The Daughter of the South

Preface

The power of Fiction to achieve great results, has been gloriously demonstrated of late ; and it is to be hoped, therefore, that this species of composition will henceforth take its proper place amidst the regenerators of humanity : more potent in its influence than the Essay, because ap pealing forcibly to the imagination as well as to reason and faith ; because, with the limner's art, jt can picture as well as

PREFACE.

. VI theorise; because, in its ability to wreathe truth with beauty, add glory to faith, it will sway minds impervious to dry detail and unadorned argument. And not only may the slave be assisted by it to win back his inalienable birthright, may tyranny be abashed and justice advocated, but may it aid to purify and spiritualize the world. But in order to do this, it must no longer batten upon uninstructive and hard ening portrayments of revolting horrors, or minister to morbidly depraved tastes, or flatter the stern prejudices of bigotry, or the vitiated fancies of fashion. It must no longer barter its wealth of talent, or crown of genius, for riches or even fame ! nor must it degrade itself into being a mere copyist of the insignificant, the grotesque, or the hideous. The artist should study the beautiful,

PREFACE.

. VII striving to infuse into material creations the light and life of spirituality ! The great Masters of Art did so : but as there has been a school of painting that exulted in its power of transferring to canvas the exact similitude of objects essentially earthy and trivial, so there is now a school of Fiction, of which the loftiest aim is to delineate accurately the tritest and most common-place scenes and cha racters from life. Yet, if the originals are uninteresting and vapid, assuredly it implies no little presumption to suppose that the semblances, however correct, can be rendered a pleasurable study, or an entertaining exhibition ! Did the glorious Statues, the sublime productions of ancient sculptural art, owe their origin to this grovelling spirit of imitation ? Even while copying the most

PREFACE.

. VIII beautiful of earth's creations, did not the immortal sons of Greece draw inspiration from the Heaven of their dreams ? Hitherto Fiction has been banished from, or admitted with ungracious sufferance, to many homes where music and painting have been honored guests ; and not with out reason, for it has, not seldom, been the tempter to idleness, the pcrverter of taste, the encourager of morbid sentimen talism — nay, even the depraver of morals ; while possessing unsurpassed capabilities for the amelioration of society. In the construction of a work of Fiction, it is necessary, of course, that there should be subordinate as well as prominent cha racters ; there must be warnings as well as encouragements interwoven with the plot, but those characters which the author deems, and shows that he deems worthy

PREFACE.

. IX of imitation, those which he , touches and retouches with his magic pencil with evident pride and pleasure, should be deserving of that imitation which they invite. The aim of the work should be sanc tioned by virtue and truth, no apotheosis of Folly or Sin should be suffered to pol lute no illusory representations, no insidious falsities be allowed to disgrace the per formance. Seen in its unmasqued defor mity, there can be nothing attractive in crime ; seen in their native insignificance, there is nothing fascinating in meanness, illiberality, or intolerance. It is the ad ventitious splendour of pseudo-heroism that captivates, the gorgeous adornments of vice that delude, the mock sensibilities of enervation that beguile. Religious Fictions are strenuously objected to by a large portion of society; and too

PREFACE.

. X often have the censures launched against them been merited, for irreverently they have dived into the mysteries of doctrines and creeds ; they have flattered bitter sectarian prejudices, and have striven to inflame the dissensions of the religious world, instead of gently and almost im perceptibly endeavouring to unite mankind in one universal spirit of divine love, one universal desire to learn the Will of the Creator and obey it, instead of vitalizing the beauty, that, without the spiritual es sence of religion, is cold and inani mate. To portray a noble character without distinctly revealing the sacred influences that govern and gradually perfect it, with out introducing the element of religion is impossible; the attempt is virtually one to demonstrate that religion is not

PREFACE.

. XI essential to greatness and goodness ; for to separate virtue and duty from faith, is to deprive them of their actual name and existence, for religion is no glorious abstract to be worshipped remotely, but an all-pervading influence missioned to rule every thought, every action, and prepare the weak, fallible spirit for the inheritance of immortality. It is a glorious fact that, as there is a natural love for the beautiful implanted in the soul of humanity, there is also a natural reverence for the divine. And when it is once felt, as well as admitted, that religion, instead of banishing beauty from the earth, or rendering it frigid, austere, and Useless, revivifies and glorifies all it permeates, it will neither be disre garded nor reluctantly sought after, but be accepted universally as a consolation

PREFACE.

. and a joy, not only by the afflicted and disappointed, but by those whose path is traced by splendour, and illumined by renown ! SANDON BURY, FEBRUARY, 1854.

Introduction

. It is, perhaps, requisite that it should be distinctly explained that the Tale interwoven in these volumes is intended simply as a medium for the agreeable presentation to view of certain momentous truths and principles — that the construction of it has been considered of secondary importance to the elucidation of those principles — and that it has no pretensions to high excellence as a production of literary art. As Authors of all classes and degrees of

INTRODUCTION.

. 4 reputation are debarred from the privilege of defending their compositions from the attacks of the Critics, however unfairly they may be assailed — however much the object of their writings may be misapprehended, or their motives misinterpreted, and as the least known usually receive the least mercy, it would not be unwise, perhaps, to anti cipate a few of their objections by showing the only light in which the characters and incidents introduced can, in this instance, be fairly regarded. In allusion to the principal character of the Story, it is scarcely necessary to warn the Reader that it is not by the ordinary model of a quiet, unimpulsive English girl, deficient in enthusiasm of feeling, in' fervour and profundity of thought, that it should be judged — that it must be considered as a delineation of a being gifted with a rare

INTRODUCTION.

. XV and peculiar talent which requires for its full growth and development the soil of a more impassioned, exotic nature than Poetry alone demands, since it comprehends a spon taneity of musical genius, as well as a power of pouring forth at will the rich treasures of poetic fancy, and is attended with the perilous endowment of the poetic vision, which so fearfully magnifies evil, so wildly exaggerates hope — as a portrayment of one who idolizes the Beautiful of earth, until its unsatisfyingness and perishability are proved by the teachings of adversity — of one whose early memories are reverently cherished amidst the stern dictates of the experience of after-years, and whose delicately organized mind is agitated by slight occur rences, but is roused into heroism by the denunciations of danger and misfortune. Respecting the probability and the natural-

INTRODUCTION.

. XVI ness of the events narrated, it is essential to remember that they should be considered with reference to the characters which were instrumental in producing the incidents. The impulsive nature of the Italian temperament, the recklessness of the Italian spirit when inflamed by jealousy or revenge, though England may not often be a theatre for their display, are not likely to originate very quiet, every-day scenes, especially when derangement intensifies the passions depicted. In conclusion, the Author trusts that those whose opinion is worthy of the labour of winning, who value truth for its own sake, and are tolerant of that which they deem error in others, will not condemn the Work for not being what it has no pre tensions to be; and then, if some, who cannot recognize a higher aim than popu larity in a writer should think fit to amuse

INTRODUCTION.

. XVII themselves by pulling to pieces, petal by petal, the flowers with which the pages consecrated to a higher use have been illu minated, instead of attacking the principles endeavoured to be inculcated, they will succeed in proving, perhaps, that they love Fiction better than Truth — that they are more critical respecting the artistic skill displayed in the setting, than desirous of discovering the worth and genuineness of the gems within. b VOL. I. OF THE SOUTH.

Chapter I

The Channel waves dashed furiously and thunderingly upon the dark cliffs of the wild Cornish shores, and the din and the turmoil were fearfully heightened, where a rocky headland stretched defiantly into the ocean, braving, in its gloomy immobility, the awful power of the living, wrathful waters. To the left of this promontory was a small VOL. I. bay, where the surges were less tumultuous, and about a hundred yards from its cliff guarded strand, on a bare bleak elevation, sat a female form, closely wrapped in a thick, grey mantle, with a bonnet of the same quiet hue : from beneath this flowed a rich luxuriance of golden-brown hair, which streamed in the blast as it came sweeping and howling desolately by. Her dark grey, deeply-set eyes were fixed intently en the tempestuous main ; and as her pale lips moved, a wild recitative mingled mourn fully yet sweetly with the harsh, dissonant peals of the obstructed billows — like a spirit-strain floating amidst the jarring cares and disappointments of earth : " While I gaze on the humid sky, And my brow, its rude breath chills, And cloud-shades dimly lie On the waves and the distant hills ; While the sea-bird's thrilling scream, And the sea-cave's echoing boom, Break on my ear, and seem Like voices of coming Doom, A glow from other suns, a dream of beauty and of peace Irradiates my mournful soul, and bids its conflicts cease ! ' Once more, above me, rise Glowing with heavenly light, Ausonia's purple skies, Ausonia's glorious night The air comes whispering by, Rich, from the orange-grove, And o'er me beams an eye That weeps in its deep love.

"That eye is yet more lustrous than the glance of vesper-star, The pure smile hovers on those lips, like sunbeams from afar, B Revelling amidst bright coral-bowers, scarce veiled by the slumbering sea ; That voice is trembling softly by, like summer minstrelsy Of flower and breeze, and mystic song of fair, celestial globe ; That tress superb is darker than the night-wave's mourning robe ! "The dream has passed ; again the sky frowns o'er my grief-bowed head, The icy foam, in melting wreaths, is o'er my garments shed. And where is she — my mother ? hath the tomb engulfed her form ? Or did her lofty soul's disdain meet proudlier the storm ? Oh, where is she ? how knell-like sound the echoes of my heart, As lingeringly the smiles of Hope from Earth's stern face depart !" While she was thus chanting, enthusiasm blended with the melancholy of her tone, her countenance which had been schooled by resignation into a sad quietude of ex pression, became animated by a spirit of intelligence, beauty and power; her eyes beamed with a glorious radiance beneath her broad and lofty temples, and her cheeks flushed with a tint of ethereal freshness and brightness.

Then again they paled, and her eyes grew misty with tears ; and as she finished, she flung herself despondently on the earth, and buried her face in her hands. She remained for some minutes, apparently absorbed and overwhelmed by the intensity of the grief evoked by the pas sionate extemporaneous music of her soul. At length she raised her head, and started shudderingly on perceiving that she was not alone ; that a tall, dark figure stood between her and the sky, bending gloomily over her. The agony of her heart found no utterance in words, for it froze on her trem bling lips, as she recognized her long deplored parent in the withered, haggard white-haired, stooping shape before her. " Yes ! thou art his image, Geraldine," said a strange grief-warped voice ; " and thy heart, I doubt not, like his can scorn the innocent and exult over the broken heart ! for hast thou not avoided me long, though like a shadow I have crept after thee — though my love for many, many years has en circled thee like a melancholy halo ; and my life, a terrible sacrifice, has been laid piece by piece on the altar of my devotion ?

And now but little remains to be endured — a few short, bitter days, and all that is required will be rendered up !" And Geraldine could not speak, for the sobs of her anguish came thickly and con vulsively. And when her mother witnessed her genuine grief, her anger passed, and she threw her arms round her daughter, and clasped her to her throbbing bosom. For a time both were silent, for the desolation of a hopeless affliction brooded over their souls. At length Geraldine faltered forth : " I must return to my father ; he is very ill — dangerously ill. I almost fear he will never recover. I would not have quitted him, but he commanded me to take my usual walk." " Dangerously ill ! almost dying ! Oh, Geraldine, then I must see him again — for the last time on earth ! He cannot — it is impossible — cherish his animosity, his vindictiveness towards her who was once the soul of his soul, the heart of his heart, while his spirit hovers over the still, dark river of death — while the beauty of Earth and her songs of jubilee sound fainter and fainter to his receding thoughts !

A more heavenly mood will steal over his mind, dreams of the past will mingle with the deepening shades of approaching slumber. And he will see me and welcome me as he used, before the fatal gloom of suspicion perverted his judgment. He will know how I have loved him, passionately, un weariedly, through years of scorn and con tumely ; he will know that my heart is broken ; that I shall not survive him. Let us go, Geraldine." Geraldine lifted her mournful eyes to her mother's face. " I dare not ! I must go alone, dearest mother. I fear — " and she hesitated — " I fear that his feelings are still unchanged ; but I will watch, and will summon you in stantly, should he express a wish to see you, or mourn for your absence, or regret the past." When Geraldine again looked on her father's countenance, she was distressed to perceive that a change had passed over it, the finger of Death had traced thereon its awful citation; and she felt but slight hope that he would even survive many hours.

And all that day she listened, with inexpressible anxiety, for some indication that his thoughts were softened and purified by the pain of his death-anguish, by his hopes of eternity, from the earth-engendered malice and vindictive ness that had so long sullied them. But in vain ! Moonless and stormy the night set in ; the boom of the distant billows was borne on the shrieking blast, and ever and anon the sepulchral peal of the thunder awfully swelled the wild, unearthly roar of the elements : heavy drops of rain, at intervals, rattled against the window-panes ; and, as Geraldine looked forth, she perceived, with a shudder of sorrowful apprehension, her mother's muffled and drooping figure lurking amidst the gloomy shades of the garden be neath, thus braving the fury of the fierce and fatal night-tempest.

The sweet silvery chimes of the clock, as they announced the hour of midnight, fell with mournful dis tinctness on the daughter's ear. Mr. Der nevor had not spoken for two hours, but now he suddenly awoke from his lethargic trance, and opened his eyes ; and their wild, unnatural brilliance startled Geraldine, as she met his eager glance. In a voice scarcely louder than a whisper, he called her to him, signing for every one else to quit the apartment, and took her trembling hand. " Geraldine, I shall not live through this night ; I feel it, I am certain of it ! Now listen to me, and remember my words when I am laid in the tomb ; and if you promise to obey them, you will be rich, very rich. I have hoarded up gold for you, and you may associate with the noble and wealthy of the land ; you may win a coronet from the hand of some devoted suitor.

But if you should refuse and despise them, a bare pittance will be your portion, poverty will press you to the earth, your talents— and they are rare, Geraldine — will be hidden from the world's envying gaze, and misery and premature age will disfigure your face and form. Hear me, then, for my time is rapidly passing away. I enjoin, I com mand you never to speak to, or regard with compassion, that woman who has so indelibly disgraced my alliance with her, whose infamy is too deep to be ever expunged. She will seek you, doubtless, when I am gone, and try by blandishments and falsehoods to re gain her ascendancy over your mind ; but avoid her as you would a poisonous reptile that conceals its loathsomeness among flowers ! Promise me, swear to me, Geral dine, that you will faithfully and conscien tiously observe my dying injunctions !"

Geraldine turned deadly pale, the tears streamed down her wan face. " Forgive me, my dear father, but I can not do this ; I dare not. I will promise to consider diligently what my duty may be in this matter, and to follow the path it in dicates, however painful it may be." " And this is your final answer, Geral dine ? I know what it implies ; pause before you reply, and seal your fate irrevocably." " It is all I can, I ought to promise — the rest I must leave to the Divine Being." Without a w7ord more to his daughter, Mr. Dernevor ordered a solicitor to be sum moned to his bedside ; and on his arrival, directed him to make an entirely new will. When Geraldine returned to the apart ment, the shadow of Death was already there, and in a few minutes the proud, re lentless, unappeasable spirit of her father had quitted its earthly tenement.

Distressed beyond measure by his parting anger, as the soul-withering consciousness, that her parent had died with it, in his heart, on his lips, that his harsh, revengeful words could never be unsaid, swept athwart her mind, she remained gazing on the inani mate visage with its deep traces of suffering and fiery disappointment, until the attendants glided away leaving her alone with the corpse. Suddenly she seemed to awaken from a deep sleep ; she had fallen across the bed ; she arose with a half-shudder and glanced in bewilderment around, unable to clearly comprehend the horror that darkly environed her, like fatal miasmata, as dread and as impalpable. A solitary candle was expiring on the toilet-table, now leaving the apartment in obscurity, anon gleaming forth with a dim, uncertain light, while half-revealed shadows seemed moving in a wild mystic dance — a dirge-like motion over the floor of the chamber, while others nodded in gloomy mockery from the ceiling.

Still experiencing a sensation of faint ness, Geraldine tottered to the window and threw up the sash. The grey light of the coming dawn trembled in the east, a lonely star or two peered wanly between the vapo rous, rolling clouds, and occasionally a faint gleam of sheet-lightning appeared in the south, where the clouds had congregated in a dull, dense mass. A sound of heavy, convulsive breath ing arrested her attention ; immediately a sense of her true position, with all its dis tressful mournfulness, and aggravated by an undefined fear of the power of the dead, unacknowledged by her reason, yet darkly portrayed by her excited imagination, flashed upon her soul, and she stood transfixed with mysterious terror. Solemnly through the dusky atmosphere arose a voice, so broken, so hollow, so sepulchral, that it seemed as if it could only belong either to the dying or the dead.

" Thou hast gone down to the tomb with wrath upon thy paling lips, and a false, vile, ruthless suspicion shrined in thy heart against her who loved thee beyond all human beings, even while thou didst scorn, persecute, and revile her ; even when thou didst tear her infant boy from her bosom, and train her beloved daughter to shun her — against her who never wronged thee even in thought — her, whose justification thou wouldst not hear in thy pride ! And now she will follow thee to where thou canst not gainsay her truth, or refuse to listen to her vindication." As Geraldine gazed intently into the obscurity, she saw a figure rise from the side of the couch where it had been kneel ing, concealed by the drapery and the dimness, and slowly advance towards her. "Geraldine!" it whisperingly called.

The daughter flew to support her mother, who, with a low convulsive moan, sank into her arms. At that moment she heard the muffled tread and hushed voices of those who were approaching to perform the last necessary offices for the dead, and she called faintly for aid. It came too late, her mother never spoke more ! c vol. I.

Chapter II

An inquest had taken place concerning the death of Mrs. Dernevor, and Geraldine's heart had been lacerated and agonized by the evidence which she had been compelled to give respecting her deceased mother : and the double funeral rites had been performed with the usual solemnities, and the persecuted wife and the unforgiving husband had been laid side by side in the same silent tomb. The will had been read, and Geraldine had heard, without listening, the mono tonous tones, aware only that some cruel allusion had been made to her mother, and had been conscious of cold, stony eyes being fixed upon her as the reading proceeded, with . a little curiosity and a very little com miseration. Then she had felt hurt and offended, and the thought for the first time had oppressed her mind, that the sacrifice she had so unhesitatingly deposited on the altars of Duty had been in vain — she had not won a mother's love, a mother's thanks, a mother's protection — and she had lost that, which to the exquisitely refined and sensitive soul, the spirit that sighs too fervently for freedom and independence, is almost as dear as earthly existence itself.

She had lost the power of surrounding herself with the beautiful, the glorious in art, and the far more prized privilege of enjoying at leisure, c and learning to comprehend the magnificence, the sublime grandeur, of the works of Na ture. She had denied herself that, to which the noblest aspirations of humanity ever soar — the power and opportunity of greatly ameliorating the condition of a portion of Earth's suffering children. Again her beloved country appeared to her vision, and seemed to be beckoning the mourning orphan to its rich plains, its fragrant bowers, its gorgeous palaces, its superb cities, the very echoes of which are replete with strange mysterious legends of the past ; and still her mother's image, beautiful as of yore, shone amidst its splendid scenery. And then Geraldine's tears fell fast on her sable attire, and burying her face in her hands, she gave free vent to her bitter grief.

After a time she grew more tranquil. The shades of evening had fallen unheeded over the w-ild landscape without, the stars were thickly spangling the mysterious depths of the purple sky ; and as her eyes wandered over those glorious regions, a quiet yet more deep enwrapped her thoughts : rendered sacred by a conviction that she had acted rightly, holily, in refusing to utter the promise urged by her father. A conviction that, though wealth with all its concomitants of power, renown, and influence might have been hers, yet without self respect she could never have enjoyed them. An assurance that, though many suitors might have sighed for her hand, she could then have never deserved, or gained the pure, the true, the hallowed homage of one noble heart ; for on the wings of rumour, fleeter than the winds, would the tale of the rich heiress' infamous vow have spread far and wide, tracking her steps to even her own sunny clime.

And she was consoled for the time. The next day, her future protectors — a farmer and his wife, whom Mr. Dernevor had named as the guardians of his daugh ter — arrived ; and after some coarse, com mon-place phrases of condolence had been duly uttered, with the proper sanctimonious accent, Mrs. Edwards volunteered to assist her ward in making the necessary prepara tions for her removal, as she [and her husband were particularly desirous of setting out on their return home early the ensuing morning. The journey was a mournful one to Geral dine, and a dull and disagreeable one to her companions, judging from the many times they expressed a wish that they were safe in their own house ; while the consequences of their absence, they appeared to apprehend, would be highly disastrous, from their reiteration of their regrets at having been compelled to leave home at such a busy season.

They reached Meadow Hall at last, how ever, after two days' irksome travelling ; and great were the congratulations of the energetic couple, when they found them selves once again in their snug, tidy parlour, and had been, in due course, assured that nothing had gone wrong in their absence. Miss Edwards, a tall, uncouth, florid, stupid looking girl, with long drop ear-rings and a greasy silk dress, and her brother, an equally interesting young man, stood boldly staring at the new-comer, until the former was rather sharply admonished by her mother to show Miss Dernevor her room. This was a little attic-chamber, with a sloping ceiling, and one small window jutting out from the tiled roof; but Geral dine was quite contented with its undivided possession. Julia Edwards scarcely spoke to the young stranger.

She merely examined every article of her attire, which she removed with a contemptuous expression of countenance ; and then saying roughly, " You will find us in the parlour," she left the room, and descended the two flights of stairs, her thick soled, ill-made shoes creaking musically the whole way ; and she finished by opening and shutting the parlour door with a snatch and a push. When Geraldine re-entered the sitting room, the whole party were at tea. A huge loaf, a vast pat of butter, a dish of sliced ham, and a formidable pile of dough-nuts, with large cups of rank tea coarsely sugared, and mixed with a plentiful supply of thick, clotted cream, formed the repast, the greater part of which quickly disappeared. After tea, the farmer called for his pipe, and was soon busily smoking away; while his son, with an affected air, lighted a cigar ; and deliberately and pompously the former commenced dilating on the excellences of his own peculiar breeds of stock, and his su perior modes of managing them, eliciting only a grunted assent from his son, who sat eyeing Geraldine in a manner that made her feel both indignant and uncomfortable.

Then hot water and spirits were brought in, and Mr. Edwards and his worthy heir were soon busily and eagerly compounding their favourite mixture of strong gin and water ; and even the ladies of the family did not disdain to accept a small tumbler each, staring contemptuously at Geraldine when she declined partaking of the noxious beverage, which they sipped with considerable gusto, as they discussed the prices of butter, eggs, and poultry, considered relatively with those of former seasons. The overpowering scent of the rank to bacco, mingled with that of the spirits, almost overcame Geraldine, who, pleading fatigue, begged to be allowed to retire to rest. That night her pillow was bedewed with many tears. Like the mimosa, she shrunk from the rude contact of those around her. Their voices sounded harshly, coarsely on her delicately-organized ear; and despite her efforts to the contrary, visions of splendour, and of pomp, and of world-wide renown, would tempt her spirit from its lofty alle giance to the right; and in the agony of her mind, she prayed wildly and earnestly for consolation and strength.

Then a drow siness crept over her, and she speedily lost all consciousness of woe and evil in a deep trance-like slumber. At six the next morning, Mrs. Edwards' loud voice sounded at her chamber door : "It is time to get up; we shall breakfast in half-an-hour !" Feeling languid and dispirited, after the mental suffering she had endured, Geral dine felt extremely reluctant to mingle again with those whose natures were so uncongenial and unrefined, whose capacities were so undeveloped, and whose sympathies were so limited. Solitude now seemed the only blessing within her reach, and even its gloomy enjoyments might be tyrannously restricted by her legal protectors. Oppressed by these thoughts, she was looking back, lingeringly, into her own narrow room, bare and cheerless as it was, and holding the half-opened door irresolutely in her hand, when a strong odour of fried bacon, as cending from the parlour, warned her that probably the family had already assembled round the breakfast-table, and that her longer stay might serve to provoke ill natured comments.