by Reid, Mayne
I have endeavoured to draw from the doctor some facts, regarding the connexion existing between Gayarre and the family of Besançon. I could only make distant allusion to such a subject. I obtained no very satisfactory information. The doctor is what might be termed a “close man,” and too much talking would not make one of his profession very popular in Louisiana. He either knows but little of their affairs, or affects not to know; and yet, from some expressions that dropped from him, I suspect the latter to be the more probable.
“Poor young lady!” said he; “quite alone in the world. I believe there is an aunt, or something of the kind, who lives in New Orleans, but she has no male relation to look after her affairs. Gayarre seems to have everything in his hands.”
I gathered from the doctor that Eugénie’s father had been much richer at one period—one of the most extensive planters on the coast; that he had kept a sort of “open house,” and dispensed hospitality in princely style. “Fêtes” on a grand scale had been given, and this more particularly of late years. Even since his death profuse hospitality has been carried on, and Mademoiselle continues to receive her father’s guests after her father’s fashion. Suitors she has in plenty, but the doctor has heard of no one who is regarded in the light of a “lover.”
Gayarre had been the intimate friend of Besançon. Why, no one could tell; for their natures were as opposite as the poles. It was thought by some that their friendship had a little of the character of that which usually exists between debtor and creditor.
The information thus imparted by the doctor confirms what Scipio has already told me. It confirms, too, my suspicions in regard to the young Creole, that there is a cloud upon the horizon of her future, darker than any that has shadowed her past—darker even than that produced by the memory of Antoine!
July 28th.—Gayarre has been here to-day—at the house, I mean. In fact, he visits Mademoiselle nearly every day; but Scipio tells me something new and strange. It appears that some of the slaves who had been flogged, complained of the overseer to their young mistress; and she in her turn spoke to Gayarre on the subject. His reply was that the “black rascals deserved all they had got, and more,” and somewhat rudely upheld the ruffian Larkin, who is beyond a doubt his protégé. The lady was silent.
Scipio learns these facts from Aurore. There is something ominous in all this.
Poor Scipio has made me the confidant of another, and a private grief. He suspects that the overseer is looking too kindly upon “him kettle Chloe.” The brute! if this be so!—My blood boils at the thought—oh! slavery!
* * *
August 2nd.—I hear of Gayarre again. He has been to the house, and made a longer stay with Mademoiselle than usual. What can he have to do with her? Can his society be agreeable to her? Surely that is impossible! And yet such frequent visits—such long conferences! If she marry such a man as this I pity her, poor victim!—for victim will she be. He must have some power over her to act as he is doing. He seems master of the plantation, says Scipio, and issues his orders to every one with the air of its owner. All fear him and his “nigger-driver,” as the ruffian Larkin is called. The latter is more feared by Scipio, who has noticed some further rude conduct on the part of the overseer towards “him leettle Chloe.” Poor fellow! he is greatly distressed; and no wonder, when even the law does not allow him to protect the honour of his own child!
I have promised to speak to Mademoiselle about the affair; but I fear, from what reaches my ears, that she is almost as powerless as Scipio himself!
* * *
August 3rd.—To-day, for the first time, I am able to go out of my room. I have taken a walk through the shrubbery and garden. I encountered Aurore among the orange-trees, gathering the golden fruit; but she was accompanied by little Chloe, who held the basket. What would I not have given to have found her alone! A word or two only was I able to exchange with her, and she was gone.
She expressed her pleasure at seeing me able to be abroad. She seemed pleased; I fancied she felt so, I never saw her look so lovely. The exercise of shaking down the oranges had brought out the rich crimson bloom upon her cheeks, and her large brown eyes were shining like sapphires. Her full bosom rose and fell with her excited breathing, and the light wrapper she wore enabled me to trace the noble outlines of her form.
I was struck with the gracefulness of her gait as she walked away. It exhibited an undulating motion, produced by a peculiarity of figure—a certain embonpoint characteristic of her race. She was large and womanly, yet of perfect proportion and fine delicate outlines. Her hands were small and slender, and her little feet seemed hardly to press upon the pebbles. My eyes followed her in a delirium of admiration. The fire in my heart burned fiercer as I returned to my solitary chamber.
* * *
Chapter Twenty One.
A Change of Quarters.
I was thinking over my short interview with Aurore—congratulating myself upon some expressions she had dropped—happy in the anticipation that such encounters would recur frequently, now that I was able to be abroad—when in the midst of my pleasant reverie the door of my apartment became darkened. I looked up, and beheld the hated face of Monsieur Dominique Gayarre.
It was his first visit since the morning after my arrival upon the plantation. What could he want with me?
I was not kept long in suspense, for my visitor, without even apologising for his intrusion, opened his business abruptly and at once.
“Monsieur,” began he, “I have made arrangements for your removal to the hotel at Bringiers.”
“You have?” said I, interrupting him in a tone as abrupt and something more indignant than his own. “And who, sir, may I ask, has commissioned you to take this trouble?”
“Ah—oh!” stammered he, somewhat tamed down by his brusque reception, “I beg pardon, Monsieur. Perhaps you are not aware that I am the agent—the friend—in fact, the guardian of Mademoiselle Besançon—and—and—”
“Is it Mademoiselle Besançon’s wish that I go to Bringiers?”
“Well—the truth is—not exactly her wish; but you see, my dear sir, it is a delicate affair—your remaining here, now that you are almost quite recovered, upon which I congratulate you—and—and—”
“Go on, sir!”
“Your remaining here any longer—under the circumstances—would be—you can judge for yourself, sir—would be, in fact, a thing that would be talked about in the neighbourhood—in fact, considered highly improper.”
“Hold, Monsieur Gayarre! I am old enough not to require lessons in etiquette from you, sir.”
“I beg pardon, sir. I do not mean that but—I—you will observe—I, as the lawful guardian of the young lady—”
“Enough, sir. I understand you perfectly. For your purposes, whatever they be, you do not wish me to remain any longer on this plantation. Your desire shall be gratified. I shall leave the place, though certainly not with any intention of accommodating you. I shall go hence this very evening.”
The words upon which I had placed emphasis, startled the coward like a galvanic shock. I saw him turn pale as they were uttered, and the wrinkles deepened about his eyes. I had touched a chord, which he deemed a secret one, and its music sounded harsh to him. Lawyer-like, however, he commanded himself, and without taking notice of my insinuation, replied in a tone of whining hypocrisy—
“My dear monsieur! I regret this necessity; but the fact is, you see—the world—the busy, meddling world—”
“Spare your homilies, sir! Your business, I fancy, is ended; at all events your company is no longer desired.”
“Humph!” muttered he. “I regret you should take it in this way—I am sorry—”
And with a string of similar incoherent phrases he made his exit.
I stepped up to the door and looked after, to see which way he would take. He walked direct to the house! I saw him go in!
This visit and its object had taken me by surprise, though I had not been without some anticipation of suc
h an event. The conversation I had overheard between him and the doctor rendered it probable that such would be the result; though I hardly expected being obliged to change my quarters so soon. For another week or two I had intended to stay where I was. When quite recovered, I should have moved to the hotel of my own accord.
I felt vexed, and for several reasons. It chagrined me to think that this wretch possessed such a controlling influence; for I did not believe that Mademoiselle Besançon had anything to do with my removal. Quite the contrary. She had visited me but a few hours before, and not a word had been said of the matter. Perhaps she might have thought of it, and did not desire to mention it? But no. This could hardly be. I noticed no change in her manner during the interview. The same kindness—the same interest in my recovery—the same solicitude about the little arrangements of my food and attendance, were shown by her up to the last moment. She evidently contemplated no change so sudden as that proposed by Gayarre. Reflection convinced me that the proposal had been made without any previous communication with her.
What must be the influence of this man, that he dare thus step between her and the rites of hospitality? It was a painful thought to me, to see this fair creature in the power of such a villain.
But another thought was still more painful—the thought of parting with Aurore. Though I did not fancy that parting was to be for ever. No! Had I believed that, I should not have yielded so easily. I should have put Monsieur Dominique to the necessity of a positive expulsion. Of course, I had no apprehension that by removing to the village I should be debarred from visiting the plantation as often as I felt inclined. Had that been the condition, my reflections would have been painful indeed.
After all, the change would signify little. I should return as a visitor, and in that character be more independent than as a guest—more free, perhaps, to approach the object of my love! I could come as often as I pleased. The same opportunities of seeing her would still be open to me. I wanted but one—one moment alone with Aurore—and then bliss or blighted hopes!
But there were other considerations that troubled me at this moment. How was I to live at the hotel? Would the proprietor believe in promises, and wait until my letters, already sent off, could be answered? Already I had been provided with suitable apparel, mysteriously indeed. I awoke one morning and found it by my bedside. I made no inquiry as to how it came there. That would be an after-consideration; but with regard to money, how was that to be obtained? Must I become her debtor? Or am I to be under obligations to Gayarre? Cruel dilemma!
At this juncture I thought of Reigart. His calm, kind face came up before me.
“An alternative!” soliloquised I; “he will help me!”
The thought seemed to have summoned him; for at that moment the good doctor entered the room, and became the confidant of my wishes.
I had not misjudged him. His purse lay open upon the table; and I became his debtor for as much of its contents as I stood in need of.
“Very strange!” said he, “this desire of hurrying you off on the part of Monsieur Gayarre. There is something more in it than solicitude for the character of the lady. Something more: what can it all mean?”
The doctor said this partly in soliloquy, and as if searching his own thoughts for an answer.
“I am almost a stranger to Mademoiselle Besançon,” he continued, “else I should deem it my duty to know more of this matter. But Monsieur Gayarre is her guardian; and if he desire you to leave, it will perhaps be wiser to do so. She may not be her own mistress entirely. Poor thing! I fear there is debt at the bottom of the mystery; and if so, she will be more a slave than any of her own people. Poor young lady!”
Reigart was right. My remaining longer might add to her embarrassments. I felt satisfied of this.
“I am desirous to go at once, doctor.”
“My barouche is at the gate, then. You can have a seat in it. I can set you down at the hotel.”
“Thanks, thanks! the very thing I should have asked of you, and I accept your offer. I have but few preparations to make, and will be ready for you in a moment.”
“Shall I step over to the house, and prepare Mademoiselle for your departure?”
“Be so kind. I believe Gayarre is now there?”
“No. I met him near the gate of his own plantation, returning home. I think she is alone. I shall see her and return for you.”
The doctor left me, and walked over to the house. He was absent but a few minutes, when he returned to make his report. He was still further perplexed at what he had learnt.
Mademoiselle had heard from Gayarre, just an hour before, that I had expressed my intention of removing to the hotel! She had been surprised at this, as I had said nothing about it at our late interview. She would not hear of it at first, but Gayarre had used arguments to convince her of the policy of such a step; and the doctor, on my part, had also urged it. She had at length, though reluctantly, consented. Such was the report of the doctor, who further informed me that she was waiting to receive me.
Guided by Scipio, I made my way to the drawing-room. I found her seated; but upon my entrance she rose, and came forward to meet me with both hands extended. I saw that she was in tears!
“Is it true you intend leaving us, Monsieur?”
“Yes, Mademoiselle; I am now quite strong again. I have come to thank you for your kind hospitality, and say adieu.”
“Hospitality!—ah, Monsieur, you have reason to think it cold hospitality since I permit you to leave us so soon. I would you had remained; but—” Here she became embarrassed: “but—you are not to be a stranger, although you go to the hotel. Bringiers is near; promise that you will visit us often—in fact, every day?”
I need not say that the promise was freely and joyfully given.
“Now,” said she, “since you have given that promise, with less regret I can say adieu!”
She extended her hand for a parting salute. I took her fingers in mine, and respectfully kissed them. I saw the tears freshly filling in her eyes, as she turned away to conceal them.
I was convinced she was acting under constraint, and against her inclination, else I should not have been allowed to depart. Hers was not the spirit to fear gossip or scandal. Some other pressure was upon her.
I was passing out through the hall, my eyes eagerly turning in every direction. Where was she? Was I not to have even a parting word!
At that moment a side-door was gently opened. My heart beat wildly as it turned upon its hinge. Aurore!
I dare not trust myself to speak aloud. It would have been overheard in the drawing-room. A look, a whisper, a silent pressure of the hand, and I hurried away; but the return of that pressure, slight and almost imperceptible as it was, fired my veins with delight; and I walked on towards the gate with the proud step of a conqueror.
* * *
Chapter Twenty Two.
Aurore loves me.
“Aurore loves me!”
The thought thus expressed was of younger date than the day of my removing to Bringiers from the plantation. A month had elapsed since that day.
The details of my life during that month would possess but little interest for you, reader; though to me every hour was fraught with hopes or fears that still hold a vivid place in my memory. When the heart is charged with love, every trifle connected with that love assumes the magnitude of an important matter; and thoughts or incidents that otherwise would soon be forgotten, hold a firm place in the memory. I could write a volume about my affairs of that month, every line of which would be deeply interesting to me, but not to you. Therefore I write it not; I shall not even present you with the journal that holds its history.
I continued to live in the hotel at Bringiers. I grew rapidly stronger. I spent most of my time in rambling through the fields and along the Levee—boating upon the river—fishing in the bayous—hunting through the cane-breaks and cypress-swamps, and occasionally killing time at a game of billiards, for every Louisiana village has its bil
liard salon.
The society of Reigart, whom I now called friend, I enjoyed—when his professional engagements permitted.
His books, too, were my friends; and from these I drew my first lessons in botany. I studied the sylva of the surrounding woods, till at a glance I could distinguish every tree and its kind—the giant cypress, emblem of sorrow, with tall shaft shooting out of the apex of its pyramidal base, and crowned with its full head of sad dark foliage,—sadder from its drapery of tillandsia; the “tupelo” (Nyssa aquatica), that nymph that loves the water, with long delicate leaves and olive-like fruit—the “persimmon,” or “American lotus” (Diospyros Virginiana), with its beautiful green foliage and red date-plums—the gorgeous magnolia grandiflora, and its congener, the tall tulip-tree (Liriodendron tulipifera)—the water-locust (Gleditschia monosperma); and, of the same genus, the three-thorned honey-locust (triacanthos), whose light pinnated leaves scarce veil the sun—the sycamore (platanus), with its smooth trunk and wide-reaching limbs of silvery hue—the sweet-gum (Liquidambar styraciflua), exuding its golden drops—the aromatic but sanitary “sassafras” (Laurus sassafras)—the “red-bay” (Laurus Caroliniensis), of cinnamon-like aroma—the oaks of many species, at the head of which might be placed that majestic evergreen of the southern forests, the “live-oak” (Quercus virens)—the “red ash,” with its hanging bunches of samarce—the shady nettle-tree (Celtis crassifolia), with its large cordate leaves and black drupes—and last, though not least interesting, the water-loving cotton-wood (Populus angulata). Such is the sylva that covers the alluvion of Louisiana.
It is a region beyond the limits of the true palm-tree; but this has its representative in the palmetto—“latanier” of the French—the Sabal palm of the botanist, of more than one species, forming in many places the underwood, and giving a tropical character to the forest.
I studied the parasites—the huge llianas, with branches like tree-trunks, black and gnarled; the cane-vines, with pretty star-like flowers; the muscadine grape-vines, with their dark purple clusters; the bignonias, with trumpet-shaped corollas; the smilacae, among which are conspicuous the Smilax rotundifolia, the thick bamboo-briar, and the balsamic sarsaparilla.