The Discarded Daughter OR The Children of the Isle

INTRODUCTORY. ST. CLARA’S ISLE.

The scenes of our story lie along the Western shore of Maryland, near the mouth of the Potomac River, and among the islets of the Chesapeake Bay.

Nothing can be more beautiful, grand, and inspiring than the scenery of this region.

The great Potomac, a mighty and invincible monarch of rivers, even from her first stormy conquest, in which she rent apart the everlasting mountains, and forced herself a passage to the sea—widens and broadens her channel, extending the area of her empire continually as she goes on her irresistible way in a vast, calm, majestic flow of waters to the ocean.

At the mouth of the river on the north, or Maryland side, is Point Lookout; on the south, or Virginia side, is Smith’s Point, with an expanse of water twenty miles in width between them.

The shore on the Maryland side is broken by the most beautiful creeks and inlets, and dotted by the most beautiful islets that imagination can depict—creeks whose crystal-clear waters reflect every undulating hill and vale, every shadowy tree and bright flower lying upon their banks, and every soft and dark, or sun-gilded and glorious cloud floating in the skies above their bosoms; islets whose dewy, fresh and green luxuriance of vegetation, darksome trees and profound solitude, tempt one viinto poetic dreams of an ideal hermitage. The beauty and interest of this shore is enhanced by the occasional glimpses of rural homes—magnificent, or simply picturesque—seen indistinctly through the trees, at the head of some creek, on the summit of some distant hill, or in the shades of some thick grove.

Nothing can surpass the pleasure of the opposite but delightfully blended emotions inspired by this scene.

On the one hand the near shore, with its inlets and islands, its sunny hills and shadowy dells, its old forests, its cornfields, and its sweet, sequestered homes, yields that dear sense of safety and repose which the most adventurous never like to lose entirely.

On the other hand, looking out to the sea, the broad expanse of waters, the free and unobstructed pathway to all parts of the world, fills and dilates the heart with an exultant sense of boundless freedom!

I said that the islets of the Potomac were fertile, verdant, and luxurious in vegetation. This is because their sandy soil is mixed freely with clay and marl; because it is enriched with the deposits of the vast flocks of water-fowl that hover upon them for safe repose; and finally, because, unlike the worn-out lands of the peninsula, the soil is a virgin one, where for ages vegetation has budded, bloomed, and decayed, and returned to the earth to fertilize it. (And here let me be pardoned for saying that it is a matter of surprise to me that the attention of enterprising men has never been turned to these islands as a source of agricultural wealth; for, besides the rich fertility of the soil, the salubrity of the air, and the beauty and grandeur of the land and water scenery, these islands are rich in shoals of fish, crabs, and oysters, and in vast flocks of water-fowl. But we ever overlook and leave the near to seek the far-off goal.)

Beyond the mouth of the river, however, and up the coast of the bay, the islands are sandy and poor—nearly unproductive, or entirely barren.

Anyone who will turn to the map of Maryland will see that the Chesapeake Bay is interspersed with numerous islands of all sizes, from the largest—Kent Island—to viithe smallest, nameless sand bank; that the eastern and western shores of Maryland are beautifully diversified with every modification of land and water scenery; that the inlets and islands of the coast form the most charming features of the landscape.

Some distance above Point Lookout, at the mouth of the Potomac River, up the western shore of Maryland, there is a beautiful inlet, or small bay, making up about three miles into the land, called St. Clara’s Bay by one of the early Roman Catholic settlers. At the headwaters of this inlet is a small, very old hamlet, the site of one of the first settlements of the State, intended once, no doubt, for a great colonial seaport, and christened by the same sponsor St. Clarasville. With its fine harbor and great commercial facilities, whatever could have arrested its growth and withered it in its prime I do not know—possibly the very abundance of other good harbors on the coast—probably the frequent and violent dissensions between the pre-emption freebooters of the Bay Isles and the legal proprietors and settlers of the mainland. Lying two miles off the mouth of this inlet, and stretching across in front of it, is an oblong, sandy, and nearly barren island—rich, however, in fish, crabs, oysters, and water-fowl, and upon this account a great

resort in early colonial times, and baptized by the same devout claimant of the bay and town St. Clara’s Isle, in honor of his patron saint.

But there was another claimant of the island, inlet, and township; a freebooter, who, believing in and acknowledging no greater personage than himself, had named the isle, the bay, and town also, when it was laid out, after himself. So they were first and most frequently called Hutton’s Island, Bay, and Town.

CHAPTER I. MOUNT CALM.

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 2unlike 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 3became 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.

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 4those 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 5it—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:

6“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.

“I will speak to him, Alice,” she then said. “I will tell him how you and Sinclair love each other—as you could not tell him, my child. I will show him how vain—oh, how vain! are wealth, and rank, and honor, and glory, in the hour of grief, by the bed of death, in the presence of God! how love, and truth, and faith are all in all! Yes! and I will make him feel it, too. And, though he should not realize it as I do, yet he will never refuse me a request now!”

And the next morning, directly after breakfast, Colonel Chester received a message from his wife, requesting him to come to her room for a few minutes, if convenient, as she wished to speak with him.

Colonel Chester went. What passed at that interview no one knew more than what might be guessed from what followed.

Colonel Chester came out of the room, banging the door after him, with a half-uttered imprecation upon “sickly fancies,” “irritable nerves,” and “foolish women.” But immediately after this interview Mrs. Chester became much worse; her fever rose to delirium, and she was alarmingly ill for several days. Milton Sinclair heard of her state, and, little suspecting the cause, came to see her. He was met by Colonel Chester, who informed him that his wife was too ill to receive even her pastor, and requested him to walk into the library. There Colonel Chester informed him that circumstances 7had occurred which made it his painful duty to beg that Mr. Sinclair would temporarily suspend his visits to Mount Calm.

“Alice!” exclaimed the young man. That name contained everything, and rendered a full explanation indispensable. It was given.

Deadly pale, Sinclair walked up and down the floor, pressing his head tightly between his two palms and groaning—groaning the name, the prayer, that in the bitterest agony of the soul starts to every lip:

“My God! oh, my God! have pity on me! God have mercy on me!”

The heart-broken tone of these words touched even that hard man of the world, Colonel Chester.

“Come, come, Sinclair; you must have been prepared for this for some months past. I did not violently and at once separate you from Alice when I first came home, although you must have known that all our plans were changed. I gave you time to wean yourself gradually off. In other circumstances, indeed, I should have felt myself most honored, most happy in the alliance; but we do not control our own destinies. Good-day, Sinclair. You will forget Alice.”

CHAPTER III. THE FATHER’S TYRANNY.

Sinclair! Sinclair! Where in the world was he? Where had he been so many days? Why did he not come? Alice could have given the world to have seen him.

She did not know that he had been forbidden the 8house. She was totally ignorant of everything that had passed between her father and himself. She walked wildly about the house and grounds, instinctively avoiding her feeble mother’s room, lest in her present distracted state she should kill her with agitation; afraid of meeting her father, and doubly afraid of encountering General Garnet, and wishing and praying—oh! praying, as if for dear life, that she might meet Sinclair.

One afternoon she wrote a wild letter to him, illegible and unintelligible every way except in this—that he must “come to Mount Calm immediately.” She sent the letter off, and walked up and down her chamber, trying to get calm enough to go and see her mother. While thus employed a message reached her from her mother, desiring her to come to her room. Alice went immediately. As she entered the dark chamber Mrs. Chester called her up to the side of her bed; she saw that her mother’s countenance had changed fearfully since the morning, and now a new terror and remorse seized her heart; she was about to speak, when Mrs. Chester said:

“Alice, you look frightfully pale and haggard, my dear child. Alice, we were foiled this morning. Your father has been here, and told me all about it—the projected marriage in a week, and all; but do not fear, my dear child, you shall not be sacrificed; it is not right. I have sent a message to Mr. Sinclair to come here this evening. He has not been here for some time, and when he comes I must have a talk with him.”

At this moment a servant entered the chamber, to whom Mrs. Chester turned, saying:

“Milly, mix a teaspoonful of ether with a little water, and hand it to Miss Alice. She is not well. You must take it, Alice, dear; you are really very ill, and it will compose your nerves.”

“Mr. Sinclair is downstairs, madam, and wants to know if he may come up,” said the girl, as she handed the glass to Alice.

Alice dropped the glass, untasted.

“Where is General Garnet?” said Mrs. Chester.

“In the library, writing, madam.”

9“Where is Colonel Chester?”

“Gone out riding, madam.”

“Thank Heaven! Yes, request Mr. Sinclair to come up, Milly.”

After the departure of the girl the mother and daughter remained in silent expectation. At last the light, quick footstep of Sinclair was heard upon the stairs.