Transcriber's Notes:

1. Page scan source:

http://books.google.com/books?id=l_YUAAAAQAAJ
(Oxford University)

TRUE TO A TYPE

TRUE TO A TYPE

BY

R. CLELAND

IN TWO VOLUMES

VOL. I.

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS

EDINBURGH AND LONDON

MDCCCLXXXVII

All Rights reserved

CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

TRUE TO A TYPE.

CHAPTER I.

PROLOGUE.

It was evening in New Orleans--the brief swift evening of the South, which links, with imperceptible graduation, the sultry glare of day to the cool of night. The narrow old streets were growing dim in the transparent dusk. The torpid houses, sealed up hermetically through all the afternoon to exclude the heated light and air, awoke from their siesta, throwing wide their doors and casements to the breeze. The inhabitants came forth, and sauntered up and down, or sat about their doors, drawing long, deep breaths of the evening air--coming back to life again, and throwing off their languor. It was the hour of rest for the toilers, of refreshment for all, and they were enjoying it in indolent content.

Only one among the many moving to and fro appeared animated by a purpose. He stepped briskly forward, brushing against an idler now and then, but was past before the other's eyes had turned in lazy inquiry to know the reason.

He was young. Twenty-one was his actual age, though he might have passed for some years older. His features and his skin were browned and sharpened by climate and vicissitude; but in his eye at that moment there was no sign of aught but youth and hope and blissful anticipation. Brushing his way swiftly through the sauntering throng, his gaze seemed fixed upon some joy beyond, heedless of nearer objects; and his eyes shone with a clearness like the rift in a moon-obscuring cloud, betraying the brightness and the light within; and a smile was lurking in the corners of his mouth, which waited only for a pretext to break forth in joyous laughter.

Threading his way through the older portion of the town, he arrived at last in the outskirts, where high blank walls overtopped by trees, and houses with their faces turned studiously from the street, preserved the sullen deadness which more populous neighbourhood had cast aside at sundown.

Before a garden door he stopped and knocked--knocked loudly, and with a peculiar tantarabulation, as if it were a well-remembered signal, and stood and waited impatiently. The shuffling of feet could be heard within, and there came whisperings and rustlings, but the door remained fast, and the young man stood and waited, and knocked again, more softly this time, and with a brightening smile as he stood and listened.

"They have gone to call her," he said to himself, "that she may come and open to me herself, as she used to do. Dear girl! It is three long years since last she let