The Portable Nineteenth-Century African American Women Writers
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“You dare to defy me!” yelled the Colonel, his face black with rage. “But I will conquer you yet! For I will see you die at my feet before you shall return to the arms of that accursed wife! Yes, I will kill you, and suffer hanging for it!” and drawing a pistol from his pocket took deliberate aim and fired.
Richard, having risen from his chair, exclaimed:
“Father, would you murder your own son!” and fell heavily to the floor, writhing in his own blood, the ball having entered his right side.
Hurrying feet were heard traversing the wide halls—the door was burst open, and Mrs. Tracy rushed into the library, closely followed by Manville, who had just returned, and hearing of Richard’s arrival, had come direct to Colonel Tracy’s, while groups of frightened negroes crowded the door and thronged the hall, presenting a weird scene, as the twilight shadows were now gathering.
Nellie Tracy gazed from the insensible form of her son to her husband, exclaiming, “Frank, O! Frank! May God forgive you! You have killed my child!” and then sunk fainting to the floor.
Colonel Tracy stood gazing upon the forms of his wife and son, with wild, glaring eyes. Manville alone possessed some presence of mind. He directed the negroes to take charge of their mistress, while he turned his attention to Colonel Tracy. “Come, my friend,” he said, attempting to lead him from the library.
“Manville, I am perfectly sane; I know what I have done. Take that boy away, any where, out of my sight and hearing, for I care not whether he lives or dies.”
Manville knew that the Colonel was in earnest, so he hailed a passing hack, and, with the assistance of the driver and several of the slaves, the wounded man was carefully placed in it, and driven slowly to a quiet private boarding-house, in a retired part of the city, while others were dispatched in quest of medical aid.
It would be impossible to attempt a description of Colonel Tracy’s feelings. Indignation against Richard, and apprehension for his delicate wife, were the predominant workings of his soul. Mrs. Tracy was indeed in a critical state, and well might her passionate husband tremble for her safety. Through the long watches of the night great was the anxiety of that wretched man, for the life of his loved one hung, as it were, by a thread.
CHAPTER XXVII.
Mrs. Butterworth’s Revelation.
“Her last words were when asked if she had no word to leave for her husband, for she avoided speaking of him, ‘Tell him I loved and—,’ but the sentence was never finished. Poor, young thing! It was well she died as soon as she did,” continued the matter of fact Mrs. Butterworth, who had thus far failed to notice the extreme agitation of her questioners, “for her husband was a villain, and she escaped a great many trials, by passing from the earth thus early.”
Richard was deeply agitated, and motioning Monsieur Sayvord to proceed with questioning their fellow-traveler, he prepared to await further developments. Monsieur Sayvord proceeded to question the old lady with his usual abruptness.
“So the child did not die, you say?”
“No, sir; it lived, and was as fine and healthy a child as you could wish to see.”
“What was the colored nurse’s name?”
“Juno Hays.”
“And what induced you to think that Mrs. Tracy’s husband was a villain?”
“Why,” replied the old lady, her round, honest eyes flashing with indignation, “if he had been a good and honorable man, he would have written to his poor little heart-broken wife, as a husband ought. He would never have gone to Europe without her knowledge, leaving her among strangers, to die alone. May God forgive the wicked man, wherever he may be!”
“How do you know he went to Europe? And what became of the child and nurse?”
Mrs. Butterworth then related the particulars of Manville’s visit, the sale of Rose Cottage, and subsequent removal of Juno and baby Claire to the eastern part of the State. That was all she knew, and since that time she had lost all trace of them.
“But,” suggested Mrs. Butterworth, seeing how deeply interested the gentlemen were, “I think Dr. Murdoch could tell you more concerning them. Maybe you’re a relation?” she said inquiringly.
Without answering her question directly, Monsieur Sayvord replied:
“We are very much interested in any thing that relates to Mrs. Tracy, and thank you for the information you have given. And I wish to disabuse your mind of false opinions concerning Richard Tracy. I know him well. He is a true and noble man, and mourns yet the early death of his young and gentle wife, who, with himself, was the victim of that designing villain, Manville. Through his representations, Richard has believed, until very recently, that the child had died immediately after birth, and was buried with is mother.”
Mrs. Butterworth was very much astonished at this view of the case, but readily transferred her indignation from Richard to Manville. And our friend possessed her sympathy as he has always had ours.
Arriving at the end of their journey, they parted company with the old nurse, and repaired to the best hotel the village afforded. After Richard had partially regained his composure, and they had partaken of a genuine New England dinner, they started in quest of Dr. Murdoch, the old village physician, whose professional business was now carried on by Dr. Murdoch, Jr. The old gentleman was pleased with their visit, and cheerfully related what he knew of the inmates of Rose Cottage. It wrung Richard’s heart to hear him talk so touchingly about Lina.
“Mr. Villars owns the cottage now. he bought it, furniture and all, when that dashing young Southerner came and took away Juno and the little baby, which was fast becoming a great favorite with me. I suppose she is a young lady now,” said the old doctor, thoughtfully. “Ah, me! how time flies. Why, it is eighteen years ago, and I was an old man then.”
“Do you know to what town or village they moved?”
“Somewhere in the vicinity of the town of L—, but that you know, was so long ago, they may have moved again.”
Thus learning all they could, they took leave of Dr. Murdoch, and returned to the hotel, when they determined, much to the discomfiture of the landlord, who did not like the idea of losing two such distinguished guests, to take the night express for Danbury, and so be enabled to take the first eastern train, the following day. It was their intention to seek out Juno before starting for New Orleans. They knew Claire was ill,—perhaps dying, but Richard felt that he must see Juno first. And impatient as was Monsieur Sayvord, he thought it best to go to L— and make inquiry concerning the old nurse.
Taking the night express they arrived at Danbury at 4 A.M., and taking the train for the east at 11 A.M., they reached L— at 7 o’clock on the morning of the following day. After a fresh toilet, and a hasty breakfast, they started out upon their tour of inquiry. For a long time they could learn nothing. It was very evident Juno did not live in L—.
“She may be living in the country, some where,” suggested Monsieur, as he noticed his friend’s despairing look. “Here comes a nice looking colored man, let us ask him.”
This colored man proved to be none other than Thomas, Miss Ellwood’s hired man, who built fires, and did chores about the Seminary. In answer to their inquiry, Thomas replied:
“Yes, sir, there is such a woman living a few miles from this place. I do not know much about her myself, but the lady I live with can tell you; for she often comes to the Seminary, to see Miss Ellwood, and before Miss Claire left school, Juno used to visit her sometimes.”
“Well, my man, I think we have been very fortunate in meeting you, and you will further oblige us by leading the way to the Seminary.”
Miss Ellwood was quite astonished when she learned that one of her unexpected guests was the son of Col. Tracy, and more astonished when he declared himself to be the father of her favorite pupil, Claire Neville.
She told him how Manville had placed Claire in the Seminary, six years before, with the understanding tha
t she (Miss Ellwood) was to spare neither pains nor expense upon the child’s education. The bills were always regularly paid, one year in advance. She told Richard much of Claire’s disposition and habits, and related many little incidents of her school life.
Thomas had returned from the post-office in the mean time, bringing various letters for Miss Ellwood, one of which was from Col. Tracy, acknowledging the receipt of her package. Richard waited with ill-concealed impatience, until she had finished reading the somewhat lengthy epistle. Miss Ellwood turned to him with a smile when she had finished the letter and said, gently—
CHAPTER XXIX.
Convalescent.
Claire was convalescent, and an air of cheerfulness reigned throughout the household of the Tracys. Mrs. Tracy spent the most of her time by the couch upon which the invalid reclined—she whose cheeks and short raven locks formed a beautiful contrast with the crimson pillows. Every one, from the stern old Colonel down to the youngest urchin about the establishment, seemed desirous of doing something to show their love for the young creature, who received their smallest attention with heartfelt gratitude. The Colonel was always thinking of something that would add to her comfort. It was either a new easy chair, a rare painting, or choice engraving—always something new and diverting. Lloyd would drop in and while away an hour in pleasant chat. The Count brought her favorite authors, and read to her for hours, sometimes stealing a stealthy glance at the rose which deepened upon the white cheek for one short moment, and then faded. Laura and Nellie robbed the gardens and conservatories of their choicest treasures, which were laid as an offering of love before Claire, who repaid each with a sweet kiss. Jim and the cook did their part also. Never were choicer delicacies prepared to tempt the palate of an invalid than those which found their way to Claire’s room. And Isabella, who seldom visited the sick-room, now asked, in a cold, formal manner, each morning, after Claire’s health. Drs. Singleton and Thorne called each day, more from force of habit than that Claire required their professional services.
Count Sayvord watched Dr. Singleton with interest. Reason as he would, he could not divest himself of the thought that the Doctor knew something of Claire’s parents. Times without number he had determined to seek the old gentleman’s confidence, and as many times gave it up, from the fear that his intentions might be misconstrued.
Dr. Singleton regarded young Sayvord with a friendly eye, and thought he should like to know more of him. “Who knows,” thought the Doctor, “but he may have met Richard Tracy somewhere during his years of travel, or may know some one that has seen him! And I may be enabled to get race of him; for at this rate, the confession of Manville is likely to lie in my private drawer for a century to come.” An opportunity soon presented itself, which was improved by the Doctor.
During a pause in the conversation, he asked the Count if he had ever met an American gentleman by the name of Tracy during his lengthy travels.
“Years ago,” replied the young man, “I met a gentleman of that name at my Uncle Sayvord’s country-seat. Richard Tracy was the name, I remember well. He was a thoughtful, sad-browed man, over whose life a shadow seemed to have fallen.”
“The same! The same!” exclaimed the Doctor, excitedly. “Have you heard any thing of him since—or do you know where he is now?”
“I received a letter from him about six weeks ago, and am expecting another by every mail. He is at present at my Uncle Clayburn Sayvord’s, in the southern part of France.”
“Can it be possible!” ejaculated the Doctor. “Will you allow me to see the letter you received from Richard?”
“Certainly,” replied the Count, passing him the letter.
“The same clear, manly hand,” said the Doctor, glancing at the superscription, as he proceeded to read the contents of the letter. When finished, he again turned to the young man, saying:
“So you too had a suspicion of the truth; for Claire Neville is indeed the daughter of Richard Tracy, and grand-daughter of the Colonel.”
“Let there be full confidence between us, Doctor,” said the Count. “Tell me of her mother; for there is a secret somewhere which I have failed to ferret out.”
Dr. Singleton looked very thoughtful for a moment, and then replied, very gravely:
“Count Sayvord, if you will first answer truthfully two questions, which I shall ask, I will cheerfully tell you all I know.”
The Count readily assured him that he would answer to the best of his ability any question he might ask. The Doctor hesitated a moment, and then abruptly asked:
“Do you love Claire Neville? Do you wish to make her your wife? Or—”
“Enough, sir!” angrily interrupted Sayvord. “I did not expect this. Such questions are intrusive.”
“I beg your pardon, if I have offended you,” replied the Doctor, courteously; “but, believe me, I was actuated by no idle curiosity.”
The Count, somewhat mollified, felt a little ashamed of his hasty temper. The truth was, he had never analyzed his feelings toward Claire. But the Doctor’s question told him that he did love her with the whole depths of his ardent nature.
“I do love Claire—and if she will accept me, I will make her my wife, beloved and honored above woman.” The Doctor grasped the young man’s hand and shook it warmly.
“That is the right kind of talk. None of your sentimental nonsense for me. I am a plain man, and always express my thoughts in the plainest phrases. I have foreseen all this for some time, and have thus seemingly interfered with your private business, to prevent trouble hereafter, and, perhaps, a great deal of unhappiness to both parties. Caste has proved the bane of Richard Tracy’s life. It may prove the bane of yours.”
Sayvord was somewhat mystified by the Doctor’s language. The old man continued:
“Richard Tracy’s wife, the mother of Claire Neville, was a quadroon, and once a slave, owned by her own father, and sold by him to Colonel Tracy.”
Sayvord was greatly excited at this revelation, and exclaimed: “Impossible, Doctor! You are laboring under some mistake!”
“Not a bit of it!” was the emphatic reply; and he related the entire history of Richard’s life. when concluded, he remarked, “I have told you these facts, that you may accustom yourself to thinking of them—and if you marry Claire Neville, you do so with a full knowledge of her origin; and, knowing these facts, if you give her up, you alone are the sufferer, and she is spared the bitter knowledge that caste is the bane of her life’s happiness.”
The Count had been swayed by various emotions during the Doctor’s narrative. He now sat thoughtful and silent. He as last said slowly:
“I must think of this, Doctor. It is best to accustom one’s self to look unpleasant facts steadily in the face; and I thank you for your forethought.”
“And now,” said Dr. Singleton, “let us talk of Richard Tracy. He is, or was, when last heard from, with your uncle, in France.”
“Yes,” replied the Count; “but if he is not already, he soon will be, on his way to America; for I have written him to come without delay.”
“All the better. I hope he will come—”
The sentence remained unfinished; for at this moment Jim entered the room, and said, with an overwhelming bow:
“A letter for de Count Sayvord.”
The Count hastily broke the seal, and read the almost unintelligible scrawl, exclaiming, as he roughly shook the Doctor’s arm:
“My uncle and Richard Tracy are in New Orleans at this moment.”
29
FRANCES ELLEN WATKINS HARPER
(1825–1911)
At her most active as a public speaker for the Maine Anti-Slavery Society and the Pennsylvania Anti-Slavery Society, Frances Harper addressed lecture halls as many as three times a day to advocate for emancipation and citizenship. Harper, as photographs attest, was small in stature, but reviews suggest a commanding presence
on stage: lively but dignified, vital and demanding; magnificent. Harper’s poetry might be described as advocacy bordering on propaganda. Harper’s work, as Joan Sherman has said, “is the most valuable single poetic record we have of the mind and heart of the race whose fortunes shaped the tumultuous years of her career, 1850–1900.”
In the following works, Harper engages with subjects both intimate and grand. Her writing is most notable for its passionate portrayal of love from within the institution of slavery, and the authoritative voice in which it is written almost predicts the poet’s own historical importance. Here, also, anthologized for the first time, is a version of Harper’s poem “Bible Defence of Slavery,” [sic] originally published in her first book, Forest Leaves. The volume of poetry was thought lost until 2015, when a copy was discovered in Baltimore by scholar Johanna Ortner at the Maryland Historical Society.
“Enlightened Motherhood: An Address Before the Brooklyn Literary Society, November 15, 1892”
SOURCE: Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, “Enlightened Motherhood: An Address by Mrs. Frances E. W. Harper Before the Brooklyn Literary Society, November 15th, 1892.”
It is nearly thirty years since an emancipated people stood on the threshold of a new era, facing an uncertain future—a legally unmarried race, to be taught the sacredness of the marriage relations; an ignorant people, to be taught to read of the Christian law and to learn to comprehend more fully the claims of the gospel of the Christ of Calvary. A homeless race, to be gathered into homes of peaceful security and to be instructed how to plant around their firesides the strongest batteries against sins that degrade and the race vices that demoralize. A race unversed in the science of government and unskilled in the just administration of law, to be translated from the old oligarchy of slavery into the new common-wealth of freedom, and to whose men came the right to exchange the fetters on their wrists for the ballots in their right hands—a ballot which, if not vitiated by fraud or restrained by intimidation, counts just as much as that of the most talented and influential man in the land.