Her child has eaten its crust, fallen into a deep sleep, and, its little hands resting clasped on its bosom, lies calmly upon the coarse blanket. She gazes upon it, as a mother only can gaze. There is beauty in that sweet face; it is not valued for its loveliness, its tenderness, its purity. How cursed that it is to be the prime object of her disgrace! Thus contemplating, M'Carstrow appears at the outer gate, is admitted into the prison, reaches the inner grating, is received by the warden, who smiles generously. "I'm as glad as anything! Hope you had a good time with his honour, Mr. Cur?" he says, holding the big key in his hand, and leading the way into the office. He takes his seat at a table, commences preparing the big book. "Here is the entry," he says, with a smile of satisfaction. "We'll soon straighten the thing now." Puts out his hand for the order which M'Carstrow has been holding. "That's just the little thing," he says, reading it word by word carefully, and concluding with the remark that he has had a deal of trouble with it. M'Carstrow places some pieces of silver in his hand; they turn the man of keys into a subservient creature. He hastens to the cell, M'Carstrow following,—draws the heavy bolts,—bids the prisoner come forth. "Yes, come, girl; I've had a tough time to get you out of that place: it holds its prey like lawyers' seals," rejoins M'Carstrow.
"Not without my child?" she inquires quickly. She stoops down and kisses it. "My daughter,—my sweet child!" she mutters.
"Till to-morrow. You must leave her for to-night."
"If I must!" Again she kisses the child, adding, as she smoothed her hand over Annette, and parted her hair, "Mother will return soon." There was something so touching in the word mother, spoken while leaning over a sleeping babe. Clotilda reaches the door, having kept her eyes upon the child as she left her behind. A tremor comes over her,—she reluctantly passes the threshold of the narrow arch; but she breathes the fresh air of heaven,—feels as if her life had been renewed. A mother's thoughts, a mother's anxieties, a mother's love, veil her countenance. She turns to take a last look as the cold door closes upon the dearest object of her life. How it grates upon its hinges! her hopes seem for ever extinguished.
The law is thus far satisfied-the legal gentlemen are satisfied, the warden is not the least generous; and Mr. Cur feels that, while the job was a very nice one, he has not transcended one jot of his importance. Such is highly gratifying to all parties. Clotilda is hurried into a carriage, driven at a rapid rate, and soon arrives at the mansion. Here she is ushered into a chamber, arrayed in a new dress, and conducted into the presence of Franconia. The meeting may be more easily imagined than described. Their congratulations were warm, affectionate, touching. Clotilda kisses Franconia's hand again and again; Franconia, in turn, lays her hand upon Clotilda's shoulder, and, with a look of commiseration, sets her eyes intently upon her, as if she detects in her countenance those features she cannot disown. She requests to be left alone with Clotilda for a short time. Her friends withdraw. She discloses the difficulties into which the family have suddenly fallen, the plan of escape she has arranged, the hopes she entertains of her regaining her freedom. "Public opinion and the state of our difficulties prompted this course,—I prefer it to any other: follow my directions,—Maxwell has everything prepared, and to-night will carry you off upon the broad blue ocean of liberty. Enjoy that liberty, Clotilda,—be a woman,—follow the path God has strewn for your happiness; above all, let freedom be rewarded with your virtue, your example," says Franconia, as she again places her arm round Clotilda's neck.
"And leave my child, Franconia?" the other inquires, looking up imploringly in Franconia's face.
"To me," is the quick response. "I will be her guardian, her mother. Get you beyond the grasp of slavery-get beyond its contaminating breath, and I will be Annette's mother. When you are safely there, when you can breathe the free air of liberty, write me, and she shall meet you. Leave her to me; think of her only in my care, and in my trust she will be happy. Meet Maxwell-he is your friend-at the centre corridor; he will be there as soon as the ceremony commences; he will have a pass from me; he will be your guide!" She overcomes Clotilda's doubts, reasons away her pleadings for her child, gives her a letter and small miniature (they are to be kept until she reaches her destination of freedom), and commences preparing for the ceremony.
Night arrives, the old mansion brightens and resounds with the bustle of preparation. Servants are moving about in great confusion. Everything is in full dress; "yellow fellows," immersed in trim black coats, nicely-cut pantaloons, white vests and gloves, shirt-collars of extraordinary dimensions, and hair curiously crimped, are standing at their places along the halls, ready for reception. Another class, equally well dressed, are running to and fro through the corridors in the despatch of business. Old mammas have a new shine on their faces, their best "go to church" fixings on their backs. Younger members of the same property species are gaudily attired-some in silk, some in missus's slightly worn cashmere. The colour of their faces grades from the purest ebony to the palest olive. A curious philosophy may be drawn from the mixture: it contrasts strangely with the flash and dazzle of their fantastic dresses, their large circular ear-rings, their curiously-tied bandanas, the large bow points of which lay crossed on the tufts of their crimpy hair. The whole scene has an air of bewitching strangeness. In another part of the mansion we find the small figures of the estate, all agog, toddling and doddling, with faces polished like black-balled shoes; they are as piquant and interesting as their own admiration of the dress master has provided them for the occasion.
The darkness increases as the night advances. The arbour leading from the great gate to the vaulted hall in the base of the mansion is hung with lanterns of grotesque patterns, emitting light and shade as variegated as the hues of the rainbow. The trees and shrubbery in the arena, hung with fantastic lanterns, enliven the picture-make it grand and imposing. It presents a fairy-like perspective, with spectre lights hung here and there, their mellow glows reflecting softly upon the luxuriant foliage.
Entering the vaulted hall, its floor of antique tiles; frescoed walls with well-executed mythological designs, jetting lights flickering and dazzling through its arches, we find ourselves amidst splendour unsurpassed in our land. At the termination of the great hall a massive flight of spiral steps, of Egyptian marble, ascends to the fourth story, forming a balcony at each, where ottomans are placed, and from which a fine view of the curvature presents itself, from whence those who have ascended may descry those ascending. On the second story is a corridor, with moulded juttings and fretwork overhead; these are hung with festoons of jasmines and other delicate flowers, extending its whole length, and lighted by globular lamps, the prismatic ornaments of which shed their soft glows on the fixtures beneath. They invest it with the appearance of a bower decorated with buds and blossoms. From this, on the right, a spacious arched door, surmounted by a semi-circle of stained glass containing devices of the Muses and other allegorical figures, leads into an immense parlour, having a centre arch hung with heavy folds of maroon coloured velvet overspread with lace. Look where you will, the picture of former wealth and taste presents itself. Around the walls hang costly paintings, by celebrated Italian masters; some are portraits of the sovereigns of England, from that of Elizabeth to George the Third. Brilliant lights jet forth from massive chandeliers and girandoles, lighting up the long line of chaste furniture beneath. The floor is spread with softest Turkey carpet; groups of figures in marble, skilfully executed, form a curiously arranged fire-place; Britannia's crest surmounting the whole. At each end of the room stand chastely designed pieces of statuary of heroes and heroines of past ages. Lounges, ottomans, reclines, and couches, elaborately carved and upholstered, stand here and there in all their antiqueness and grandeur. Pier-glasses, massive tables inlaid with mosaic and pearl, are arranged along the sides, and overhung with flowing tapestry that falls carelessly from the large Doric windows. Over these windows are massive cornices, richly designed and gilded. Quiet grandeur pervades the whole; even the fairy-like dais that has been raised for the nuptial ceremony rests upon four pieces of statuary, and is covered with crimson velvet set with sparkling crystals. And while this spectacle presents but the vanity of our nature, grand but not lasting, the sweet breath of summer is wafting its balmy odours to refresh and give life to its lifeless luxury.