Graspum had diligently watched Marston’s affairs, and through the cunning and perseverance of Romescos, carefully noted every movement on the plantation.  Each death from cholera was reported,—­the change in Marston’s feelings observed and provided against,—­every stage of the crop carefully watched.  Graspum, however, had secured himself in the real estate, and gave little heed to the epidemic that was carrying off the negro property.  Finally, to pass over several stages in the decline of Marston’s affairs, the ravages of the disease continued until but forty-three negroes, old and young, were left on the old homestead.  The culminating point had arrived.  He was in the grasp of Graspum, and nothing could save him from utter ruin.  It had lately been proved that the Rovero family, instead of being rich, were extremely poor, their plantation having long been under a mortgage, the holder of which was threatening foreclosure.

With Marston, an amount of promiscuous debts had accumulated so far beyond his expectation that he was without means of discharging them.  His affairs became more and more confused, while the amount of his liabilities remained a perfect obscurity to the community.  Rumour began to disseminate his troubles, suspicion summoned her charges, and town-talk left little unadded; while those of his creditors who had been least suspicious of his wealth and honour became the most importunate applicants for their claims.  At length, driven by the pressure of the times, he calls Clotilda to him, and tells her that he is resolved to send Annette and Nicholas into the city, where they will remain in the care of a coloured woman, until an opportunity offers of sending them to the north.  He is fond of Clotilda,—­tells her of the excitement concerning his business affairs, and impresses her with the necessity of preserving calmness; it is requisite to the evasion of any ulterior consequence that may be brought upon him.  Every-thing hangs upon a thread-a political thread, a lawful thread-a thread that holds the fate of thirty, forty, or fifty human beings-that separates them from that verge of uncertainty upon which a straw may turn the weal or woe of their lives.  “When I get them comfortably cared for, Clotilda, I will send for you.  Nicholas’s mother has gone, but you shall be a mother to them both,” he says, looking upon her seriously, as if contemplating the trouble before him in the attempt to rescue his children.

“You will not send Annette away without me?” she inquires, quickly, falling on her knees at his side, and reiterating, “Don’t send Annette away without me,—­don’t, mas’r!”

“The separation will only be for a few days.  Annette shall be educated-I care not for the laws of our free land against it-and together you shall go where your parentage will not shame you,—­where you may ornament society,” he replies, as Clotilda’s face lights up with satisfaction.  With such an assurance-she does not comprehend the tenour of his troubles-her freedom seems at hand:  it excites her to joy.  Marston retires and she takes his seat, writes a note to Maxwell, who is then in the city, relating what has transpired, and concluding with a request that he will call and see her.