The Quadroon

by Reid, Mayne

  “Perhaps it would grieve some one else? Perhaps you? All, indeed! Is it so? You love him? Sacr-r-r-r!”

  There was a hissing emphasis upon the concluding word, that expressed anger and pain,—the pain of bitter jealousy.

  “Oh monsieur!” replied the quadroon, “how can you speak thus? I love! I,—a poor slave! Alas! alas!”

  Neither the tone nor substance of this speech exactly pleased me. I felt a hope, however, that it was but one of the little stratagems of love: a species of deceit I could easily pardon. It seemed to produce a pleasant effect on Gayarre, for all at once his voice changed to a lighter and gayer tone.

  “You a slave, beautiful Aurore! No, in my eyes you are a queen, Aurore. Slave! It is your fault if you remain so. You know who has the power to make you free: ay, and the will too,—the will,—Aurore!”

  “Please not to talk thus, Monsieur Dominique! I have said before I cannot listen to such speech. I repeat I cannot, and will not!”

  The firm tone was grateful to my ears.

  “Nay, lovely Aurore!” replied Gayarre, entreatingly, “don’t be angry with me! I cannot help it. I cannot help thinking of your welfare. You shall be free;—no longer the slave of a capricious mistress—”

  “Monsieur Gayarre!” exclaimed the quadroon, interrupting him, “speak not so of Mademoiselle! You wrong her, Monsieur. She is not capricious. What if she heard—”

  “Peste!” cried Gayarre, interrupting in his turn, and again assuming his tone of bravado. “What care I if she did? Think you I trouble my head about her? The world thinks so! ha! ha! ha! Let them!—the fools! ha! ha! One day they may find it different! ha! ha! They think my visits here are on her account! ha! ha! ha! No, Aurore,—lovely Aurore! it is not Mademoiselle I come to see, but you,—you, Aurore,—whom I love,—ay, love with all—”

  “Monsieur Dominique! I repeat—”

  “Dearest Aurore! say you will but love me; say but the word! Oh, speak it! you shall be no longer a slave,—you shall be free as your mistress is;—you shall have everything,—every pleasure,—dresses, jewels, at will; my house shall be under your control,—you shall command in it, as if you were my wife.”

  “Enough, Monsieur! enough! Your insult—I hear no more!”

  The voice was firm and indignant. Hurrah!

  “Nay, dearest, loveliest Aurore! do not go yet,—hear me—”

  “I hear no more, Sir,—Mademoiselle shall know—”

  “A word, a word! one kiss, Aurore! on my knees, I beg—”

  I heard the knocking of a pair of knees on the floor, followed by a struggling sound, and loud angry exclamations on the part of Aurore.

  This I considered to be my cue, and three steps brought me within the room, and within as many feet of the kneeling gallant. The wretch was actually on his “marrow-bones,” holding the girl by the wrist, and endeavouring to draw her towards him. She, on the contrary, was exerting all her women’s strength to get away; which, not being so inconsiderable, resulted in the ludicrous spectacle of the kneeling suitor being dragged somewhat rapidly across the carpet!

  His back was toward me as I entered, and the first intimation he had of my presence was a boisterous laugh, which for the life of me I could not restrain. It lasted until long after he had released his captive, and gathered his limbs into an upright position; and, indeed, so loud did it sound in my own ears, that I did not hear the threats of vengeance he was muttering in return.

  “What business have you here, Sir?” was his first intelligible question.

  “I need not ask the same of you, Monsieur Dominique Gayarre. Your business I can tell well enough ha! ha! ha!”

  “I ask you, Sir,” he repeated, in a still angrier tone, “what’s your business here?”

  “I did not come here on business, Monsieur,” said I, still keeping up the tone of levity. “I did not come here on business, any more than yourself.”

  The emphasis on the last words seemed to render him furious.

  “The sooner you go the better, then,” he shouted, with a bullying frown.

  “For whom?” I inquired.

  “For yourself, Sir,” was the reply.

  I had now also lost temper, though not altogether command of myself.

  “Monsieur,” said I, advancing and confronting him, “I have yet to learn that the house of Mademoiselle Besançon is the property of Monsieur Dominique Gayarre. If it were so, I would be less disposed to respect the sanctity of its roof. You, Sir, have not respected it. You have acted infamously towards this young girl—this young lady, for she merits the title as much as the best blood in your land. I have witnessed your dastardly conduct, and heard your insulting proposals—”

  Here Gayarre started, but said nothing. I continued—

  “You are not a gentleman, Sir; and therefore not worthy to stand before my pistol. The owner of this house is not at home. At present it is as much mine as yours; and I promise you, that if you are not out of it in ten seconds you shall have my whip laid with severity upon your shoulders.”

  I said all this in a tone sufficiently moderate, and in cool blood. Gayarre must have seen that I meant it, for I did mean it.

  “You shall pay dearly for this,” he hissed out. “You shall find that this is not the country for a spy.”

  “Go, Sir!”

  “And you, my fine pattern of quadroon virtue,” he added, bending a malicious glance upon Aurore, “there may come a day when you’ll be less prudish: a day when you’ll not find such a gallant protector.”

  “Another word, and—”

  The uplifted whip would have fallen on his shoulders. He did not wait for that, but gliding through the door, shuffled off over the verandah.

  I stopped outside to make sure that he was gone. Advancing to the end of the platform I looked over the paling. The chattering of the birds told me that some one was passing through the shrubbery.

  I watched till I saw the gate open. I could just distinguish a head above the palings moving along the road. I easily recognised it as that of the disappointed seducer.

  As I turned back, towards the drawing-room I forgot that such a creature existed!

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty Five.

  An Hour of Bliss.

  Sweet is gratitude under any circumstances; how much sweeter when expressed in the eyes and uttered by the lips of those we love!

  I re-entered the room, my heart swelling with delightful emotions. Gratitude was poured forth in, lavish yet graceful expressions. Before I could utter a word, or stretch out a hand to hinder, the beautiful girl had glided across the room, and fallen into a kneeling posture at my feet! Her thanks came from her heart.

  “Rise, lovely Aurore!” said I, taking her unresisting hand, and leading her to a seat. “What I have done is scarce worth thanks like thine. Who would have acted otherwise?”

  “Ah, Monsieur!—many, many. You know not this land. There are few to protect the poor slave. The chivalry, so much boasted here, extends not to us. We, in whose veins runs the accursed blood, are beyond the pale both of honour and protection. Ah me, noble stranger! you know not for how much I am your debtor!”

  “Call me not stranger, Aurore. It is true we have had but slight opportunity of conversing, but our acquaintance is old enough to render that title no longer applicable. I would you would speak to me by one more endearing.”

  “Endearing! Monsieur, I do not understand you!”

  Her large brown eyes were fixed upon me in a gaze of wonder, but they also interrogated me.

  “Yes, endearing—I mean, Aurore—that you will not shun me—that you will give me your confidence—that you will regard me as a friend—a—a—brother.”

  “You, Monsieur! you as my brother—a white—a gentleman, high-born and educated! I—I—oh Heavens! what am I? A slave—a slave—whom men love only to ruin. O God!—why is my destiny so hard? O God!”

  “Aurore!” I cried, gathering courage from her agony, “Aurore, listen to me! to me, your fr
iend, your—”

  She removed her hands that had been clasped across her face, and looked up. Her swimming eyes were bent steadfastly upon mine, and regarded me with a look of interrogation.

  At that moment a train of thought crossed my mind. In words it was thus: “How long may we be alone? We may be interrupted? So fair an opportunity may not offer again. There is no time to waste in idle converse. I must at once to the object of my visit.”

  “Aurore!” I said, “it is the first time we have met alone. I have longed for this interview. I have a word that can only be spoken to you alone.”

  “To me alone, Monsieur! What is it?”

  “Aurore, I love you!”

  “Love me! Oh, Monsieur, it is not possible!”

  “Ah! more than possible—it is true. Listen, Aurore! From the first hour I beheld you—I might almost say before that hour, for you were in my heart before I was conscious of having seen you—from, that first hour I loved you—not with a villain’s love, such as you have this moment spurned, but with a pure and honest passion. And passion I may well call it, for it absorbs every other feeling of my soul. Morning and night, Aurore, I think but of you. You are in my dreams, and equally the companion of my waking hours. Do not fancy my love so calm, because I am now speaking so calmly about it. Circumstances render me so. I have approached you with a determined purpose—one long resolved upon—and that, perhaps, gives me this firmness in declaring my love. I have said, Aurore, that I love you. I repeat it again—with my heart and soul, I love you!”

  “Love me! poor girl!”

  There was something so ambiguous in the utterance of the last phrase, that I paused a moment in my reply. It seemed as though the sympathetic interjection had been meant for some third person rather than herself!

  “Aurore,” I continued, after a pause, “I have told you all. I have been candid. I only ask equal candour in return. Do you love me?”

  I should have put this question less calmly, but that I felt already half-assured of the answer.

  We were seated on the sofa, and near each other. Before I had finished speaking, I felt her soft fingers touch mine—close upon them, and press them gently together. When the question was delivered, her head fell forward on my breast, and I heard murmuring from her lips the simple words—“I too from the first hour!”

  My arms, hitherto restrained, were now twined around the yielding form, and for some moments neither uttered a word. Love’s paroxysm is best enjoyed in silence. The wild intoxicating kiss, the deep mutual glance, the pressure of hands and arms and burning lips, all these need no tongue to make them intelligible. For long moments ejaculations of delight, phrases of tender endearment, were the only words that escaped us. We were too happy to converse. Our lips paid respect to the solemnity of our hearts.

  It was neither the place nor time for Love to go blind, and prudence soon recalled me to myself. There was still much to be said, and many plans to be discussed before our new-sprung happiness should be secured to us. Both were aware of the abyss that still yawned between us. Both were aware that a thorny path must be trodden before we could reach the elysium of our hopes. Notwithstanding our present bliss, the future was dark and dangerous; and the thought of this soon startled us from our short sweet dream.

  Aurora had no longer any fear of my love. She did not even wrong me with suspicion. She doubted not my purpose to make her my wife. Love and gratitude stifled every doubt, and we now conversed with a mutual confidence which years of friendship could scarce have established.

  But we talked with hurried words. We knew not the moment we might be interrupted. We knew not when again we might meet alone. We had need to be brief.

  I explained to her my circumstances—that in a few days I expected a sum of money—enough, I believed, for the purpose. What purpose? The purchase of my bride!

  “Then,” added I, “nothing remains but to get married, Aurore!”

  “Alas!” replied she with a sigh, “even were I free, we could not be married here. Is it not a wicked law that persecutes us even when pretending to give us freedom?”

  I assented.

  “We could not get married,” she continued, evidently suffering under painful emotion, “we could not unless you could swear there was African blood in your veins! Only think of such a law in a Christian land!”

  “Think not of it, Aurore,” said I, wishing to cheer her. “There shall be no difficulty about swearing that. I shall take this gold pin from your hair, open this beautiful blue vein in your arm, drink from it, and take the oath!”

  The quadroon smiled, but the moment after her look of sadness returned.

  “Come, dearest Aurore! chase away such thoughts! What care we to be married here? We shall go elsewhere. There are lands as fair as Louisiana, and churches as fine as Saint Gabriel to be married in. We shall go northward—to England—to France—anywhere. Let not that grieve you!”

  “It is not that which grieves me.”

  “What then, dearest?”

  “Oh! It is—I fear—”

  “Tear not to tell me.”

  “That you will not be able—”

  “Declare it, Aurore.”

  “To become my master—to—to buy me!”

  Here the poor girl hung her head, as if ashamed to speak of such conditions. I saw the hot tears springing from her eyes.

  “And why do you fear.” I inquired.

  “Others have tried. Large sums they offered—larger even than that you have named, and they could not. They failed in their intentions, and oh! how grateful was I to Mademoiselle! That was my only protection. She would not part with me. How glad was I then! but now—now how different!—the very opposite!”

  “But I shall give more—my whole fortune. Surely that will suffice. The offers you speak of were infamous proposals, like that of Monsieur Gayarre. Mademoiselle knew it; she was too good to accept them.”

  “That is true, but she will equally refuse yours. I fear it, alas! alas!”

  “Nay, I shall confess all to Mademoiselle. I shall declare to her my honourable design. I shall implore her consent. Surely she will not refuse. Surely she feels gratitude—”

  “Oh, Monsieur!” cried Aurore, interrupting me, “she is grateful—you know not how grateful; but never, never will she—You know not all—alas! alas!”

  With a fresh burst of tears filling her eyes, the beautiful girl sank down on the sofa, hiding her face under the folds of her luxuriant hair.

  I was puzzled by these expressions, and about to ask for an explanation, when the noise of carriage-wheels fell upon my ear. I sprang forward to the open window, and looked over the tops of the orange-trees. I could just see the head of a man, whom I recognised as the coachman of Mademoiselle Besançon. The carriage was approaching the gate.

  In the then tumult of my feelings I could not trust myself to meet the lady, and, bidding a hurried adieu to Aurore, I rushed from the apartment.

  When outside I saw that, if I went by the front gate I should risk an encounter. I knew there was a small side-wicket that led to the stables, and a road ran thence to the woods. This would carry me to Bringiers by a back way, and stepping off from the verandah, I passed through the wicket, and directed myself towards the stables in the rear.

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty Six.

  The “Nigger Quarter.”

  I soon reached the stables, where I was welcomed by a low whimper from my horse. Scipio was not there.

  “He is gone upon some other business,” thought I; “perhaps to meet the carriage. No matter, I shall not summon him. The saddle is on, and I can bridle the steed myself—only poor Scipio loses his quarter-dollar.”

  I soon had my steed bitted and bridled; and, leading the animal outside, I sprang into the saddle, and rode off.

  The path I was taking led past the “negro quarters,” and then through some fields to the dark cypress and tupelo woods in the rear. From these led a cross-way that would bring me out again upon th
e Levee road. I had travelled this path many a time, and knew it well enough.

  The “nigger quarter” was distant some two hundred yards from the “grande maison,” or “big house,” of the plantation. It consisted of some fifty or sixty little “cabins,” neatly built, and standing in a double row, with a broad way between. Each cabin was a facsimile of its neighbour, and in front of each grew a magnolia or a beautiful China-tree, under the shade of whose green leaves and sweet-scented flowers little negroes might be seen all the livelong day, disporting their bodies in the dust. These, of all sizes, from the “piccaninny” to the “good-sized chunk of a boy,” and of every shade of slave-colour, from the fair-skinned quadroon to the black Bambarra, on whom, by an American witticism of doubtful truthfulness; “charcoal would make a white mark!” Divesting them of dust, you would have no difficulty in determining their complexion. Their little plump bodies were nude, from the top of their woolly heads to their long projecting heels. There roll they, black and yellow urchins, all the day, playing with pieces of sugar-cane, or melon-rind, or corn-cobs—cheerful and happy as any little lords could be in their well-carpeted nurseries in the midst of the costliest toys of the German bazaar!

  On entering the negro quarter, you cannot fail to observe tall papaw poles or cane-reeds stuck up in front of many of the cabins, and carrying upon their tops large, yellow gourd-shells, each perforated with a hole in the side. These are the dwellings of the purple martin, (Hirundo purpurea)—the most beautiful of American swallows, and a great favourite among the simple negroes, as it had been, long before their time, among the red aborigines of the soil. You will notice, too, hanging in festoons along the walls of the cabins, strings of red and green pepper-pods (species of capsicum); and here and there a bunch of some dried herb of medicinal virtue, belonging to the negro pharmacopoeia. All these are the property of “aunt Phoebe,” or “aunty Cleopatra,” or “ole aunt Phillis;” and the delicious “pepper pot” that any one of those “aunts” can make out of the aforesaid green and red capsicums, assisted by a few other ingredients from the little garden “patch” in the rear of the cabin, would bring water to the teeth of an epicure.