“I know what you’re thinking of, Juno,” said Whitlaw, again laughing heartily: “you’re thinking of my whim about Phebe, and how I clean forgot it when I come back from Orlines, after you’d taken an that trouble about it too. But this is another sort of whim, I promise ye, and it will keep hot longer than Sunday next.”
“Well, master, you are the lord of all now, and you’ve only got to hold up your finger and jest speak a word, and you will find people enough always ready to do your pleasure, and that without any help from Hogstown.”
“I expect you’re not that far wrong there, Juno; money does give a man a d — n sight of power, — and so I expect I’ll jest be still a spell, as you would have me, and see what will happen after.”
This important consultation ended, the proprietor of Paradise Plantation returned to his mansion for the especial purpose of issuing orders respecting the funeral of his predecessor.
As soon as he was gone, Juno set out upon an expedition upon which she had meditated incessantly since her return from her fatal visit to New Orleans. It was already night, and though a southern summer’s night is rarely very dark, there was less light in the atmosphere than usual. Juno’s step too was less firm and assured than it was wont to be. Age, which, though it had long marked her aspect with the appearance of more than ordinary decrepitude, had hitherto seemed to have touched her strength both of mind and body but lightly, had at last fallen heavily upon her. Her movement was slow and painful, the wild vivacity of her rapid eye was dimmed and quenched, and Juno had little now beside peculiar ugliness to distinguish her from any other negress of fourscore.
The task she was about to execute led her to several widely-separated points of the extensive grounds; and the old bamboo that had hitherto served her so well in many ways was hardly stout enough to support the weight she threw upon it, as she stumbled along over the rough paths she had to tread.
At length she reached the dwelling of one of the men who, together with his family, had been among the most zealous of Edward’s negro congregation. The inhabitants of the hut were sunk in sleep when the old woman raised the latch and entered; but such visits from her were not unusual, and the weary negro uttered no complainings as she forced him to shake off the heavy sleep that clung to him, by telling him that she was come to say that to which no negro must turn an unwilling ear.
“And what be that, mother?” said poor Titus, yawning.
“Titus!” she replied, while the most violent emotion shook her trembling frame, “Titus! the hour is come! That wretch, that dog, that Whitlaw — he who has taken accursed wages for the wanton shedding of your innocent blood — he who has made your heavy chain a thousand times more heavy still, who has made your tears his sport and your torture his pastime, that man is now your master.”
“I know it, mother! — we all know it; and what then? we had more lashes and more work to look for, mother; but you do no good to wake me up to talk of it.”
“Titus; if you are a man, you will not let this villain live! Now is the time to take him — now is the appointed hour; now, when his riches and his glories hang thick upon him — now tear him up root and branch, and throw him to the wolves and foxes, that are his kindred.”
“O Lor! O Lor! Juno, — what monstrous wickedness is that you say! Is we not Christians, Juno? and what would our massa Edward say if we did such a deed as that?”
“It is to save your master Edward’s life that you must do it. The wretch has pledged himself within this hour to shed the blood of that your best and only friend — and will you let him live?”
“Shed the blood of Massa Edward, Juno? No, no, he had no power to do that, for God will come to help him.”
“Impious and profane!” cried Juno, once more inspired by the strength of passion— “you shrink from the task yourself, and dare call on God to help you! — He has helped you by my means, — he has given me power to tell you of the treason this wretch meditates against the spotless saint who has taught you to know his name, — and now you will see him butchered in cold blood before your eyes, rather than raise your coward arm to help him!”
“No, Juno, no, — we will not see it: and if you will only bring our Massa Edward to bid us do this thing, why then we’ll do it, Juno.”
Baffled and disappointed where she had hoped for aid, Juno in bitter anger left the hut of the negro Christian, and sought to use her influence upon another. Her success was no better. Poor Edward, could he have that night witnessed how well these simple people had “learned Christ,” would have felt repaid for all his sufferings!
The whole night wore away in these fruitless efforts to neutralize the effect of a faith so welcome and so healing to the hearts of those who suffer; and the weary, miserable Juno crawled back to her distant shelter just as the overseers were driving their gangs to the fields.
“It must be poison then, — poison by my own hand mixed and ministered. There will be comfort in that, but it may not be so easy, — first, I must get the drug from Natchez. — It shall be henbane, accursed henbane, — it is thus they poison dogs — a fitting death for him!”
But her mind was not clear; and though her purpose and her will were desperate, she had lost that quiet, cunning mastery of herself, which had hitherto insured her success in nearly everything she undertook.
We must leave her meditating on her fixed purpose, and turning in her wild and wondering brain the means by which she might hope to effect it, while we return to Reichland to see a little how their packing proceeded, and whether they were likely to depart for New Orleans at the appointed time.
When Phebe returned, and instead of Lucy, delivered to the family the message she had sent, a very considerable degree of gloom seemed to fall upon the spirits of the whole family. Frederick himself was decidedly not the least disturbed by it. He made Phebe repeat more than once her very graphic description of Edward, both when they first watched him taking his sad and solitary promenade under the trees, and when she had finally left him, with Lucy seated by his side at their cottage door, looking “as settled and as quiet as if she had never left her home.”
“Dear excellent creature!” cried Steinmark with enthusiasm— “that indeed is ‘a woman that a man might love to lead round the world with him,’ — a second Mary. Poor thing! she did seem so very happy here! Today I think we must leave them quietly together — they have been sorely tried, and, as I believe often happens, the woman has shown more passive courage than the man. To-morrow I will go myself and see if I cannot win our melancholy Jaques into our circle. So now again to business, children. Who has remembered the dried plants? I must not have them left — nor my fossils either, heavy and cumbrous though they be.”
Karl was decidedly fidgetty through the whole day, and more than once asked his father if he did not think it very likely that “his melancholy Jaques” would refuse to accompany them after all.
Now this was exactly what Frederick did think: he had remarked so much high-wrought and romantic independence of feeling in Edward, such almost morbid dread of incurring obligation, and such an abandonment of all that the world calls pleasure, that the idea of his finally refusing to go to Europe, because he had not the means of paying his own and his sister’s expenses, perpetually, recurred to him. What made this idea the more painful to him was the very strong suspicion he entertained that his situation, and that of poor Lucy too, was full of danger. Insult had already been heaped upon him, and judging from what had happened elsewhere, it was highly probable that injury would follow.
With these feelings he set off upon his benevolent expedition the following day, determined not to let any idle ceremony or want of open speaking on his own part interfere with the object he had in view. Karl was very desirous of accompanying him; but the gentle philosopher remained firm in his refusal, being determined, if needful, to use a tone of remonstrance with the too sensitive Edward, which the presence of another might render unnecessarily painful.
CHAPTER XIII.
&n
bsp; SEATED exactly as Phebe had left them, Lucy plying her needle, and Edward with a volume in his hand, which, however, he read not — she talking with that subdued cheerfulness which hoped to animate yet feared to wound her melancholy brother; and he, listening as a man might do who fondly loved the speaker, but had no share in the subject of which she conversed; — it was thus that Frederick Steinmark, having skilfully and successfully followed Phebe’s instructions as to the route he should take, found the pair he sought.
Lucy uttered an exclamation of joy, and sprang forward to meet him. Edward coloured with a feeling which, if he could have dispassionately and with perfect reason weighed and judged his actions, might have taught him to doubt their wisdom at least, if not their purity if thus withdrawing himself from the friendly hand that sought to save him, and separating with a violence that threatened to destroy them both, the destinies of his orphan sister from his own — if these things had been wholly good and wholly wise, Edward Bligh would not have blushed as the mild eye of Frederick Steinmark rested on him.
Edward did not, — alas! he could not, reason thus himself; but his friend did, and a smile that spoke hope of success over feelings of which the amiable owner was visibly ashamed lighted up his countenance as he sat down between the brother and sister.
“Edward, you know what I am come for — I see that in your face, so one portion of my discourse may be spared; — and I see, too, that you would not be very sorry were I to spare you the remainder also; but this I cannot do — unless, indeed, you will lay down your arms at once, and consent to march out of your garrison with all the honours of war?”
“Do not, my kind friend, seek to draw me from this humble shelter now. You know not — you cannot know the deep and solemn thoughts which are at work within me. It is my duty to listen to them, and I even doubt whether — having, through your goodness, the power of giving her a better home — I am not wrong in letting my sister — though she alone of the whole world can faintly and distantly comprehend a part of what passes in my heart, — I doubt, Mr. Steinmark, if I am not wrong even in letting Lucy stay with me.”
“You are indeed! — and I rejoice to find that on that point you now seem able to reason justly, Edward: I only wish that you had strength of mind and firmness of character sufficient to enable you to act accordingly. But this, my poor friend, it is evident you have not, or you would not suffer this dear girl, who, though she has not yet counted twenty years, has tasted more real sorrow than is usually awarded to the innocent as their mortal burden for a whole life; — you would not in that case, Edward, suffer her to turn from the warm affection of a family, who are able and willing to protect and cherish her, back to the misery and desolation that it is your capricious and diseased taste to prefer.”
It might be difficult to say whether Edward or Lucy were the most astonished at this address. Yet their feelings upon it were wholly different. Lucy believed in the sincerity and humility of her heart that the flattering welcome she had met at Reichland proceeded from no claims of her own upon their kindness or good liking, but solely from the love and reverence which they bore to her unfortunate but admirable brother. In addition, however, to the astonishment which arose from the individual affection expressed for herself, she was at least equally surprised at the tone of strong though friendly censure assumed by Mr. Steinmark in speaking of Edward’s distaste for all society, and his melancholy clinging to the sadness that had crushed him. There was no mixture of selfishness in the anxiety with which she watched the effect of this on his countenance, nor in the hope that fluttered at her heart as she at length read there an ingenuous acknowledgment that his monitor was right.
The first emotion, indeed, which this address produced on Edward was, like that of his sister, extreme surprise. He was fully aware of having inspired a most benevolent and kindly feeling in the generous heart of Frederick Steinmark, but till now had no idea that he held such a place there as should inspire the paternal interest which this strong reproof manifested. The manner in which this reproof affected him — the grateful, and even the gratified emotion with which he listened to words apparently so harsh, showed plainly what the generous nature was, which sorrow and overwrought enthusiasm had so sadly marred.
“My dear and most true friend!” exclaimed Edward, rising from his seat and taking the extended hand of Steinmark, “you have indeed conquered me, and, with the exception of one trifling wilfulness that still clings to my heart, I promise to do all that you would have me.”
“Then you are indeed the man I thought you were when I first offered you my friendship. For the ‘trifling wilfulness,’ we shall find time to talk of it hereafter; but the first use I make of the power you have given me is to command you both instantly to set to work to get all things ready for your voyage. Cæsar shall be here with Karl’s little cart in an hour or two, to convey your packages to Reichland; and Karl himself shall follow to escort you home — HOME, my dear children, to my heart and house. You ought to thank me, Edward, for not bringing him with me, as he desired most vehemently that I would do; but I knew that I was very angry, and that I should scold you heartily, and I did not think it quite fair that anybody but Lucy should overhear it.”
Jestingly as this was said, its thoughtful and observant kindness was like balm to the wounded and sensitive Edward, and he resolved, let it cost him what it would, to endure the sight of Sigismond’s happiness without flying from it; — nay, even to welcome it as a penance for having suffered an earthborn passion to mix itself in his soul with his thoughts of heaven.
Lucy’s joy at witnessing the benign effects of the good man’s eloquence was in proportion to the heavy weight, almost amounting to despair, which had rested upon her heart before his arrival. The dreadful struggle that awaited her, between leaving for ever the brother she so loved and who so much needed her care, and remaining with him contrary to his wishes and his will, shook her firmness more than anything she had yet endured. But now all smiled again: they should together see that world on which, from her very earliest years, her fancy had been fixed; and, what was perhaps a blessing more dearly valued still, they should leave together, and, as she trusted, for ever, the land that had witnessed their bitter sufferings.
In a few hours they were again at Reichland; and poor Edward deserved more praise than anyone, even including Lucy, thought of giving him, for the violent efforts he made to conquer a sensation of misery that more than once made him wish that, without sin, he could close his eyes for ever on the light of day. Yet all rejoiced at hearing him speak with hope of the future, and with pleasure at the idea of the voyage they were about to make. Neither Edward nor Lucy had ever yet seen the ocean; a circumstance by no means uncommon to the uncommercial portion of the inhabitants of Kentucky; — indeed, the proportion of females in that state who have seen the sea, to those who have not, may be fairly stated as about one to a hundred.
This first evening that Edward Bligh had consented to pass with the happy race of Steinmark as one of their family — this first night that he had consented to pass beneath their roof, was that of Thursday. The following day had nearly run its course, the labours of preparation were nearly ended, and all, save one, were looking forward to the morrow as the delightful moment at which their hopes were to begin their course of fruition, when Hermann Steinmark, who shared all his father’s hatred to the feeling which is called “prejudice of colour,” said to his mother, “I wish you would let that gay young Cæsar and his chère amie go in the same waggon with us, mother. It would be a perfect treat to watch their ecstasy.”
“I think so too, Hermann. I never saw creatures so happy. And it is the prettiest thing in the world, too, to watch Phebe’s little April showers when she thinks of her poor mother; for then again comes the bright sunshine of love and hope, and her tears are dried in an instant. But we shall not have place for two — and you would not be so cruel as to part the lovers?”
“How many does your waggon hold?” said Edward timidly.
/> “Nine,” answered Mary, “three on each seat: and I really do not think it would be fair to the horses, especially as we have the use of them out of grace and favour, to take more. So Hermann must postpone the pleasure of watching the happy pair till we are fairly launched upon the Mississippi; and before we reach Germany, he will have a very fair opportunity of judging whether their affection is likely to be enduring.”
“But if you take them with you, there will be but nine,” said Edward.
“My kind friend half promised to indulge me in one trifling wilfulness; and this is, the determination to follow you to New Orleans on Monday.”
No one made any answer. Frederick Steinmark, who was talking very gaily to Lucy at the moment this declaration was made, stopped short in the midst of what he was saying, but uttered not a word in reply to it. About half an hour afterwards he left the room, and as he did so, touched the arm of Edward, saying, “Come with me, Bligh, for a moment — I want to speak to you.”
Edward immediately rose and followed him. What passed between them was never exactly explained; but, by some means or other, every one in the house knew before they went to bed that the drive to Natchez on their way to New Orleans was postponed.
The Saturday passed in saying farewell to such of their widely-scattered neighbours as had excited most interest among them. The German servants were sent off with the goods. The favourite walks, and even the favourite trees, were visited; and even the very cattle which had been sold with the estate received a parting look of kindness.
Edward and Lucy ventured to visit many of those who had made part of their woodland congregation. Their speedy departure, they knew, must quench any jealous fears which seeing them address the negroes might excite; and they were personally so entirely unknown among the officers on the estate of Paradise Plantation, that they were considered by all, except such of the slaves as knew them, as travelling strangers who were examining all things for the gratification of their curiosity.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 46
