With a deep sigh, Mark Sutherland turned from the poor old man, and went up the stone steps that led to the Rose Terrace, that was also a neglected wilderness—but a wilderness of roses, and therefore still beautiful. Unannounced, he went up into the piazza; and before he could retreat, in an instant he saw and heard the following:—A man—or perhaps I should be expected to say, a gentleman—of very bloated and slothful appearance, was lazily reclining upon a bench, with his feet on the top of the balustrades, and with his right arm around the waist of a pretty, frightened quadroon girl, who seemed from the fan she still held, to have been engaged in keeping the flies off from him while he slept. She was now gently and fearfully struggling to free herself from his clasp, and saying, in hushed, frightened tones—
“O! if you please, sir, don’t! Consider. Indeed it isn’t right. What would my dear mistress say?”
“Mistress! my pretty Oriole! I wish she may say anything! Let her! You shall kiss me!”
“O master! O sir!”
At this moment Mark Sutherland had entered, advanced, and bowed very coldly, saying—“Mr. St. Gerald Ashley, if I remember right?”
The ruin of St. Gerald Ashley arose to his feet, and answered, with something of his former ease and self-possession,
“Yes, sir. Mr. Sutherland, you are welcome to Cashmere again. Walk in; or would you prefer to sit down in the cool air here for a few moments? The house is very warm. Girl, go and let you mistress know that Mr. Sutherland has arrived.”
He added this command in a tone of authority, in strong contrast of his tone of wooing of a moment since.
Oriole, with her eyes filled with tears, and her face dyed with blushes, went gladly to obey.
Mr. Ashley then conducted his guest into the house.