Collected Works of Frances Trollope, page 47
Lucy remarked that as her brother turned away from each of his sable and sorrowing flock, — and many were the tears they shed, he spoke a few farewell words apart to each of them. Poor Peggy was the last they visited — and a melancholy visit it was: but she too received Edward’s last greeting apart, and seemed to derive some feeling of comfort from his words. Old Juno could not be found: they visited her remote cabin twice in the course of the day; but the frail door was locked, and every attempt at making themselves heard ineffectual.
On Sunday, which was the good Clio’s only holiday, she was invited to take her tea with the Reichland family; Lucy and her brother both declaring, that so far from feeling any displeasure at the mysterious story and unintelligible warning she had brought, they had the highest respect for her character as described by the neighbours who had known her so long, and loved her the better for the care she had laboured to take of them, though not very well understanding what the danger was from which she wished to guard them.
Clio appeared in her very best attire; and, spite of the sorrow she expressed and felt at the approaching departure of her friendly neighbours, she was so elated at the rich inheritance which had fallen to her nephew, that her conversation was, as Karl observed, perfectly sparkling with delight. All trace of her late alarm seemed to have passed away; and when Mary referred to it by inquiring if she had heard any more of the threatened mob, she only answered, “Dear Mississ Steinmark, ma’am, what can be heard of now at Natchez but only the prosperity of my darling of Paradise Plantation?”
“Then you have heard nothing more of that strange story about our friends Mr and Miss Bligh?” said Steinmark, looking at them as he spoke.
“No, indeed; and I beg their pardons downright, for I expect ’twas a story my Jonathan brought out to us for fun — for never a word more of it have I heard, good or bad. He was after asking me a lot of questions, Jonathan was, before he was the master of your place, Master Steinmark, and Paradise Plantation, and the five hundred niggers, and the money, and all the rest of the treasure: — but since that, though he has been out to tell us of his greatness, he said never a word about any of ye.”
“Well, Clio,” said Lotte, “I hope now you will leave off working in the store, and that you will enjoy yourself all the rest of your life, as you deserve to do.”
“Me! — Miss Lotte dear? — Do you mean me never to do no more work? — My! that would be jam! But how can I be so unreasonable as to look to live like a lady, jest because my darling boy’s made a planter, and a congress man, and a senator, and a president maybe, Miss Lotte? Why for should I be a burden upon him for all that? — Bless his sweet face! I’d work for him now, if he’d let me, harder than any slave — only it would not seem so grand for him.”
This was a theme poor Clio could not weary of; but the time for her departure came, and she did depart — and many were the good wishes interchanged, and many and affectionate the farewells spoken, and repeated, till the last gate was passed and the simple-hearted Clio disappeared. For another hour or two the family remained together. The time and manner of departure on the morrow was then finally arranged, and the party separated.
Lucy, as she passed a small room at the foot of the stairs, fancied she heard her brother’s voice within it, conversing earnestly with Steinmark. She paused for a moment to ascertain the fact; for it was her purpose to enter Edward’s room before she went to bed, as during the whole day she had not passed a moment with him alone. While listening for a sound that might give her the information she desired, she heard Steinmark say, “And they have promised to meet you?” Edward replied, “They have;” and satisfied as to the fact, though puzzled by the words, she passed on, waiting on the stairs for Lotte; who had been engaged with her mother for a few moments in the parlour below.
As soon as the two girls reached the apartment which they shared between them, Lotte prepared immediately to go to bed, declaring herself so fatigued by all her walkings and talkings, that she feared she should hardly be awake in the morning early enough to be ready by the hour fixed.
“You look tired, dear Lotte,” said Lucy, “so make haste and get to sleep as fast as you can. I will not disturb you; but I must say one word to my poor pale Edward before I go to bed, for I have hardly spoken to him to-day. I shall not stay long, and I will creep back again as quietly as a mouse.”
“You will not find your brother in his room, Lucy; my mother told me that he is shut up for the third time to-day with my father in the little parlour. What can they be consulting about now?”
“Heaven knows!” said Lucy with something like an anxious sigh. “But if he is not come up-stairs yet, I will wait for him in his room. So good night, dear Lotte! — go to sleep, and be sure I will not wake you.”
Lucy found, as she expected, her brother’s room untenanted; and sitting down beside the open window, she determined to wait for him. She still fancied that she heard at intervals the voices of Steinmark and her brother in the room below; but at length everything was silent, the last sound she heard being that of a door carefully opened and then closed again. But still her brother came not; and weary as she was, she would have given up the idea of speaking to him and stolen to bed beside her friend, had not a sort of vague anxiety, a dread of something though she knew not what, still kept her nervously awaiting his approach.
While debating with herself whether she should not go down-stairs to learn what detained him, she fancied she saw through the still open window, which commanded a view of the path that led from the back of the house into the forest, the figure of Edward gliding rapidly along amongst the trees. The waning moon had but just risen above the horizon, but the stars were very bright, and the fire-flies so numerous and so brilliant as greatly to increase the light. For a moment he was out of sight among the bushes; but again he reappeared, and that in a spot more open. She could not be mistaken, — his white summer dress and the large straw hat he wore made this impossible: it was certainly Edward; but where he could be going thus secretly, without ever communicating his purpose to her, defied conjecture. She continued to watch him till he was out of sight, and then sat down again, not so much with the idea of awaiting his return, as to meditate upon the mysterious cause of his expedition. Whatever it might be, however, it was evident that Steinmark was acquainted with it; and this conviction reassured her so greatly, that she rose from her chair, determined to go to bed and to sleep with the conviction that nothing could be wrong which he thought right.
As she gave one parting look, as she turned to go, at the solemn shades of that dark forest which she was so soon about to leave for ever, the remembrance of the midnight prayers of which it had been so often the temple, came to her mind, and at the same instant the idea struck her with all the force of conviction, that it was for this her brother was gone. It was the Sabbath night — it was the very hour at which his congregation were wont to meet — it was the last time he could ever raise his voice in prayer among them. It was for this he had stayed, it was for this the good Steinmark had delayed his departure, and it was for this he had spoken a farewell word in secret to each of his flock.
Inexpressibly affected by this idea, and feeling that his reason for excluding her from a scene which they had hitherto so constantly and so delightfully enjoyed together, must be that he still thought some danger might be feared from the persons who had so terrified her at Natchez, she instantly decided upon following him.
With noiseless steps she descended the stairs, and passing through a slightly-fastened door into the farm-yard, she gained the path by which her brother had disappeared, unheard and unseen by any.
This path turned, before it penetrated the forest, in such a direction as to command the principal front of the house; and as Lucy looked towards it as she passed along, she perceived that the large windows of the common sitting-room were still lighted.
“They are waiting up for him,” thought Lucy: “can I forgive them for endeavouring to make me less watchful and less careful of him than themselves?”
She walked as rapidly as the imperfect light would permit through a very rough and unfrequented path; but when she arrived at length at the comparatively open space where the prayer-meetings had always been held, she rejoiced most fervently that she was not absent from the scene that met her view. Her heart had rightly suggested the object of Edward’s secret walk — he was there surrounded by the hapless beings to whom he had given hope unknown before. He had already concluded the prayer in which with whispered cadence they were all wont to join, and was addressing to them a farewell so full of pious feeling and of tender love, that the strongest emotion was evinced by those he was about to leave; — sobs and groans interrupted him, while his own tears fell thick and fast upon his pallid cheeks.
Lucy gazed at the whole scene for a moment, and then unseen by any, emerged from the trees, and kneeled silently down behind her brother.
It must have been a hard and crabbed nature that could have resisted the holy fervour and the deep melancholy of that parting scene.
Edward ceased — then once more raised his voice to implore a blessing on them, stretched out his arms and waved a last farewell, and turning at last with slow and lingering step to go, received the pale and weeping Lucy in his bosom.
Startled, but not displeased, — for now he believed indeed that no ambushed danger threatened them, — he drew her arm within his, and equally unable at that moment either to give, or receive explanation, they silently entered the covert of the forest in the direction that led to Reichland.
Before they had taken many steps, however, a pair of powerful arms seized Edward and held him pinioned; while a man armed with a pistol started from the bushes into the path before them, and presenting the muzzle to the breast of Lucy, said in a whisper too low for the departing negroes to hear, “Speak one word, or utter a single squeak, and by G — d the gal shall be shot dead before ye!”
These words contained a power more effectual than anything save death itself for obtaining the silence demanded, and the party remained in the same attitude and without a word being breathed by any of them for many minutes. The man who held Edward then said to his companion, “Peer out a spell, and see if the black beetles are off.”
The man who held the pistol obeyed this command, still keeping it, however, directed towards the prisoners; and in a few minutes resumed his post, saying— “Crawled off every varment of ’em.”
“Now, then, for your rope, Hogstown; we’ll bind this soft saint hand and foot, lest he might take a fancy to kicking; and as to the miss, I’ll manage her in a jiffy — you’ve got no Choctaw guard now, my dear, to take your part.”
“But a white man may do as well as a red one,” cried Karl Steinmark, making his way through the bushes, and seizing the speaker by the collar.
Fortunately the other ruffian had laid his pistol on the ground while he assisted in binding Edward; and as Karl was followed by his father and his two brothers, all well armed with bludgeons, the struggle was of no long duration. Karl caught up the almost fainting Lucy, and carried her off in his arms; Henrich seized upon the pistol; and Steinmark and Hermann, after releasing Edward, quietly led him away, merely informing their discomfited landlord, for it was no less a man, that if he or his companion approached them, the pistol should be instantly discharged.
Steinmark’s first idea was that there must be others still lying in ambush near them; but perceiving that the only two who had hitherto appeared were walking off very rapidly in a contrary direction, he marshalled, his own party into good marching order, and not thinking Lucy in a state to answer questions, endeavoured to learn from Edward how it happened that she was there, when he had so positively promised not to take her.
Of this imprudence at least it was easy for the agitated young man to clear himself; but when his friend said, “And where, Edward, are all the reasonings by which you proved so ably that there could be no danger that this wretched Whitlaw should pursue you farther?” he was silent.
He had, as he well knew, affected more confidence in the rich man’s forgetting him amidst his new possessions than he felt; and he dared not say to Steinmark that it had been less terrible to him to brave the chance of a martyrdom — which he had often prayed for — than leave the land without invoking a parting blessing on his forsaken people.
His meek silence availed him better perhaps than any defence could have done, and Frederick Steinmark only added in a tone of deep-felt satisfaction, “Well, well, young wronghead, it is all very happily over; so no farther reprovings are necessary. But truly Lucy would find it advisable to attach to her daily service a body-guard of stout Choctaws if she remained in the country with you, Edward, for somehow or other you have contrived to render our hitherto peaceful forest no very peaceable retreat for her.”
Poor Edward felt the truth of this and sighed deeply, but again he answered not; and the kind-hearted Steinmark held out his hand to him, saying” Come, come, Bligh, I think we must all exchange indulgences. You must forgive me and my boys for breaking parole and coming after you, — which, by the way, you would never have known if you had not needed it; and we must forgive you, now and for ever, I suppose, for your rashness and pertinacity; and we must all forgive this very naughty girl, if we can, for the risk she made us run of all being very miserable for her sake.”
The tone in which this was said produced its intended effect on Edward, for once more he looked up again; it rallied too the spirits of Lucy; and the whole party returned to the farm with the happy consciousness of having escaped a great danger, and the happier feeling still which resulted from knowing that a very few hours would take them for ever from the region where peril so treacherous might still be feared.
CHAPTER XIV.
ON the night, or rather morning, in which old Juno returned to her hut after her laborious and futile progress among the members of Edward’s congregation, she threw herself in moody disappointment on her bed, and lay there many hours moaning and lamenting herself most piteously. From the dreadful hour in which she saw the last of that race, to whose idea she had clung with such pertinacious fanaticism of love for more than fifty years — from that hour the image of the fair dead girl had never left her brain. The sight had not driven her mad, — she would have suffered less if it had; — but, though her already shattered reason was not totally overthrown by it, her passions had been roused to a degree of violence that rendered her reason, such as it was, but little able to struggle with them.
It was grief, bitter but tender grief, which had bedewed the lovely corse with tears when first she made the terrible discovery; but from the moment she discovered, by the perusal of the letter that poor Selina left, how great a share the ever-detested Whitlaw had in the tragedy, every other sentiment was merged in a longing, anxious, desperate craving for revenge. She knew — no one so well, for she had made it her occupation to watch him — how savage, how pitiful, how wanton had been his use of the power his weak and wicked patron had trusted to him. She knew that his very name was abhorred, and his approach shunned, almost as much from loathing as from fear.
How, then, could she doubt that she should find agents to do her will? How could she conceive that her influence over the black people, so boundless as it seemed on every point on which she chose to use it, should fail in persuading them to do that which she believed their own wrongs would gladly lead them to undertake without her?
But so it was; and this unexpected check to a purpose so fixed, a consummation which at one stroke she meant should atone for all the sufferings of her long and wretched life, curdled her blood, and left her in a state as much more terrible than madness, as conscious agony is when compared to torpor.
When the bright rays of the noonday-sun streamed through the narrow window of her hut, she rose as if by instinct and opened her door to admit the air and light more freely. But she went not forth, as usual, into the populous fields, but sat down upon the ground, resting her back against the logs of her hut, and remained there uttering a low plaintive moan throughout the day.
At night-fall, after her allotted labours were completed and her little girls fast asleep, Peggy walked over to visit her. It was rarely that so many hours passed without the old woman’s coming to bestow some of her idleness in Peggy’s wash-house; and, in addition to a friendly wish to know if illness had kept her at home, the proud but sorrowing mother of Phebe longed to talk to one, who knew so much as Juno, of the glory and happiness about to befall her child, as well as of the bitter grief it cost her.
She found the old woman weak from want of food, and exhausted both in body and mind by the strong agony she had endured. Without this friendly visit, and the aid administered during the course of it, it is probable that old Juno would not have survived that night. A morsel of bread, however, and a little dose of the universal panacea rum, so far restored her, that she was able to speak of Phebe, her hopes and her happiness.
“Lament not for her going, woman! — it would be less sinfully selfish were you to wish to feast upon her heart’s blood, than to desire to keep her in this accursed land of whip and chains, and infamy — innocent infamy! — infamy blacker than hell, and that no negro virtue can ever atone or wipe out! — You are no mother, Peggy, if you wish to keep her here, only that you may look upon her shame and misery.”
“I do not, Juno, — God knows I do not; and I will bless you with my latest breath for having done this great thing for her.”
Juno accepted these thanks, and felt that she deserved them — and so far there was “excellent sympathy” between them. But not a word did the moody and miserable woman say to the patient Christian slave who so gratefully and assiduously attended her, of the dark wishes — hopes perhaps no longer — over which her soul brooded; for she shrewdly guessed that she should find no sympathy for them. But she listened patiently, if not with a very lively interest, to all the news that Peggy had to tell, among which the intended departure of the Blighs with the Steinmark family made a distinguished figure.
