He was disappointed. His dream of home and its blessings faded away, and was supplanted by a terrible reality. He grew more and more melancholy. But there was a solace, which saved him from absolute misery. Two children—a boy and a girl—blessed his otherwise unhallowed union. The education of these children was the only joy his home afforded; but even this to his misanthropic mind could not compensate for his matrimonial disappointment.
Years passed away; the son was sent to college, from which, to the anguish of his father, he was expelled for gross misconduct. The young man returned to New Orleans, and became one of the most dissolute and abandoned characters of the city. Dr. Vaudelier disowned him, and sunk the deeper in his melancholy.
The death of his wife left him alone with his daughter; and if the fatal influence of past years could have been removed, perhaps he might have been a happy man. The daughter was a beautiful girl, and promised to realize all the fond expectations of her father. Her daily education and method of life, as directed by her father, were better calculated to fit her for the occupancy of a nun's cell than for rational society.
About five years previous to the time of our story, the solemn quiet of Dr. Vaudelier's dwelling was disturbed by the arrival of a young French gentleman, bearing letters of introduction to the misanthropic physician. This gentleman was delighted with the daughter of his host, and she experienced a before unknown pleasure in his society. The doctor was, to some extent, obliged to abandon the "pleasures of melancholy," and accompany the young couple into the world.
This intimacy between the young persons rapidly ripened into love. Dr. Vaudelier's inquiries into the character and circumstances of the young gentleman were not satisfactory, and he refused to sanction the union. Perhaps he was influenced more in this decision by the dread of parting with his daughter than by any other motive. The father's refusal was followed by the elopement of the young couple,—an act which blasted the only remaining hope of the misanthrope. His heart was too sensitive to endure the shock.
Reduced to the depths of despair, suicide presented itself as the only effectual remedy for his misfortunes. But the church, to whose rites and promises he yielded the most devoted reverence, doomed the suicide to eternal woe!
Society, into which for a brief period he had allowed himself to be enticed, was ten-fold more distasteful to him than before. He could not endure even that which the practice of his profession demanded. The great city seemed a pandemonium, and he resolved to escape from its hated scenes.
He travelled up the river in search of seclusion, and accidentally had noticed the island upon which he afterwards fixed his residence.
His abode upon the island was not entirely unknown to the inhabitants of his vicinity; yet they seldom troubled him with their presence. Steamers and flat-boats continually passed his little domain; yet the traveller knew not that it was occupied by human beings.
Dr. Vaudelier's pursuits were of the most simple nature. He read and wrote nearly the whole day, and in the evening,—often at the dead of night,—he would unmoor his yacht, and stem the tide of the mighty river. His chief happiness was in communion with nature. His solitary habits had completely estranged him from society; and he chose the night for his lonely excursions on the river, to avoid the presence of man.