who was now an object of paramount in 
 terest to the Morris circle, and whose fortunes had for 
 the last two months been their one theme of thought, 
 labor, and anxiety. There was the greatest curiosity 
 to see and hear him. 
 
 To Belle, the news that Fred was in the neighbor 
 hood was peculiarly exciting. She determined at once 
 to attend the meeting, and induced her sister Maud, 
 who, next to Belle, took the largest interest in Fred, 
 to be of the party. 
 
 Before she left home, she selected a few half-opened 
 moss-roses, which she wore on her bosom, as may be 
 remembered, and which Maud observed seemed to be 
 adjusted in a manner that would admit of their being 
 easily removed. On consultation, the gentlemen were 
 decidedly of opinion that Fred should be invited to 
 (275)
 
 276 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 spend the night at the Morris mansion ; whether he 
 should be let into the secret of his fortunes, should be 
 afterwards determined. 
 
 Belle was decidedly opposed to this, perhaps she 
 could not tell why, had she tried. It may have been 
 more a matter of womanly feeling and sentiment than 
 of reason. When pressed for a reason, the miracle of 
 coolness, and shrewdness, and practical sense which 
 she had become, only pouted, and said very prettily, 
 but very decidedly, that she was a woman, and not 
 obliged to give a reason ; and Maud instinctively ad 
 hered to Belle. Poor child ! she must see Fred ; she 
 wanted to be near him and hear him, and she meant to 
 carry that bunch of rose-buds, and if she gave them to 
 him, then she wanted to go away from him for a little. 
 She could not tell him about himself till she could 
 make it certain. She had not yet heard from Warden 
 or Sally. She would at least wait till after the trial. 
 She wanted to hear again from his mother. She wanted 
 to wait ; she wanted time for herself. She knew she 
 should tell him all her heart and self, and she wanted 
 to know her full self. Somehow Edward had grown 
 more shadow}', and her marriage to him had become 
 shadowy too, and did not seem to rest on her con 
 science at all, but only as a phantom in her mind and 
 memory. 
 
 They went and heard the speeches, and were all alike 
 in ecstasies over Fred's. Mr. Morris and Marbury, as 
 well as Maud, had seen, the famous portrait iu Flor 
 ence, and at the owner's residence in Boston ; they 
 pronounced Fred its living counterpart, and had no 
 lingering doubt of his being the son of its original.
 
 MOSS-ROSES. 277 
 
 As for Belle, Fred's speech was more than it could 
 b} T possibility be to others. Through his eyes she 
 could look into his soul, which she felt was pure and 
 exalted as her own. How much he towered above all 
 the men about him ! and in his anger he was the 
 retributive angel of wrath, beautiful and terrible. 
 Even Maud could now forgive him for not reading the 
 scaled book of his own history. 
 
 When the meeting was over. Belle insisted on going 
 home, and for once did not have her way. Mr. Gid- 
 dings's friend had, in advance, sent Mr. Morris and 
 party an invitation to dinner, which had been accepted. 
 Then Fred was brought in ; all the glory of his face 
 was gone, and he was cold, almost haughty. She could 
 not wonder at it, but was hurt and pained more than 
 she could express. She could not comprehend or make 
 allowance for him. Why must he not know that he could 
 not love any woman in vain ? that there must be some 
 reason for her silence and seeming coldness ? Had he not, 
 while on the stand, looked into her very heart, and when 
 he took his seat, like a marble statue by her at the table, 
 was he not a mere machine ? Yet she could see that 
 he had grown thin, and was now almost haggard. She 
 felt that he was as wretched as he could be, and what 
 a grieving joy that was to her. What a blessed thing 
 to be near him, even in this mood. How madly and 
 mcaninglessly voices clamored and clangercd about 
 her ! He spoke, but how cold and constrained ; and 
 was not she frigid and distant also? But then he 
 would turn to her, and besides, all eyes were on him 
 constantly, and then he was called out, and in the 
 little swirl and turn of heads to follow him, the moss-
 
 278 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 roses, in their greenish purple hoods from which they 
 were just breaking, somehow reached the side of his 
 plate, and he did not return. Poor roses ! 
 
 Was it a providence that called him off? What if some 
 accident should happen to him ? But none would hap 
 pen. God would restore him to his mother ; that 
 surely would happen. Then joy and hope sprang up in 
 her heart, and light and warmth to her face ; she heard 
 so gladly the warm and just things spoken of Fred, and 
 could have kissed Mr. Giddings for his beautiful and 
 kindly words. 
 
 A more wretched young man did not breathe on the 
 continent than the so loved, admired, praised, and 
 gifted 3'oung orator, who rode out on his lonely way. 
 He felt crushed, and, man-like, was taciturn and gloomy. 
 The man who came for him, after two or three vain at 
 tempts at conversation, , relapsed, through Yankee- 
 doodle badly whistled, into silence, and devoted his 
 energies to his horses on the home-stretch. 
 
 What was it after all to sway men, to stir up a mob, 
 to win their admiration? Even now it was being whis 
 pered about the thing he was, and she would hear it. 
 His heart was too utterly wretched to feel even this 
 sting. Let it go : some cheer, some comfort, some 
 light at least rest might come. Love, warmth, and 
 gladness were not for him. Then with a determined 
 effort he crushed his emotions and heart-throbs down 
 in a mass, and placed his will upon them. No ; these 
 things were not for him ; his way was to be solitary, 
 had always been. As the}* gained a hill under the rays 
 of the falling da}*, far in the upper air, cold and thin, 
 and where the light was still white, his eye caught the
 
 MOSS-ROSES. 279 
 
 form of an eagle flying eastward, cleaving the air, as 
 by an effort of will, in calm, proud, conscious might, 
 sweeping from gathering night to meet the day that 
 was to come, and alone. High up and solitary his eye 
 followed it till the bow-like curve of the mighty wings 
 melted, till, diminishing to a speck, the eagle disap- 
 I'peared in the darkening void, coming from mystery 
 and lost in the unknown, flashing for a moment on the 
 wondering gaze of men below, and passing bej-ond the 
 reach of their feeble vision. This vaguely hinted to 
 him of a career straight, high, proud, and alone. Lord ! 
 how his man's soul swelled and went upward, crushing 
 its mist into his dimming eyes at the thought. 
 
 As he went on, he seemed to detach himself from the 
 clinging, haunting presence of Belle ; and as he receded 
 from her radiance, if his shadow of intense darkness 
 grew huge and shapeless, it also dissipated and grow 
 less palpable and obscuring ; and when he finally 
 escaped to a sort of hazy twilight, and mentally turned 
 backward, objects seemed again to fall under the 
 law of perspective, and he determined that Belle 
 should maintain her proper place. Other men had 
 been slighted, scorned, and despised, and had lived, 
 perhaps, improved and benefited. He knew he must 
 live ; but to what purpose ? Pshaw ! how weak and 
 commonplace he was. And he closed his eyes to it all, 
 and rode forward. 
 
 Twilight had come, and the fingers of the earby night 
 had shaken out upon the gathering dew the aroma 
 of the flowers, and were closing their censers till another 
 day. 
 
 Sleepy children subsiding from the long day's happy
 
 280 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 play, and in whose swimming eyes the shadows of 
 dreams were deepening, dropped on doorsteps, and 
 nodded in forgetfulness. Lights came cheerily into 
 darkening windows, and the contented voices of happy 
 husbands and wives, and the laughter of girls, came 
 out from many a wayside homestead. There came 
 upon the consciousness of the burdened and weary 
 youth the vision of a rose-wreathed cottage, under frag 
 rant trees, in the twilight, and a white-robed form of 
 wondrous loveliness tripping eagerly out, with red lips 
 and white arms, to greet and welcome him. As the 
 vision cheated him of pain, he did not banish it, though 
 the form was that of Belle. 
 
 On his arrival he found that his associate had been 
 notified that the prosecutors had determined to have 
 the case set for Monday of the second week of the 
 court instead of the third, which was to commence its 
 session the next day. This arrangement would leave 
 scant time to secure the witnesses for the defendant. 
 The announcement was like a trumpet-call to Fred, 
 who was prompt when challenged to labor on ordinary 
 occasions, and now a summons to action was an abso 
 lute relief. The case was of the utmost gravity the 
 most important he had ever appeared in he was to 
 be the responsible counsel, and unembarrassed by the 
 timid counsels of an older and more cautious leader. 
 He believed Jake was entirely innocent. He thought 
 he knew the whole ground, and had thoroughly culti 
 vated every inch of it ; had examined all the books 
 within reach, and taken all their hints. 
 
 He did not go the next day to Warren, and of course 
 did not see Belle, who had become much interested in
 
 MOSS-ROSES. 281 
 
 Mr. Gidclings's canvass, and induced her father to take 
 Maud and herself over to town. In some way the 
 meeting fell very flat to her, and she returned home 
 grave and quiet. 
 
 Meantime, Fred reexamined the whole case ; made 
 a very accurate list of the State's witnesses, with notes 
 of their evidence, arranged his own, notified Dr. 
 Ackl}-, and the witnesses from Ravenna "and Warren, 
 issued subpoenas for his witnesses, got & list of the 
 proposed jurors, and ascertained all that could be 
 known of them individually. When the day arrived 
 he was ready, prepared, in the sense in which careful 
 lawyers use that word. 
 
 What motive induced a change in the programme of 
 the State, Fred never knew, though he may have 
 guessed ; whether it was for the purpose of shortening 
 his time for preparation, or for other cause, he did 
 not trouble himself to ascertain, although he suspected 
 the former.
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 AN OLD TIME MURDER TRIAL. 
 
 /^ANFIELD was one of the oldest towns on the 
 ^ ^ Reserve, in the midst of a rich and highly culti 
 vated countr}-, and was noted as the residence of Elisha 
 Whittlesy, Judge Newton, Judge Church, and other 
 prominent men. It was a delightful little town of two 
 or three hundred inhabitants, man} 7 of whom were 
 wealthy and refined. The trial was an event of 
 great moment, and although occurring at a very busy 
 season for an agricultural community, was attended 
 from the beginning to the end by an immense number 
 of people, including many of the wives and daughters 
 of the farmers, while manj- of the ladies of Wan-en, 
 Youngstown, and other towns, accompanied their hus 
 bands and brothers, attending every day's session to 
 the end of the trial. 
 
 Judge Newton presided, assisted by three associ 
 ates. He had been long and favorably known at the 
 bar, had much reputation as an advocate, and as a 
 judge presided with dignity and urbanity. By the 
 laws of Ohio, thirty-six men were specially empanelled 
 from which to select the jury, the defendant having 
 twenty-three peremptory challenges, a right to reject 
 twenty-three without assigning any cause. The pros- 
 (282)
 
 AN OLD TIME MURDER TRIAL. 283 
 
 ecnting attorney, on this occasion, was aided by two 
 lawyers of local eminence, and perhaps they and the 
 court were a little surprised the latter unpleasantly 
 so that the prisoner should be represented by two 
 mere youths at the bar, where a man is young at fort}', 
 one of whom was known to possess but moderate abil 
 ity. The rumor of Fred's speech had reached Mahoning 
 county, and many were in attendance who heard it. 
 His youthfulness was a great point to him, after all, 
 and with his rare personal advantages had made him a 
 favorite at once, while the most extravagant stories of 
 his powers as an advocate gained read}' credence. 
 
 The ladies were captivated by his good looks, and 
 began to look favorably on Jake ; while some men never 
 knew a man whom ladies admired who knew anything, 
 and as for Jake, he'd be hanged anyhow. When the 
 case was called, Fred promptly answered that he was 
 read}' ; which the State's attorney was a little surprised 
 at, as he had counted on a motion to continue, or at least 
 for a week's delay, and possibly for a change of venue. 
 Young as he was, Fred knew the effect of a cheerful 
 confidence on his part, upon others. 
 
 The jurors were called, and took their seats in a 
 body. They had been selected with careful fairness 
 from parts of the count}' remote from the scene of the 
 murder, and underwent a close scrutiny by Fred, whose 
 life and experience had made him a good student of 
 men. The jury were sworn as to their qualifications, 
 and examined by the counsel on either side, the State 
 taking the initiative, the court acting as the trier 
 of the jurors. Fred conducted his side with great tact 
 and judgment, and with a quiet, easy, grave manner
 
 284 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 that was quite charming and contrasted with that of the 
 prosecuting attorney, who was sharp, and often rude, to 
 his opponent. To the surprise of the court and bar, 
 the twelve were secured from the first panel and 
 sworn in an hour. Fred obviously looked for but 
 one qualification intelligence and unhesitatingly 
 accepted two or three who said that the}' had formed 
 opinions. He knew enough of the workings of the 
 human intellect to feel sure that when a man discovered 
 that his opinion was based on an erroneous statement, 
 he distrusted the whole theory upon which it was 
 formed, and his judgment was apt at once to accept its 
 opposite. Fred knew that it would be made to appear 
 that the popular view of the homicide was very erro 
 neous, and he counted on this law of mind. 
 
 The prisoner was arraigned, and the indictment 
 solemnly read, the plea of Not Guilty entered, and the 
 case was ready, when the district attorney suggested 
 that the court take a recess for dinner. Those were 
 the good old times of honest work in the country ; and 
 after consultation with the counsel, Judge Newton 
 announced that during the trial the court would assem 
 ble at eight, A.M., take a recess from twelve to one, 
 and sit until six in the evening. 
 
 On resuming, the district attorney opened out his 
 case in a written speech of much force of adjective and 
 great clearness of denunciation. He said that the mur 
 dered man, Olney, had left the Mormons at Nauvoo, 
 had visited his brethren at Kirtland, from which place 
 he started two da3's before the murder, and passed 
 along a well-known route, and was seen to enter the 
 fatal woods just at dusk, and so forth. That he had
 
 AN OLD TIME MURDER TRIAL. 285 
 
 been followed from Nauvoo by Green, himself the son 
 of a murderer, as he was prepared to show, who 
 arrived at Kirtland a day or two after Olney, and was 
 seen on the same route following him. That he was 
 traced into the woods and tracked out, and that when 
 arrested there was found on him a remarkable docu 
 ment, which he presumed would amaze the counsel for 
 tin 1 prisoner, which he had taken from the body of the 
 murdered man, and which would furnish proof of 
 motive, and so forth. It was to secure this that Olney 
 was followed and assassinated. 
 
 When the witnesses were called for the State, Judge 
 Newton asked Fred, in a suggestive tone, whether he 
 would have them separated. Fred answered that he 
 did not deem it necessary. He presumed the witnesses 
 would do their best to tell the truth, and that in that 
 rested the defendant's hope. 
 
 The State produced witnesses, proving the finding 
 of the deceased, and the doctors, who swore that life 
 was destroyed by a blow or blows on the head, fractur 
 ing the skull, and so forth. Fred, in a very quiet way, 
 put these men under the gentle torture of a cross-exam- 
 natiou such as the learned M.D.'s sometimes enjo}' at 
 the hands of their brethren of the bar. In this instance 
 it was the more embarrassing, as the dreaded Ackly, 
 was observed to be a grim listener. When asked to 
 explain how they knew that the man died of a blow 011 
 the head, their reasons were not satisfactor} 1 . They 
 made no examination of an}* kind ; did not deem it 
 necessary. He was dead, his skull fractured, and most 
 men would deem that sufficient. Of course it could be 
 done by a blow, and in no other way. Had they
 
 286 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 removed the scalp? No. How did they know tho 
 skull was fractured ? Did they know whether the neck 
 or spine was injured? They made no examination. 
 The questioning was cool, quiet, but long and exhaus 
 tive. It was evident that here lay one position of the 
 defence, and the State's medical testimony left it dubi 
 ous as to the means and cause of death. The quick, 
 cool, shrewd spectators saw the weakness of the case. 
 Some marks and bruises were found on other parts of 
 the bod} T , produced, as was said, by dragging the body 
 after the murder ; it was left quite doubtful whether 
 they were not made before death, or might have been. 
 
 It appeared that it had snowed on the night of the 
 murder, and the snow was two or three inches deep in 
 the morning, covering the body of the slain man ; and 
 also that a watch and a small amount of money were 
 found on him. 
 
 Proof was then made that he was at Kirtland ; sev 
 eral saw him on the line of the road, and he was last 
 seen, just at dark, entering the woods ; that his horse 
 was found nearly at the point of entering the wood, 
 with one foot through the bridle rein, which had been 
 loose, and which was now caught over a small stump 
 or root, and thus tethered him. The saddle had turned, 
 and was found partly under his belly. A small port 
 manteau which he had carried, was never found. Men 
 swore to the presence of Jake in Kirtland ; but the 
 exact time was left in doubt. Many saw a person 
 much like him along the route of travel pursued by 
 Olney, and on the same days. The road traversing the 
 woods, which were about a mile and a half in extent, 
 ran easterly, and Olney was going east. At about
 
 AN OLD TIME MURDER TRIAL. 287 
 
 midway of the woods a road running south terminated 
 in this east and west road. Without doubt Jake had 
 travelled this north and south coad some time in the 
 latter part of the same night, or early the following 
 morning, for he stopped two miles south of it, where 
 he took breakfast ; and before the snow melted off 
 he was tracked back to the east and west road ; from 
 the point where he had eaten breakfast he was traced 
 to Coshocton and arrested. When arrested, he refused 
 to tell his name, and denied having been in Mahoning 
 county at all ; and then he suddenly became silent, and 
 refused to say anything more, and did not. 
 
 " What did you find on his person?" to the officer 
 arresting him. 
 
 " A paper, or rather several papers, fastened to 
 gether." 
 
 " Look at this ; " handing him a closely- written doc 
 ument. 
 
 " That is it. He threw this from him, or from his 
 clothes, where they lay in his sleeping-room, when we 
 found him. I saw him throw it into the fire-place, in 
 which was a little fire, and you see where it is 
 scorched." 
 
 " You all see it, gentlemen," said the prosecuting 
 attorney, with an air. " I propose," said he, rising, 
 " to read this paper to the jury. It is a most remark 
 able document," glancing at Fred. 
 
 " Show it to Mr Warden," said the court. 
 
 " I presume he is familiar with it, or ought to be," 
 remarked the lawyer, tossing it to him with an ah' of 
 unconcern. 
 
 A thrill ran through the frame of Fred as he turned
 
 288 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 over three or four closely-written pag?s to the end, and 
 found, " John Green, his x mark," attested by " H. G. 
 Ladd, Mantua, Jan. 10th, 1831." 
 
 " The gentleman is doubtless familiar with the sig 
 nature ? " meaningly. 
 
 " I've seen something like it ; most men make marks 
 alike." 
 
 " You'll find it an interesting document ; " with indif 
 ference. 
 
 " That is very possible, though its interest does not 
 shine out at once," with forced calmness, while a chill, 
 like a rigor mortis, for an instant shivered through him, 
 for his eye had caught his own name once or twice in. 
 running it over. It flashed across him that in this 
 paper, Green, among other things, had set down his 
 history, showing the details, probably, of his wretched 
 birth, which could have no further bearing on the case 
 than to show his personal relation to Jake, and create 
 a prejudice against himself. His first and only thought 
 was of the injury and mischief that such an expose 
 must work to the case. None but a lawyer can appre 
 ciate possibly credit this statement. To the true 
 advocate, everything, and self more than all, is subor 
 dinated, sunk, for the client. Fred would oppose the 
 introduction of this writing to the last, and with only 
 this glance he arose with it in his hand. 
 
 " Do I understand that the prosecuting attorney 
 proposes to read this thing in evidence ? " 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " Your Honors, it purports to have been executed 
 on the tenth of January, 1831, fourteen years ago, 
 and can therefore by no possibility contain the slight-
 
 AN OLD TIME MURDER TRIAL. 289 
 
 est information as to the death of Olnej* in 1845. It 
 was not made by the defendant, and its contents 
 can by no rules of evidence be given against him. If 
 I should be found with a book in my hands, you could 
 not read it against me as evidence, unless you could 
 show that I was its author." 
 
 " If the court please," answered the prosecuting attor 
 ney, " the paper was made b}' John Green, the father of 
 the prisoner, as I will show, and as the gentleman veiy 
 well knows, and contains statements of the most damn 
 ing character," with a significant look at Fred ; " and 
 as T stated in my opening, it was in the possession of 
 the deceased, and it was to get possession of this paper 
 that this most bloody, atrocious, wicked, hellish and dia 
 bolical murder was committed. I hope the gentleman 
 understands, and will interpose no further objection." 
 
 " I think I do," very modestly. " It is offered for 
 two purposes, I presume : to connect the defendant 
 with the deceased by showing him in possession of the 
 dead man's goods, and then to supply the motive by 
 showing the quality or value of the thing taken." 
 
 " Exactly, the gentleman states it exactly," in his 
 seat. 
 
 " Before it can be admitted for either purpose," con 
 tinued Fred, " it must be proven to have been in the 
 possession of the. deceased at the time of death ; other 
 wise, the possession of it by the defendant raises no 
 presumption against him. And as this is a paper 
 writing, the contents of which alone give it value, 
 proof of the execution of it, and the relation of the 
 parties, must be first given." 
 
 " I will satisfy the captious gentleman ! " exclaimed 
 19
 
 290 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 the prosecuting attornej r . " Mr. Wansor, come for 
 ward ; " and Belle's detective took the stand. A short, 
 stoutish, sharp, but good-natured looking man, who 
 said that he was a detective of Philadelphia, recently 
 on professional business at Nauvoo, where he had occa 
 sion to inquire after John Green, and found that he 
 had died the fifth of January before, and that his sister 
 left, as was supposed, for Ohio some time after. 
 
 Fred, poor innocent, asked him, " What took him to 
 Nauvoo?" 
 
 Wansor stared at him for a moment in bewildered 
 amazement, that he, of all men, should ask that ques 
 tion ; but recovering, " I went on professional business 
 for Miss Belle Morris, as I understand it, and was 
 accompanied by her and her father. I must refer you 
 to her for the nature of our mission." 
 
 " Miss Bolle Morris ! " Fred's breath went, and her 
 name escaped him involuntarily. Two or three min 
 utes' pause, and then, in a softened voice, " Did you, 
 hear anything of Green's sister, the defendant's aunt, 
 except what you have stated ? " 
 
 " No ; she was thought to have gone down the 
 river." 
 
 " Perhaps the gentleman would like to inquire after 
 some other of his old friends and relatives," with a 
 meaning smile to the jury. 
 
 " I will one other if you please; Mr. Wansor, 
 when were 3*ou in Nauvoo ? " 
 
 " We came from there about two weeks ago." 
 
 " How long were yon there?" 
 
 " Some two or three weeks." 
 
 " Did 3*ou make the acquaintance of many of the
 
 AN OLD TIME MURDER TRIAL. 291 
 
 saints, my old friends and relatives, as the gentleman 
 calls them ? " 
 
 " Well, I saw a good many." 
 
 " What was m} r old friend Oliver Olncy doing when 
 you last saw him ?" Sensation. 
 
 " I saw Olne}- several times. He had just returned 
 from Kirtland, as I understood. I saw him several 
 times." Prodigious sensation, which reached the State's 
 counsel and the court. 
 
 " That is all ; many thanks," very quietly. 
 
 " Do you say that you saw Olney Oliver Olney 
 at Nauvoo ? " asked the prosecuting attorney. 
 
 " Oh, yes. I knew him before. Had seen him in 
 Pittsburg, also in Philadelphia, and in 1836 at Kirt 
 land ; " and Wansor was dismissed. 
 
 There was a pause ; the counsel overhauled the 
 indictment with a nervous eagerness, followed by a 
 blank dismay, and after some hurried consultation 
 they went on. 
 
 They then called Ladd, of Mantua, who identified 
 the paper ; said that it was signed by John Green 
 in his presence, and acknowledged before him in the 
 presence of Jo Smith and Rigdon, on the day of its 
 date. He knew nothing of the writing or contents of 
 the papers. He understood that the defendant was a 
 son of John Green. 
 
 
 
 Fred said that the defendant admitted the relation 
 ship. 
 
 " I suppose, now," said the prosecuting attornej-, " that 
 the gentleman is satisfied, and I may now read these 
 papers ; " with an injured air. 
 
 *' One moment, if the court please," and Fred arose.
 
 292 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 u The real difficulty in the way of the State is not re 
 moved, or even approached. Not a word of evidence 
 has }'et been given to show that this paper was ever, 
 at any time, in the hands of the deceased. How, then, 
 can it be claimed that the defendant murdered him to 
 get possession of it ? How does the possession of this 
 document by the defendant, tend to show that he had 
 ever even seen the deceased ? " 
 
 One of the counsel for the State replied in a labored 
 effort, and not without ingenuit}". With no reply 
 from Fred, the court unhesitating!}- sustained the ob 
 jection, and excluded the doeument wholly. 
 
 The State staggered on a little further, and in part 
 met the blow it had received from its own witness, Wan- 
 sor. A man who had known Olney in Ohio had seen 
 the remains of the deceased, and recognized the bod}' 
 as that of Oliver Olney. He called him Olney, and so 
 did others, and the bod}- was spoken of as Olne}"'s. In 
 answer to Fred, he said that he believed that Oliver 
 had a brother John, who resembled him, yet what be 
 came of him he never knew. 
 
 Others swore that the body was spoken of as that of 
 Olney. It was further shown that the man had a small 
 valise mailed on behind his saddle on the day preceding 
 his death ; but, as sworn to by others, no vestige of it 
 had been discovered since his death. And the State 
 closed. 
 
 It was somehow apparent to the spectators that the 
 State had failed to make so strong a case as was sup 
 posed to exist, and, as often occurs, the outside opinion 
 or impression was much changed, and was concentrat 
 ing about the leading counsel for the prisoner, who
 
 AN OLD TIME MURDER TRIAL. 293 
 
 was kindly looked upon, and sympathized with, as the 
 defence. Nearly three days had passed in the trial. 
 Numerous questions had arisen ; a great many wit 
 nesses had been examined, and yet through all the 
 struggle he had steadily gained on the crowd, court, 
 and bar. Modest, quiet, cool, clear, ready, with 
 out having thus far exhibited brilliant qualities, with 
 unceasing good-nature, and the bearing of a gentleman, 
 he had all the time impressed them with the idea of 
 any amount of power and energy in reserve, which 
 they expected to see developed. 
 
 When the State closed,- Fred drew a long breath 
 of profound relief. He was still anxious, but without 
 doubt of the result. He knew the proverbial uncer 
 tainty of juries, but had studied those before him, and 
 had already received from two or three, unconscious 
 glances of that intelligence which a look will flash 
 from one mind to another. Without any opening state 
 ment, he called his witness. 
 
 When Dr. Ackly took the stand, there was a gen 
 eral movement to gain a good sight of the famous sur 
 geon and somewhat distinguished scientific witness, 
 certainly the most remarkable, of his day, in the West. 
 Slightly above the medium height, and large, with a 
 little stoop in the shoulders, a strong-marked face, 
 dark, with black eyes that could flash out the original 
 ingrained savage, or melt with the tenderness of the 
 enthroned woman, who sometimes ruled them, which 
 were overhung with heavy brows, while from his fore 
 head was swept back heavy masses of coarse black 
 hair. His manner was careless and free ; a man of 
 little culture, of commanding talents, iron nerve, and
 
 294 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 a cool, shrewd, artful, artless method of dealing and 
 .swearing, at once impressive, conclusive, and exceed- 
 ingl}- dangerous. Like other distinguished medical ex 
 perts, he was to be retained, and his evidence was an 
 ingenuous argument under oath. Nothing was ever 
 more simple and plain, and as to nothing did he ever 
 seem so utterl}' indifferent as the wants or wishes of 
 the side which called him ; nothing was often so help 
 ful as the seemingly unconscious blows that he ap 
 peared to give his own side. He was an intense 
 hater, capable of narrow, mean, and cruel prejudices, 
 and wielded a tongue sharp, bitter, and caustic, as well 
 as soft, soothing, and seductive. 
 
 When called, he lazily arose, moved forward, and 
 declined to be seated ; stated his profession and res 
 idence ; he had had some little experience in surgery ; 
 was a professor in the Ohio Medical College, etc. ; saw 
 the body of the deceased ; it was disinterred, and found 
 in a state of good preservation. He went on to say that, 
 assisted by his distinguished friends Dr. Bond, of War 
 ren, and Dr. Jones, of Ravenna, he had made a partial 
 examination. They removed the entire scalp from the 
 cranium, and dissected away the soft parts of the neck, 
 so as to lay bare the spinal column ; no injury of any 
 kind had been sustained by the bones of the cranium ; 
 no fracture, and hardly an abrasion of the scalp ; the 
 skull was removed, and the condition of the brain dem 
 onstrated that no serious injury had fallen upon the 
 head ; the neck had been dislocated, broken, as people 
 say, and that had caused death, which followed instan 
 taneously ; it was not produced by a blow on the head ; 
 could not have been by any possibility ; it was undoubt-
 
 AN OLD TIME MURDER TRIAL. 295 
 
 edly occasioned by the man's being suddenly and vio 
 lently thrown from his horse, so as to fall and receive 
 the whole weight of the body on the head and neck. A 
 horse suddenly rearing, so as to give an increase of 
 height, and throwing a man clear from the saddle, 
 would be equal to the injury. The man was found a 
 a little at the left of the road, through the woods ; as 
 he was riding along cold and wear)', something at the 
 right, and nearly in front of his horse, had frightened 
 the animal, when he reared, turned suddenly, partly on 
 his hind feet, to the left, throwing his rider helplessly 
 upon his head, and breaking his neck, and where he 
 fell, he was found. If care had been used, when the 
 snow melted, the tracks of the horse would have been 
 found where he turned and ran back ; the imprint of 
 the man's head in the ground would have been dis 
 covered, and the profession would have lost the bril 
 liant and useful example of its two members who swore 
 that the man was killed ~by blows on his head from a 
 bludgeon, in the hands of a man on the ground, which 
 had fractured his skull. 
 
 Dr. Ackly was put under a close cross-examination, 
 as close as he ever permitted himself to endure ; for 
 he had great power in good-naturedly holding his 
 cross-questioner at long range, just as suited the exi 
 gencies of his case. 
 
 He was asked whether he did not think that if a man, 
 the defendant for instance, had suddenly sprang at the 
 horse it might not have frightened him so as to have 
 produced the result named. 
 
 Fred asked " if that was a question for an expert." 
 Ackly turned and scanned Jake with apparent care for
 
 296 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 a moment, and answered " that he thought that he might 
 scare a horse, possibly. Horses had their own views of 
 men " a laugh ; but, lingering a moment, " he thought 
 that if even Jake Green had been there to kill the man, 
 he wonld not have commenced by tr\ T ing to induce the 
 horse to run away with him." This produced a sensa 
 tion marked and distinct. When Ackly left the stand, 
 the chances for the edification of the people, ~by a pub 
 lic execution, were much diminished. In his testimony 
 as to the injuries to the deceased, he was fully jsus- 
 tained by the two doctors who assisted him. 
 
 Fred called several witnesses, who established the 
 fact that the snow fell during the early part of the 
 night in question, certainly before midnight ; that Jake 
 had been about Mantua the latter part of Februaiy and 
 March, and that no one had known of his having been 
 in Kirtland ; that he had been into Middlefield and 
 Parkman, in Geauga county, on business, and that late in 
 the night of the homicide he had called at a small 
 tavern, kept by one Blair, within four or five miles of 
 the scene of the death, to inquire his way, going south- 
 erl}*, and was told that when he reached the east and 
 west road so often named, he must turn, take it, and 
 going east, take the first right-hand road ; that it was 
 snowing then, that he stopped long enough to get 
 supper, when he went on, seeming to be in a hurry. 
 Thus a considerable time was left, during which he was 
 not accounted for. He had evidently traversed that 
 right-hand road the next morning, and very early ; 
 where he was during the intervening time, was not 
 made very apparent. 
 
 Fred also called winesses who sustained the state-
 
 AN OLD TIME MURDER TRIAL. 297 
 
 ment of Wansor, that Oliver Olney was still living, had 
 been at Kirtland, and had, as was supposed, started 
 west for Nauvoo ; that he was a man five feet and about 
 ten inches in height, and that the deceased, by measure 
 ment, was barely five feet seven. He also showed the 
 distance from where the body was found, back to the 
 corner, to be nearly a half mile, and that the track 
 claimed to be Jake's came down from the west to the 
 corner of the road in the woods, and then turned south. 
 Then he rested his case confidently, but anxiously. Did 
 mortal lawyer ever tiy a case that he was not anxious 
 about, with an anxiety which nothing but the final 
 verdict in his favor could relieve ? 
 
 The counsel for the State had no idea of abandoning 
 the case. They had commenced the trial with a flourish 
 of the confidence which they really felt. Their expe 
 rience in such trials had been small, and the prepara 
 tion of the prosecuting attorney was very faulty. Their 
 case had crumbled away in their hands, and had 
 received two or three severe and perhaps fatal blows. 
 They had also, as was natural, under-estimated their 
 youthful opponents, and had suffered for it, as lawyers 
 sometimes do. On the coming in of the court at one 
 o'clock of the fourth day, their best advocate arose for 
 the final argument to the jury. 
 
 Middle-aged, of fine person, good face, and not 
 without skill as an advocate, with an ingenious way of 
 grouping things, and a hard, dry way of making points, 
 Mr. Muck arose to present the case for the State, and 
 a hush came over the immense and expectant audience, 
 which thronged the court-room of that warm, early 
 June afternoon.
 
 298 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 He began by amplifying the importance and gravity 
 of the case. A murder had been committed in their 
 midst. A young man arose earl}- one morning, and on 
 his way to his work had stumbled upon a corpse, stark, 
 under the snow, a man done to death by murderers, 
 who had stolen upon, surrounded and murdered him in the 
 woods, alone in the darkness ; and of this the jury were 
 to inquire and judge. For the result they must be re 
 sponsible. If it were of no moment, if life were of no 
 consequence, the defendant could be acquitted, and the 
 highways given over to bandits, to waylaying assassins. 
 
 A man, a stranger, had been slain, no matter by what 
 immediate means, so long as it was made to appear 
 that it was by violence, whether the man was knocked 
 off his horse or thrown off, if by the agency of the 
 defendant, it was all the law required. He was a 
 stranger, and men called him Olney, Oliver Olney ; 
 that was his name ; he was known by no other. And 
 that was all that was necessary. No matter though 
 there may have been fifty Oliver Olney's. Besides, it 
 was a man, and not a name, that was slain. 
 
 Undoubtedly, several were concerned in the mur 
 der, all of whom had escaped but one ; and it was 
 no matter what part he took, whether he struck, or 
 watched, or merely bore away the plunder, he was 
 guilty of the murder. That there were several, was 
 proven by showing one man following on the track, 
 while another was seen approaching the place of the 
 final hunt, from one side, as* unquestionably others did, 
 though unseen from other sides. The defendant was 
 proven, it was admitted that he was within less 
 than a half mile of where the body was found, and at
 
 AN OLD TIME MURDER TRIAL. 299 
 
 a time awfully near the fatal hour. Nobody knows 
 wheu the man met his murderers. It ma} r have been 
 early in the night, -r- suppose it was ; the defendant 
 was seen approaching the same place early enough to 
 have met him. And if it is said that Jake Green never 
 was east of the corner of the south road, what proof 
 is there of that? Why, that he made tracks early the 
 next morning in the road leading from that corner 
 south. Where was he that night? and what was he 
 doing? where did he stay ? with whom? He was not all 
 night walking from Blair's tavern to the corner, and 
 where was Olney killed? He may have been killed 
 west of the corner, and his body carried to the point 
 where it was found, or Jake may have mounted his 
 horse and ridden back, and ingeniously fastened it 
 where it la}'. He would know better than to escape on 
 the horse of the man whom he had just murdered, and 
 then he would have walked back to the corner on the 
 new snow, all innocently, and take the road he had 
 inquired for. 
 
 And what became of the portmanteau? Somebody 
 stole and rifled that ; who was it? No man was known 
 to be in those woods that night but Jake. If he did 
 not take it, who did? It was not, after long search, 
 found, and when Jake was arrested, he denied that he 
 had been in that locality at all. If innocent, why 
 make this denial ? Then remembering all, he became 
 dumb, could not speak, would not speak, and did not 
 speak ; and then this fatal document, which he thrust 
 so fearfully and foolishly from him ; we haA-e not 
 proved that it was ever in the hands of the murdered 
 man, have we? Why, then, did Jake in mortal fear cast
 
 300 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 it from him? He knew what it was. He knew where 
 he got it. He had murdered a man for it, and was 
 fleeing with it. He knows where he got it, and can tell ; 
 and if he did not take it from the dead body of the 
 murdered man, I demand that he tell us where he did 
 get it. Of course he is silent. His act and conduct 
 are a confession that he murdered the man and robbed 
 his body, and then fled with his booty. And such a 
 document ! It has not been read ; I may not read it ; 
 the confession of a crime, a murder and a robbery by 
 his father, and he, the son, committing another murder 
 and robbery to secure it, and of all the unheard-of mar 
 vels in courts of justice, that this young and accomplished 
 lawyer should be here, his defender ! I stand in the 
 presence of these facts, and of this man so strangely 
 brought together, in utter amazement, almost in awe, 
 and I demand an explanation of him ; this man is 
 here defending his enemy the son of his worst enemy, 
 enemies alike of him and his race of the human 
 race. Then, with a happy and forcible peroration, he 
 sat down. 
 
 The above shows the course of the argument, as well 
 as its spirit. The speech was happy and forcible, and 
 Fred felt that it had made a dangerous impression upon 
 the jury, as it certainly had upon the crowd.
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 FRED'S ARGUMENT. 
 
 E references to himself surprised Fred somewhat, 
 and he did not know what to think of some of 
 them ; but looking at everything as an advocate 
 during a trial, he supposed that they were made by 
 counsel in the exaggerating heat of argument ; not 
 unwilling to produce an effect, and not scrupulous a's 
 to the means employed. He would, however, seek an 
 explanation and an exploration of the Green paper 
 after the trial, and dismissed both for a time. 
 
 The crowd in attendance had been constantly increas 
 ing, and on the da} r of final argument it had become 
 dense almost beyond endurance. Great anxiety was 
 felt to hear the speeches, and especiall} 7 that of Fred. 
 His reputation as a speaker, and the favor which his 
 conduct of the case and manners had won him, made 
 his speech the event of the trial to be looked forward 
 to. There was a great influx of ladies. Several occu 
 pied the bench of the court ; others ,sat on the clerk's 
 table, and still others in two condensed rows between 
 the bar-table and the raised jury-box, so as to be 
 exactly between the speaker and jury. 
 
 In the moment's buzz that followed the speech of 
 (301)
 
 302 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 Mr. Mack, and as the crowd was readjusting itself, 
 a little movement, a rising and changing of seats, and 
 a rustle of draperies by the ladies, who might be heard 
 fanning and lisping from every part of the packed 
 room, drew Fred's attention to the end of the table at 
 his left ; and there, within two j'ards of him, of all the 
 mortals of the lower world, or immortals of the upper, 
 sat Belle ! His brain whirled, and he grasped the bar- 
 table in a spasm. But there she was, not cold, dis 
 tant and repellant, as when he sat b}' her last, but 
 radiant, triumphant and happy. There was the old 
 light that flashed over the icy waters, that inspired 
 him on the speaker's stand, and which now had some 
 thing more, something to assure, inspire, and, as it 
 seemed, to reward. She was accompanied b}* Maud 
 and a beautiful matronly woman, whom Fred did not 
 remember ever to have seen before. A moment, and 
 he arose, calm, clear and strong, inspired and elevated, 
 for his final effort. He stood for an instant under a 
 weight of sensations, not favorable to rapid or even 
 easy speech, and hesitated and faltered with emotions 
 that interrupted the communication between thought 
 and utterance. None but an advocate can understand 
 the mingled feelings with which he arises in a momen 
 tous case, and no advocate has ever described or 
 expressed them, and perhaps the}* cannot be expressed. 
 Fred's voice was low, and a little plaintive, and hun 
 dreds of heads bent sidewise to catch his accents. He 
 never, in after life, when famous as an advocate and 
 orator, was a man of exordiums and perorations. Some 
 simple preliminaiy matter, bearing directl}- upon the 
 subject to be discussed, and then the case itself, and
 
 FRED'S ARGUMENT. 303 
 
 when that was presented, he usually stopped rather 
 than closed. 
 
 When his voice was connectedly caught, he was say 
 ing something about law and its sacredness. " Both 
 parties were struggling for its supremacj-, the State 
 appealing to it for punishment, and he for protection ; 
 land it was to be vindicated as an avenger or venerated 
 as a protector, as the jury should find that certain facts 
 existed or were doubtful. The most precious thing 
 to the law was a human life ; the thing it most 
 abhorred, a murderer. The earth was of consequence 
 because of human existence upon it, and things became 
 property only because they were man's ; and as the life 
 of a man was approached, things grew sacred, and its 
 citadel was inviolable. As it was the gravest known 
 crime to take life without law, so when the law, which 
 held life to be so holy , was through mistake or care 
 lessness made the very means of violating, instead of 
 protecting, it, the crime was immeasurably aggravated. 
 The State demanded a punishment, and by the law 
 was to establish with moral certainty that it was 
 entitled to have it inflicted. The presumption that a 
 man was innocent was not an idle formula, floating in 
 the legal atmosphere, but an impregnable barrier, 
 assuring safety, until it was swept away by evidence, 
 and then the defendant only fell by having the ground 
 cut from under his feet. lie was not to be convicted 
 of a crime because he failed to prove his innocence. 
 That was the reverse of the rule. It was not sufficient 
 to accuse of murder, and then hang him if he failed to 
 show where he was on a given night. Nor could he be 
 called upon to account for a given thing until it was
 
 304 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 shown that at some time, somewhere, somebody else 
 had held the possession of it. A man, on sudden sur 
 prise, may equivocate, and not be guilty of murder ; 
 and if foil}' is conclusive evidence of crime, how easy 
 to find a criminal ! " with a glance at the State's attor 
 ney. " It is a habit of the human mind, when aught 
 occurs that it cannot at once understand, to attribute 
 it to the supernatural, as it is its weakness to believe 
 the most heinous charge without proof. It is only 
 when it partly understands that it investigates, and 
 demands evidence only in trivial cases. If this Jake 
 was charged with a petty larceny from this man, still 
 living, even the prosecuting attorney would have ascer 
 tained his innocence. But when the man fell from his 
 horse in the night, he asks you to believe that Jake 
 Green killed him." These sentences, and many more 
 which at a grasp epitomized the case, were delivered in 
 a happy manner, and with great force and energ}', and 
 shattered it ere the advocate had fully entered upon 
 its discussion. 
 
 " The grand jury, by this indictment, accuse Jacob 
 Green of killing Oliver Olney, in the county of Ma- 
 honing, and is to prove each allegation without doubt 
 or hesitation." 
 
 He then recalled the evidence, and said " he believed 
 that not a word of proof had been given to show that 
 the scene of the death was within the limits of the 
 county." 
 
 The prosecuting attorney started up, and said " he 
 was certainly mistaken. He had proved it." 
 
 " If you have, you can tell by whom. If the gen 
 tlemen, or the court, or any member of the jury, can
 
 FRED'S ARGUMENT. 305 
 
 recall a word of proof bearing on this formal and also 
 material point, he would thank them to remind him of 
 it." 
 
 Then he sat down for a moment. A whispering of 
 the State's counsel, and among the members of the 
 court, with an overhauling of notes, was followed by 
 silence. 
 
 By the Court. " What do you propose, Mr. War 
 den?" 
 
 " Merely to show that there is not even the form of 
 a case here. I do not wish it to go off on this point. 
 I will presume or admit for the defendant that the 
 locus is within the limits of your county, gentlemen, 
 that you may have the genuine satisfaction of saying, 
 upon your oaths, that the defendant is innocent. He is 
 accused of the murder of Oliver Olney ; not a man 
 whose name is to the jurors unknown any man who 
 ma}^ go by any name but Oliver Olne}' ; not some 
 man whose body after death was, in the absence of all 
 knowledge of the name he bore while living, called. 
 Oliver Olney ; but Oliver Olney himself, and . not 
 another, and no other was murdered. 
 
 " If the court please, I make this point here, and 
 have the authorities which I will cite." 
 
 The Court. " It is not necessary, Mr. Warden ; the 
 point is well taken, and so the court will rule." 
 
 Resuming, " The theory of the State is that Oliver 
 Olney, a native, and late a resident of this part of the 
 State, was waj-laid and murdered, and one man swears 
 that he knew Olney in life ; that he saw this bod}-, 
 and thinks it was Oliver Oluey, but it may have been 
 20
 
 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 his brother John ; while others heard the boch- called 
 Oliver Olney's bocty. 
 
 " We proved by the State's witness, Wanser, that 
 the Oliver Olney was alive since this death occurred, 
 and by half a dozen that he left Kirtland for Nauvoo. 
 We prove him to have been five feet ten, while this 
 bod}', by actual measurement, falls short of that by 
 three inches, and the State three leagues of sustaining 
 its case. This is not d formal matter, but one of vital 
 substance. You are asked to sa} r that this man was 
 Oliver Olney, when not another man has said it, when 
 six or seven say that he was not. You are asked to be 
 certain in this point, when the one witness for the State 
 is uncertain. You are asked to swear by your verdict 
 that } r ou know more than all the witnesses ; not only 
 that, but that they are all wrong. Otherwise, this 
 defendant must go acquit. I might rest this defence 
 here, but will not. 
 
 " How came this body to be nobody, but a body. 
 The State sa3~s, in this indictment, that Jake killed 
 him by fracturing his skull with a bludgeon ; that he 
 got himself suspended over the road with a war-club, 
 and when the deceased rode along under him, he made 
 a downward blow and crushed his skull. But my 
 brother Mack, abandoning his two M.D.'s, assumes 
 the equally plausible theory that the defendant scared 
 him to death ; that, wanting to kill him so as to rob 
 him, he sprang up in his path and frightened his horse, 
 so that mayhap he would turn and carry him out of his 
 reach, but he happened to throw him and kill him ; and 
 that then, while he had eveiy reason to suppose that the 
 body's property was with or on it, he sprang into the
 
 FRED'S ARGUMENT. 307 
 
 vacant saddle, without touching the bodj r , and rode off; 
 and then having rode off, he prudently waited for a snow 
 storm, so that his tracks might certainly be seen, and 
 then went tracking back, in the most sensible way in the 
 world, to the very scene of his crime, for the veiy pur 
 pose, undoubtedly, of being suspected and detected. He 
 has spoken of marvels, but failed to enumerate among 
 them the most wonderful of all. We have proven 
 that this man was not killed tfy a blow on the head ; 
 that he never received a blow on any part of his per 
 son ; that he died of dislocation of the neck, which 
 could be produced only by being thrown from his 
 horse ; that he died where he fell, and lay untouched, 
 and that there, in the darkness of the night, the heav 
 ens kindly distilled over him their pall of beautiful 
 snow, placing their pure white seal upon him, to attest 
 that the cause of his death was innocent ! " 
 
 This sentence was pronounced in a fervid manner, 
 and produced a sensation. "Murdered? How? By 
 whom? By a man who followed him on foot and 
 would never have overtaken him, and would approach 
 him from behind; by a man who intercepted him, 
 who knew that he would be there, and when. It was 
 in a deep forest, ere the snow fell, and ink}- dark. 
 Who would know him, or how would they know him? 
 Oh, gentlemen, the darkness of this case is palpable ! 
 '.Mid uncertainty and doubt you are expected to grope 
 about in it, and seize and strangle this unfortunate 
 defendant. Murdered? for what? Why was not the 
 body searched and robbed ? For a paper ? Who knew 
 that he had a paper? You are asked to assume 
 that he had a paper, and then to assume that some-
 
 308 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 body knew that lie had ; that they knew he would 
 pass this place at that hour, that they would know 
 him, and that 'the}- could scare his horse, and that 
 he would throw him off, and that that would break 
 his neck. Then after having performed all these prob 
 able things the murderer would run off without touch 
 ing the bod}' of his victim, on which the paper would 
 probably be. A murderer would not have run the risk 
 of a failure in any of these. He would have been 
 armed with a gun or pistol ; he would have run no 
 risk, he would have shot him shot him on his horse 
 and then searched and robbed him. There is no 
 pretence that he could have been robbed save by the 
 further pretence that he had a document ; and in the 
 utter absence of evidence that he had this document, 
 you are to assume that he had it, that someboby knew 
 that he had it, and that they wanted it, and their want 
 was so imperious that they would commit a murder for it. 
 " Who was this man ? Nobody knows. Where did he 
 come from? Nobody knows. Where was he going to? 
 Nobody knows. Where did he get this paper ? Nobody 
 knows. What was he to do with it ? Nobody knows. 
 Does an}-body know that this body ever had that paper ? 
 No. What is this marvellous document, that anybody 
 should want it ? We are not told even that. Had it 
 been of value, and pertinent to this case, the court 
 would have laid it before you. It was ruled out as 
 incompetent, irrelevant, impertinent, and }'et it is the 
 only point in the case. The only material thing in 
 it was ruled out of it ; and yet we are to deal with it, 
 and with nothing else. We are not to try this case on 
 the evidence that we have, but on that which we have
 
 FRED'S ARGUMENT. 309 
 
 not heard. What is this thing, this marvel of marvels, 
 that winds all about us, and enfolds even the counsel 
 for the defendant? Oh, gentlemen, there are some 
 things that I have so wanted to know " This was a 
 great cry of heart-anguish that uttered itself, that men 
 who heard it never forgot. He rescued himself. " We 
 are told that it is a confession of murder, made fourteen 
 years ago by the defendant's father, and that the de 
 fendant murdered another man to get it ! What did he 
 want it for ? Of what use could it be to him ? What 
 could he do with it? What harm could it do his 
 father ? His father was dead ; the State has proven 
 that, and he must have known it. 
 
 " But if it was of the fatal character claimed, then, 
 indeed, the possession of it by Jake would of itself be 
 sufficient, when surprised with it, to have caused him 
 to speak in the suspicious manner that he did. But 
 the gentleman demands that Jake be compelled to ac 
 count for this, or that he go and hang for murder. 
 Charge a man with murder, and, if he don't prove him 
 self innocent, hang him ! By all means, gentlemen ! 
 I would, were I you ! If I must still treat this thing, 
 which is not a thing, as in the case when it is out, 
 ma}" I not inquire that as between Jake and an utterly 
 unknown stranger, who, while on his way from no place 
 to nowhere, fell into nothing, which of them would be 
 the most likely to have a paper made by the father of 
 Jake ? 
 
 " Once and again, as nobody knew this man, and as 
 Jake cannot be presumed to have known more of him 
 than did others, how could he have known that the un 
 known had this or any paper? or that he ever was
 
 310 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 alive, so that he could be murdered ai^where, at any 
 time, by anj'body? 
 
 " Your Honors, on the matter of this document, as it 
 was excluded, I ask you to say to the jury in your final 
 charge that it is not and cannot be an item of proof 
 that can in any wa}-, for any purpose, be considered by 
 the jury in forming any opinion upon any part of this 
 case. And I also ask pardon for asking this instruc 
 tion." 
 
 By the Court. " "We will hear the other side on that 
 proposition, if they think that they can combat your 
 claim." 
 
 Resuming, " It is the theory of the theoretical gen 
 tleman that Jake followed this man from Xauvoo. It 
 is not proven that this man ever was in Nauvoo, while 
 it was proven that Jake had not been there for years. 
 There was proof that this man, or some one who re 
 sembled him, was seen near Kirtland, and travelled 
 along, and entered the wood from the west, at about 
 dark ; but it is not proven that the man found was that 
 man, or that the horse found was the horse which he 
 rode ; nor yet that the dead man rode any horse ; nor 
 that he was not travelling west, instead of east. But 
 suppose he was the man, if he was followed, who 
 followed him ? ' Jake Green,' answers the eloquent 
 Mack, but Jake Green came from the North, and 
 could not have followed him. ' But it is the theory 
 of the State,' cries the gentleman, ' that several were 
 concerned in it, and, like the other assumings of the 
 same high authority, there is not a particle of proof to 
 sustain it. What became of the following man ? Jake 
 was not seen with him ; had no concert or connection
 
 FRED'S ARGUMENT. 311 
 
 with him ; did not know the man who died, nor where 
 he was, or would be. He had business, as was shown ; 
 was at Blair's, and left there while it was snowing. The 
 man was found on the bare ground, covered with snow, 
 with snow as deep over him as on an adjoining log ; 
 so that he must have been killed before the snow began 
 to fall, and Avheu Jake was five miles away, at the short 
 est distance ; and yet I am to argue that he did not 
 kill this man, who was thrown from his horse several 
 hours before Green, if he was driven forward by mur 
 derous malice, could by possibility have reached the 
 place. 
 
 "When at Blair's, he inquired his way ; and the roads 
 he travelled were pointed out to him, and he pursued 
 them. The elements prove this. The attesting snow 
 fell to receive and retain his track ; and it comes here 
 a witness from the hand of God, an angel white-robed 
 and pure, to declare that this charge is false and mon 
 strous." A murmur, almost a break out of applause, 
 followed these sentences. 
 
 " But we are told that Jake was somewhere that night, 
 and was doing something. It did not take half his time 
 to pass from Blair's to the turn in the road, and make 
 that turn where he did make it ; and you are asked to 
 imagine that he filled the spare hours with wandering 
 about that desolate and haunted wood, in the darkness 
 of the night, a goblin damned, hunting up and wringing 
 the necks of belated travellers, and galloping about stray 
 horses with an extemporized troop of weird wizards, for 
 the pure malice, the exquisite fun of the thing, and that, 
 having gorged his maw with murder, he attaches his 
 horse, eltin-like, to a root, a devil-snag from the world
 
 312 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 below, and resumed his man's shape and journe}-, after 
 having conjured down a snow to hide his victim and his 
 guilt, 
 
 "' Where was he?' demands the gentleman. Sure 
 enough, make the demand when you know that this 
 indictment makes him a mute. Oh, gentlemen, in this 
 rude wilderness world of uncharity and inhospitality 
 in our sparsely -populated forest country of straggling 
 settlements and intervening wood shall the belated, 
 benighted traveller, whom weariness overwhelms, or 
 sleep surprises, who sinks by the waj'side, or slumbers 
 under a tree, chilled, benumbed, and alone, while you, 
 whom God blesses with hearths and homes, and whom 
 He permits wives to love, and to whom He gives chil 
 dren to caress, lie secure in the circling arms of safety 
 and peace, shall the forlorn outcast be compelled to 
 account for eveiy moment of time so endured, at the 
 peril of being hanged for any accidental death that 
 ma}' occur within live miles of him?" These sentences 
 were delivered with intense warmth and force, and were 
 greeted with sobs from the ladies. The words " whom 
 he permits wives to love," was a wailing cry of a lonely 
 heart coming out of stornry night. 
 
 u Here I leave this case. I have invoked the law for 
 this man's protection. I have called time and space 
 and the elements, and all declare his innocence, which 
 your verdict will echo and record. 
 
 " Wonder and astonishment has been expressed that 
 of all men I am here as this man's advocate. This 
 man is my enemj', the son of my oldest and bitterest 
 enemy, you have been told. It is because he was my 
 enemy that I am here. This message, holy as from
 
 FRED'S ARGUMENT. 313 
 
 God, and mysterious, as if by inspiration came to me, 
 in my far-off' not home, I have none : ' Jake Green, 
 your old enemy, is in jail for murder ; he is without 
 money, without counsel, without friends.' Bless, a 
 thousand times, the angel who sent me that message. 
 I hope 3~et to kneel and kiss the hand that wrote it. 
 It was a summons from Heaven, the call of calls. 
 He was mine enemy, of all mortals having the strong 
 est claim upon me. And had his father murdered mine, 
 and broken the heart of my mother, and cast me to die 
 by the wayside, I would, as I did, have obe3^ed it. 
 Through the rifts of eighteen hundred years of time, I 
 heard the voice of the Beautiful One the peasant- 
 born, who walked the lovety valleys of far-off Galilee 
 commanding me to love this mine enemy. He was an 
 hungered, with none to feed ; naked, with none to 
 clothe ; sick, with none to minister ; in prison, and 
 none to visit him. And I came ; and I come to }'ou, 
 and lay him and his case in the sustaining hands and 
 charities of the law upon your consciences, my Coun- 
 tiymen, Gentlemen of the Jury." And he sat down. 
 
 Not a whisper save his voice, and the occasional 
 signs of applause mentioned, had broken the rapt 
 silence for the hour and a half he was speaking ; and 
 when he ceased a low murmur arose, grew louder and 
 louder, until the aroused court and sheriff united to 
 quell and hush it, and save the propriety of the place. 
 The above, extracted from the columns of a paper of 
 that day, gives most of the argument, with some of the 
 language cmplo3*ed, which is inserted at the hazard of 
 producing an erroneous impression as to the speech, as 
 a whole. Fred was then in the opening flush of his
 
 314 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 rare powers as a speaker, and just awakening to the 
 consciousness of strength, without knowing its extent, 
 than which, in this world, nothing is more intoxicating. 
 He was perfect master of himself, and spoke in a 
 presence and under circumstances calculated to call 
 out his best. He arose with his audience in his hand, 
 and carried it whither he would ; with his eyes never 
 from the jury, save when he addressed the court, he 
 seemed unconscious that another human being was 
 present. No attempt has been made to reproduce the 
 speech. It was a little marred by strokes of sarcasm, 
 but free from redundancy, with here and there a touch 
 of nature which was irresistible. 
 
 Fred closed at about five, and the court directed the 
 State to proceed with the reply. The original pro 
 gramme of that side was, that the prosecuting attorney 
 should open the case at the commencement, and that 
 Mack should open the argument, while Brown made 
 the final reply. For some reason this was abandoned, 
 and the prosecuting attorney undertook that rather 
 unpromising labor. It was the scattered pattering of 
 rain-drops, after the hurricane had swept the forest 
 and the bolts had fallen. As he went forward, many 
 went out. He became disconcerted, confused and in 
 effective. He finally fell back upon his written open 
 ing, un.der which he partly recovered, but closed before 
 the usual hour of adjourning, amid a thinning out, rest 
 less and weary audience. 
 
 The court held an evening session, when Judge New 
 ton, in a clear, luminous, and decisive charge, sub 
 stantially relieved the jury of the little labor which the 
 defence had left for them. The}' retired before eight,
 
 FRED'S ARGUMENT. 315 
 
 and returned after an absence of twenty minutes ; were 
 called and counted, and when inquired of as to their 
 verdict, shouted altogether, " Not Guilty ! " A move 
 ment of the vast audience, and then a round of 
 applause with clapping and cheers. Silence was re 
 stored, when the court ordered the prisoner to be dis 
 charged, and adjourned. While he still sat a moment, 
 bewildered, an aged woman, who had for a day or two 
 been observed about the court-house, and whom no 
 body knew, pushed through the noisy crowd, sprang to 
 Jake, and threw her arms about his neck. It was Aunt 
 Sally. 
 
 There was a general turning and movement towards 
 the trial-table where Fred had sat, to congratulate 
 him ; but in some mysterious way he had disappeared.
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 AUNT SALLY. 
 
 A LONE, moneyless, with her bundle, and a little 
 -j- bent with }*ears, but plenty of warmth in a heart 
 early withered, but refreshed, Aunt Sally, unable to 
 secure a passage down the river, turned from the chilly 
 Mississippi to face a winter journey across Illinois, 
 Indiana, and nearly the whole of Ohio, in the sole 
 hope of again seeing Fred, and for the one purpose of 
 aiding him, so far as she might, in penetrating the 
 mystery of his birth and history. As stated, she was 
 absent from her Noi'th Carolina home when the inci 
 dents of Fred's infanc}* occurred there, and it was only 
 at the death of her brother that she reached a clear 
 conception of the facts ; and then he managed to 
 escape out of the world, bearing with him the name of 
 Fred's father, the importance of which the shrewd 
 Sail}* quite appreciated, and which she hoped might be 
 in the knowledge of Sam Warden. She had no very 
 definite idea of the distance to be travelled, or of the 
 difficulties, privations, and long-continued, wearing 
 labor of the way. Fred was the one warmth, hope and 
 cheer of her life. How large, and strong, and hand 
 some he must be now ! She could not think of him 
 save as the tall, grave-faced, beautiful boy she had 
 (316)
 
 AUNT SALLY. 317 
 
 parted with now so many years ago ; and he must be a 
 man. She had once in a long while heard a word or 
 rumor of him, and he must be in Ohio, somewhere 
 about Mantua. Then she wondered what he would 
 say; wouldn't he be so glad to see her? He would 
 never forget her. Perhaps he was married. What an 
 idea, little Fred with a wife ! She did not at all 
 wonder that he had not come to see her. Of course, he 
 would never go near the saints ; they might murder 
 him. So she thought, and mused, and croned over and 
 over, in her lonely old heart, her old woman's dreams, 
 memories and visions of Fred. The roads were deep 
 and soft, and often long stretches of desolate, inter 
 minable, black, tenacious mud stretched over the 
 dreary, flat expanse of empty prairie which lay be 
 tween the remote farm-houses. Sometimes she went 
 astray ; some days she made not more than a mile or 
 two, and some, she was so weary, sick and sore, that 
 she could not move at all ; and one night she spent on 
 the lonely, blank prairie. She was often hungry, many 
 times drenched with rains, chilled and benumbed. 
 All along, at the farm-houses, she was kindly received, 
 warmed and fed, and cheered on her way. Men 
 wondered at her courage and hardihood ; women, who 
 understood it, honored her devotion, and wept over her 
 sufferings, and little children gazed at the wrinkled 
 face and gray hair, lit up with the large bright eyes, as 
 something weird and uncanny. So across the muddy, 
 spongy Illinois, into and across fair wooded Indiana, 
 and over the intervening parts of beautiful and culti 
 vated Ohio, the lonely old woman journeyed. Twice 
 she was detained by illness for two or three weeks,
 
 318 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 and once by lameness, that threatened to prevent her 
 journey. She traversed the southern sections of the 
 States, and reached Cincinnati before mid May. The 
 roads were now good and the weather fine, and hope 
 fully she set her face to the North. 
 
 At near nightfall, on one of the afternoons of an 
 early June da}*, Turner observed in front of his hotel 
 an old woman, tall and gaunt, gray and grim, soiled 
 and travel-stained, supporting herself on a long staff, 
 with thin and tattered garments, and an old, worn, quilted 
 hood, from which her long, gray elfin locks escaped in 
 tangled rope-like masses. She stood in front of his 
 house, looking about as if lost and bewildered. He 
 approached, and kindly accosted her. She started a 
 little at his voice, and looked sharply into his kindly 
 blue eyes. " Is this the Corners ? I otter know ; but 
 it's a long wile sin' I seen 'em." 
 
 " These are the Corners," replied Lewis. 
 
 "Are ye Lewis Turner? I tho't I knowd ye. I 
 allow ye've forgot me ? " turning full upon him. " I'm 
 her as was Sally Green in these parts." 
 
 " Sally Green ! Aunt Sally! I'm surprised. "Why 
 we thought you must be dead. Your brother's dead, 
 ain't he?" 
 
 " Yes, and I've come back all the way ter find Fred. 
 Ye knew Fred ? " 
 
 " I guess I did. Come in, Aunt Sally, and let me 
 care for you." 
 
 " I've got no money ; nary cent." 
 
 " That makes no difference," said the kind-hearted 
 landlord. 
 
 Washed cleanly, and decently clothed, Aunt Sally
 
 AUNT SALLY. 319 
 
 learned with astonishment that Jake was then on his 
 trial for murder, and that Fred was defending him. 
 
 " Wai ! wal ! wal ! that beats all nater ! Jake was 
 allus a 'ard case. I'm not much 'stonished at it ; but 
 Fred ! An' Fred's a Iaw3'er ! an' a tall, 'ansom man, I 
 know. Wal ! wal ! wal ! Poor Jake ! he was a purty 
 baby ; an' his mother, 'ad she a' lived " and a flood of 
 old time memories of the life among the mountains 
 came over her with a stir of tenderness for Jake, on 
 trial for his life, and thought to be guilt}', though the 
 Mantua people had a strong faith that Fred would 
 clear him. She found that it was thought strange that 
 he had undertaken the defence. She was also told 
 that Sam "Warden had just returned from Missouri, and 
 had been taken over to Canfield, and that many in 
 quiries had been made about her. Some parties from 
 Newton Falls or Warren had in some way been inter 
 ested in making inquiries among some of the Mantua 
 people about Fred and her brother, and about her, and 
 they wanted herT On consultation between Turner 
 and Uncle Bill, it was thought that Aunt Sally, who 
 had at once determined to go to Canfield, should be 
 sent over. Her fare was paid on the stage, and she 
 was furnished with money and a few necessaries, and 
 on the day after her arrival she was on her way to 
 Canfield. 
 
 She reached there the next morning, with a letter 
 from Turner to the landlord of the stage-house, who 
 found her a place with a poor woman, and as soon as 
 she received her breakfast, she hurried off to the 
 crowded court-house. Accustomed to crowds of men, 
 she pushed her way into the court-room, and caught a
 
 320 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 momentary glimpse of Fred, as he arose to say a word 
 to the court. Before he sat down, he turned an instant 
 fully towards her, and that was Fred ! How like a 
 beautiful angel he beamed upon her ! All the miseiy 
 of her weary winter journej 7 seemed a small price. 
 What a priceless boon to an aged and solitary ci'one is 
 a 3'oung man upon whom she can expend the hoarded 
 sweets of woman's measureless love for man moth 
 erly, sisterly, womanly a great stream mingled of 
 all, and pure in all ! 
 
 At the recess of the court Aunt Sally remained in 
 side, secured a more favorable position, and heard all 
 the argument. As the case was put together against 
 Jake, her attention was called to him, worn, pale, 
 sulky and cowering. He sat, enduring as he might, 
 and as she looked she pitied him solicary, friend 
 less, and poor, with her blood a child of her girlish 
 friend. She found that she still had a place in her 
 heart for him. . 
 
 When Fred arose, she knew that- all that could be 
 said would be urged, and she somehow felt that Jake 
 would be saved. Her long sojourn among the Mormon 
 leaders had familiarized her with the idea of courts and 
 lawyers. Vaguely it came to her, the relation of these 
 parties to each other. This Fred, the cheated and out 
 raged child, standing here and defending the son of 
 him who had so injured him for his life, and that son 
 his old malignant enemy ! 
 
 As if, in some dark way, John Green had foreseen 
 the strait to which his own child would be brought, and 
 had taken this infant, and by black charm and spell had 
 bound him to a strange way and life, so that he should
 
 AUNT SALLT. 321 
 
 finally serve Jake in his hour of need. She felt that 
 the over-ruling hand of God, or some nearly equal 
 power, that usually had its way, had shaped it all ; 
 that Jake would be saved, and the glory should be 
 Fred's ; and as something of this, shadowy and elfin- 
 like, passed darkly before her vision, Jake grew upon 
 her tenderness. How proud she was of Fred ! What 
 a glory that he should come here, and push other men 
 out of the way, and command and subdue men and 
 women, judges and lawyers, rooted in no home, and 
 standing on no hearth ! As she looked and listened, she 
 lost the meaning of his words ; the sound of his rich 
 and full voice became a heavenly melody to her, and 
 his face and form expanded and towered up, and were 
 transfigured. Thus wrapt and enchanted, she watched 
 and worshipped till he sat down, and the enchantment 
 was broken. She watched him, and placed herself 
 anear as he passed out ; but he did not turn toward 
 her, nor did she feel chilled that he did not. She knew 
 that he would turn to her, and perhaps let her kiss his 
 hand, when this was over, and she was content. She 
 went out and came in, and was there in her place and 
 waited ; she saw the light and glory pass out from 
 Fred's face, and knew that he was weary and worn, 
 and needed rest and comfort. Then more and more 
 Jake grew on her kindness ; and when the final words 
 of the jury were pronounced, and the whirlwind of , 
 applause swept through the court-room and subsided, 
 she pushed forward, but Fred had disappeared. She 
 got near Jake, and when, in the hush that came, the 
 court announced his freedom, she called him by name ; 
 21
 
 322 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 he turned and recognized her, burst into tears, and 
 was clasped in her arms. 
 
 After the disappearance of Fred, Jake was the prin 
 cipal object of interest, and the crowd and jury pressed 
 about him eagerly, congratulating him upon his ac 
 quittal, and becoming immediately interested in Aunt 
 Salty, whose sudden appearance upon the scene at this 
 final moment had the charm of old romance about it, 
 and invested her with much importance. She was 
 at first supposed to be his mother, but when it became 
 known that she was Aunt Salty, who had nursed and 
 cared for Fred, the interest became warm and general, 
 for in some way the outline of Fred's history had 
 become as well known in Canfield as in Mantua. Jake 
 and his aunt were attended by a numerous procession 
 to her humble quarters, after which the people pro 
 ceeded to Fred's hotel, to call him out and cheer him.
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 AFTER. 
 
 WERE it not often the cruelest, it would some 
 times be the funniest thing in the world, could 
 we see how blindly, and perhaps blissfully, men sport 
 with their own fortunes, or the elements of their own 
 fate ; gayly and wantonly toying with, picking up and 
 throwing down, running after and casting away as 
 bubbles or trifles the factors of fates, the clews to for 
 tunes, the keys to mysteries dearer to them than life. 
 
 Here was this youth, but a moment ago, holding in 
 his hand, refusing to open and read it, strenuously 
 struggling against its being read, arguing against and 
 invoking authority to prevent his hearing what "had 
 shaped his life and pointed its destinj-, and which 
 would, at once and forever, have dissipated the name 
 less shadow in which he grew up, have dissolved the 
 invisible but potent chain that had so hopelessly bound 
 him. Yet with what an air he cast the oracle down, 
 never so glad as when it went back to silence antl 
 darkness, and left him to gnaw at his chain in the old 
 shadow ! Like Polyphemus, strong, but blind, he re 
 pelled it all for the sake of a sordid wretch, whose 
 whole carcase, heart and soul thrown in, was not worth 
 the idlest wish his advocate had ever breathed. 
 (323)
 
 324 THE PORTRAIT: 
 
 He had spoken in a sort of mental exaltation, such 
 as usually accompanies the successful exercise of the 
 best powers of a fine speaker of fervid feelings ; quick 
 ened, as we have seen, by the inspiring presence of 
 Belle, yet ballasted with the weight and gravity of the 
 occasion ; not strong and indignant, as when on the 
 platform, but softened, elevated, exalted, with a little 
 touch of pathos running through his tone, that went at 
 once to the fountains of feeling and sympathy of his 
 hearers. 
 
 When he sat down, he dropped from the upper atmo 
 sphere again to earth, and when, in the flattering ele 
 ments of threatened applause, he ventured to look 
 again to the place filled by Belle, it was emptj' ; nor 
 could he catch a flutter of the vanishing drapery. He 
 avoided the press as much as he could, and came back 
 to the evening session anxious for nothing but the ter 
 mination of the case, the result of which no longer 
 remained doubtful. If it did not run into the night, he 
 had formed the purpose of leaving Canfield that evening, 
 and escaping from a presence that had so haunted him. 
 He took occasion, while the jury were out, to have a few 
 words with Jake, to whom he also gave nearly all the 
 small amount of money he had ; and when the verdict 
 was announced, after a word to his associate, he 
 escaped, during the tumult that followed, by a near 
 side-door, down a private stairway and out into the open 
 air, with heart and brain, mind and soul, body and 
 limbs crushed into a weary, broken mass, with the one 
 relief, escape. 
 
 It was a wondrous young summer night, with a full 
 moon struggling with low, running clouds, and a lively
 
 AFTER. 325 
 
 air moving and rustling the maturing foliage of the 
 numerous trees in little plash}- waves about him. He 
 hurried across a corner of the common to a narrow lane, 
 which led to a beautiful maple wood, whose green tops 
 had been beckoning to him ever since his arrival in the 
 village. He walked rapidly, almost running, until he 
 passed the straggling houses and cottages of the town, 
 and found himself on the soft turf under the massive 
 old trees, whose darkness promised a wood of some 
 extent. The strain that had been on him was suddenly 
 removed, and the burden which had weighted even 
 his sleeping hours had dropped from him ; he felt 
 the relieving sense of work done, a task achieved, 
 which is one of the rewards of labor. But as he fell 
 back from the height of his great struggle to his old 
 self, there were no sweet associations of tenderness and 
 love to,. strew and brighten his triumph, or cheer and 
 solace his weaiy spirit, or sustain an exhausted phys 
 ical frame. What mattered it, save to the miserable 
 Jake, of whom he could think of no commendatory 
 word to saj-, even in his defence, whether he had failed 
 or succeeded ? What eye would grow bright, and what 
 voice grow soft? And Belle the inscrutable, myste 
 rious Belle, who came to inspire and help pshaw ! not 
 to help him, at least, not for his sake, but only 
 for the sake of the cause it was his fortune to 
 advocate. But what under heavens was there in this 
 case, the fortunes or fate of this Jake, to interest her? 
 It must be something connected with her journey 
 to Nauvoo, and that journey might account for 
 her absence from Martha's wedding. 
 
 How cool and sweet the shadow of the wood was ;
 
 326 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 how glad he was to get away from the crowd, and how 
 restful to throw himself upon the ground and kick his 
 limbs out ! This Belle, of course she knew her 
 power over him ; perhaps it pleased her to exercise 
 it, and he hated and despised himself as a great feeble 
 mooing calf, that he had so abject!}' abased himself in 
 the dust at her feet, and without daring to raise 
 his eyes to hers, had only asked that he need not be 
 compelled to avoid her, if accident threw him into her 
 presence. And he mentally swore, out there on the 
 ground under the trees, that he never would go into 
 her presence again ; and he was glad that he had, 
 in the coldest way in the world, merely acknowledged 
 her presence when he last met her. He remembered 
 with pleasure that he had only stared at her once that 
 afternoon. Lord ! what a look he received from her ! 
 What an incorrigible fool he was an ass, a very 
 ass ; and he smote the ground with his heel in self 
 scorn. "What ears I must have " reaching out his 
 hands " and there arc other asses hear them bray," 
 as a shout like a cheer, and still another, reached him. 
 " Let them cheer, the damned fools ! Lord, how they 
 opened these same mouths to-day ! What a contempt 
 a man feels for men, when he has seen them bobbing 
 and ducking about him. What are the}' worth? and 
 to think that this race should think that the}' were of 
 consequence enough to have God come down out of 
 heaven for them, save them, as it is called, and 
 even He couldn't do it, so folks say. That was too 
 much for even omnipotence." There was a star, just 
 then, as the leaves flew aside. " Let me raise one of 
 my long ears and brush them out of the way, make
 
 AFTER. 327 
 
 them useful." Then he rose and followed the path 
 deeper into the wood, trying now to collect and ciys- 
 tallize his thoughts, and ashamed of his own weak 
 ness. But he had been too profoundly stirred to recover 
 himself, and finall}- the darkening sky, and rain patter 
 ing on the leaves, admonished him to make his waj^ back. 
 The crowd had dispersed, and most of the houses were 
 darkened when he reached' his hotel, which was still 
 open, but quiet, and he went at once to his room. 
 
 He found it lighted, with Aunt "Warren in it, anx 
 iously waiting his return. She was an elderly spinster, 
 almost criminally plain, whose unblessed, lonely life 
 had been spent in other peoples' houses, and for their 
 comfort and convenience. Not without character was 
 she, and full of womanly kindness. She was a sort of 
 cousin of the landlord, who gave her a home, and 
 received in return the labor, care and fidelity of three 
 or four servants. She had taken at once to Fred, and 
 had made his comforts and wants her special care. 
 The only fault she found with him was that he wanted 
 too little would not have much done for him was 
 not a man to be pampered and petted. So towards 
 the close of his nearly two weeks' staj 7 , they were very 
 old and good friends. She was immensely relieved 
 when he came in, but was struck with his worn and 
 jaded air. 
 
 " Oh, I'm so glad 3 r ou've come ! Nobody knew what 
 had become o' you. There's been everybody to inquire 
 after 3-011. The whole crowd came and called for j-ou, 
 and wanted you should make 'em a speech, and they 
 give ye three cheers." 
 
 " I heard the noise," with the utmost indifference ;
 
 328 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 and seating himself by an open window, he thrust his 
 feet and hands out into the falling rain. 
 
 " Oh, you mustn't ! " exclaimed the alarmed Warren, 
 " you'll ketch cold ; " and fussing about until she got 
 him to pull himself in, she closed the window. 
 
 "Do 3*ou know whether Jake Jake Green has 
 been here this evening ? " 
 
 "The man you cleared? Oh, he was here, and his 
 aunt with him." 
 
 "How? What ?" springing up ; "his aunt? Aunt 
 Sally ? " with vivacity. 
 
 "Yes; that was her name, an old, gray woman, 
 come all the wa}" from Nauvoo." 
 
 " When was she here? Where is she now? Oh, I 
 must see her now, at once ! " 
 
 " You can't to-night ; she's gone into the country 
 somewhere, she an' Jake. They came to see you, 
 and she asked everything about you ; said she hadn't 
 seen ye for mor'n twelve j-ear." 
 
 " It's strange ! " said Fred, sitting down wearily. 
 " Did they start back to Mantua ? " 
 
 " No ; somebody took 'em home with 'em. Jake 
 is a great lion. I wish you'd been here." 
 
 "I'm glad I wasn't, no, not glad, for I missed 
 Aunt Sally. Old Aunt Sail}*, then, is alive, and came 
 all the way a thousand miles to see me ! " with a 
 softened voice. " She must be quite old and poor. 
 Aunt Warren, she is the only thing on this earth who 
 ever loved me that was permitted to live, and it would 
 have killed her if she hadn't been old and tough," 
 sharply and bitterly. 
 
 "Don't say that, don't say that," brightly and
 
 AFTER. 329 
 
 gayly. " There is one of the sweetest and most beau 
 tiful 3'oung ladies in the world, who will give her eyes 
 for you in a minute." 
 
 "Oh, Aunt Warren" without the slightest light 
 ing up of his face " it's pleasant for you to banter 
 me ; but don't to-night." 
 
 "You'll see, you'll see ! an' so '11 everybody." 
 
 " Aunt, I shall go in the morning, and I shall be 
 reall}- sorry to part with you. Have you any friends, 
 relatives, or home, except this ? " 
 
 " No. I've alwa3's been nobody. My father an' 
 mother died before I can remember, and I had no 
 brothers or sisters, uncles or aunts. I never had no 
 chance in the world, and have alwa3'S lived and worked 
 for others." She said this uncomplainingly, but a little 
 sadly. 
 
 Fred felt a pang of self-reproach at his unmanly 
 repining. He, a healthy )-oung man, full of strength, 
 and, as he now knew, of power, to run on" in a fit of 
 spleen into the woods, and kick the ground in angry 
 discontent, and curse men ; and because after all 
 because a woman scorned him, while here was this 
 woman who had never known heart, home or love, and 
 yet was toiling on cheerfully. 
 
 " Aunt Warren, I'm weary of boarding in a hotel, 
 of having no home. I will scrape together a little 
 money and buy a little cottage, under some trees, and 
 buy a cow, and you and Aunt Sally shall live with me. 
 She is old, and shall milk the cow and feed the pigs, 
 and you shall keep the house, and we'll have a very 
 pleasant time of it." 
 
 " Yes, we will. Oh, if you'd seen and hearu what I
 
 330 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 did, you'd never think of any old aunt again. I wish 
 I knew what had happened," a pause ; " you didn't 
 eat any supper, let me bring you something." 
 
 "Not a thing." 
 
 "Not a glass of milk? " 
 
 " No, thank you." 
 
 "What will yo\\ have for breakfast?" 
 
 "Breakfast? Good Lord ! I sha'n't want any." 
 
 "Then go to bed. Have sweet, sweet dreams, and 
 get up and feel better. Good-night." 
 
 The mind of the young man was healthy ; only when it 
 was stirred up as it had recently been was it that he felt 
 to murmur, and now the thought of this faithful, patient 
 woman came in as the needed agent, that precipitated 
 the bitter and staining matter to the bottom. He sat 
 long by the window listening to the soothing plash of 
 the rain against the building, and raised the casement 
 to hear its patter and drip among the leaves ; then 
 removing his clothes, laid himself down under its 
 d row 53" influence. Wearied almost be}-ond endurance, 
 his benumbing memor} 7 could not retain the impres 
 sions of the liberated faculties, and oblivion finally 
 came. The last that he remembered, he was lying 
 under the trees on the grass, partly asleep, and was 
 aroused by a slight sensation about one ear, and turn 
 ing his head, saw Belle sitting near him with a clover 
 blossom in her hand, and blushing with arch innocence. 
 
 He awoke in the morning to find himself really 
 down on the hard, bruising facts of life, with nothing to 
 buoy him up, or relieve the aches and miseries of his 
 position. On trjdng to arise, he discovered that he 
 was weak and sore. His right arm was almost immov-
 
 AFTER. 331 
 
 able, stiffened by the force and energ}' of his gestures 
 of the day before. He had been unable to eat his 
 usual food, and had taken but little sustenance, and he 
 was languid and dizzy. He approached the windo\v, 
 to find the rain still falling, and when he turned with 
 in, everything was dark and hopeless. Like a gallant 
 bark, which, storm-tossed, had found shelter for the 
 night in a land-locked bay, and whose mariners in the 
 morning found while they slept the waters had sub 
 sided, and their ship lay broken and bruised upon the 
 impaling points of rocks. He was obliged to exert 
 himself, he dressed, and went down to breakfast. 
 The hotel was still crowded, and men and ladies came 
 admiringly about to congratulate him, and sj'inpathize 
 with his apparent illness. He answered ga}'!} 7 he knew 
 not what, and what he said was almost cheered. lie 
 tried to eat, and could not. He drank a glass of water, 
 and went back to his room to arrange for his departure. 
 He wanted to go by private carriage to Warren, where 
 he would take the stage. He made inquiries for Jake 
 and Salh 1 , and was told that they left the night before. 
 He thought he would get over to Mantua, where he 
 would find Aunt Sally ; would go over to the Carmans 
 and rest, and visit the Rapids, which somehow had 
 a fascinating interest for him. 
 
 It still rained, and as he went back to his room he 
 remembered that he had not more than ten dollars of 
 monej', not half enough to pa}- his bill, to say nothing 
 of hiring a carriage. Strange to sa}-, he had not yet 
 learned the value of money, and knew no mortal of 
 whom he could borrow a dollar. lie sat down in a 
 listless way, staring out into the still falling rain,
 
 332 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 without the power of being soothed by it, and worse 
 beaten than he ever remembered to have been. 
 
 How long he sat he did not know or care ; it was so 
 much of time to be gotten over. He was in a sort of 
 cold, aching stupor. At some time came a little knock, 
 and the patter of Aunt Warren's feet. She came 
 immediate^' up to him, and handed him an envelope, 
 addressed in a lady's hand, wholly unknown to him. 
 He took it listlessly, and looked at it with the utmost 
 indifference. 
 
 " Open it," said Aunt Warren. He did so, and read : 
 
 " DEAR FRED, 
 
 " Will you come to me at once? 
 
 " BELLE." 
 
 One moment of stupid surprise, when the light and 
 hope of heaven came into his heart and flashed through 
 his frame ; he sprang to his feet, and turned to Aunt 
 Warren with a great, eager interrogation in his eyes. 
 
 "There is a gentleman below wants to see oh, 
 I'm so glad ! " 
 
 Half dazed, and as if in a dream, Fred followed 
 Aunt Warren below, and was met by Mr. Marbuiy, 
 whom he remembered to have seen each day about the 
 court-house, and seemingly with Wansor, on the other 
 side of the case. He came forward with the most cor 
 dial warmth to Fred, and held out both his hands. 
 " Let me congratulate you, which I do with 1113* whole 
 heart and soul. I have a carriage here, and trust I 
 am to cany 3'ou to Mr. Morris's, where 3*our presence 
 will give the greatest pleasure, and a good deal more, 
 I think I ought to say ! "
 
 AFTER. 333 
 
 "Mr. Marbury, this unexpected kindness takes me 
 by surprise, and I have no pleasure in the world but to 
 go with you." 
 
 " My dear sir, surprises rule these days, and I trust 
 that none but pleasant ones await you." 
 
 Fred packed his valise punched things into it 
 found his bill paid, gave his last ten dollars to Aunt 
 Warren, entered the carriage, and was driven rapidly 
 towards Newton Falls. The clouds had broken, 
 laughing fields of glorious sky appeared 'mid the 
 clearing heavens, and looked down with, " Dear Fred, 
 will you come to me? Belle." " Dear Fred, will you 
 come to me?" sparkled in the sun; "will you come 
 to me?" glittered in the bright drops; "will you 
 come to me?" from the birds, the grass and the trees, 
 from everything and everywhere. 
 
 What was it, what could it could it mean ? 
 And for a moment the impossible seemed plausible and 
 probable. But his mind soon returned to its healthier 
 tone of the real and possible. Marbury was at first 
 disposed to be conversational. He soon found that the 
 young man, however brilliant as an orator, and logical 
 and eloquent as an advocate, was neither a happ} r con 
 versationalist, nor, although silent, a very brilliant 
 listener, as with a bright smile he treasured up some 
 of his wildest answers, possibly for Belle's delecta 
 tion. It seemed to him that whatever was his usual 
 frame of mind, that of a sparkling June morning, 
 after a rain, and the day after the close of an impor 
 tant trial, and while going to meet his possible lady 
 love, alone with another, a middle-aged man, he was 
 slightly preoccupied ; and he found abundant employ-
 
 334 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 ment in furtive glances at his companion's face, and 
 guessing at his probable thoughts. But we'll leave the 
 speculative Marbury the full monopoly of his gather 
 ings, and if he should happen to get off a noticeable 
 thing, we will give him the benefit of our circulation.
 
 CHAPTER XL IX. 
 
 THE PORTRAIT AGAIN. 
 
 OVER the Morris mansion, somehow, was an air of 
 rather anxious expectation. Belle arose quite 
 early. I'm sorry to say, that this had been the pre 
 vailing tone for some time. Her face had a sweet look 
 of exultation. She did not sit much, or stand at ease, 
 or busy herself with any particular thing ; nor did she 
 talk, or seem anxious for the society of others. But 
 something like being in readiness for some very unusual 
 and grave thing which was approaching ; something 
 that had been labored for, longed for, that might 
 have never happened, but which seemed certainly ap 
 proaching, the present was alread}' tremulous with its 
 vibrator}' nearness. She was not at all serene ; many 
 long breaths, not to say sighs, would come, and would 
 not bring relief; and once or twice she clasped her 
 hands as in deep mental prayer. It rained, and would 
 rain. She finally, very quietly, but decidedly, ordered 
 the carriage to move otf for Canfield, and pretty soon 
 wondered whether it had reached the hotel, and had 
 Fred received her note, and how did he look, and what 
 would he say, would he come ? " Dear Fred, will you 
 come?" " Dear Fred !" surely she might say that to 
 (335)'
 
 336 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 him. Didn't he deserve that? She had hesitated over 
 it that " dear" and now she thought of it without 
 a blush. Then she went to her marvellous room, half 
 drawing-room, half boudoir, and several other sweet 
 places all on the ground-floor, in a wing, among the 
 three rooms devoted to her use. There she changed 
 the position of a full-length portrait, with reference to 
 the light, and had a hurried conversation with Maud ; 
 and stepped to one of her inner rooms and talked with 
 some one, a lady the voice indicated there, and as 
 she came out, the voice said, " Don't fear me, I saw him 
 } T esterday, and neither fainted nor shrieked." Then 
 she went out and looked ; then the rain ceased and the 
 clouds parted and began to clear, and she looked again. 
 It grew toward noon ; something had happened, and 
 then over the rise of ground came the little fast-step 
 ping " post-boys," their bay coats steaming ; the top 
 of the carriage was thrown back, and two gentlemen 
 were on the cushions. They turned in at the gate and 
 swept around the circling drive to the front piazza ; the 
 world turned also, and more rapidly, and the next mo 
 ment the most charming, self-collected, perfect woman 
 of society stood cool and alone, as if to receive an or 
 dinary morning caller. She did not mean to meet him 
 as an ordinary morning caller, by any means ; and 
 when he sprang with his wondering face from the car 
 riage which drove off she stepped eagerly forward 
 and extended her hands to him. He took them, and 
 could not utter a word. 
 
 " I'm so'glad you've come ! " in the sweetest of little 
 voices. 
 
 " Oh, Belle, Mrs. Williams ! "
 
 THE PORTRAIT AGAIN. 337 
 
 " Belle, call me Belle ; all who love me call me 
 Belle," in the same sweet voice. 
 
 " Love you, I adore you ! I " 
 
 " Hush ! " in a lower voice. " You have already told 
 me that, and I believe it," with a wondrous sweet 
 suffusion on her face. " Let us speak of some other 
 things," and she led him forward along the veranda, 
 towards her domain. "You look thin and worn. I 
 hope you've not suffered, and you will rest now. Oh, 
 Fred ! do you know we were in raptures with you 
 yesterday ? " what a change in the subject ! Her arm 
 was in his, although she had withdrawn her hands after 
 the first pressure. " Dear Fred " was only a dear 
 friend, after all, as he knew the moment his thoughts 
 came back to him. " Let me invite you to my parlor. 
 I left Maud there a moment ago," and Maud left 
 it the moment after, as she was told to do. They 
 entered, and Belle motioned him to a seat which hap 
 pened to command, in an admirable light, the portrait 
 she had adjusted just before. 
 
 As- Fred paused, bewildered with everything, and 
 especiall}- bewildered with the supreme loveliness of 
 Belle, never so ethereally and spiritually beautiful as 
 now, he saw the portrait. His eyes dilated, amaze 
 ment came into his face. lie lifted his hands, recoiled, 
 as if from a blow, took a step forward, and stood 
 speechless ; for there, complete and perfect in form, face, 
 color, air, and feature, looking him mockingly in the 
 eye, was his exact image, his counterfeit very self, and 
 he thought it would speak. The color left his face, a 
 tremor shook his frame, and clasping his hands, with a 
 22
 
 338 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 low crushed out voice, " My God, my God, who is this, 
 Belle ? " with an imploring look. 
 
 She came to his side, and laid her hand on his arm. 
 
 " Dont you know ? Does not something tell }*ou who 
 this was ? " 
 
 " My father ! My father ! God in heaven ! My 
 father ! " and clasping his hands, he dropped on his 
 knees before it, while a great rush of feeling swept over 
 and through him. "I see here" with a voice grad 
 ually sinking to a whisper " the form and face of my 
 father." Sobs shook him convulsively ; and rising and 
 stepping nearer, he reverently bent his head and placed 
 his lips upon one of the hands ; then turning to the 
 sobbing girl at his side, " And he is dead?" 
 
 " He died in jour infancy." 
 
 A pause. 
 
 "Belle, Belle, I implore 3^011, can you tell me of 
 my mother ? can you show me her image ? " 
 
 " I can." She pushed open a door, and there walked 
 into the presence of the more amazed Fred the beau 
 tiful, but now fearfully agitated matron who had at 
 tended Belle in the court-room. Had a spirit risen at 
 the invocation of Belle, and assumed flesh and raiment, 
 Fred could not have been more amazed. "Are are 
 you my mother ? " 
 
 " I am your mother ! " with a look and voice of in- 
 tensest love. She wavered as she spoke, and was 
 caught in the blessed and blessing arms of her son. A 
 mother's form was never sustained by purer hands or 
 truer son. She did not faint, or lose consciousness. 
 She had the day before managed to see him at his hotel, 
 and had found self-control afterwards to hear his speech,
 
 THE PORTRAIT AGAIN. 339 
 
 and had been taken away without being entirely over 
 come. Now with a flood of tears, with which his as freely 
 mingled, she recovered herself. " Mother ! mother ! 
 my mother ! I have a mother, my beautiful mother ! 
 and I'm a happy little boy, with somebody so dear and 
 sacred to love, who will let me love her. Oh, my 
 mother ! and you thought I was dead and this my 
 father?" 
 
 " Ethfred," recovering, " I've heard what you've suf 
 fered. That was my husband, my " 
 
 " Don't, don't, mother ! you need not say that to me, 
 your son ; I know I know that must have been 
 ' Ethfred ' ! That is the name, and you are the mother 
 of my dreams in some far tropical land. How came 
 all this, Belle? Who made these discoveries? Who 
 brought my mother here, whose name I don't even 
 know?" 
 
 " She did ! " cried his mother ; " this precious, prec 
 ious Belle. No love and devotion can reward her." 
 
 " You Belle ? Is this work yours ? " 
 
 " Well," said the happy girl, dropping her head, and 
 in a low voice, "I had seen and and studied this 
 portrait a great many times I was a little taken 
 with it. Well, one day, over to dear Uncle Seth 
 Carman's, this portrait came through the little arbor, 
 and walked around into the house. Then I knew you 
 were his son. I had heard the story of your father's 
 death, and of your history, and I knew that that was a 
 mistake ; so I wrote letters, and did things," very 
 demurely. 
 
 ''You, your very self, you, Belle?" silence,
 
 340 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 " She herself, Belle, employed detectives, made a 
 long winter journe}' to North Carolina, and another to 
 Nauvoo ; she conducted it in person." 
 
 " Oh, Belle ! There is nothing in the world I can 
 offer that you will accept," sadly. A pause, and 
 sadder still, " You could not trust me with my own 
 secret ? " 
 
 " It might not be so. Are you unwilling to owe it 
 to me, Fred ? " reproachfully. 
 
 "Gladly, oh, gladly!" 
 
 " She did not let me know it until after I came. I 
 knew something was going on, for she sent to have me 
 come and bring this precious portrait. What an exact 
 likeness! How handsome he is, isn't he, Belle?" No 
 answer to this. 
 
 Then came a little knock, and Maud came in and 
 gave her congratulations. Then Mr. Morris, who 
 declared that he had alwaj-s liked Fred ;" then Marbur}' , 
 and then in one way and another, by littles, from each 
 of them, except from Belle, Fred came to know all 
 that is known to the reader. 
 
 He was ever returning, with the fondness of a lover, 
 to his newly-found mother, studying the form and 
 featui'es of his father, asking questions of his mother, 
 and looking at the now demure and shy Belle with a 
 wondering love ; and all the time the idea was repeat 
 ing itself: '* Dear Fred " is " dear friend," only that. 
 
 Curiously enough, in all the discussion among this 
 happy group, on that long June day, not a word save 
 that of his mother in any way escaped from any 
 one, that this discovery and restoration relieved Fred 
 fi'om the prejudice attendant upon his supposed birth.
 
 THE PORTRAIT AGAIN. 341 
 
 Indeed, in that party that matter never could have 
 arisen, even in thought, for none of them had ever 
 shared in it. 
 
 Belle suddenly asked Fred if he " had seen Aunt 
 Sally ? That was the most of a miracle after all, her 
 coming in, as in a story." 
 
 Fred had not. He understood that she and Jake 
 had left. " I will call her," said Belle, and Aunt Sally 
 came, fairly beaming with joy. Fred sprang to her, 
 and pressed her in his arms, when she was too happy 
 to speak. " And so, Aunt Sally, you came all the way 
 from Illinois to tell me what you knew of me, and to 
 love me, j'ou dear old auntie ! " 
 
 Then, turning to his mother : " Mother, she is the 
 only woman who has ever loved me all these years, 
 indeed, the only human being." 
 
 " Do you really think so, Fred?" asked Maud, with 
 a meaning glance at Belle ; " well, we are all going to 
 love you enough now, to make that all up." 
 
 " I've learned all your sad story from Aunt Sally," 
 said his mother, scarcely restraining her tears, " and I 
 know what a precious friend she has been to you, and 
 to me as well." 
 
 Then Sam "Warden and Jake came in. Jake tried 
 to thank Fred, and told him " he alms thought suthin' 
 was wrong about 'im, but never knowed wat." Sam 
 Warden came in for his say, and it was explained to 
 Fred how he came to be there. Marbury spoke of the 
 way that the Green confession was treated by Fred in 
 court, and that they never could get a sight of it, in 
 the hands of the prosecuting attorney, until at the
 
 842 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 close of the third day of the trial ; they had thought 
 that they must rely on Sam, the portrait, and Fred's 
 mother, for the last scene. Fred was asked if he would 
 like to see that document. 
 
 " Not just now ; when I am more myself. My 
 mother's story has not been told me yet. You all 
 know more of me than I do. I feel as awkward and 
 stupid as if I was just made. I'll find time for that 
 paper soon enough." 
 
 In answer to Marbury, Fred afterwards said that the 
 document was actually in the possession of the deceased 
 man, whose name he presumed was White, and who 
 was accompanied by Olney to Kirtland ; that White was 
 supposed to be an adherent of Rigdon's, who was said 
 to have established himself near Pittsburg, and he may 
 have been on his way there from Kirtland. This paper 
 was undoubtedly in the valise, which was said to have 
 been carried by the man, and probably, when the 
 horse ran back, as it must, with the saddle partly 
 under him, the valise opened, and this paper fell out, 
 as Jake solemnly declared that in walking along the 
 road his foot struck the package, and knocked it out 
 of the snow ; that he picked it up and carried it on, 
 and never knew what it was, fully, as he could not read 
 much ; he first examined it the evening after, and the 
 wrapper then bore appearances of the water-stains 
 made by the damp snow. Jake was following as fast 
 as he could a debtor of his father, in the hope of recov 
 ering a debt ; but no proof of this could be made at 
 the trial, and he thought that it would be dangerous 
 to attempt to give to the jury Jake's version of how he
 
 THE PORTRAIT AGAIN. 343 
 
 came by the papers. Some one, in passing along that 
 morning, had undoubtedly picked up the valise, but 
 dared not make it known, for fear of being implicated 
 in a supposed murder.
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 THE STOKY. 
 
 ~T1T7~HAT strange sensations, what a new atmos- 
 V V pherc sprang up within and about Fred ! Here 
 was a mother, his mother, this noble and handsome 
 woman, with her hair silvered, and the lines of suffer 
 ing drawn on her softened face. How lovely she was' 
 to him, ajid how natural and instinctive his love for 
 her ! There alwaj-s was a place for her in his heart, 
 and she stepped at once and full}- into it. " Mother 
 my mother ! " he was saying to her and to himself. 
 This father he could see, but then he could see him 
 self in him, and was not vain, and he wouldn't let his 
 notions run into form, much less expression ; but he 
 found himself with all the voices about him, wondering 
 what was the feeling of a man towards his father. 
 Father and mother, but who and what were the}' ? 
 Where did ihey come from ? When and where did they 
 meet? How new and strange it all was! Then the 
 cloud and shadow of his life were at once and forever 
 dispelled. Now he could love this peerless Belle, who 
 had done all this. The benefaction she had conferred 
 gave him the right to kneel and adore her. This, at 
 least, he could do, and he looked very much as if he 
 would do it literally. Curious and expectant eyes were 
 (344)
 
 THE STORY. . 345 
 
 on these two, Maud's, in triumph, with a shade of 
 anxiety ; the mother's, with love and certainty ; Belle's 
 father's, with gratified complacency ; while Marbury was 
 treasuring with suppressed enjoyment two or three 
 things which occurred on the homeward drive that 
 morning. The time for them would come, and he 
 could wait ; as for Belle, she went around, not yet 
 wholly at peace, though wonderful^ collected and com 
 posed, innocently avoiding everybody's eyes, especially 
 those of Fred. Thus happy, pleasant talk ran on until 
 somehow Fred and his mother found themselves with 
 Belle, alone, in her apartment. Then Fred's mother 
 told her story to the living son, whom she remembered 
 as tying amid the flowers, under the palms, surrounded 
 with fragrance and the loveliness of that tropical 
 clime, and who now sprang to her arms a grown man, 
 full of intellect and fervor, gentle and tender as when 
 she nursed him ; and it was not a dream. But all the 
 cruel past had arisen with him, fresh and torturing, 
 and she told the story with much agitation and many 
 tears. Some passages of it drove Fred almost mad ; 
 and once or twice Belle interposed to recall him to 
 himself. 
 
 This, in substance, was what she told : Her name 
 was Mary Sewall. Her father, in a right line, descended 
 from the old Sewall ; was born and educated near 
 Boston. She had one brother George, three or four 
 years her senior. Her parents died early, after which 
 she resided with an uncle and aunt, on her mother's 
 side. When George was sixteen or seventeen, he 
 entered the navy as a midshipman, and remained in the 
 service until his death, which occurred while he was
 
 346 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 abroad in 1830. A far-off cousin on her mother's side, 
 with whom she in a way grew up, early became her 
 lover, and when she was not more than fifteen, they 
 became engaged. He grew up idle and dependent 
 upon her uncle, and possibly the fact that she inher 
 ited a fortune had much to do with his pursuit of her. 
 It was understood that the marriage should not take 
 place until she was eighteen, the age when she would, 
 by her father's will, become mistress of a certain por 
 tion of her property. She did not know, at the time, 
 what were her feelings toward her lover ; . she only 
 knew that as she grew older, the idea of marriage with 
 him became unpleasant. But as the time was remote, 
 she did not trouble her mind much with it. Her cousin 
 became very irregular in his habits, and negligent of 
 attentions to herself. She, to a certain extent, repelled 
 him ; without ever form ally putting an end to her nom 
 inal engagement, she had determined that marriage 
 should never take place between them, and treated him 
 with distance and coldness. He was a favorite of her 
 aunt's, who did what she could to maintain harmony 
 between them. Her brother was expected home in the 
 autumn, when she would be seventeen, and she intended, 
 with his aid, to have the affair with her cousin ended. 
 Her brother had, during the summer, written to her 
 glowingly of a young South Carolinian, who had spent 
 the summer, much of it, on shipboard, as a guest of the 
 captain, while cruising in the Mediterranean. His 
 name was James D'Arlon, or Darlon, a descendant of 
 an old Huguenot emigrant, and the last of the line in 
 the United States. They came; and pointing to the 
 portrait Mrs. D'Arlon said, " That was painted two
 
 THE STORY. 347 
 
 years later ; yet, save that he was more youthful, you 
 see how he appeared to me." After a pause, "We 
 became lovers at once, you know what that means." 
 A pause. " My brother was almost in ecstacies over 
 this. We were young ; but there seemed no good 
 reason for delay, and the following spring we were 
 married " a pause. " No young girl loved more 
 fondly and devotedly, and no man was ever more 
 deserving. After marriage we went abroad ; my 
 brother to rejoin his ship, and your father and I to 
 travel, and visit the different cities in Europe, to love 
 each other. Oh, what days those were ! On the fif 
 teenth of May, 1819, at Florence, 3-011 were born." 
 Long sobbings, and Fred knelt at her feet, and laid his 
 head against her bosom. " Your father had an English 
 friend, who had died while they were travelling in Egj'pt, 
 and whose name was Ethwold Alfred Brainier ; it was 
 his wish that 3-011 should bear the names of his dead 
 friend in full. I consented to the two first ; 3*011 were 
 named Ethwold Alfred, and in a short time the two 
 were contracted to Ethfred, and finalty to Fred, which 
 3-011 still bear. Of all bestowed upon 3'ou by 3*our 
 father, this alone adhered to 3-011." 
 
 " That is the name Ethfred that I have dreamed 
 of, or remembered, and I must have remembered 3'ou. 
 And I now remember that Belle, the first night of our 
 meeting, told me of this name, Ethfred." 
 
 " And you remembered it, and I was certain that I 
 was right about 3-011," she answered. 
 
 Mrs. D'Arlon resumed her narrative: Her hus 
 band had an uncle on his mother's side, a rich Cuban 
 planter, who owned sugar and coffee estates on the
 
 348 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 island, and the winter before Fred was a year old they 
 spent with him, on his estate on the Canema River, 
 not far from Matanzas. In the spring the} 7 came 
 home, spending a few weeks among D'Arlon's relatives 
 at Charleston ; the summer and autumn the} T were in 
 Boston, and other places in the north. Her husband's 
 uncle dying suddenly in the autumn of that j'ear, 
 D'Arlon went at once to Cuba, followed, soon after, by 
 his wife and child. 
 
 As she approached this point, she became much 
 agitated, and then hurried forward. She went on to 
 say, " That the nominal engagement between herself 
 and her former suitor was not by express terms broken 
 off, that her brother did not deem it necessary, nor 
 did she acquaint her husband with it, that the man 
 had rapidly descended, until he was almost disreput 
 able ; was a gambler, at times an inebriate, and familiar 
 with all the worst vices. He followed her to Europe, 
 was constantly thrusting himself upon her, and in 
 unusual ways, and at times and under circumstances 
 that occasioned her embarrassment, and that might 
 attract the attention of others. 
 
 " Every where we went, sooner or later, he appeared. 
 At first, I did not understand his object. He soon 
 demanded mone}- of me, and as an inducement threat 
 ened to make known our former relations." 
 
 " Mother, how dared he so follow you?" 
 
 " Patience ! such a man dare do anj'thing. I several 
 times gave him considei-'able sums, which only gave 
 him a hold upon me. I was young and ignorant. I was 
 free from him in the United States. On my last visit 
 to Cuba, I found him on board the ship which took me
 
 THE STORY. 349 
 
 out, find in spite of his promise, he appeared at my 
 uncle's estate. Your father was never jealous " 
 
 "Jealous, mother? Good God ! " 
 
 " But the dishonorable course of this wretched man 
 must in some way, unknown to me, have excited his 
 suspicions." 
 
 " His suspicions, mother ! Of what ? " 
 
 " You shall hear. If I had had the courage to go 
 to him, and tell him the little that there was to tell. 
 In some way he found out that this man had sailed from 
 Boston in the same ship, and I knew it displeased him 
 very much. 
 
 " One day, late in March, I had taken you and your 
 nurse down an avenue of palms, and near a grove of 
 the native orange-trees, and had laid you down upon the 
 carpet of Bermuda grass, where }'ou were rolling and 
 throwing out your limbs, and calling me pet names, 
 when this man came down the avenue, much excited, 
 and said he must see me a moment, that he was 
 going out of the island forever. He looked much dis 
 tressed. Without a moment's thought, not knowing 
 what to do, I accompanied him a few steps among the 
 orange-trees, when, turning and seizing my hand, he 
 began in a vehement manner to address some incohe 
 rent words to me. At that instant my husband dashed 
 upon him like a tiger, and gave him a powerful thru 1, 
 which sent him several 3'ards from me ; when he recov 
 ered himself, he turned white with rage, and I saw a 
 pistol in his hand. I heard two reports, and nothing 
 more." Fred was almost in a frenzy. "When I came 
 to consciousness I was in my own room, with none but 
 my uncle's servants about me, none of whom spoke
 
 350 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 anything but Spanish, and I could understand but 
 little of that. By degrees the memory of the awful 
 occurrences came to my recollection, and I called for 
 my husband and child. Nobody answered me save by 
 shakes of the head. A physician from the city had 
 been sent for, and I had, it seems, been bled. In a 
 frenzy of fear I demanded to know if my husband 
 was hurt, and to my great relief I understood, by what 
 was said, that he was not. The administrator came 
 an Englishman and brought me an envelope, 
 addressed in my husband's hand, which I tore open. 
 In it was a folded letter from your father, and a small 
 slip, on which was written, in the hand of the wretch 
 who had pursued me, an appointment to meet him in 
 the orange grove, and at about the hour that my hus 
 band found us. I had not seen it before." A pause. 
 "Your father's letter you may see if you wish" 
 her face was pale, its muscles rigid, and lips tightly 
 drawn, while her eyes were cold and stony. " It ac 
 cused me of of oh, Fred ! " 
 
 "God of heaven, mother! Did this man dare" 
 leaping to the portrait with a menace. Belle sprang 
 before him. " Fred, he was your father ! " 
 
 " It went on to say that this wretch had openly 
 boasted of this in the city of Matanzas." 
 
 " Mother, does that wretch still live?" hissing out 
 the words. 
 
 " He died by the hand of your father." 
 
 " Thank God ! " with great fervor from Fred. 
 
 " Fred ! Fred ! for God's dear sake, spare him," 
 cried Belle to the mother ; " spare j'ourself these horri 
 ble details."
 
 THE STORY. 351 
 
 The almost moveless lips continued : "It said that 
 the amplest provision had been made for me, but that 
 I would never see him or our boy again." Each word 
 was pronounced by a distinct effort, and followed 03- a 
 pause. Fred had returned, and knelt by her side, with 
 his hands tenderly upon her waist. " And," going on 
 in the same way, " I never saw him again ; nor you, till 
 yesterday." These words came in hard, dry gasps, and 
 with the last she threw her arms upon the shoulders 
 of her son, and fell forward against him. 
 
 "Oh, Fred!" said Belle, going to them and laying 
 her cheek among his black curls, with a hand on either, 
 " I would have brought you joy and happiness and 
 hope ; and you have only anguish and horror and 
 pain." 
 
 " Bless you, Belle ! " said Fred. " She has had to 
 carry these awful burdens alone all her life ; while I, 
 poor wretch, have been unhappy because I've had no 
 griefs, after all." 
 
 " I have little more to say. I fell into a brain fever, 
 and was only returning back to life amid the heat and 
 vapor of the rainy season. I al\va}*s wondered why I 
 did not die, I know now. In October, I returned to 
 Charleston, only to learn that my husband and child 
 were both dead. The news again prostrated me ; and 
 it was not till December that, accompanied by one of 
 your father's friends, I went to the scene of the final 
 catastrophe. About a month before my arrival in 
 Charleston, he had started with a carriage, a servant, 
 and coachman, and taking you and 3*0111- nurse, to 
 make a journe3 r into Virginia. What his ultimate pur 
 pose was did not full3 T appear. He had converted
 
 352 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 nearly all of his effects out of Cuba into mone}', which 
 he carried with him, over an hundred and fifty thou 
 sand dollars. Your nurse was taken sick, and left on 
 the road, and while attempting to ford a swollen stream, 
 in the mountains of the Western part of North Car 
 olina, his coachman missed the ford, overturned the 
 carriage, and your father, with a fatal injury, received 
 probably from one of the horses, yourself and his ser 
 vant escaped. The horses were drowned ; and most 
 of his baggage, with the trunk that contained his 
 mone}' and papers, were swept awa} T , as was told me. 
 He died two days after " with the old, hard gasp 
 " of his injuries. In his last moments, a sense of his 
 fatal injustice to me seemed to have been permitted to 
 come to him, and I was told that his last words were a 
 message to me, imploring my pardon for his rash mis 
 take." Once again her head went down. 
 
 " Thank God for those words ! Oh, my poor, poor 
 mother ! " 
 
 " A day or two after, his servant, with some effects, 
 which he is supposed to have saved, disappeared, and 
 was never heard of ; and you, my precious child, was 
 left alone. Bibb Jarvis Bibb, who kept a kind of a 
 wild place near the ford, where your father was taken 
 and died placed you in the house of a poor man by 
 the name of Samuel Warren, where, within a few days, 
 you were said to have died also. You must read this 
 awful Bibb's confession for the actual facts. When I 
 reached Bibb, in December, all these matters were told 
 to me as I give them to you. With barely life and 
 strength to drag myself to the graves of my husband 
 and child, and without question of the truth of* what
 
 THE STORY. 353 
 
 was told me, I could, iu my short-sighted grief, only 
 kneel by them and ask to die. As soon as possible I 
 had their remains removed to Charleston, and interred 
 with his ancestors Thus, Fred, I have hurriedly given 
 you this hard skeleton of our wretched, wretched his 
 tory ; some time I will give you man}* details that I 
 feel myself incapable of now. Don't, don't think hardly 
 of your father. lie was one of the noblest and truest- 
 hearted men who ever lived ! " And she laid her head 
 upon his shoulder. 
 
 " My poor, dear mother! How impossible 'to con 
 sole you for these heart and soul stabs and losses ! 
 Only let me love and comfort you, as God will permit 
 me to now ; He permitted it to happen." 
 
 " God did finally send me surcease of pain and an 
 guish, and the hope of reunion in His heaven brought 
 endurance of life. Time benumbs the power to feel 
 sorrow, and God comforts as He will." 
 
 So, with many words of mutual comfort, and gentle, 
 assuring caresses, the strong, brave son took up the 
 burden of his mother's griefs, and bore it and her from 
 that moment onward. As the story ended, Belle left 
 them to their sacred communings. Ere long the}', too, 
 escaped into the glad sunshine, and amid the gush of 
 the outer life of the young, warm summer. 
 
 23
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 AS Fred went out, he took in his hand the Green 
 document, determined to master all the remain 
 ing facts of this tragic story, the substance of which he 
 supposed he already possessed. 
 
 In a quiet nook, he opened the paper, and recog 
 nized the hand of Cowdiy. Although purporting to 
 give the language of John Green, it was rendered in 
 tolerable English, and ran thus : 
 
 "Being moved by the spirit, and admonished by the 
 most holy Prophet of Almighty God, I, Jarvis Bibb, 
 called here John Green, and once known as William 
 Evans, to the end of promised pardon, and the peace 
 and comfort of the Holy Spirit, that passeth under 
 standing, make this my solemn confession : 
 
 " I was born about ten miles west of Linville, Birch 
 Count}', N.C. My father left to my sister Sally and 
 myself a place called Bibb's Tavern, sometimes known 
 as Bibb's Hole, and often called Bibb's Hell. To pre 
 vent my sister Sally's marrying, and thus to secure 
 the whole of this property to mj-self, I induced the 
 young man to whom she was engaged to believe that 
 she had criminal connections with 3*oung Phil Coney 
 and others, and did induce her to join in a sale of the 
 (354)
 
 THE CONFESSION. 355 
 
 property, and never paid her for her share until this 
 past j-ear. 
 
 " In the 3*ear 1821, about the twentieth of September, 
 there had been a freshet, so that Devil's Creek, which 
 ran near my house, was dangerous to pass. Just at 
 night of that day, James D'Arlon, of Charleston, S. C., 
 attempted to pass the ford, which he missed. The 
 carriage was overturned, the coachman and horses 
 drowned, and most of the baggage was swept away. 
 Mr. D'Arlon was badly hurt ; but owing partly to the 
 exertions of his servant Dick, and b}' mv help, he and 
 his little son, called Fred, were got out and taken to 
 my house, where, on the next day, he died of his hurts. 
 As God is my judge, I never thought of injuring him. 
 He talked a good deal of his wife, and said he had been 
 cruel to her, and left word for her to forgive him. The 
 boy Dick said that his master had a large sum of money, 
 in gold and bank-notes, in a small iron trunk, which 
 would, of course, sink. Just before Mr. D'Arlon died, 
 we found this trunk, and got it out. The trunk was 
 very heavy, and Dick said there was half a million of 
 dollars in it. ~My place is among the mountains, with 
 few living near it, and the devil entered into nvy wicked 
 heart to make way with the boy Dick, and keep the 
 money. It was a dark, rain}* night ; and having given 
 him something in his liquor, w r hen he was stupid and 
 asleep I strangled and carried him down just below 
 my house, and pitched him into the ' Devil's Hole,' in 
 the creek, and told that he had robbed his master, and 
 ]-:i n away. I got the key, and, on opening the trunk, I 
 found there the bank-notes, mostly on New York and 
 Boston banks, as I learned afterwards, had been rolled
 
 356 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 in oil-skin, and were not wet. I don't know how much, 
 there was I never could count it rightly more than 
 I ever saw before or since. When Mr. D'Arlon died, I 
 sent down to Linville, about fifteen miles, and got a 
 coffin and a notary and a preacher, and Mr. D'Arlon 
 was buried. The notary took an inventory of what he 
 had his watch and chain, and what money was in 
 his purse, and some papers paid my bills, and took 
 them Avith him to Linville. He also Avrote to a man in 
 Charleston to hunt up and tell Mr. D'Arlon's friends. 
 I never touched a thing but what was in the trunk, 
 which I hid. 
 
 " What to do with the boy, about two or three }*ears 
 old, I did not know. Sally was away all this time, 
 and I got Samuel Warren, a sort of a relative who Avas 
 at my place, to take him till his friends should come 
 for him. About ten days after that, Sam's child died, 
 and I then thought that this bo}' might pass as his, as 
 there was nobod} r that knew which child died ; accord 
 ingly it was given out that the boy had died also, as 
 was reasonable. I Avas afraid that if the boy grew up 
 among his father's friends, or with his mother, Avhen he 
 was old enough .something would happen, and he would 
 find eA'erthing out. So I paid Sain fifty dollars and 
 the run of drink, to take the boy as his own. When 
 the boy's mother came, Sam's wife went up into the 
 mountains to a place I knew, and took this bo}~ with 
 her. I told them all about it, and finally they had the 
 bodies removed. 
 
 " After this I did not feel safe ; I could not use the 
 money, and in the spring I sold the place, and Sally 
 signed the deed. I took Sam and his wife, and the
 
 THE CONFESSION. 357 
 
 boj*, and Sally, and went across the mountains, into 
 Tennessee, where I was known as William Evans. 
 Sally was my widowed sister, and kept her name. We 
 stayed there and cropped one season, and then moved 
 to Western Virginia, where I met a man from the West 
 ern Reserve, who owned land in the town of Mantua. 
 I found there was no communication between that re 
 gion and the South, and that no man from the South 
 ever moved on to the Reserve ; so I bought his land, and 
 took the deed in the name of John Green, my wife's 
 brother ; buying up a good many cattle and horses and 
 things, I moved here, and came in the spring of 1824. 
 Here I took the name of John Green, and Sally, my 
 sister, though called a widow, came to be known as 
 Sally Green. We brought the boy Fred, and I bought a 
 piece of land on the river in the woods, so that nobody 
 might ever see the boj T , for he was not like common 
 boys ; and Sam, whose name here was Warden, built a 
 log house and lived there. W r hcn his wife died, I had 
 him bind the boy to me, and when the fight came off, 
 and Jake killed his dog, I told the selectmen that, after 
 all, he was Sally's boy. She had suspected some 
 thing all the time, and alwaj-s declared that this was 
 not Betsey's, Sam's wife's child. We had an awful 
 quarrel, and to quiet her, I gave her a deed of the Jim 
 Frost farm, and five hundred dollars in gold. 
 
 " The older this bo} r grew, the more anxious I was to 
 keep him. Something has told me, that if he goes 
 away, he will hunt up harm to me. 
 
 " Sally don't know how it got out that the boy is hers, 
 and as she has taken such a liking to him, she seems 
 not to care about it. I never really thought of putting
 
 358 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 this boy out of the way, though I x did not know what 
 to do with him. I never murdered any man ; \ only 
 killed the nigger boy Dick. 
 
 " In the name of God, Amen. 
 
 " JOHN GREEN, his x mark. 
 
 " In presence of II. D. LADD. 
 " MANTUA, January, 1831 . Acknowledged, etc" 
 
 Fred had read in the law-books the digest of sin 
 gular and vulgar crimes, and the uninstructed rude 
 and simple details of them, in the naive confessions of 
 low-bred villains ; but for straightforward, hard, dry, 
 unrelieved, undressed narration of murder and robbery, 
 nothing that he had ever met in downright honesty of 
 statement equalled this. The grim naivete of the dec 
 laration, that he had never murdered a man, had only 
 killed a nigger, and chucked him into the " Devil's 
 Hole " of a dark night, was not wholly lost on Fred, 
 even now. And this was John Green's secret, and it 
 was by means of reaching his superstitious fears that 
 this paper was extorted ; this placed him with his 
 uncounted plunder in the hands of the Prophet ; made 
 him and his, the bound thrall of Jo Smith ; compelled 
 him to submit to an instantaneous sequestration of every 
 thing he claimed, and closed his mouth against outcry 
 or complaint. In the dark and mysterious courses of 
 permitted and punished crime, what surpassed this? 
 
 This was his story. The child of these beautiful, 
 loving, and unfortunate parents, born in Florence, 
 snatched by his father from his mother, and hur 
 ried off on a mysterous journej*, and substituted for 
 another, and hid from his mother in the mountains ; his
 
 THE CONFESSION. 359 
 
 pilgrimage through Tennessee and Virginia, and strange 
 wild life in the Ohio woods ; twice bound, and always 
 kept under the eye and shadow of this murderer ; his 
 life warped and darkened by him in his unsleeping 
 fear ; led by Green on a circuitous, obscure road, 
 running through all the slow-moving years of infancy, 
 boyhood, and early youth, until, when he had matured 
 into the image of his father, he was thus brought 
 under eyes that recognized him at a glance, and that 
 penetrated the hidings and frauds of these fears and arti 
 fices, in a moment. How shallow and futile the strat 
 agems of the most cunning crimina^alwaj'S are, always 
 leaving a clew dangling in the eyes and within the 
 reach of the hands of men, could they only see it. How 
 strange and mj'sterions the \\ay in which this document 
 came to his hand, to finally tell the story, thrust upon 
 him, while he was defending the son of this man ! 
 Nay, that son was the messenger who bore it to him ! 
 His mind, trained to acuteness, could rapidly run over 
 and through the links ; yet the why and wherefore was 
 as inscrutable to him as to the thrush that piped the day 
 through from the forest thicket, not remote. And how 
 darkly he had been closed in and circled about by the 
 lines of all these tragic years ! Suffering, and helping 
 to pay the penalty of his innocent mother's ignorance, 
 and of his maddened father's rashness. He was at the 
 end of it now, and how diminutive seemed Jake, and 
 his petty trial and final acquittal. He, too, was caught 
 and nearly crushed in the recoil of the acts of his father, 
 committed in his infancy. And on his trial the bare 
 possession of this writing might have been fatal to him,
 
 360 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 could the fact have been established, tha't it was in the 
 possession of "the dead man. But how far otf now in 
 remote perspective lay the trial which had but just 
 closed, clear away at the other end of the dark history, 
 so suddenly unrolled between it and the triumphant 
 advocate. 
 
 In the midst and through the mist of it all, and up 
 over it all, floated the form of Belle. Her eye had 
 detected the likeness ; her hand had clutched the, to 
 others, unseen clew, which, with her undreamed of 
 energies, she followed up. True, the slow-growing 
 fruits were ripening in their bitterness, and a catas 
 trophe of some kind would have precipitated itself. 
 Green's confession was on its mysterious wa} r East ; 
 its messenger was to be slain ; the paper was to fall into 
 Jake's hands ; had it fallen into any others, or lain on 
 the ground, no trial for murder would ever been had. 
 But it was Belle, as he had learned, who had dictated 
 to him the message that put him in connection with 
 the case. To him, how wonderful it all seemed. And 
 it was wonderful. 
 
 And did none or all of these things presage that the 
 history of Belle and his own were finally to unite in 
 one sweet story of old time romance? Thus he mused 
 and wandered in the shrubbeiy, midst opening roses in 
 the declining afternoon. Others were coming and 
 going in the walks, and the eyes of two were specially 
 on him his proud and almost happy mother who 
 was not remote, and shy and innocent Belle, who 
 was remote, and who yet, curiously enough, did not 
 long have him out of the range of her downcast eyes.
 
 THE CONFESSION. 361 
 
 Soon came the call for dinner, when Fred and his 
 mother met, and lie took her arm, and as they walked 
 touard the house, somehow Belle was standing in 
 their course, and took her other arm, and the three 
 found Maud and her father and husband awaiting 
 them.
 
 CHAPTER LIT. 
 
 THE LOVERS. 
 
 IT would have been curious to an observer the 
 jtacit concert of those who gathered around the 
 dinner-table by which no reference was made to any 
 of the late exciting events, or the incidents of the 
 tragic history, which all knew was now common prop 
 erty. Maud, in her graceful and ripened beauty, pre 
 sided at the head, while the manty face of her husband, 
 rich with the play of genial humor, looked back to her 
 from the other end of the table. Fred, with his mother 
 on one side, and Belle and her father on the other, 
 with the beautiful children, one ~by the mother and the 
 other by the father, made up the part}'. Mr. Morris, 
 in his soft, low voice, said a short grace. No one 
 was much inclined to conversation. Mrs. D'Arlon had 
 recovered her wonted serenity, and peace was in her 
 eyes. Fred's face was grave and thoughtful, with an 
 occasional lifting of his eyes to the demure face of 
 Belle, opposite him, who did not meet them at all, as 
 the observant Maud noticed, from which she augured 
 favorably. She thought that this matter would be left to 
 the silent workings of Belle's own heart and soul, with 
 Fred standing by in reverent silence. That was, of 
 course, all very high, and sacred, and sublimated. 
 (3.62)
 
 THE LOVERS. 363 
 
 She doubted if she could quite appreciate it ; and as 
 she met the frank, loving glance of her husband, with 
 their beautiful children in her eyes, she realized that 
 husband and children were preferable to mere soul- 
 love above the clouds. As she looked at the kindling 
 face of Fred, she doubted whether ambrosia and nectar 
 would always sustain him, and whether he would not 
 at some time dash his arms impetuously about Belle's 
 waist, and assert the rights of his man's love. She was 
 much inclined to rel}- on these reserved forces if need 
 be. Yet on the whole she doubted whether they would 
 ever be called into action. Her sister had so suddenly 
 developed the strong and deep qualities of her real 
 nature, that she had become inscrutable to Maud ; yet 
 she fancied that, like many a maiden wondering over 
 the opening secrets of her own heart and its needs, she 
 was even now trembling with running over its hoarded 
 sweets and wealths, and that it would ere long make its 
 voice heard on Belle's mooted question. Much as a 
 fond mother who is intensely interested in the varying 
 phenomena of a daughter the worshipped of a true and 
 noble man, toward whom every element of her nature 
 was drawn, watches her every movement in a charmed 
 atmosphere, colored with his presence, she closely ob 
 served her sister. As the afternoon lapsed into twi 
 light, and the softened breeze in dying whispers was 
 taking tender leave of the closing flowers, and the full 
 moon was shooting its silvery darts aslant under the 
 trees, she missed the forms of both. They were not on 
 an}' of the verandahs, nor in the parlors, or library 
 not in Belle's boudoir and she thought that she had 
 once caught the gleam of a white dress in the famous
 
 364 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 grape arbor, a little remote, and which terminated one 
 of the walks. As the twilight deepened, and the night 
 aii- grew damp and chill, she remembered Belle's light- 
 robed shoulders, and knew she would not come in 
 that girls were never known to and taking a light, 
 warm wrap, she went toward the arbor, along the 
 gravelled walk. Like the considerate Mrs. Nickleb}-, 
 she signalled her approach, and looked away from the 
 arbor. As she stood in the leaf-surrounded entrance 
 with the proffered wrap, Fred arose from a low seat at 
 Belle's feet, came forward, and took the shawl with a 
 low " thanks.," and she turned awa} r . 
 
 Not all the possible nameless details that ma}~ have 
 hovered in the atmosphere of Maud's fane}' perhaps 
 none of them had marked the interview. Fred had 
 fallen on his knees on the low seat at Belle's feet as 
 she sat down, and in a very compelling way she bade 
 him assume a more ordinary, if, under the circum 
 stances, a less lover-like attitude. But his impetuous, 
 heartful and soulful voice would not at first be quenched. 
 " Oh, Belle ! my heart and soul will speak ; will be 
 heard not in little paper parcels but at your feet I 
 will say, that with every power of heart, soul, and 
 brain, with every emotion and fibre of my being, I 
 love you ; not with a love that would command or 
 compel ; not a love that will implore or supplicate, 
 but a map's love, to reverence and worship ; a love 
 that you may smite and^ reject, if you will, and it will 
 not murmur." Once, as he spoke, she extended her 
 hand, and then snatched it from him. In the alread3 r 
 twilight arbor, he could not see her face, but her form 
 shook as if with a suppressed emotion. She remove^
 
 THE LOVERS. 365 
 
 her hand from her face, " Fred, Fred ! " in a deep, 
 earnest voice, " I am a woman ; I cannot bear to 
 have you think that I am less than a woman ; a woman 
 to be loved ; a woman to be glorified and crowned with 
 with such love as yours ; one who would above earth 
 gladty give back all she is and has ! " a pause, and 
 lower and deeper. " Listen ! I am a wife now." 
 
 " A wife ! You a wife ! " starting up in amazement, 
 almost in horror. "How? I don't understand. I 
 thought j^our boy-husband died years ago. Is there ? 
 can there ?" 
 
 " There cannot be ; there is no other. Oh, no other, 
 Fred ! " 
 
 "Did not his death dissolve this marriage? Are 
 you still bound to a phantom a shade a memory ? " 
 with astonishment in his voice. 
 
 " Were I free as you are free, to give you myself, as 
 I would give ; and should it please God to separate us 
 for a little, would you, in my absence, woo, love, win, 
 and wed another ? " 
 
 " Oh, Belle ! how you torture me. In my heart and 
 soul I reverence' a true marriage as eternal." 
 
 "Would 3*ou take another's wife in adultery?" 
 
 He dropped his face and groaned. " It was not so 
 much to hear you, or to argue this matter with you, 
 that I came with you here, as to tell you my own little 
 story." Then without hesitation, in her unconscious 
 innocence, she told him the story of her married life. 
 And if there was ever lover worthy of such a confidence, 
 it was he who reverently listened to her on that June 
 night. When she finished, a silence ensued, and it 
 was during this silence that the thoughtful Maud
 
 366 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 brought the needed wrap. As Fred received, he laid 
 it with a tender reverence about her shoulders, and 
 still remained standing, as if she would terminate the 
 interview then. She evinced no such purpose, and 
 Fred resumed his seat. 
 
 " Fred," speaking again, " this has been the subject 
 of thought and prayer and of some conversation with 
 Maud ; and I say frankly, that lately, when I've tried 
 in my own soul to meet it, I am in doubt. I think I 
 can see where my duty lies, but I don't feel it so 
 strongly "with a sweet sincerity "and, Fred, 
 knowing this " 
 
 " Belle, Belle, don't let me be tempted to assail, to 
 throw my arms of passion about the soul's wings-, 
 when it would arise white and spotless to God's throne 
 for light. God, with your soul, must decide this ! " with 
 a sad earnestness. 
 
 With a wonderful sweetness and trust, she now placed 
 her hand in his. " Oh, my soul's lover and brother, 
 now indeed can I trust you ! Do you not feel it possi 
 ble, that out of the atmosphere of earth and above its 
 clouds and gross perfumes, souls may meet and com 
 mune? " 
 
 "Belle, I distrust this. The most elevated and 
 exalted soul is only strong as its temple is pure and 
 sacred. For one, I dare not hope that such a union 
 can ever become purified and sublimated, and beside, 
 is not your marriage one of soul and spirit, purely ! 
 and will your wedded spirit admit another to commun 
 ion with it ? " Was there a little of sarcasm in this ? or 
 was it the recoil the revolt of the instinctive man 
 from the only hope she proffered ?
 
 THE LOVERS. 3G7 
 
 " Fred," a little coldly, " there can be but one mar 
 riage of soul as of body. The chaste and pure may 
 have friendships, may they not ? " 
 
 " Friendships ! friendships ! and friendships of the 
 soul ! What empt} r , meaningless words ! I am but a 
 man, and never less a man than now ; " with a sad 
 bitterness. 
 
 " Fred," solemnly, " would you wed with me, take 
 me as 3"our wife, if I, consenting, should still see this 
 other tie bying between us? " 
 
 " Belle, though I would compass earth and compel 
 all its impossibilities to reach you, }'et yon must come 
 to me without the shadow of doubt or distrust, with 
 your whole self." 
 
 She extended to him her other hand, and they arose, 
 passed out under the moon, and without another word 
 returned to the house, and, at the door of Belle's apart 
 ments, they silently took leave of each other for the 
 night.
 
 CHAPTER LIII. 
 
 BELLE SENDS ANOTHER MESSAGE. 
 
 ~T~ ATER, Belle emerged from the charmed mys- 
 * teries of her sleeping-room, with hair looped up 
 in beautiful hanging festoons, with light rippling 
 through its wavelets, in a simple robe of white, that just 
 gave freedom and air to the shoulders, and fastened in 
 front, so as to permit a little auroral white to radiate 
 up through its openings. Lighth' her graceful folding 
 robe of white silent stuff, gathered about her waist, 
 uuder the easy restraint of woven silk cords tied at the 
 left side ; and as she came forward and reclined upon 
 a spacious sofa-like lounge, with rich silken cushions, 
 the snowy slipper which stole so innocently and uncon- 
 ciousty into the light, betra}:ed that it alone covered, 
 without hiding, a foot that had but one peer in the 
 world. Her face was never so serenely lovely as now ; 
 not the warm sensuous loveliness of a promised bride, 
 half conscious that sense united to form its glow ; but 
 the celestial and serene loveliness of the affianced of 
 Heaven, in which the vague and far-off emotion of 
 earth was still present, but purified until it took the 
 color and hue of heaven. 
 
 The face was grave, too, almost to solemnity, for she 
 felt that the hour of final ordeal had come. She had 
 (368)
 
 BELLE SENDS ANOTHER MESSAGE. 369 
 
 shrunk from this love that had so enfolded her, and 
 would not let her escape, and in which she could hardly 
 have breathed had she not compelled it to color and shape 
 itself in the grasp of her high ideal. She had shrunk 
 from herself, would not be with herself, would not know 
 herself, and as constantly rushed out of and away from 
 herself; now for this day she had been compelled to 
 reoccup}' her inner self. , And Fred, she was not now 
 compelled to avoid him. He had been the one subject 
 of thought, action and being ; but it was in the decep 
 tive character of an object to help, toil, scheme, and 
 plan for, not in the guise of a lover, who was some 
 time to know and reward with a life of devotion. Now 
 this delusion had vanished, and he was before her with 
 his great unselfish love, tested by her two or three 
 questions, and she knew that it could be trusted. All 
 the time, the two or three cries of anguish which had 
 escaped him in his moments of heat in his speech for 
 Jake, were haunting her memory. Now she must an 
 swer to herself, to the memory of Edward, to her soul, 
 and to God, and that she might answer the final ques 
 tion to Fred. 
 
 So, alone in the cold, white, colorless chamber of her 
 tmdraped, ungarnished soul, she knelt, not to argue, not 
 to question, not to yearn, or implore, or supplicate, 
 but by the mighty power of silent, undoubting, unhes 
 itating faith, to draw herself into the serene presence of 
 her highest conception of God, and lay herself hopefully 
 and confidingly at His feet, in silent, receptive com 
 munion. A sweet and blessed peace seemed to steal 
 upon and pervade her heart, and to her closed eyes 
 appeared to come a pure, colorless light, gradually in- 
 24 
 

 
 370 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 creasing until the apartment was luminous with it. 
 Radiating from no centre, it cast no shadows, but grew 
 brighter and more effulgent until every surface was 
 tremulous with its undazzling brillancy. Then slowly 
 it receded and faded out, and the white rays of the 
 moon fell through the uncurtained window, visible in 
 the dim light of the lamp, and the rustle of the silken 
 curtain answered back to the whispering zephyr. 
 
 Had she slept, had she dreamed? What mattered 
 it? Light and rest had certainly come in that hour, 
 and drawing a covering over her, she passed from wak 
 ing to sleeping consciousness. 
 
 Fred, though blessed, and for him happy, like most 
 mortals, found great incompleteness something want 
 ing, and that something was, after all, the only thing 
 in the world. He had Belle's love, he knew that 
 he wanted her. He had never really hoped for her 
 love. He knew he had it now, and this knowledge 
 brought a great, but at best a pained exaltation. Now 
 he understood it all. She had loved him ; her love had 
 inspired her, in the great labor, and with a great sagac 
 ity, to catch at clews, and follow them through lab 
 yrinths with confidence, where others could not see, and 
 followed in blind distrust and uncertainty. And after 
 all, was she not too beautiful and good, too high and 
 sacred, for any man's wife ? So he could but canonize 
 her, and surround her with a halo of saintship, and set 
 her apart for worship. But it brought no peace, did in 
 no way meet a great want. She would not change. 
 She had set herself apart, and would remain conse 
 crated, and it was not for him to throw his earthy 
 shadow over the stainlessness of her soul.
 
 BELLE SENDS ANOTHER MESSAGE. 371 
 
 The awful strain which for man}- days had been upon 
 his strength and energies, in actual and long labor, and 
 the fearful excitement that involved the deepest and 
 strongest emotions of his heart during the da}-, and 
 for many days, had at last completely exhausted him ; 
 and he was soon overwhelmed in profound and dream 
 less sleep, which differed from death on!}', in the vague, 
 far-off', feeble consciousness of continuing life. When 
 he awoke, he awoke from a deep sleep, almost as 
 profound as that from which it is said the dead may 
 finally spring. It was well in the morning as he 
 arose, with all the recent events throbbing back upon 
 him. Belle was the first, and then his mother, and 
 these brought all the rest back. He was a little lan 
 guid and a little sore, and found that his eyelids looked 
 heavy, as if oversteeped with sleep. He dressed him 
 self slowly, and stepped out. Just outside stood a 
 young girl, a maid of Belle's, who approached him with 
 a blush and courtesy : 
 
 " Please, sir Miss Belle said will you come to her, 
 please ? " 
 
 " Certainly ; " and by a way new to him, he was con 
 ducted down and through a passage to the door of her 
 boudoir, which was slightly ajar. His attendant pushed 
 it open, and he entered. Belle, without raising her 
 eyes to his, met him and held out both her hands, with 
 a conscious flush deepening on lip and cheek. Won 
 dering, he took her hands, which were not quite steady, 
 and in his confusion he stooped and kissed them, and 
 as the}- were not withdrawn, he lifted his face towards 
 hers ; -there were her rich red lips, very near, and to 
 these he placed his own ; one arm clasped that little,
 
 872 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 j'ielding waist, as a lover clasps ; and their warm, glad, 
 happy tears united and fell. A moment, "Belle 
 this means love and hope and life ? " in breathless 
 ecstacy. 
 
 "Love and hope and life, Fred !" just raising her 
 eyes and dropping them again. 
 
 "And wifehood, and all it means?" eagerly. 
 
 " And wifehood, and all it means," with sweet firm 
 ness. 
 
 " Freely ? " a little anxiously. 
 
 " Freely, and oh, so gladly ! " 
 
 And they knelt together, and united in blessed 
 thanks, that brought new blessings. 
 
 In the capacious librar} 7 adjoining the breakfast- 
 room were assembled the other members of the party, 
 awaiting the arrival of our principal personages. The 
 mother had not seen the newly-found son that morning, 
 nor had Mr. Morris seen Belle ; yet if one might judge 
 by the countenance, Maud was more anxious for their 
 appearance than any of the part}'. So intensely and 
 so hopefully had she sympathized with Belle's love for 
 Fred, and quite as much with him, and so little had 
 she appreciated what appeared to her as the shadowiest 
 of shadows, which Belle permitted to interpose between 
 her and Fred, that she was impatient for the conclu 
 sion which to her clear-seeing and practical mind was 
 at some time soon, inevitable. The grape-arbor inter 
 view she highly approved of; but she had observed 
 that they returned from it early, and she had seen 
 nothing of either since. After all, was this son of a 
 fiery Southern, with his French blood, to prove a sort 
 of a ' Miss Nancy in love ' ? or had he, too, been
 
 BELLE SENDS ANOTHER MESSAGE. 373 
 
 infected with some of Belle's ecstatic notions of shad 
 owy marriages in heaven ? She thought that he would 
 be veiy likely to have healthy views, and on the whole 
 she was hopeful. Then the door was pushed open, and 
 Belle and Fred entered and paused a moment, beautiful 
 in the light and glow of their perfect happiness. 
 
 " Oh, Belle ! Belle ! " exclaimed the excited and now 
 satisfied Maud, springing forward, and throwing her 
 arms about her sister's neck. " Oh, I am so glad ! " 
 In a moment it flashed upon the rest ; and father and 
 mother, with tears and happy words, embraced, blessed, 
 and congratulated the lovers, while Marbury, who had a 
 profound admiration for Fred's talent, and who had a 
 real liking for him, assured him, with tears in his eyes, 
 that this alone was needed to complete the happiest 
 circle. 
 
 A moment after, Maud, who had disappeared from 
 the room, returned with a small morocco case in her 
 hand, and going to Fred, she said : " I never was so 
 near having a brother before ; let me contribute some 
 thing to make this new relation seem more real. I 
 knew this would happen, and so I provided for this 
 blessed hour ! " She opened the case, and, producing 
 a beautiful solitaire, Fred took the ring, mid the silence 
 of the approving throng, and placed it upon the finger 
 of the blushing Belle ; then raising the jewelled hand, 
 pressed it to his lips, leaving tears upon it. Then, with 
 joined hands, the two received the blessjngs of the father 
 and mother. 
 
 The housekeeper, who had taken special care of Aunt 
 Sally, brought that personage forward, who had already 
 learned what Belle had done for her favorite, and she
 
 374 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 stood now a little abashed in presence of Fred's mother 
 and Belle and Maud, glad beyond expression at his 
 wonderful restoration, yet sad, as she felt that he 
 would now be shut away from her forever. As she en 
 tered and paused, Fred seemed to comprehend what 
 was passing in her mind, and going forward to her, 
 took her hands, and cried : " No, no, Aunt Sally ! You 
 are always to live with me, and be my Aunt Sail}-." 
 
 " With us ! " cried Belle, coming up and kissing her ; 
 " and be our Aunt Sally. Next to his mother, you have 
 the oldest claim upon him, and we will make you blessed 
 and happy ! " When Fred's mother joined in this as 
 surance, the old woman seemed supremely blessed. 
 
 Sam Warden and Jake, who were discovered at the 
 door, were brought in, Fred saying, pleasantly, " that 
 as Sam was a sort of foster-father, and had always been 
 kind to him, he thought he, too, had a right to know 
 of the marvellous good fortune that had finally overtaken 
 him." It lost him not a bit in the love of Belle, that in 
 this moment he should recall even the little that he 
 owed to Sam. Jake, who would have been embarrassed 
 by the presence in which he found himself, had also the 
 grace to feel the position he occupied towards Fred, 
 whom he had met but once since they parted,- the night 
 of his acquittal. He stood hesitating and crying. As 
 Fred approached him, his face grew first sad, as the 
 memories and sufferings of his life thronged through 
 his mind, and tears, too, came into his eyes. " Jake," 
 he said, in a softened voice, " we are finally friends, are 
 we not? Not a word of the past years, Jake. In a 
 wa}", we were involved in a common misfortune, and 
 thankful are we that we have escaped." Jake would
 
 BELLE SENDS ANOTHER MESSAGE. 375 
 
 have spoken, but could only raise Fred's hand to his 
 lips, and sob over it. There was nature even in him ; 
 and it had at last been touched, and at that moment 
 he looked almost good in Belle's tear-blinded eyes. 
 
 And all this tune the breakfast cools, and let it 
 cool ! 
 
 All that happened, oh, ever and ever so long ago ! 
 Twenty-eight years, on this last day of May, 1873, as 
 the vision fades from my regretful memory, and dwin 
 dles to a tale that brings a blinding mist to my eyes. 
 
 Just before the war, which has antiquated everything 
 that preceded it, I stopped at the Mantua Station, on 
 the Mahoning Railroad, after long, long years of ab 
 sence. There was the old Judge Atwater mansion 
 turned into a tavern, and save the Cu3~ahoga, a 
 diminished but still a beautiful stream, my eye saw no 
 familiar thing. In a heavy but bent form, I finally 
 recognized Darwin. It was a pilgrimage for me ; and, 
 as I stood about the depot, curious strangers looked at 
 me, and queried of m}' name, and when they heard it, 
 no man could identify me, and I knew none of them. 
 I wandered up the banks of the river, recalling 
 all the past. In a bajxm overhung with willows was 
 the remains of a little dug-out, covered with the still 
 water, and nearly buried with drift. Somehow it re 
 minded me of Fred's little canoe, cast adrift so long 
 ago. Farther up, in a lonely mullen and thistle-grown 
 field, remote from any dwelling, I recognized the de 
 serted heap of stones, and the solitary apple-tree, that 
 marked the site of the rude hut that sheltered his child-
 
 376 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 isli years. Melancholy beyond expression, I returned 
 i to the Station, and wandered- up the old State road, 
 towards the Corners. The old brick tavern had dis 
 appeared, and no vestige of the old South School- 
 house remained. Chapman, an elderly man, had turned 
 farmer, and grown weight}'. Turner had been for years 
 out of the hotel, and was also a thriving farmer. 
 Nothing at the Corners remained. Young Foster had 
 built a new store, where the old Maiyfield house once 
 stood, and a stranger was in the old tavern-house. In 
 the kitchen-garden, under the barberry bushes, was a 
 small mai'ble pillar, with the name " Sir Walter." In 
 the now populous cemetery, over west, by the side 
 of Elias's grave, stood another stone, sacred to the 
 memory of Mary Carman, and still another to the 
 memory of Sarah. Uncle Bill Skinner slept near by, 
 and a neat stone marked the resting-place of Betsey 
 Warden, having " Fred " on its base. Feuton had 
 moved away. 
 
 M} T friend George Sheldon took me up the State 
 road, just beyond where the Fenton place was, and 
 there in a little cottage, presided over by a beautiful 
 daughter of Sarah, we found Uncle Seth, still serene 
 and cheerful ; although, save this young maiden and 
 her sisters, nobody was left to him, Martha had died 
 years before, in her distant home, and slept in other 
 earth. 
 
 We went along up to the next corners, from which a 
 mile east could be seen the upper story of the Carman 
 farm-house, to which we drove. The old pear-tree was 
 dead, but still standing, a monument of the blight and 
 decay that had fallen on the once beautiful homestead.
 
 BELLE SENDS ANOTHER MESSAGE. 377 
 
 The farm-house was shabb}- and neglected, weeds and 
 burdock were in the yard ; Sarah's flower-garden had 
 been turned into a pig-yard, and neglect and ruin 
 brooded over all the old home. A coarse, common man 
 had purchased the property, and cut down a part of the 
 old orchards, and left the fallen trees to decay where 
 they fell. The fences were rotting, and falling* down ; 
 the " Springs " were choked up, producing bogs and 
 small swamps. 
 
 We drove over to the Rapids. The magnificent 
 chestnut forests had been cut away, and rude, stumpy 
 fields and sordid farm-houses gleamed and glinted in 
 the late August sun. The Furmans had moved away. 
 All the forests had vanished from the now tame and 
 shrunken Cuyahoga. A flouring-mill and machine- 
 shop employed the water, and the already dilapidated 
 little wooden town of Harrison disfigured the eastern 
 bank of the river. 
 
 We talked over the old time exploit of Fred ; the 
 rescue of the drowning maiden whom we also saw, a 
 comely matron with her children and recalled the 
 fortunes of some who had been connected with his 
 earlier years. 
 
 Jake Green had accompanied Warden back to Mis 
 souri, and had not been heard of for years. 
 
 Father Henry had lost his voice in the dark waters. 
 He "assisted" at the wedding of Fred and Belle; 
 and the quaint and tender things said to have been 
 uttered by him on that occasion were still remem 
 bered and repeated with variations and additions. 
 
 And Belle and Fred, what of them? whose real 
 lives were about to commence so brightly, beautifully,
 
 378 THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 and hopefully ? Would you know ? They had a his 
 tory, and if the world evinces an interest in these pre 
 liminary chapters, that histoiy, much of which the 
 world knows, may be indicted more completely.
 
 Bart Ridgeley, 
 
 A STORY OF NORTHERN OHIO. 
 By A. G. RIDDLE, 
 
 Author of " The Portrait." 
 
 One Volume. 16mo. $1.50. 
 
 " BART RIDGELEY," one of the most successful novels of 
 the year 1873, Js especially remarkable as a purely American 
 book, and for its graphic sketches of pioneer life in the West. 
 It comprises a charming love-story, and appeals to all classes 
 of novel-readers. This book has been most favorably re 
 ceived by the critics, some of whose opinions are quoted : 
 
 [From E. P. Whipple, in the " Boston Globe."] 
 
 "It is evidently the production of a good writer, and specially illustrates 
 the difficulties, discouragements, and even eventual rewards of those claims 
 of young men who carry into the process of making a living a high ideal of 
 life. The hero begins as a dreamer, but he ends hi being a practical force. 
 The influence of love in this invigoration of the will is strikingly depicted. 
 The man becomes thoroughly mauly because he loves with his whole heart 
 and soul a woman." 
 
 [From the " Louisville Courier-Journal."] 
 " Excepting ' Middlemarch,' it is the best novel published in ten years." 
 
 [From the " Boston Congregatibnalist."] 
 
 "'Bart Ridgeley' belongs to a class of fiction of which Edward Eggle- 
 eton's 'Hoosier Schoolmaster,' and 'The End of the World," would be ac 
 cepted as conspicuous representatives, and, in many respects, it pleases us 
 more than either of those two much-vaunted stories. It is a better book, as 
 regards the impression it makes the taste it leaves in your mouth; and if 
 less powerful and true to the life in its delineations of character, has less of 
 unpleasant coarseness. The scene is laid in Northern Ohio, a section of the 
 country with which the writer evidently has been long and well familiar. 
 There are descriptions of locality which could only have been drawn from a 
 personal observation, and there is so much of an introduction of veritable 
 personages B. F. Wade, for example as to impart much of the element 
 of reality to the pages. Bart Ridgeley, whose name entitles the book, is in 
 troduced to us as an aimless and improvident youth. The shock of falling 
 in love with a good woman wakes him up rather violently to the necessity 
 of doing something, and he proceeds to ' do it,' by studying law and entering 
 practice. The story of his struggles with himself and with his various ad 
 versities is well told, witli almost no coarseness and not a little humor, and 
 some really viry good passages, liart is a sort of Abraham Lincoln, on a 
 reduced scale. The reader's sympathy is enlisted at the start, and his con 
 gratulations are hearty at the end, when success is achieved and a bride won. 
 The religious sentiment is not wanting, though not made prominent, and 
 altogether we must rate this story above the average of its kind."
 
 EAST B EDGE LEY. 
 
 [From the " Washington Chronicle."] 
 
 " It is thoroughly a tale of domestic life in a primitive settlement, entirely 
 shorn of sensationalism, and simply and effectively told, and, unlike most 
 
 stories of this kind, its interest continues to the end Bart Ridgcley, 
 
 the hero, surnamcd Prince Arthur by his lady-love Julia, is indeed a prince 
 among men. With his strong, passionate, manly nature is combined the ten 
 derness and feeling of a woman. Underneath this brilliant, flighty surface 
 lies deep settled decision of purpose, that surmounts all obstacles and places 
 him at the head of men, tans peur et nans reproche. 
 
 "Julia, a wondrous type of the brave, strong and loving Puritan girl, who 
 faces all danger for those she loves, and whose gratitude is ever fresh, is an. 
 almost perfect realization of what a woman really ought to be. 
 
 " Several sketches of eminent lawyers are skilfully introduced in the nar 
 rative, and, on the whole, the book is bright, healthy, and delightful reading." 
 
 [From the " Washington Star."] 
 
 " There is not a dull line in it. ... It is poetic, romantic, biographical, 
 autobiographical, political, episodical, and all sorts. The reader is introduced 
 to Ben Wade, Giddings, and other political and legal notables of the Western' 
 Reserve ; and the scenes and incidents in the career of a Western law-student 
 are depicted with the truth and force of one who ' has been there.' In a cer 
 tain waywardness of fancy, leading the author to abandon the thread of his 
 story in the way of brilliant episode, ' Bart Ridgeley ' reminds one somewhat 
 of Judd's 'Margaret' ; audit may be noted that he brings much the same 
 keen appreciation and felicitous powers of description to bear in depicting 
 external nature in the West that the author of ' Margaret ' has displayed in 
 painting the scenery of New England. The instances in this country where 
 men prominent in political or professional life have achieved success in the 
 field of romance, are not so common as on the other side of the Atlantic, but 
 the appearance of a novel of the unmistakable originality and merit of 
 ' Bart Ridgeley,' from the pen of one of our busiest and most successful law 
 yers, indicates that the twin capacity exists here as well as with our Great 
 BritainouB cousins." 
 
 [From the " Capital."] 
 
 " The characters introduced arc either settlers from the Eastern States or 
 to the manner born, and, what is indeed remarkable, with scarcely an ex 
 ception, are veritable photographs of individuals now living, or of prom 
 inent men whose lives are identified with the history of the locality described. 
 Apart from the characters, the story presents a picture of frontier life which, 
 when we consider that it is no imaginary idea of what Western society 
 about thirty years ago might be, but are exact descriptions of what life at 
 that time ica*, cannot fail to please the student of American history, while 
 its graphic style and the intrinsic interest of stirring events are equally at 
 tractive to the ordinary reader The naturalness of the story is its 
 
 greatest charm." 
 
 [From the " Springfield Union."] 
 
 " ' Bart Ridgeley, a Story of Northern Ohio,' by an anonymous author, is 
 a book of which its writer need not have been ashamed. It is a very We.-t- 
 ern novel, with rather too much of the devil-may-care in its composition, a 
 spice which, to be relishable, should be entirely devoid of crudity, as this is 
 not. Nevertheless, the story is above the average of novels, and that it fails 
 of being more is owing, we think, less to deficiency of real talent in the 
 writer, than a failure to do his best in much of the treatment." 
 
 NICHOLS & HALL, Publishers, 
 32 Broinfield Street, Boston.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
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