and I heard from him, that one of the boys from the up-country, who was ac quainted with Miss Lucy, had run to tell her, that the deserters were going to murder some escaped prisoners. "My master was only a private soldier, but they understood that he was a person of consideration and conser quence for all that; and therefore, when he ordered them to give him up charge of the prisoners, they supposed him sent by the officers, and made no resistance. "Master kept these men in a little shed-room in the house where he and Miss Lucy were staying, until Sherman's army entered. "They fully understood that they owed their lives to him and Miss Lucy; and they in turn protected the house, their friends, and all their property during Sherman's stay. "The one who spoke French went to Sherman, immediately on his entrance, and procured a guard for the house and property. 66 They pressed master and Miss Lucy to go North with them, assuring them that their conduct would insure them a welcome; but master said he could never desert South Carolina when she was unfortunate; that he was born in South Carolina, as were his ancestors before him; and that he would abide by her fortunes, and die here too. "My master and Miss Lucy returned to the up-country after the surrender. When I came with them, I was hale and hearty. When freedom came, I asked master's permission to go down the country for Sally and the children. I too could not bear to desert my master when he was unfortunate, and to take that hour to turn against him. "You are as free as I am, Edmund,' my master replied. "No, master,' I said; 'you brought me up and supported me; I have now my wife and children to care for, and I cannot work all the time for you as formerly; but I wish to keep near you, and do everything I can to help you. "I went down for them, and brought them. I felt well when I did so, but consumption had even then set in. Very soon I became unable to work, and my master has had to divide with me the little that remained to him. "After the peace, I received some help from Beaufort; and, Sally being able to work and make wages, I have been so far supplied. "I know that it is impossible for me to live long. Master and Mass Lawrence have promised me never to forsake Sally and the children; and a young lady in the neighborhood (Miss Violet) has been good enough to write down this account, to be kept for my children." THE FACE IN THE GLASS. CHAPTER II. infancy; and my father bequeathed me to the care of his nephew, Mr. Hunting M'Baume de Lascours Carteret. I Y name is Charlotte Alixe La don, with the proviso that I was never was born and educated in France, at a chateau belonging to my mother's family in the province of Bain Le Duc, where the De Lascours family once had large possessions. I am, however, of a noble English family on my father's side, and the heiress of an immense estate. Both my parents died during my to marry without his consent, and was not to go to England until I had attained my eighteenth year. I lived, therefore, in the chateau with my aunt, Madame de Renneville, and the Abbé Renauld, to whom my guardian (Mr. Huntingdon) had confided my education. I had no relations in the world ex cept my aunt and this English cousin, who was the son of my father's only and elder brother. I never saw him during my childhood, nor did my aunt ; and, as he never held any communication whatever with either of us, addressing the only letters he ever wrote to our avocat in Paris, M. Baudet, he scarcely seemed to me a real personage, or one who possessed so strong a claim upon me as that with which our relationship and my father's commands had invested him. Life had gone on very happily with me for fourteen years, — very happily, and very quietly also; and so little was said to me about my English possessions and my English guardian, that I had almost forgotten the existence of any ties out of France, when, on my fourteenth birthday, an event occurred which, for the first time, made me feel how strong they were. I had been spending the day (a lovely one in the latter part of October) in the forest, at some, distance from the chateau, and was returning late in the afternoon, laden with nuts, pebbles, wild-flowers, and other rural treasures, when I was met by a servant, who had come to tell me that my aunt desired my presence, and that of M. l'Abbé (who was with me) in the drawing-room. I went thither hastily, and with some curiosity. My aunt was seated in her chair by the fire; a table covered with parchments and writing materials stood before her, and on the opposite side of the fireplace, with his weazen face and sharp eyes directed to the door, was a little old gentleman, whom I at once supposed to be M. Baudet. 'This," said my aunt, as I approached her, "is Mademoiselle Carteret. Charlotte, you remember M. Baudet, — do you not? I courtesied to M. Baudet, and sat down, wondering very much what he could possibly have to say to me. My aunt continued: "You must reply, my dear, to all the questions put to you by M. Baudet." M. Baudet now sat down. "It ap pears, Mademoiselle," said he, "that your cousin and guardian, M. Huntingdon, has had a letter in his possession ever since the death of Monsieur your father, which, in accordance with certain instructions, he was to open on the first day of the month in which you would attain your fourteenth year. M. Huntingdon accordingly opened it on that day, and found it to contain, among sundry business charges with which I will not trouble you, an especial command that you should be kept absolutely secluded from all society until M. Huntingdon should see fit to present you. Another command is that you are never to see or converse with any gentlemen except myself, M. l'Abbé, and such reverend fathers as you may have to consult in regard to your spiritual welfare, until M. Huntingdon presents to you men of your own rank. Now, Mademoiselle, I am directed by M. Huntingdon to ask you certain questions to which you will, if you please, reply without fear." He rose, and, taking from the hand of M. l'Abbé a copy of the Gospels, extended it to me. I clasped it in my hands, and waited for the questions: "Mademoiselle, recollect, if you please, that you are answering before your God. Have you passed your entire life in this chateau ?" det, rustling the papers which lay on dear father's anxiety on your account the table, and finally selecting one, "I should have led him to place me in a poam about to put to you a very important sition which is so painful to myself, and question, and that is whether you will so which can scarcely be less so to you. far conform to the wishes of Monsieur Yet I should be false to my trust were I your father as to sign this paper, which to conceal from you the fact that I hold has been drawn up by M. Huntingdon, myself bound to fulfil his injunctions to and which contains a promise on your the letter; and, in the event of your part never, voluntarily or otherwise, to declining to comply with the demands accept the attentions of any gentleman, which M. Baudet will make of you in or to permit the present seclusion of my name, I shall be compelled unwillyour life to be in any way broken in ingly, but also unhesitatingly, to resort upon, until you are released from your to legal measures to secure your acpledge by M. Huntingdon himself. I. quiescence. I am, of course, aware that am also charged with a letter from M. the latter alternative will not be forced Huntingdon, Mademoiselle, enclosing upon me by a Carteret, and that your one from Monsieur your father, which reverence for the memory of your parit seems he wrote and delivered into ents, and the confidence which I trust M. Huntingdon's keeping shortly be- you feel in my devotion to your interfore his death." Saying this, he put ests, will induce you to affix your signahis hand into the pocket of his coat, ture to the paper in M. Baudet's posand, after some difficulty, selected from session. I ought further to add, that I thence a thick packet, with armorial am fully aware of the fidelity with which bearings on the seal. Madame de Renneville has observed "Pour vous, Mademoiselle," said he, the instructions of your late father in bowing. regard to your education; and that, al I opened the letter, my first, and though at so great a distance, I have read: M. Baudet, your solicitor, will acquaint you with the peculiar and painful nature of the subject upon which I am reluctantly compelled to address you. You are aware that I, then a lad of eighteen, had the melancholy and inestimable privilege of closing my uncle's eyes in death. It was but a few moments before he died, and shortly after the news of your birth reached him, that he declared his intention of making me your guardian when I should come of age, and wrote, with the last effort of his failing strength, two letters, — one addressed to, and to be opened by, me when you should have attained your fourteenth year; the other, and the last, to yourself, with the request that I would retain it in my possession until I opened and read my own. Having done so, I have arrived at a very definite idea of my duty, which is to forward to you the enclosed epistle, and to express to you my regrets that your been, and am, so perfectly informed of Your attached cousin, I read this letter through, once, twice, and was folding it up, when my eye fell upon that of my father, which lay unopened in my lap. The ink in which it was superscribed was faded, the paper yellow with age, and a strange chill crept through my heart as my fingers trembled on the seal. That father whose face I had never seen, whose voice I had never heard, whose very existence seemed to me a dream, was to speak to me now from his far-off grave. I opened it. It was dated at Castle Carteret on the 10th of November, 17-, and was written in a trembling CHARLES HARRINGTON CARTERET. I rose, when I had finished reading this letter, and walked to the window. The setting sun bathed the ruined wing of the chateau, which was opposite, and the woods, in a golden glow. A few late flowers were blooming in the court, a brown bee hovering over them, and, a little beyond, my greyhounds were gayly gambolling. I looked at this pretty, peaceful scene through the rising tears which filled my eyes, looked without seeing it then, though I have remembered it ever since, as I suppose the sailor who goes down among the sea waves would, if there were remembrance in death, recall, even in his watery grave, every blade of grass on the hillock which he last saw. I stood there long, weeping silently, and with an overpowering dread of the fate which seemed closing round me, and from which I saw no escape. I felt all this then without at all defining my sensations; for I was too young, and had led too happy and sheltered a life, to apprehend the possibility of all that awaited me. I never dreamed, either, of refusing my signature to the paper which M. Baudet held in his hand, for I knew that there was no alternative for me; but I wanted to delay the decisive moment, and therefore I continued to weep. CHAPTER III. BUT I could not linger long; already the gates of childhood were closing behind me, already its joyous carelessness had faded from my heart; and as I obeyed my aunt's summons, and turned reluctantly from the window, I took the first step to meet my doom. M. Baudet looked up as I approached the fireplace. "Well, Mademoiselle," said he, dryly, "are you prepared to hear the paper?" "I must listen to it, I suppose," said I, bitterly. "It certainly is necessary that you should, Mademoiselle," and he read it. I cannot now remember how it was worded, although it was in substance what my father had distinctly stated in his letter, and what Mr. Huntingdon had hinted in his, and comprised a very careful, minute, and complete renunciation of my will in favor of that of my guardian, and made me a prisoner within the chateau and grounds of Lascours. When he had finished reading, M. Baudet laid it before me. "Are you prepared to sign it, Mademoiselle?" said he. I looked at my aunt, but her face was averted. She was gazing gloomily into the fire. "I suppose I must sign it," said I, bursting into fresh tears as I took up the pen; "but I think papa was very cruel, and I hate my cousin Huntingdon." As soon as I had signed it, M. Baudet gathered up his papers, summoned his carriage, took a ceremonious leave of my aunt, M. l'Abbé, and myself, and departed. Many years passed by before I again saw him. When he had departed, my aunt went to her oratory, M. l'Abbé to the chapel, and I ran into the court, and summoned my greyhounds for a game of play before the night closed in. - From that day my life was changed. Secluded I had always been, but free as air; now I was so no longer; my guardian's commands, my dead father's wishes, closed me in day by day. Subtle and strong, strong as death, - my general promise seemed to apply to every action of my life. I seemed to have lost, all in a moment, the feelings, the hopes, the happiness of childhood; and, as was natural, I grew restless, irritable, and morbid. No captive pining in his cell, no slave toiling in the galleys, ever longed for liberty as I did. I watched the peasants at their work, the shepherds on the hillside, the very beggars at the door, with bitter envy and pain; and thus in solitude, weariness, and restlessness my young years dragged slowly on. No sharp pain tortured, no tangible grief oppressed me; but I would have welcomed even an agony if it would have broken in upon the monotony of my life, a life which admitted of no hope since my guardian's control might extend to its end. Miserable days those were, days in which I learned much of woe, but they were bright compared with what has passed since. I have heard of the torture which was inflicted in ancient times by letting water fall drop by drop on the victim's head; I have felt that. The chateau where we lived was ancient and beautiful, the lands were wide, and I was free to wander through them, — everything was mine but liberty; and that liberty seemed insensibly to remove itself further and further from me. Day by day the choking sense of stagnation increased. Day by day, side by side with the undefined dread of my guardian, grew the burning wish to propitiate one who held such boundless power over me; yet sometimes, when I thought of his coming, I mounted the tower, and looked out upon the valley and far distant hills, and wished, and longed, and almost determined, to leave name and fame and wealth behind me, and be a beggar, if need be, but free; and then like a gloomy refrain came my father's warning, "Never deviate from his commands; if you do, I cannot rest in my grave." I dared not violate his last sleep, and so I waited and endured. No one can have an idea of the deep solitude of those days; no visitors ever came near us; the old servants went noiselessly about the house; it seemed to me, at times, as if the very birds sang lower since that fatal day when M. Baudet took away my freedom. At the close of my eighteenth year M. l'Abbé died, and was succeeded by Father Romano,—an old and devout Italian priest whom I had known all my life. His age and infirmities prevented his accompanying me as regularly in my walks as M. l'Abbé had done, and left me, therefore, something like freedom, though I was still a prisoner within the grounds immediately surrounding the chateau. So quietly and wearily the years crept on until the summer of 17-, in the autumn of which year I was to complete my twenty-first year. The 30th of August was my aunt's fête, and it had always been my custom to decorate her oratory with flowers. I therefore went out quite early in the day to gather them, and was returning, laden with them, when I was attracted by some climbing roses which grew in the avenue. I could not reach them, however, and, after several futile efforts, pursued my way to a gate which led into another part of the grounds. Here I met with another disappointment, as the gate resisted all my attempts to open it; and I was just turning away, when a hand appeared from behind me, and threw it open. I turned hastily. Behind me stood a tall and noblelooking man, whose air and dress alike indicated his high rank. With one hand he removed his hat; the other was full of wild roses. 66 Pardon, Mademoiselle," said he, in good French, but with a slight foreign accent; "I have alarmed you, I fear, but it was impossible to resist coming to your assistance." I faltered out some confused thanks. The stranger smiled slightly, as he replied: "Indeed, I must confess to having been a spy upon your movement for some moments, Mademoiselle. I had but just entered the park, hoping to see this fine old chateau, when I beheld you in the avenue, seeking to gather some roses. I ventured to steal some in your behalf; will you do me the honor to accept them?" I hesitated a moment, but then took them from his outstretched hand. "Allow me to suggest, Mademoiselle," he continued, "that you at once |