B CHAPTER XII. THE STORY OF ESTELLE. "Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tennyson. ALMY, bright, and beautiful broke the succeeding morning. Every passenger as he came on deck looked astern to see what had become of the Champion. She still kept her usual distance, dogging the Pontiac with the persistency of a fate. Captain Crane said nothing, but it was noticeable that he puffed away at his cigar with increased vigor. Mr. Vance encountered the Berwicks once more on the hurricane deck and interchanged greetings. Little Clara recognized her friend of the day before, and, jumping from Hattie's lap, ran and pulled his coat, looking up in his face, and pouting her lips for a kiss. "I fancy I see two marked traits in your little girl, already," said Vance to the mother, after he had saluted the child; "she is strong in the affections, and has a will-power that shows itself in self-control." “You are right,” replied the mother; "I have known her to bite her lips till the blood came, in her effort to keep from crying." “Such is her individuality,” continued Vance. "I doubt if circumstances of education could do much to misshape her moral being." 66 "Ah! that is a fearful consideration," said the lady; we cannot say how far the best of us would have been perverted if our early training had been unpropitious." "I knew your father, Mrs. Berwick. He found me, a stranger stricken down by fever, forsaken and untended, in a miserable shanty called a tavern, in Southern Illinois, in the sickly sea son. He devoted himself to me till I was convalescent. shall never forget his kindness. I Will you allow me to look at that little seal on your watch-chain? It ought to bear the let Thank you. Yes, there they are! I The cutting is my own." "I shall regard it with a new interest," said Mrs. Berwick, as she took it back. Mr. Onslow here appeared and bade the party good morning. "I feel that I am among friends," said Vance. "I last night promised Mr. Onslow a story. Did you ever hear of the redoubtable Gashface, Mr. Berwick?" "Yes, and I warn you, sir, that I am quite enough of an Abolitionist to hold his memory in a sort of respect." "Bold words to utter on the Southern Mississippi! But do not be under concern: I myself am Gashface. Yes. The report of his being killed is a lie. Are you in a mood to hear his story, Mrs. Berwick?" "I shall esteem it a privilege, sir." "The last time I told it was to your father. Be seated, and try and be as patient as he was in listening." The party arranged themselves in chairs; and Mr. Vance was about to take up his parable, when the figure of Colonel Delancy Hyde was seen emerging from the stairs leading from the lower deck. “Hah! Mr. Vance, I'm yourn," exclaimed the Colonel, with effusion. "Been lookin' fur yer all over the boat. Introduce yer friends ter me.” Vance took from his pocket the Colonel's card, and read aloud the contents of it. "From Virginia, ma'am," supplemented the Colonel, who was already redolent of Bourbon; "the name of Delancy Hyde hahz been in the family more 'n five hunderd yarz. Fak, ma'am! My father owned more slaves nor he could count. Ef it hahd n't been fur a damned Yankee judge, we sh'd hahv held more land nor you could ride over in a day. Them lowborn Yankees, ma'am, air jes' fit to fetch an' carry for us as air the master race; to larn our childern thar letters an' make our shoes, as the Greeks done fur the Romans, ma'am. Ever read the Richmond newspapers, ma'am? John Randolph wunst said he'd go out of his way to kick a sheep. I'd go out of my way, ma'am, to kick a Yankee." "If you 're disposed to listen to a story, Colonel," said Vance, "take a chair." And he pointed to one the furthest from Mrs. Berwick. "I am about to read an autobiography of the fellow Gashface, of whom you have heard." And Vance drew from his pocket a small visiting card crowded close with stenographic characters in manuscript. "An' that's an auter- what d' yer call it, — is it?" asked the Colonel. "Cur'ous!" The Colonel reinforced himself with a plug of tobacco, and Vance began to recite what he called, for the occasion, “The Autobiography of Gashface." But we prefer to name it The Story of Estelle. I was born in New Orleans, and am the son of William Carteret. He was a Virginian by birth, the younger son of a planter, whose forefather, a poor Yorkshire gentleman, came over from England with Sir Thomas Dale in the year 1611. You might think me false to my father's native State if I did not vindicate my claim to a descent from one of the first Virginia families. You must be aware that all the gentle blood that flowed from Europe to this continent sought Virginia as its congenial reservoir. It would be difficult to find a low-born white man in the whole eastern section of the State. ["That's a fak!" interposed the Colonel.] My grandfather died in 1820, leaving all his property to his eldest son, Albert. (Virginia then had her laws of primogeniture.) Albert generously offered to provide for my father, but the latter, finding that Albert could not do this without reducing the provision for his sisters, resolved to seek fortune at the North. He went to New York, where he studied medicine. But here he encountered Miss Peyton, a beautiful girl from Virginia, nobly supporting herself by giving instruction in music. He married her, and they consoled themselves for their poverty by their fidelity and devotion to each other. The loss of their first child, in consequence, as my father believed, of the unhealthy location of his house, induced him to make extraordinary efforts to earn money. After various fruitless attempts to establish himself in some lucrative employment, he made his début, under an assumed name, at the Park Theatre, in the character of Douglas, in Home's once famous tragedy of that name. My father's choice of this part is suggestive of the moderate but respectable character of his success. He played to the judicious few; but their verdict in his favor was not sufficiently potent to make him a popular actor. He soon had to give up the high starring parts, and to content himself with playing the gentleman of comedies or the second part in tragedies. In this humbler line he gained a reputation which has not yet died out in theatrical circles. He could always command good engagements for the theatrical season in respectable stock-companies. He was fulfilling one of these engagements in New Orleans when I was born. A month afterwards he ended his career in a manner that sent a thrill through the public heart. He was one evening playing Othello for his own benefit. Grateful for a crowded house, he was putting forth his best powers, and with extraordinary success. Never had such plaudits greeted and inspired him. The property-man, whose duty it is to furnish all the articles needed by the actor, had given him at rehearsal a blunted dagger, so contrived with a spring that it seemed to pierce the breast when thrust against it. At night this false dagger was mislaid, and the property-man handed him a real one, omitting in the hurry of the moment to inform him of the change. In uttering the closing words of his part,— "I took by the throat the circumci-sed dog, my father inflicted upon himself, not a mimic, but a real stab, so forcible that he did not survive it ten minutes. Great was my mother's anguish at her loss. She was not left utterly destitute. My father had not fallen into the besetting sins of the profession. He saw in it a way to competence, if he would but lead a pure and thrifty life. In the seven years he had been on the stage he had laid up seven thousand dollars. Pride would not let him allow my mother to labor for her support. But now she gladly accepted from the manager an offer of twenty-five dollars a week as 66 walking lady." On this sum she contrived for seventeen years to live decently and educate her son liberally. At last sickness obliged her to give up her theatrical engagement. She had invested her seven thousand dollars in bonds of the Planters' Bank of Mississippi, to the redemption of which the faith of that State was pledged. The repudiation of the bonds by the State authorities, under the instigation of Mr. Jefferson Davis, deprived her of her last resource. Impoverished in means, broken in health, and unable to labor, she fell into a decline and died. The humane manager gave me a situation in his company. I became an actor, and for seven years played the part of second young gentleman in comedies and melodramas; also such parts as Horatio in "Hamlet or Macduff in "Macbeth." But my heart was not in my vocation. It had chagrins which I could not stomach. One evening I was playing the part of a lover. The dramatis persona of whom I was supposed to be enamored was represented by Miss B- rather a showy, voluptuous figure, but whom I secretly disliked for qualities the reverse of those of Cæsar's wife. Instead of allowing my aversion to appear, I played with the appropriate ardor. In performing the "business of the part, I was about to kiss her, when I heard a loud, solitary hiss from a person in an orchestra box. He was a man of a full face, very fair red-and-white complexion, and thick black whiskers, - precisely what a coarse feminine taste would call "a handsome fellow." Folding my arms, I walked towards the foot-lights, and asked what he wanted. "None of your business, you damned stroller!" replied he; "I have a right to hiss, I suppose." "And I have a right to pronounce you a blackguard, I suppose," returned I. The audience applauded my rebuke, and laughed at the handsome man, who, with scarlet cheeks, rose and left the house. I learned he was a Mr. Ratcliff, a rich planter, and an admirer of Miss B—. Soon after this adventure I quitted the profession, and for some time gave myself up to study. My tastes were rather musical than histrionic; and having from boyhood been a proficient on the piano-forte, I at last, when all my money was exhausted, offered my services to the public as a teacher. |