Colonel Dumont trusted much to the gentle influence of his family circle to soften Jaspar’s moroseness, and infuse some principle of charity and love.  But these anticipations proved vain.  He was cold and taciturn.  Business alone could call forth the display of his energy, of which he was possessed of a liberal share.  The society of Emily and other ladies he seemed to shun.  The gentle influence of domestic life seemed entirely wasted upon him.  Colonel Dumont was forced to believe his brother a misanthrope, and no longer strove to soften his character.  Emily regarded his coldness as his natural manner, and left him to the full enjoyment of his eccentricity.  Between persons of such opposite dispositions there could be, of course, but little sympathy, and that little was entirely upon one side.

The demon of Jaspar’s nature displayed itself in the cane-field and in the sugar-house, which Colonel Dumont rarely visited, having intrusted the entire management of the estate to him, his own attention being occupied by the exterior business of the plantation, and by his city possessions.  The poor negro, who was compelled to submit to cruel usage and short fare, knew Jaspar’s nature better than uncle or niece.  His advent among them had been the era from which they dated the life of misery they led—­a life so different from that they had been accustomed to under the superintendence of the more Christian brother.

Jaspar Dumont managed the “negro stock” in the true spirit of a demon, and as such the “hands” learned to regard him.  Runaways, which, under the mild management of his brother, were rarely known, were common now; and almost the only amusement Jaspar knew was to hunt them down with rifle and bloodhound.

This state of things Colonel Dumont saw, but he did not appreciate the reason of it.  Himself a rigid disciplinarian, he wished not to interfere, though the cruelty of Jaspar pained his heart.  His failing health had latterly withdrawn his attention still more from the plantation, and Jaspar drew the reins the tighter when he saw that the humane eye was removed from him.

Such was Jaspar Dumont, whom we left in Maxwell’s office at the close of our first chapter.

On the day succeeding the departure of Henry Carroll, Colonel Dumont felt himself much weaker in body, and was fully impressed with the conviction that his final sickness had laid its hand upon him.  To Emily he had not communicated these gloomy forebodings, and she had discovered no alarming symptoms in his illness.  She had no suspicion of the nature of her father’s business with Maxwell, and had borne his message to the attorney, as she had often done before, in her frequent visits to New Orleans, though on this occasion, as may be supposed, she felt much delicacy in doing so.

In her absence Colonel Dumont had become more and more impressed with the omens of a speedy dissolution, and in his uneasiness had despatched Jaspar with a draft of his intentions, wishing the attorney to write the will in his office (where he could have his authorities at hand), and return with his brother.