Thy hopes have gone before: from all things here
They have departed; thou shouldst now depart.”—Shelley.
The defunct having left no will, administrators of his estate were appointed. These deemed it proper to be guided by the wishes of the widow and the daughter, notwithstanding the latter was still a minor. Those wishes were, that the identification of Miss Berwick, conclusive as it was, should be frankly admitted, and her property, with its accumulated interest, restored to her without a contest.
There was a friendly hearing in chambers, before the probate and other judges. The witnesses were all carefully examined; the contents of the sealed package in the little trunk were identified; and at last, in accordance with high legal and judicial approval, the vast estate, constituting nearly two-thirds of the amount left by Charlton, was transferred to trustees to be held till Clara should be of age. And thus finally did Vance carry his point, and establish the rights of the orphan of the Pontiac.
It was on a warm, pleasant day in the last week of September, 1862, that he called to take leave of her.
Little more than an hour’s drive beyond the Central Park brought him to a private avenue, at the stately gate of which he found children playing. One of these was a cripple, who, as he darted round on his little crutch, chasing or being chased, seemed the embodiment of Joy exercising under difficulties. His name was Andrew Rusk. An old colored woman who was carrying a basket of fruit to some invalid in the neighborhood, stopped and begged Andrew not to break his neck. Vance, recognizing Esha, asked if Clara was at home.
“Yes, Massa Vance; she’ll be powerful glad to see yer.”
While Vance is waiting in a large and lofty drawing-room for her appearance, let us review some of the incidents that have transpired since we encountered her last.
One of Clara’s first acts, on being put in partial possession of her ancestral estate, had been to present her aunt Pompilard with a furnished house, retaining for herself the freedom of a few rooms. The house stood on a broad, picturesque semi-circle of rocky table-land, that protruded like a huge bracket from a pleasant declivity, partly wooded, in view of the Palisades of the Hudson. The grounds included acres enough to satisfy the most aspiring member of the Horticultural Society. The house, also, was sufficiently spacious, not only for present, but for prospective grandchildren of the Pompilard stock. To the young Iretons and Purlings it was a blessed change from Lavinia Street to this new place.
Amid these sylvan scenes,—these green declivities and dimpling hollows,—these gardens beautiful, and groves and orchards,—the wounded Major and aspiring author, Cecil Purling, grew rapidly convalescent. The moment it was understood in fashionable circles that, through Clara’s access to fortune, he stood no longer in need of help, subscribers to his history poured in not merely by dozens, but by hundreds. He soon had confirmation made doubly sure that he should have the glorious privilege of being independent through his own unaided efforts. This time there is no danger that he will ruin a publisher. The work proceeds. On your library shelf, O friendly reader, please leave a vacant space for six full-sized duodecimos!