by Mayne Reid
CHAPTER FORTY FIVE.
JEALOUSY.
Have you ever loved in humble life? some fair young girl, whose lot wasamong the lowly, but whose brilliant beauty in your eyes annihilated allsocial inequalities? Love levels all distinctions, is an adage old asthe hills. It brings down the proud heart, and teaches condescension tothe haughty spirit; but its tendency is to elevate, to ennoble. It doesnot make a peasant of the prince, but a prince of the peasant.
Behold the object of your adoration engaged in her ordinary duties! Shefetches a jar of water from the well. Barefoot she treads thewell-known path. Those nude pellucid feet are fairer in their nakednessthan the most delicate _chaussure_ of silk and satin. The wreaths andpearl circlets, the pins of gold and drupes of coral, the costliest_coiffures_ of the dress circle,--all seem plain and poor compared withthe glossy _neglige_ of those bright tresses. The earthen jar sits uponher head with the grace of a golden coronet--every attitude is the_pose_ of a statue, a study for a sculptor; and the coarse garment thatdrapes that form is in your eyes more becoming than a robe of richestvelvet. You care not for that. You are not thinking of the casket, butof the pearl it conceals.
She disappears within the cottage--her humble home. Humble? In youreyes no longer humble; that little kitchen, with its wooden chairs, andscoured dresser, its deal shelf, with mugs, cups, and willow-patternplates, its lime-washed walls and cheap prints of the red soldier andthe blue sailor--that little museum of the _penates_ of the poor, is nowfilled with a light that renders it more brilliant than the gildedsaloons of wealth and fashion. That cottage with its low roof, andwoodbine trellis, has become a palace. The light of love hastransformed it! A paradise you are forbidden to enter. Yes, with allyour wealth and power, your fine looks and your titles of distinction,your superfine cloth and bright lacquered boots, mayhap you dare notenter there.
And oh! how you envy those who dare!--how you envy the spruceapprentice, and the lout in the smock who cracks his whip, and whistleswith as much _nonchalance_ as if he was between the handles of hisplough! as though the awe of that fair presence should not freeze hislips to stone! _Gauche_ that he is, how you envy him his_opportunities_! how you could slaughter him for those sweet smiles thatappear to be lavished upon him!
There maybe no meaning in those smiles. They may be the expressions ofgood-nature of simple friendship, perhaps of a little coquetry. For allthat, you cannot behold them without envy--without _suspicion_ If therebe a meaning--if they be the smiles of love--if the heart of that simplegirl has made its lodgement either upon the young apprentice or him ofthe smock--then are you fated to the bitterest pang that human breastcan know. It is not jealousy of the ordinary kind. It is far morepainful. Wounded vanity adds a poison to the sting. Oh! it is hard tobear!
A pang of this nature I suffered, as I paced that high platform.Fortunately they had left me alone. The feelings that worked within mecould not be concealed. My looks and wild gestures must have betrayedthem. I should have been a subject for satire and laughter. But I wasalone. The pilot in his glass-box did not notice me. His back wastowards me, and his keen eye, bent steadily upon the water, was too busywith logs and sand-bars, and snags and sawyers, to take note of mydelirium.
It _was_ Aurore! Of that I had no doubt whatever. Her face was not tobe mistaken for any other. There was none like it--none so lovely--alas! too fatally fair.
Who could _he_ be? Some young spark of the town? Some clerk in one ofthe stores? a young planter? who? Maybe--and with this thought camethat bitter pang--one of her own proscribed race--a young man of"colour"--a mulatto--a quadroon--a slave! Ha! to be rivalled by aslave!--worse than rivalled.--Infamous coquette! Why had I yielded toher fascinations? Why had I mistaken her craft for _naivete_?--herfalsehood for truth?
Who could _he_ be? I should search the boat till I found him.Unfortunately I had taken no marks, either of his face or his dress. Myeyes had remained fixed upon her after their parting. In the shadow Ihad seen him only indistinctly; and as he passed under the lights I sawhim not. How preposterous then to think of looking for him! I couldnot recognise him in such a crowd.
I went below, and wandered through the cabins, under the front awning,and along the guard-ways. I scanned every face with an eagerness thatto some must have appeared impertinence. Wherever one was young andhandsome, he was an object of my scrutiny and jealousy. There wereseveral such among the male passengers; and I endeavoured to distinguishthose who had come aboard at Bringiers. There were some young men whoappeared as if they had lately shipped, themselves, but I had no clue toguide me, and I failed to find my rival.
In the chagrin of disappointment I returned once more to the roof; but Ihad hardly reached it, when a new thought came into my mind. Iremembered that the slaves of the plantation were to be sent down to thecity by the first boat. Were they not travelling by that very one? Ihad seen a crowd of blacks--men, women, and children--hastily drivenaboard. I had paid but little heed to such a common spectacle--one thatmay be witnessed daily, hourly. I had not thought of it, that thosemight be the slaves of the plantation Besancon!
If they were, then indeed there might still be hope; Aurore had not gonewith them--but what of that? Though, like them, only a slave, it wasnot probable she would have been forced to herd with them upon the deck.But she had not come aboard! The staging had been already taken in, asI recognised her on the wharf-boat. On the supposition that the slavesof Besancon were aboard, my heart felt relieved. I was filled with ahope that all might yet be well.
Why? you may ask. I answer--simply because the thought occurred to me,that the youth, who so tenderly parted from Aurore, _might be a brother,or some near relative_. I had not heard of such relationship. It mightbe so, however; and my heart, reacting from its hour of keen anguish,was eager to relieve itself by any hypothesis.
I could not endure doubt longer; and turning on my heel, I hastenedbelow. Down the kleets of the wheel-house, along the guard-way, thendown the main stairs to the boiler-deck. Threading my way among bags ofmaize and hogsheads of sugar, now stooping under the great axle, nowclimbing over huge cotton-bales, I reached the after-part of the lowerdeck, usually appropriated to the "deck passengers"--the poor immigrantsof Ireland and Germany, who here huddle miscellaneously with the swarthybondsmen of the South.
As I had hoped, there were they,--those black but friendly faces,--everyone of them. Old Zip, and Aunt Chloe, and the little Chloe; Hannibal,the new coachman, and Caesar and Pompey, and all,--all on their way tothe dreaded mart.
I had halted a second or two before approaching them. The light was inmy favour, and I saw them before discovering my presence. There were nosigns of mirth in that sable group. I heard no laughter, no lightrevelry, as was their wont to indulge in in days gone by, among theirlittle cabins in the quarter. A deep melancholy had taken possession ofthe features of all. Gloom was in every glance. Even the children,usually reckless of the unknown future, seemed impressed with the samesentiment. They rolled not about, tumbling over each other. Theyplayed not at all. They sat without stirring, and silent. Even they,poor infant helots, knew enough to fear for their dark future,--toshudder at the prospect of the slave-market.
All were downcast. No wonder. They had been used to kind treatment.They might pass to a hard taskmaster. Not one of them knew where inanother day should be his home--what sort of tyrant should be his lord.But that was not all. Still worse. Friends, they were going to beparted; relatives, they would be torn asunder--perhaps never to meetmore. Husband looked upon wife, brother upon sister, father upon child,mother upon infant, with dread in the heart and agony in the eye.
It was painful to gaze upon this sorrowing group, to contemplate thesuffering, the mental anguish that spoke plainly in every face; to thinkof the wrongs which one man can legally put upon another--the deepsinful wrongs, the outrage of every human principle. Oh, it wasterribly painful to look on that picture!
It was some relie
f to me to know that my presence threw at least amomentary light over its shade. Smiles chased away the sombre shadowsas I appeared, and joyous exclamations hailed me. Had I been theirsaviour, I could not have met a more eager welcome.
Amidst their fervid ejaculations I could distinguish earnest appealsthat I would buy them--that I would become their master--mingled withzealous protestations of service and devotion. Alas! they knew not howheavily at that moment the price of one of their number lay upon myheart.
I strove to be gay, to cheer them with words of consolation. I ratherneeded to be myself consoled.
During this while my eyes were busy. I scanned the faces of all. Therewas light enough glimmering from two oil-lamps to enable me to do so.Several were young mulattoes. Upon these my glance rested, one afterthe other. How my heart throbbed in this examination! It triumphed atlength. Surely there was no face there that _she_ could love? Werethey all present? Yes, all--so Scipio said; all but Aurore.
"And Aurore?" I asked; "have you heard any more of her?"
"No, mass'; 'blieve 'Rore gone to de city. She go by de road in acarriage--not by de boat, some ob de folks say daat, I b'lieve."
This was strange enough. Taking the black aside--
"Tell me, Scipio," I asked, "has Aurore any relative among you?--anybrother, or sister, or cousin?"
"No, mass', ne'er a one. Golly, mass'! 'Rore she near white as missa'Genie all de rest be black, or leas'wise yeller! 'Rore she quaderoom,yeller folks all mulatto--no kin to 'Rore--no."
I was perplexed and puzzled. My former doubts came crowding back uponme. My jealousy returned.
Scipio could not clear up the mystery. His answer to other questionswhich I put to him gave me no solution to it; and I returned up-stairswith a heart that suffered under the pressure of disappointment.
The only reflection from which I drew comfort was, that I might havebeen mistaken. Perhaps, after all, it was _not_ Aurore!