Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  He persuaded her, however, to wait for another hour or two, that no belated loiterer might be likely to cross their path; and then, furnished with a small basket containing every comfort their scanty means could furnish, they set forth.

  The moon was now very nearly at the full, and gave them perhaps a clearer light than they desired; but this trifling addition to a danger which at this hour they thought could not be great occasioned them but little uneasiness. An exclamation from Lucy as they quitted their dark room, upon the glorious brightness that greeted them, was answered by her thoughtful brother with an observation that the deepest darkness would perhaps suit them better; but after this they alluded to the danger no more, and perhaps almost unconsciously “blessed the useful light” which rendered this walk so unlike many which they had taken during the last fortnight to Peggy’s hut.

  One must have seen the effect of moonlight in a half-cleared forest-path in this southern climate, to conceive any idea of its beauty. The striking illustration of “ebon and ivory” that has been so beautifully applied to this species of light, is hardly strong enough to convey an idea of its strength and power there. The flood of silver that bathes every object where trees are not, and the solemn darkness that dwells unconquerable where they are, surpasses anything that more temperate latitudes can show.

  Lucy seemed inclined to bask in the moonshine, and chose the centre of the open glade by which their walk commenced, as if to enjoy its brilliance more fully; but this suited not the tone of poor Edward’s feelings, and drawing her arm within his, he led her gently into the shade.

  “Dearest Lucy!” he said, “do you remember that I was once stern enough to say that it was your duty to obey me? And do you remember, too, how sweetly you answered that you knew it, and would never cease to remember it?”

  “Well, Edward! and suppose I do? Have you any very terrible proof of my sincerity to propose to me?”

  “I fear I have, my love; — but you must not blame me, Lucy; and do not, for God’s sake, dearest, — do not increase the difficulties which surround us, by showing disinclination to adopt the measure I have decided on for you.”

  The heart of the poor girl at once divined that he was about to propose they should separate.

  “Edward! Edward!” she exclaimed, “think well before you decide upon leaving me; — think well whether I shall have strength to support the life I now lead without you.”

  “What I have arranged for you is nothing like this, dearest, Lucy; but, to speak to you at once with the frankness you so well deserve, I must say that our remaining together at this very critical moment would be fatal to the great object to which I have solemnly consecrated my existence. I cannot do what I ought to do while you are with me. But think not that I am therefore less exposed to danger. On the contrary, I am persuaded that did I feel myself perfectly a free agent, and had the power of moving from one quarter to another, I might live among these unhappy people for years, of which no week, no day should pass unmarked by the approach of some of them towards their God, while I might remain unchallenged and unknown even in the centre of New Orleans.”

  “New Orleans! Are you going to New Orleans, Edward? — and at this season!”

  “Oh no, Lucy! I have no such idea, I assure you. On the contrary, my intention is to remain at our present quarters, and to pursue the same occupation; while you, at the distance of a few miles only, shall be safely pursuing an employment less fatiguing, I hope, but certainly more profitable, and which will afford you the power of meeting me every Sabbath morning at sunrise on the road from Natchez, when I will lead you home to breakfast, and we will pass the holy day in prayer and peace.”

  “Ah! my poor Edward!” replied Lucy, weeping, “you have thought more of me than of yourself in this. How will your evenings pass without me?”

  “Delightfully, peacefully, fearlessly, Lucy; for I shall have done my duty. But you do not ask to what labour I have pledged my little girl? — Are you not anxious to know whether you are to be governess in the family of some magnificent creole, with the task of imparting activity to all her offspring? or to superintend the agreeable establishment of a Natchez boarding-house?”

  “I do not much think,” replied Lucy, almost recovering her smiles, “that you have pledged me to either one or the other. But tell me, cruel Edward! what is it I shall have to occupy me when I can plan and plot for your comfort no longer?”

  Edward then gave her a detailed account of the engagement he had entered into, confessed that the aspect of Mrs. Shepherd was not very inviting, but endeavoured to console himself and her by talking of the future, and dwelling upon a hope he had often before mentioned, that he might some day find means to take her with him to the coast of Liberia.

  Lucy answered only by a heavy sigh; but she made no farther attempt at remonstrance, and listened with gratitude to the account he gave of his thoughtful purchases for her.

  By the time this theme was fully discussed, they had reached the spot where Edward had left the weary and exhausted negro. He had taken the bearings of the thicket which concealed him too accurately to feel any doubt about the place; but the signals he gave of their approach remained unanswered, nor could they penetrate sufficiently into the matted covert to enable them to decide whether the object of their search were concealed there or not.

  Cæsar had made his entry into it much as a snake might have done — a mode of conveying the person which neither of his friends had yet acquired; so that having walked around and into the thicket as nearly as possible, and used their voices fully as loud as it was safe to do, they began to fear either that he had been surprised and taken away, or that for some reason or other he had sought another place of concealment.

  For a moment after this fear was expressed by Edward, they both stood perfectly still as if meditating what course to pursue; and then in the perfect silence Lucy fancied that she distinguished a sound like the heavy breathing of one asleep. Her brother listened at her bidding, and soon became convinced that she was right; but how to penetrate to the asylum the sleeper had chosen, or even to guess exactly where it was, he knew not.

  At length it was decided between them to cut a long stout branch from a tree, and by the aid of this to set to work on poor Cæsar as it is usual to do when endeavouring to dislodge a rat from a hole. The experiment happily succeeded, and a gleam of moonlight that shot through a lucky aperture in the trees was caught, and reflected so vividly by Cæsar’s eyes as he slowly emerged from his lair, that an European might have been strangely startled at the effect produced.

  The next moment was one of rapture to poor Cæsar. The sight of Lucy was an unexpected joy, and he testified his devotion to her rather like an Eastern than a Western slave, for he literally kissed the hem of her garment again and again, and, spite of the weakness of his famished state, wearied not of repeating —

  “Miss Lucy! Oh, blessed Miss Lucy! Beautiful, blessed Miss Lucy!”

  Tears flowed plentifully from the eyes of both; but Edward interfered to stop this excess of enervating feeling, for he knew that the poor fellow would have need of courage and energy to escape the perils that surrounded him.

  The restorative contents of the basket were produced, and the gay enjoyment with which the poor negro despatched them was a painful contrast to the anxiety of his more thoughtful friends.

  Timidly and tenderly he inquired for Phebe; and so needful did Edward think it to sustain, and not depress his spirits, that he only told him in return that she was the property of a neighbouring planter, and that they often saw her, without hinting at her recent disappearance, or at any of the peculiar miseries of her situation.

  After an hour passed in thus comforting the poor runaway, Edward and Lucy prepared to depart; and as the thicket had proved a safe hiding-place, and contained, as Cæsar assured them, a very soft bed of leaves to sleep on, they strongly recommended his patiently remaining within it, promising that the following night should replenish the little store they left with
him, and that the interval should be passed in endeavouring to learn what would be the safest course for him to pursue. Having seen him ensconsed, they took their departure; and their homeward walk was beguiled by the discussion of various plans for becoming acquainted with the rich German family who employed no slaves.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  NOTWITHSTANDING the many ingenious devices suggested and canvassed that night, when the following morning came, Edward Bligh told his sister that he had determined upon using none of them, but intended simply to present himself to their wealthy neighbour, and, unless he saw something in his manner that was discouraging, to state the case of Cæsar at once, and ask his assistance in concealing him till the first heat of pursuit should be over.

  Edward set forth accordingly; and the day being Sunday, Lucy consented to accompany him for a part of the way. The distance did not exceed three miles; and rather than lose the pleasure of his company on the return, — a pleasure, as she said, that would soon become very rare, — she placed herself under a tree at no great distance, though perfectly concealed, from the house, and there awaited his return.

  Edward boldly entered the premises, and requesting to see “the master,” was ushered into the common sitting-room of the Steinmark family, which has been before described.

  Frederick Steinmark was, as usual, occupied at the upper end of the apartment with a book; and, as usual too on this day of rest, his still beautiful wife was surrounded by her sons; the circle being now augmented by Fritz, and a young friend and countryman, who had accompanied him from Philadelphia.

  It was impossible to mistake the figure of the master. The high forehead, now nearly deserted by the light curls that formerly covered it — the slight contraction of the brow, which denoted at once age and thought, distinguished him sufficiently from the bright young faces which occupied the other end of the apartment.

  Edward approached him, and said, “Mr. Steinmark, I believe?”

  It must, I suppose, be allowed as a defect, or a weakness, or, at any rate, as a peculiarity in Frederick Steinmark, that his first impulse since his arrival in America upon the approach of any stranger, was to look towards such members of his family as were present with him, as a hint that they should come forward to relieve him from what indeed he never was heard to complain of, but which they all knew was the greatest annoyance that could beset him. Upon this occasion, as usual, the same summons that caused him to raise his eyes from his book, directed them towards his sons; but this glance of warning given, he next turned his eyes upon his guest, and immediately laid aside the volume on a table near him.

  Hermann, with his usual promptitude, had already obeyed the look, and was by his side; but Edward, who had perceived the joyous party from which he came, took courage for the sake of Cæsar’s secret, and, almost unconscious of Hermann’s civil salutation, continued to address his father:

  “May I take the liberty, Mr. Steinmark, of begging to speak to you alone?”

  Such a request would in general have fallen more heavily on the ear of Frederick Steinmark than the announcement of the visit of a wolf or a hurricane; but, somewhat to Hermann’s surprise, he now rose with alacrity from his chair and led the way to a small room on the opposite side, of the entrance, followed by Edward.

  Could their historian do justice to the character of Frederick Steinmark, or to the countenance of Edward Bligh, this deviation from the usual habits of the former would create no surprise, for never did features more speakingly proclaim gentleness, intelligence, and refinement than those of Edward.

  When the door of the little room was closed upon them, and they were both seated, the young American once more raised his eyes to the face of his host; and if any doubt remained on his mind as to the security with which he might tell him ALL, that glance removed it.

  “When you know my business, sir,” said Edward, “I think you will forgive the freedom I have taken, and am about to take.”

  “I am quite sure of it, sir, let that freedom be what it may,” replied the German.

  “You have a large estate here,” resumed Edward, “and I am told that you own no slave. May I not believe that this is a proof of your condemning slavery?”

  “I would have it a proof to all men, that I abhor it from my soul,” replied Frederick Steinmark with energy.

  “Thank God!” replied poor Edward fervently. “It is long since I have heard such words.”

  “But why should they affect you so strongly, my young friend?” demanded Steinmark.

  “I will tell you, sir. If you abhor slavery, you must be touched with compassion for those who are its victims. One of these, a young man of my own age, and whom I have known familiarly from my birth, — one of the most guiltless, faithful, and affectionate of human beings, — is at this moment exposed to all the fearful danger that threatens a slave who has run from his master. The reasons of his doing so, I could explain much to his honour, did I not fear to intrude on your kind patience. But I have no means whatever of concealing him: he is at present lying hid in the forest at a few miles’ distance, and unless I can discover some shelter for him soon, I cannot hope that he will escape the pursuit which will, before it ceases, leave no thicket unexplored.”

  Steinmark listened with the most earnest attention; the tale had for the present effectually cured his absence of mind.

  “If my premises can afford protection to the poor fellow, be very sure he shall have it. But may I, without your believing impertinent curiosity to be my motive, ask you, sir, how it happens that you, an American, an inhabitant of Louisiana, and, if I mistook you not, formerly the owner of this young negro, should feel thus keenly the misery and the sin produced by this dreadful system? I have been fifteen years in the country, and you are the first man from whom I have heard such sentiments.”

  Edward hesitated a moment, not from any averseness to disclose his situation and the circumstances which led to it to the man before him, but rather from a fear of being beguiled by the interest expressed in the gentle eye that rested on him into becoming too tediously his own biographer.

  “Let me not distress you,” said Steinmark hastily, remarking this hesitation, and believing from it that there were circumstances it might be painful to disclose. “I feel that my question was unauthorised. Let us rather revert.”

  “Mr. Steinmark!” interrupted Edward with vivacity, “it is long, very long, since I have had the gratification of speaking to any one, except my young sister, to whom I could venture to express my feelings. If I now hesitate to answer you, it is because I fear that I may be led to speak of myself too much. Without this fear, it would indeed be a comfort and consolation to tell you what I am, and why I am no better.”

  “We seem, my young friend,” returned Steinmark with his own peculiar smile of irresistible sweetness, “to have more than one peculiarity in common. It is long, very long too, since I have encountered a human being out of my own family to whom I could speak with freedom; and now we have met, I should be sorry to think the acquaintance was likely to end.”

  Edward held out his hand without speaking.

  At that moment, his voice could not have served to express his feelings so well as his action. He was fully understood, however; and these two very shy men, of different ages and of different nations, felt mutually that they were far advanced towards intimacy and friendship.

  “May I then come to you again?” said Edward cheerfully: “I cannot indulge myself now; — I have left my sister waiting for me in the forest, and she will be most painfully anxious to hear the result of my petition for shelter in behalf of poor Cæsar. Shall I tell her that you have promised to conceal him?”

  “You may indeed. But shall we not see your sister? — why not request her to join us?” From this, however, Edward excused himself. He had as yet made no acquaintance with the kind Mary and her lovely daughter; and the group of gay-looking, young men he had caught sight of would, he thought, positively frighten Lucy. It was therefore settled that Edward
should now take his leave, and return about midnight with Cæsar, leaving to the morrow the renewal of the conversation which had so much interested both.

  “And your name, my friend?” said Frederick Steinmark, holding out his hand.

  “Edward Bligh.”

  “Farewell, then, till to-night. I will myself, and myself alone, await you at the gate through which you passed in coming to the house. When you know us all, perhaps you may increase the number of your confidants.”

  Edward took his leave, and carried with him such a degree of love, admiration, and reverence for the man he left, as only the young, unworn, and pure of heart can feel upon an acquaintance of half-an-hour’s standing. Nevertheless, not all the ripened wisdom of a Nestor could have enabled him to form a truer judgment. Such beings as Frederick Steinmark are not given lavishly to the world; yet many may exist, perhaps, who do not bear so legible an index on their brow of the treasure within. Happy are those who, if destined to encounter one such in their passage through the world, meet it in the first glow of youthful feeling, when no misdoubtings of the delightful impulse, which renders up the heart, checks and chills the offering!

  This happiness was Edward’s, and he enjoyed it too with the keenness of one to whom happiness is rare; yet there was a moisture in his eye as he turned from the threshold which might have been mistaken for the symbol of sorrow. The first half of the distance which divided him from Lucy was traversed in a sort of trance: new hopes, new affections, were a wakened in his bosom, and all the heavy cares that pressed upon him were for those few delicious moments totally forgotten. Then came the idea of his sister, and the pleasure of relating his success: but with this came also the remembrance of their approaching separation, and the melancholy thought that poor Lucy, toiling with her needle in Mrs. Shepherd’s store at Natchez, would be as forlorn and miserable as if no such being as Frederick Steinmark existed in the world.