The discarded daughter; or, The children of the isle

Let me introduce you to Mount Calm, the seat of General Aaron Garnet. Even from the bay you can see the mansion house, with its broad white front, as it crowns the highest of a distant range of hills. After passing through the village of Hutton, and going up and down the grassy hills that rise one above the other beyond it, you enter a deep hollow, thickly grown with woods, and passing through it, begin to ascend by a heavily shaded forest road, the last and highest hill of the range—Mount Calm. When about halfway up this hill you come to the brick walls inclosing the private grounds, and passing through the porter’s gate you enter a heavily-shaded carriage drive, that, sweeping around in an ascending half-circle, brings you up before the mansion house.

Behind the house was a green slope and a thick grove that concealed from view the extensive outbuildings connected with the establishment. Extensive fields of corn, wheat, rye, oats, tobacco, etc., spread all over the undulatory land. The estate itself comprised several thousands of the best acres in old St. Mary’s County, and there were several hundred of them under the best cultivation and in the richest state of productiveness.

This princely estate had remained in the possession of the Chesters since the first settlement of the county, and unlike the usual fate of old Maryland plantations, the property had not only been carefully preserved, but had steadily increased in value up to the time of the Revolution, when it had reached its highest importance.

The estate was then in the hands of Charles Chester, Esq., Justice of the Peace and Associate Judge of the Provincial Court. His family consisted of a wife, two sons, and a daughter.

At the breaking out of the Revolution Judge Chester and his two stalwart boys took the field among the first, and at the triumphant close of the war Colonel Chester set out on his return home with a pair of epaulettes, minus his pair of goodly sons, who were left not only dead upon the field of glory, but buried with all the honors of victorious war upon the immortal plains of Yorktown. And thus it happened that the heirship of the heavy estate, with all its burden of onerous responsibilities, fell upon the frail shoulders of young Alice Chester—a fair-skinned, golden-haired, blue-eyed girl of seventeen, the fairest, gentlest, and most fragile being that ever owed life to a stern and warlike sire. Alice, living at home with her simple-hearted, domestic mother, had been very little noticed by her father, or even by anyone else, until, by the death of his sons, she became the sole heiress of the vast estate, which was to prove the greatest misfortune of her life.

The long, long bleak winters were passed in almost inviolable seclusion, cheered only by an occasional letter from the army, and an occasional ride to church, if the road happened to be passable, which was seldom the case.

This life lasted until Alice was fifteen years of age, when an event occurred such as would make no stir at all in a city, but which will throw a quiet country neighborhood into convulsions, namely, a change of ministry—not national, but parochial! The old parson, compelled by declining health, had departed to take charge of a congregation farther south, and a young parson had come in his stead. The Rev. Milton Sinclair was handsome, graceful, and accomplished.

By the invitation of Mrs. Chester the young minister became the temporary inmate of Mount Calm, and very much he entertained and instructed, cheered and sustained the secluded mother and daughter. He became the almoner of the lady to the poor around. He directed and superintended the reading of Alice; introducing gradually, as her opening mind could bear, all the beauties and glories of science, history, philosophy, and poetry.

As the days fled, Alice and Milton Sinclair grew to love each other, and one day the minister told his great love and was made happy by Alice confessing that she returned his affection. Mrs. Chester, too, approved of the match, and she set her maids to work carding, spinning, knitting, weaving, and sewing, that Alice might have a full supply of every description of household cloth and linen. The bride’s trousseau was the last thing thought of, and there was time enough, she thought, for that when her father should arrive. She did not know when that would be, but it was well to have everything that took a great deal of time and labor, such as the house and furniture and the household stuff, ready—as for the wedding dresses and other minor preparations, of course they must be deferred until Colonel Chester’s arrival, and then they could be speedily got up.

It was in the midst of this domestic happiness, this great tense joy and hope, that the thunderbolt fell!

CHAPTER II. THE NEW SUITOR.

How! Will she none? Doth she not give us thanks? Is she not proud? Doth she not count her blessed, Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom? —Shakspere.

First came the news of the glorious victory of Yorktown—the final and signal triumph of the American arms. There were no railroads and telegraphic wires in those days, and very few newspapers. The report, the re-echo of this splendid victory, rolled on toward their quiet neighborhood like a storm; in clouds of doubt, in thunder and lightning of astonishment, joy, and mad triumph. The most delirious rejoicing convulsed the whole village and neighborhood for days, before any newspaper arrived with an account of the battle.

And the same mail that brought the newspaper, with a long account of the battle, headed in great capital letters line below line, brought also a letter sealed with black that sped like a bullet through the foreboding heart of Mrs. Chester, a letter from Colonel Chester, announcing the glorious death of his two brave sons upon the field of victory.

Mrs. Chester was overwhelmed with grief by the twofold bereavement, the fall of both her gallant sons, of whom she was as proud as fond.

She did not dream of the calamity, worse than death, that had befallen Alice, in the disguise of a princely inheritance, destined to darken her whole life with sorrow, while it mocked her in the face of the world with its unreal light and splendor.

But there was one who was not so forgetful—Colonel Chester. He was still with the army, but another letter was received from him, announcing his speedy return home, accompanied by his friend and companion in arms, General Garnet, a young officer, who, though but thirty years of age, had risen to the highest rank in the army, and won an immortal fame.

Colonel Chester came at length, accompanied by General Garnet. He met Alice with great empressement—for it was scarcely great affection—praised her growth and her beauty, introduced General Garnet, and, excusing himself for a few moments, passed to the sick-chamber of his wife.

Left alone with her guest Alice examined him shyly, with the curiosity of a woman and the bashfulness of a country girl. General Garnet was what young ladies call a fine, military-looking man. He certainly had a fine, martial figure and bearing, or that which is our ideal of it—a tall and elegantly proportioned figure, a calm, majestic carriage, yet withal suggestive of great reposing strength and fire. His voice was perfect harmony itself. His manner was dignified and imposing, or graceful, earnest, and seductive. Yet, sometimes, one in a sudden, vague astonishment, would feel that he was a man who could unite the utmost inflexibility, and even cruelty of purpose, with the most graceful and gracious urbanity of manner. With all his marvelous powers of fascination he was a man to darken, chill, repel a bright-spirited, warm-souled, pure-hearted girl like Alice. Yet she did the honors of her father’s house to her father’s guest until that guest merged into the lover, and then Alice felt and betrayed the utmost soul-sickened repugnance to him and his suit.

It was now that the object of Colonel Chester in inviting this distinguished visitor to Mount Calm became evident—that of bestowing the hand of his daughter and heiress upon him.

After a conversation with General Garnet he sent for Alice, and, without any preface at all, bade her make up her mind to a speedy marriage with the husband he had chosen for her, his distinguished and dear friend, General Garnet.

Alice passed from the room, mechanically pressing her hands to her temples, trying to awake as from a heart-sickening dream. And so she passed to her now frequent post of duty, her declining mother’s darkened room and sick-bed. The senses, or the intuitions, or the instincts of those on the confines of the unseen world are sometimes preternaturally acute. There was that in the falling footstep, in the very form and bearing, of Alice, as she glided through the shadows of that dark room, that revealed to the mother the existence of some heavy cloud teeming with sorrow, that was ready to burst upon the devoted head of her child.

She called Alice to her bedside, took her hand in her gentle grasp, looked with wondering sadness into her eyes—her eyes set in the stare of blank stupor—and murmured tenderly:

“What is the matter, Alice? Tell your mother?”

Her mother’s loving voice and touch unsealed the spellbound founts of tears and speech.

“Oh, mother! mother! I am ruined! ruined!” she wildly gasped, and, sinking down upon the floor, dropped her head upon the bed with hysterical sobs and gasps, and inarticulate wailings.

Her mother laid her gentle hand upon her child’s burning and throbbing head, and raised her tender eyes in silent prayer for her, while this storm raged, and until it passed, and Alice, exhausted, but calm, was able to rise, sit by her side, and while she held her hand, tell her what had happened.