“That was a young black gal, who had left the plantation to follow her mistress, whom she accompanied in her flight. She made a confidante of her sable companion, who was a liberated slave, and ‘Tilda,’ as she was called, was in possession of all her secrets.”
“Your story is doubtless very entertaining, sir,” observed the doctor; “but, for the life of me, I cannot see how it can in any way concern me.”
“I hope to arrive at that point presently,” returned Mr. Shearman. “Do, pray, permit me to deal with the case in my own way.”
“Oh, certainly—I will not interfere with you.”
“So the happy pair lived in Texas for some months—over a year, or it might be a year and a half. Before the expiration of that time Mr. Leaven died somewhat suddenly from disease of the heart. The land and stock were sold under the hammer, in accordance to the will he had left. The bulk of the proceeds was left to the sons; some few hundreds—I don’t know precisely how many—being Clara Wagstaff’s share. Shortly after the demise of her father Clara grew suddenly sick. The circumstance was a little singular, but it is not more strange than many others one hears of of a similar character. Well, to cut a long story short, the young wife died. The cause of death was not clearly established, but the doctor who attended her in her last hours gave the requisite certificate, and she was buried.”
Mr. Shearman at this point of the narrative paused.
“Very sad—a very sad story,” ejaculated Bourne, casting his eyes up to the ceiling.
“Ya’as, most melancholy, aint it?” said his companion.
“Very much so, indeed. And the husband——”
“Oh, wall, he had, of course, the money left to his wife. It wasn’t a great deal, I believe, but it sufficed him to run the rig in Texas for many months. He led a life of pleasure, and “blewed” the greater part of the money. Then he sloped, and returned to the old country—so people say; anyway, he was not heard any more of in the ‘States.’”