CHAPTER TWENTY.
PERPLEXITY.
As it might be supposed, Monsieur Revel and his grandchild had no desireto remain in Government-house a moment longer than was necessary, asAfra was obliged to leave it. Afra's last care, before quitting Cap,was to see that her friends were properly escorted to their home.
Euphrosyne was still struggling with the grief of saying farewell toAfra, when she entered the pleasant sitting-room at home; but she smiledthrough her tears when she saw how cheerful it looked. There was amild, cool light in the room, proceeding from the reflection of theevening sunshine from the trees of the convent garden. The blinds wereopen; and the perspective of one of the alleys was seen in the largemirror on the wall--the shrubs noiselessly waving, and the gay flowersnodding, in a sunlight and breeze which were not felt within.Euphrosyne's work lay upon the table; the needle sticking in the verystitch of embroidery at which she had laid it down, when she went to seeif her grandfather was awake, on the morning of their alarm. Some loosemusic had been blown down from the stand upon the floor; and the bouquetof flowers was dead, the water dried up, and the leaves fallen to dust;but when these were removed, there were no further signs of neglect anddesertion.
"How bright, how natural everything looks!" cried Euphrosyne. "I dolove this room. This is the place that we thought was to be sacked andburnt! I won't believe such nonsense another time. I never will befrightened again. Grandpapa, do not you love this room?"
"It is a pretty room, my dear; and it looks very bright when you are init."
"Oh, thank you!" she cried, dropping a sportive curtsey.
"And now, will you look; at my work--(sit down here)--and tellme--(where are your glasses?)--tell me whether you ever saw a prettierpattern. It is a handkerchief fit for a princess."
"It is very prettily worked, my dear. And whom is it for? Some veryelegant lady. Is it for the First Consul's lady? They say she is themost elegant lady in the world--though she is a Creole, like you, mydarling. Is your pretty handkerchief for her?"
"No, grandpapa. I dare say she has all the ladies in France to work forher. I should like, if you have no objection, to send this to MadameL'Ouverture!"
"To Madame L'Ouverture. Why? Has not she daughters to workhandkerchiefs for her, and plenty of money to buy them? Why should youprick your fingers in her service?"
"I should like that L'Ouverture himself should observe, some day, thatshe has a beautiful handkerchief; and then, if he should ask, he wouldfind out that there is a little Creole girl who is very grateful to himfor his generosity to her colour."
"Do not speak of colour, child. What expressions you pick up from Afra,and such people! It is our distinction that we have no colour--that weare white."
"That is the distinction of the nuns, I know; but I hoped it was notmine yet. I do not forget how you pinch my cheek sometimes, and talkabout roses."
"What is there? What do I see?" cried the old man, whose mind seemedopen to everything agreeable that met his observation, on his returnhome. "Are those the same little birds that you were wooing the othermorning? No creature that has ever seen you, my dear, ever forgets you.Nothing that you have spoken to ever deserts you. Shy creatures, thatare afraid of everybody else, haunt you."
"Oh! you are thinking of the little spotted fawn."
"Spotted fawn or squirrel--baby or humming-bird--it is always the same,child. They all come to you. I dare say these little creatures havebeen flitting about the balcony and these rooms, ever since we wentaway. Now they have found you."
"They do not seem to care much about me, now we have met," saidEuphrosyne. She followed them softly to the balcony, and along it, asfar as the window of Monsieur Revel's room. There she found, stuck inthe bars of the balcony, a rather fresh branch of orange-blossoms.While she was examining this, in some surprise, old Raphael spoke to herfrom below. He said he had made bold to climb up by his ladder, twice aday, with something to entice the birds to that window; as he supposedthat, was what she wished, if she had been at home. The abbess hadgiven him leave to take this liberty.
"There!" said Monsieur Revel, when she, flew to tell him, "there isanother follower to add to your fawns and kittens. Old Raphael isconsidered a crusty fellow everywhere; and you see how different he iswith you!"
"I am very glad," declared Euphrosyne. "It is a pretty sight to amuseyou with, every morning when you wake. It is kind of Raphael; and ofthe abbess too."
"I am pleased that the abbess and you should be good friends,Euphrosyne, because--Ah! that is the way," he said, in a mortified tone,and throwing himself back in his chair, as he followed with his eyes theflittings of the girl about the room, after her birds. "You have gotyour own way with everybody, and we have spoiled you; and there is nospeaking to you upon a subject that you do not like. You will not hear,though it is a thing that lies heavy at the heart of a dying old man."
"I will hear you, if you talk to me all my life," said Euphrosyne, withbrimming eyes, seating herself on a low stool at the old man's knees.
"And if you hear me, you will not give me a grave, steady answer."
"Try me," said she, brushing away the gathering tears. "I am not cryingabout anything you are going to say; but only because--Oh, grandpapa!how could you think I would not listen to you?"
"Well, well, my love! I see that you are willing now. You rememberyour promise to enter the convent, if I desired it."
"Yes."
"You talk of nothing being changed by our alarm, two days ago, becausethis table stands in the middle of the room, and the ants and beetleshave not carried off your pretty work. Hey!"
"May I speak, grandpapa?"
"Speak."
"I said so because nobody's house is burnt, or even robbed; and nobodyhas been killed, or even hurt."
"But, nevertheless, there is a great change. Our friends, my oldfriends, all whom I feel I could rely upon in case of need, are gone toFrance with Hedouville."
"Oh, grandpapa! very few whites are gone--they were chiefly mulattoeswho went with Hedouville; and so many whites remain! And though theyare not, except, perhaps, Monsieur Critois, exactly our friends, yet wecan easily make acquaintance with them."
"No, no, child. If they were not upstarts, as some of them are, andothers returned emigrants, of whom I know nothing, it is too late nowfor me to make now friends. My old companions are gone, and the placeis a desert to me."
His hands hung listlessly, as he rested on the arms of his chair.Euphrosyne looked up in his face, while she said, as well as she couldfor tears, "If you feel it so now, what will it be when I am shut up inthe convent, and you will hardly ever see me?"
"That is no affair of yours, child. I choose that you should go."
"Whose affair is it, if it is not mine? I am your grandchild--your onlyone; and it is my business, and the greatest pleasure I have in theworld, to be with you, and wait upon you. If I leave you, I shall hearmy poor mother reproaching me all day long. Every morning at mylessons, every night at my prayers, I shall hear her saying, `Where isyour grandfather? How dare you desert him when he has only you left?'Grandpapa, I shall be afraid to sleep alone. I shall learn to be afraidof my blessed mother."
"It is time you were sent somewhere to learn your duty, I think. We areat a bad pass enough; but there must be some one in the colony who cantell you that it is your duty to obey your grandfather--that it is yourduty to perform what you promised him."
"I can preach that myself, grandpapa, when there is nobody else who cando it better. It is just what I have been teaching little Babet, thismonth past. I have no more to learn about that; but I will tell youwhat I do want to learn--whether you are most afraid of my growing upignorant, or--(do just let me finish, and then we shall agreecharmingly, I dare say)--whether you are most afraid of my growing upignorant, or unsteady, or ill-mannered, or wicked, or what? As forbeing unsafe, I do not believe a word of that."
"Everything--all these things, child. I am af
raid of them all."
"What, all! What a dreadfully unpromising creature I must be!"
"You know you must be very ignorant. You have had no one to teach youanything."
"Then I will go to the convent to study for four, six, eight, twelvehours a day. I shall soon have learned everything in the world at thatrate: and yet I can go on singing to you in the evenings, and bringingyour coffee in the mornings. Twelve hours' study a day may perhaps makeme steady, too. That was the next thing, was it not?"
"Now have done. Say only one thing more--that you will perform yourpromise."
"That is a thing of course; so I may just ask one other thing. Who isto wait upon you in my place? Ah! I see you have not fixed upon anyone yet; and, let me tell you, it will be no easy matter to find one whomakes coffee as I do. Then, you have been waited upon by a slave allyour life. Yes, you have; and you have a slave now sitting at yourknee. People do not like being slaves now-a-days--nobody but me. Now Ilike it of all things. So, what a pity to change!"
"I know," said the old man, sighing, "that I am apt to be peremptory. Iknow it is difficult to please me sometimes. It is very late in life--Iam very old to set about improving: but I will try not to hurt any onewho will wait upon me, as I am afraid I have often hurt you, my dear. Iwill make any effort, if I can only feel that you are safe. Some onehas been telling you stories of old times, I see. Perhaps you can askany servant that we may engage--you may make it your request that shewill bear with me."
"Oh, grandpapa! Stop, grandpapa! I cannot bear it," cried the sobbinggirl. "I never will joke again, if you do not see that it is because Ilove you so, that I will venture anything rather than leave you. We alllove you dearly. Pierre would not for the world live with anybody else.You know he would not. And that is just what I feel. But I will doeverything you wish. I will never refuse again--I will never jest, ortry, even for your own sake, to prevent your having all your own way.Only be so kind, grandpapa, as never to say anything against yourselfagain. Nobody else would dare to do such a thing to me, and I cannotbear it."
"Well, well, love! I see now that no one has been babbling to you. Wewill never quarrel any more. You will do as I wish, and we will have nomore disputing. Are they bringing our coffee?"
When Euphrosyne came out from placing her grandfather's pillows, andbidding him good-night, she found Pierre lingering about, as if wantingto speak to her.
"Have you anything to say to me. Pierre?"
"Only just to take the liberty of asking, Mademoiselle, whether youcould not possibly gratify my master in the thing he has set his heartupon. If you could, Mademoiselle, you may rely on it, I would takeevery care of him in your absence."
"I have no doubt, Pierre, of your doing your part."
"Your part and mine are not the same, I know, Mademoiselle. But he isso persuaded of there being danger for you here, that everything you dofor him goes to his heart."
"Have _you_ that idea, Pierre?"
"Indeed, Mademoiselle, I know nothing about it--more than that it takesa long time for people in a town, or an island, to live comfortablytogether, on equal terms, after having all their lives looked upon oneanother as tyrants and low revengeful servants."
"I do not think any one looks on me as a tyrant, or would think ofhurting poor grandpapa or me. How you shake your head, Pierre! We havelived seven years in peace and quiet--sometimes being afraid, but neverhaving found cause for fear. However, if grandpapa really is uneasy--"
"That is the point, Mademoiselle. He is so."
"Do you suppose I could see the abbess, if I were to go to the conventto consult her? It is not late."
"If the Dumonts were but here still!" said Pierre--"only next door butone! It was a comfort to have them at hand on any difficulty."
"If they were here, I should not consult them. They were so prejudicedagainst all the mulattoes, and put so little trust in L'Ouverturehimself--as indeed their going off in such a hurry with Hedouvilleproves--that I should not have cared for their opinion to-night.Suppose you step to the convent, Pierre, and ask whether the lady abbesscould see me for half-an-hour on business. If I am to leave grandpapa,I should like to tell him in the morning that it is all settled."
Pierre went with alacrity, and was back in three minutes, when he foundEuphrosyne shawled and veiled for the visit. The lady awaited her.
"What can I do for you, my child?" said the abbess, kindly seatingEuphrosyne beside her, in her parlour.
"You will tell me what you think it is my duty to do, when I have toldyou my story. I know I have laughed and joked too much about this verymatter; and that partly because I had a will of my own about it. But itis all serious enough now; and I really do wish to find out my duty uponit."
"In order to do your duty, whatever it may cost you?"
"Certainly."
She then told her story. The lady at length smiled, and observed--
"You have no very strong inclination to join us, I perceive."
"Not any," frankly replied Euphrosyne. "I have no doubt the sisters arevery happy. They choose their way of life for themselves. I only feelit is one that I should never choose. Nor would grandpapa for me, formore than a short time. I hope, madam, you understand that we neitherof us think of my ever becoming a nun."
"I see that there is no present sign of its being your vocation."
"And there never will be," cried Euphrosyne, very earnestly. "I assureyou, I cannot bear the idea of it."
"So I perceive, my dear. I am quite convinced, I assure you. Have youas great a dislike to being educated?"
"Almost, I am afraid. But I could get over that. I like reading verywell, and learning things at my own time, and in my own way; but I feelrather old to begin to be under orders as to what I shall learn, andwhen and how; and yet rather young to be so grave and regular as thesisters are. I am fifteen, you know."
"You are not aware, I see, how much we laugh when we are by ourselves,nor how we like to see girls of fifteen happy and gay. I think, too,that I may answer for the sisters not quarrelling with you about whatyou ought to learn. You will comply with the rules of the house as tohours; and your preceptresses will allow you, as far as possible, tofollow your bent."
"You are very kind, as you always are. But I think far less of all thisthan of what grandpapa is to do without me. Consider what long, wearydays he will have! He has scarcely any acquaintance left in Cap; and hehas been accustomed to do nothing without me. He will sit and cry allday--I know he will."
And Euphrosyne's tears began to overflow at the thought.
"It is a great honour, my child, to have been made such a blessing to anold man."
"It was almost the only one he had left. Up to that terribleninety-one--"
The abbess shuddered.
"You knew my mother and sisters?"
"Very little. I was then a humble sister, and had little, intercoursewith any ladies who might occasionally visit us. But I remember hercoming, one day, with her children--three! girls--one who ran about thegarden, and two modest, blushing girls, who accepted some of ourflowers."
"I must have been the little one who ran about, and the others were mypoor sisters. Well, all these, besides my papa, were always aboutgrandpapa; and he never wanted amusement or waiting on. Since thatdreadful time, he has had only me; and now, in his old age, when he hasno strength, and nothing to do, he is going to be all alone! Oh, madam,I think it is wicked to leave him! Had anybody ever a clearer duty thanI have--to stay with him?"
"You would be quite right if it was anybody but himself that desired youto leave him. Your first duty, my dear, is to obey his wishes."
"I shall never be able to learn my lessons, for thinking of him, sittingalone there--or perhaps lying in bed, because there is nothing to get upfor."
"Now you are presumptuous. You are counting upon what may never happen,and fearing to leave your parent in the hand of Him who gave you to him.Suppose you were to die to-
night, I fear you could not trust him in thehands of Him who wraps us round with old age, before taking us home toHimself."
"Oh, yes, I could so trust him to-night, if I myself had watched him tosleep. But a month hence, if I were to die, I should dread to meet myparents. They would ask me, `How is our father?' and I should have toanswer, `I do not know--I have left him--I have done nothing for him oflate.' The whole time that I am here, madam, I shall be afraid to dieand meet my mother."
"We must lead you to doubt your own notions, and to trust more in God,"said the lady, gently. "We know not what a day may bring forth; and asyou grow older, you will find how, in cases of hard and doubtful duty,our way becomes suddenly clear, so as to make us ashamed of our lateanguish. Father Gabriel will tell you that one night he lost his wayamong the marshes in the plain. The clouds hung thick and low overhead,and there was not a ray of light. He plunged on the one hand into themarsh; and on the other, the reeds grew higher than his head. Behindhim was a wood that he had hardly managed to struggle through; and heknew not what might be before him. He groped about for a firm place tostand on, and had no idea which way to move. At last, without hishaving felt a breath of wind, he found that the clouds had parted to theright, making a chink through which he saw the Cibao peaks standing upagainst a starlight sky; and, to the left, there was, on the horizon, adim white line which he could not understand, till the crescent moondropped down from behind the cloudy canopy, across a bar of clear sky,and into the sea. This made him look whether the church of SaintHilaire was not close by. He made out its dim mass through thedarkness, and in a few minutes stood in the porch. So, my child, is ourway (even yours, young as you are) sometimes made too dark for ourfeeble eyes; and thus, from one quarter or another, is a ray permittedto fall that we may not be lost."
"Thank you," said Euphrosyne, softly. "May I come to-morrow?"
"At any hour you shall be welcome, my dear."
"If you will appoint me something to do every morning in the garden,madam, grandpapa might sit in the balcony, to see me, and talk to me.That will be a reason for his getting up. That, will prevent his lyingtoo long, for want of something to do."
"A very good plan. If you love your grandfather so, Euphrosyne, howwould you have loved your mother, if she had lived?"
"Had you a mother, when you were my age?"
"Yes, my dear. But do not let us speak of that. Do you remember yourmamma, my dear?"
"Yes--a little. I remember her sitting in a wood--on the ground--withher head bent down upon her knees, and a great many black people about."
"Well--tell me no more. I ought not to have asked you. I was notthinking of that horrid time."
"But I do not mind telling you. I like to speak of it; and I never canto grandpapa--it makes him so ill. Mamma shook so, that I rememberputting my arms about her to keep her warm, till I found how burning hother hands were. My sisters were crying; and they told me not to ask anymore why papa did not come to us; for he was dead. I remember beingwakened by a noise when I was very sleepy, and seeing some soldiers.One of them lifted me up, and I was frightened, till I saw that, theywere carrying mamma too. They put us both into a cart. I did not seemy sisters; and I believe they were both dead then, of grief andhardship. And mamma never spoke again. She looked as pale as her gown,as she lay in the cart, with her eyes shut. She was breathing, however,and I thought she was asleep. I felt very sleepy and odd. The soldierssaid I was half-starved, and they gave me a plantain that they pulled bythe road-side. I wanted them to give some to mamma too; but they mademe no answer. I put mine into her hand, but she let it fall; and Icried because she would not take any notice. Then one of the soldiersbade me eat my plantain; and I thought I must do as I was bid. I forgetwhere we went next."
"You remember more than I had supposed. Your mother was brought onboard the ship where we were; and there she presently died."
"You were on board ship, madam?"
"Yes--all the sisters--for the town was not considered safe, even forus."
"And where was--" Euphrosyne stopped abruptly.
"You were going to ask where my mother was," said the lady. "I feelthat I was wrong in stopping you as I did just, now--for you might fancythat my mother was in some way to blame. She was a good mother to me--full of kindness; but I did not make her happy."
"You did not?"
"Indeed I did not. I crossed her in the thing she desired most of all--that we should live together. I believed it my duty to become a nun,and I left her. She returned to France, being a widow, and having noother child; and there she died, among distant relations."
"Was she angry with you?"
"She never said or showed that she was. But I know that she was grievedto the very soul, and for life. This, my dear, has been the greatestaffliction I have ever known. I did not feel it so at the time, havingno doubt of my vocation; but what I have suffered since from the thoughtthat an only child and only parent, who ought to have made each otherhappy, were both miserable, God only knows."
"Yet you did what you thought was your duty to God. I wonder whetheryou were right?"
"If you knew how many times--but," said the lady, interrupting herself,"we shall know all when our hearts are laid open; and may minister to mymother yet. If I erred, and there be further punishment yet for myerror, I am ready to bear it. You see, my child, how much you have tobe thankful for, that your difficulty is not from having failed in dutyto your parent. For the future, fear not but that your duty will bemade clear to you. I am sure this is all you desire."
"Shall we have any more such conversations as this when I come to livehere? If we can--"
"We shall see," replied the lady, smiling. "Father Gabriel says theremay easily be too much talk, even about our duties; but occasions mayarise."
"I hope so," said Euphrosyne, rising, as she perceived that the ladythought it was time for her to go. "I dare say Pierre is here."
Pierre had been waiting some time.
The abbess sat alone after Euphrosyne was gone, contemplating, not thelamp, though her eyes were fixed upon it, but the force of the filialprinciple in this lonely girl--a force which had constrained her to openthe aching wound in her own heart to a mere child. She sat, till calledby the hour to prayer, pondering the question how it is that relationsdesigned for duty and peace become the occasions of the bitterest sinand suffering. The mystery was in no degree cleared up when she wascalled to prayer--which, however, has the blessed power of solving allpainful mysteries for the hour.
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