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Updated: May 14, 2025
We are happy to hear that Sam, and George, and the horses are in good order, and all the family gives their love to them. New-York, 17th December. I received your letter, and am happy to hear that you are in a good state of health. Harry went to Mr. Alston's farm the day after I received the letter, and the man had gone away the 11th day of December.
"Yes," said Alston with a calculated dignity, "I know her very well." "Oh, I mean really know her, not enough to take her in to dinner or snatch your hat off to her." "Yes, I really know her." "Then why should you assume she's not a liar?" Madame Beattie asked this with the utmost tranquillity. It almost robbed the insult of offence. But Alston's face arrested her, and she burst out laughing.
No women servants were employed; women servants had not been a feature of domestic life in Bonanza days. That was why the house was lit by chandeliers instead of lamps, that was why dinner was at half past six instead of seven, that was why George Alston's daughters had rather "dropped out." They would not move with the times, they would not be brought up to date.
He had ridden up unheard, had dismounted, tying his horse to a tree, and had then stood for several minutes without being seen by Ruth or David. When he spoke, they thought that he had just arrived. Ruth went forward to welcome him with the ease and grace that marked everything she did. Nature had given her a pretty, gentle dignity, and Philip Alston's cultured example had polished her manner.
Alston was wondering what he had said that was disrespectful, when the man added, "Won't have none yer sahrin' uv me. I's yer moster, an' that's what yer's got ter call me, I let yer know." Alston's blood was up, but the slaves were used to self-repression. All that was endurable in their lives depended on patience and submission. "Beg poddon, moster," Alston said with well-assumed meekness.
But she saw their beauty and felt their charm, for a beautiful woman loves and longs for the jewels that belong to her beauty, as naturally as the rose loves and longs to gather and keep the dewdrops in its heart. "Oh! Oh!" was all that she could say, and she could think of nothing to do, except stand on tiptoe and touch Philip Alston's cheek with a butterfly kiss.
Even his father, reluctantly sitting in the stalls after a hard day in Wall Street, was obliged to be proud of his boy. "Dear old Alston!" Charmian found herself whispering. "He's a success. Alston's a success a success!" She kept on forming the last word, and willing with all her might. "Success! Success it is coming; it is ours! In a moment we shall know it, we shall have it! Success! Success!"
Hang me if I don't believe old Alston's in love with her himself!" Hugh Alston had meant to run over to Hurst Dormer and see how things were getting on there, and incidentally to collect any letters that might have come for him. But the days passed, and Hugh did not go. Lady Linden required her fat horses for her own purposes.
Soon after she went back to empty her sack. The baskets stood hazardously near Alston for Lizay's game, but with her back turned to him and the luxuriant cotton-stalks between she reckoned she might venture. One-third of her sack she threw into Alston's basket about five pounds. And thus the poor soul did during the day, giving a third of her gatherings to Alston.
They were like memorials from another state of existence, things that connected him with a plane of being that he had left long ago. He had a vision of himself in that distant past, packing his trunk, making brisk, satisfactory jottings on a sheet of hotel paper, standing on the hearth looking into Lorry Alston's angry eyes.
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