Of One Blood

by Pauline Hopkins

  The brilliant winter days merged themselves into spring. After one look into Dianthe’s eyes, so deep, clear and true, Molly Vance had surrendered unconditionally to the charm of the beautiful stranger, drawn by an irresistible bond of sympathy. “Who would believe,” she observed to Livingston, “that at this stage of the world’s progress one’s identity could be so easily lost and one still be living. It is like a page from an exciting novel.”

  With the impulsiveness of youth, a wonderful friendship sprang up between the two; they rode, walked and shopped together; in short, became inseparable companions. The stranger received every attention in the family that could be given an honored guest. Livingston and Briggs watched her with some anxiety; would she be able to sustain the position of intimate friendship to which Molly had elected her? But both breathed more freely when they noted her perfect manners, the ease and good-breeding displayed in all her intercourse with those socially above the level to which they knew this girl was born. She acceded the luxury of her new surroundings as one to the manner born.

  “We need not have feared for her; by Jove, she’s a thorough-bred!” exclaimed Aubrey one day to Reuel. The latter nodded as he looked up from his hook.

  “And why not? Probably the best blood of the country flows in the poor girl’s veins. Who can tell? Why should she not be a thorough-bred?”

  “True,” replied Aubrey, as a slight frown passed over his face.

  “I am haunted by a possibility, Aubrey,” continued Reuel. “What if memory suddenly returns? Is it safe to risk the unpleasantness of a public reawakening of her sleeping faculties? I have read of such things.”

  Aubrey shrugged his handsome shoulders. “We must risk something for the sake of science; where no one is injured by deception there is no harm done.”

  “Now that question has presented itself to me repeatedly lately: Is deception justifiable for any reason? Somehow it haunts me that trouble may come from this. I wish we had told the exact truth about her identity.”

  “‘If ’twere done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly,’”11 murmured Aubrey with a sarcastic smile on his face. “How you balk at nothing, Reuel,” he drawled mockingly.

  “Oh, call me a fool and done with it, Aubrey: I suppose I am; but one didn’t make one’s self.”

  Drives about the snow-clad suburbs of Cambridge with Briggs and Molly, at first helped to brighten the invalid; then came quiet social diversions at which Dianthe was the great attraction.

  It was at an afternoon function that Reuel took courage to speak of his love. A dozen men buzzed about “Miss Adams” in the great bay window where Molly had placed Dianthe, her superb beauty set off by a simple toilet. People came and went constantly. Musical girls, generally with gold eyeglasses on aesthetic noses, played grim classical preparations, which have as cheerful an effect on a gay crowd as the perfect, irreproachable skeleton of a bygone beauty might have; or articulate, with cultivation and no voices to speak of, arias which would sap the life of a true child of song to render as the maestro intended.

  The grand, majestic voice that had charmed the hearts from thousands of bosoms, was pinioned in the girl’s throat like an imprisoned song-bird. Dianthe’s voice was completely gone along with her memory. But music affected her strangely, and Reuel watched her anxiously.

  Her face was a study in its delicate, quickly changing tints, its sparkle of smiles running from the sweet, pure tremor of the lovely mouth to the swift laughter of eyes and voice.

  Mindful of her infirmity, Reuel led her to the conservatory to escape the music. She lifted her eyes to his with a curious and angelic light in them. She was conscious that he loved her with his whole most loving heart. She winced under the knowledge, for while she believed in him, depended upon him and gathered strength from his love, what she gave in return was but a slight, cold affection compared with his adoration.

  He brought her refreshments in the conservatory, and then told his love and asked his fate. She did not answer at once, but looked at his plain face, at the stalwart elegance of his figure, and again gazed into the dark, true, clever eyes, and with the sigh of a tired child crept into his arms, and into his heart for all time and eternity. Thus Aubrey Livingston found them when the company had departed. So it was decided to have the wedding in June. What need for these two children of misfortune to wait?

  Briggs, with his new interest in life, felt that it was good just to be alive. The winter passed rapidly, and as he threaded the streets coming and going to his hospital duties, his heart sang. No work was now too arduous; he delighted in the duty most exacting in its nature. As the spring came in it brought with it thoughts of the future. He was almost penniless, and he saw no way of obtaining the money he needed. He had not been improvident, but his lonely life had lived a reckless disregard of the future, and the value of money. He often lived a day on bread and water, at the same time sitting without a fire in the coldest weather because his pockets were empty and he was too proud to ask a loan, or solicit credit from storekeepers. He now found himself in great difficulty. His literary work and the extra cases which his recent triumph had brought him, barely sufficed for his own present needs. Alone in his bachelor existence he would call this luxury, but it was not enough to furnish a suitable establishment for Dianthe. As the weeks rolled by and nothing presented itself, he grew anxious, and finally resolved to consult Livingston.

  All things had become new to him, and in the light of his great happiness the very face of old Cambridge was changed. Fate had always been against him, and had played him the shabbiest of tricks, but now he felt that she might do her worst, he held a talisman against misfortune while his love remained to him. Thinking thus he walked along briskly, and the sharp wind brought a faint color into his sallow face. He tried to think and plan, but his ideas were whirled away before they had taken form, and he felt a giant’s power to overcome with each inspiring breath of the crisp, cool March air. Aubrey should plan for him, but he would accomplish.

  Livingston had apartments on Dana Hill, the most aristocratic portion of Cambridge. There he would remain till the autumn, when he would marry Molly Vance, and remove to Virginia and renew the ancient splendor of his ancestral home. He was just dressing for an evening at the theatre when Briggs entered his rooms. He greeted him with his usual genial warmth.

  “What!” he said gaily. “The great scientist here, at this hour?”

  Then noticing his visitor’s anxious countenance he added:

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I am in difficulties and come to you for help,” replied Reuel.

  “How so? What is it? I am always anxious to serve you, Briggs.”

  “I certainly think so or I would not be here now,” said Reuel. “But you are just going out, an engagement perhaps with Miss Molly. My business will take some time—”

  Aubrey interrupted him, shaking his head negatively. “I was only going out to wile away the time at the theatre. Sit down and free your mind, old man.”

  Thus admonished, Reuel flung himself among the cushions of the divan, and began to state his reasons for desiring assistance: when he finished, Livingston asked:

  “Has nothing presented itself?”

  “O yes; two or three really desirable offers which I wrote to accept, but to my surprise, in each case I received polite regrets that circumstances had arisen to prevent the acceptance of my valuable services. That is what puzzles me. What the dickens did it mean?”

  Aubrey said nothing but continued a drum solo on the arm of his chair. Finally he asked abruptly: “Briggs, do you think anyone knows or suspects your origin?”

  Not a muscle of Reuel’s face moved as he replied, calmly: “I have been wondering if such can be the case.”

  “This infernal prejudice is something horrible. It closes the door of hope and opportunity in many a good man’s face. I am a Southerner, but I
am ashamed of my section,” he added warmly.

  Briggs said nothing, but a dark, dull red spread slowly to the very roots of his hair. Presently Aubrey broke the painful silence.

  “Briggs, I think I can help you.”

  “How?”

  “There’s an expedition just about starting from England for Africa; its final destination is, I believe, the site of ancient Ethiopian cities; its object to unearth buried cities and treasure which the shifting sands of Sahara have buried for centuries. This expedition lacks just such a medical man as you; the salary is large, but you must sign for two years; that is my reason for not mentioning it before. It bids fair to be a wonderful venture and there will be plenty of glory for those who return, beside the good it will do to the Negro race if it proves the success in discovery that scholars predict. I don’t advise you to even consider this opportunity, but you asked for my help and this is all I can offer at present.”

  “But Dianthe!” exclaimed Reuel faintly.

  “Yes,” smiled Aubrey. “Don’t I know how I would feel if it were Molly and I was in your place? You are like all other men, Reuel. Passion does not calculate, and therein lies its strength. As long as common sense lasts we are not in love. Now the answer to the question of ways and means is with you; it is in your hands. You will choose love and poverty I suppose; I should. There are people fools enough to tell a man in love to keep cool. Bah! It is an impossible thing.”

  “Does true love destroy our reasoning faculties?” Reuel asked himself as he sat there in silence after his friend ceased speaking. He felt then that he could not accept this offer. Finally he got upon his feet, still preserving his silence, and made ready to leave his friend. When he reached the door, he turned and said: “I will see you in the morning.”

  For a long time after Briggs had gone, Aubrey sat smoking and gazing into the glowing coals that filled the open grate.

  All that night Reuel remained seated in his chair or pacing the cheerless room, conning ways and means to extricate himself from his dilemma without having recourse to the last extremity proposed by Aubrey. It was a brilliant opening; there was no doubt of that; a year—six months ago—he would have hailed it with delight, but if he accepted it, it would raise a barrier between his love and him which could not be overcome—the ocean and thousands of miles.

  “Oh, no!” he cried. “A thousand times no! Rather give up my ambitions.”

  Then growing more rational he gazed mournfully around the poor room and asked himself if he could remain and see his wife amid such surroundings? That would be impossible. The question then, resolved itself into two parts: If he remained at home, they could not marry, therefore separation; if he went abroad, marriage and separation. He caught at the last thought eagerly. If then they were doomed to separate, of two evils why not choose the least? The African position would at least bind them irrevocably together. Instantly hope resumed its sway in Reuel’s breast so fertile is the human mind in expedients to calm the ruffled spirit; he began to estimate the advantages he would gain by accepting the position: He could marry Dianthe, settle a large portion of his salary upon her thus rendering her independent of charity, leave her in the care of the Vance family, and return in two years a wealthy man no longer fearing poverty. He had never before builded golden castles, but now he speculated upon the possibility of unearthing gems and gold from the mines of ancient Meroe and the pyramids of Ethiopia. In the midst of his fancies he fell asleep. In the morning he felt a wonderful relief as he contemplated his decision. Peace had returned to his mind. He determined to see Aubrey at once and learn all the particulars concerning the expedition. Providentially, Aubrey was just sitting down to breakfast and over a cup of steaming coffee Reuel told his decision, ending with these words: “Now, my dear Aubrey, it may be the last request I may ever ask of you, for who can tell what strange adventures may await me in that dark and unknown country to which Fate has doomed me?”

  Livingston tried to remonstrate with him.

  “I know what I am saying. The climate is murderous, to begin with, and there are many other dangers. It is better to be prepared. I have no friend but you.”

  “Between us, Reuel, oaths are useless; you may count upon my loyalty to all your interests,” said Aubrey with impressiveness.

  “I shall ask you to watch over Dianthe. I intrust her to you as I would intrust her to my brother, had I one. This is all I ask of you when I am in that far country.”

  With open brow, clear eyes and grave face, Aubrey Livingston replied in solemn tones:

  “Reuel, you may sail without a fear. Molly and I will have her with us always like a dear sister.”

  Hand clasped in hand they stood a moment as if imploring heaven’s blessing on the solemn compact. Then they turned the conversation on the business of securing the position at once.

  11 Macbeth, Act I, Scene 7.

  CHAPTER VIII

  REUEL was greatly touched during the next three months by the devotion of his friend Livingston, whose unselfishness in his behalf he had before had cause to notice. Nor was this all; he seemed capable of any personal sacrifice that the welfare of Briggs demanded.

  Before many days had passed he had placed the young man in direct communication with the English officials in charge of the African expedition. The salary was most generous; in fact, all the arrangements were highly satisfactory. Whatever difficulties really existed melted, as it were, before Aubrey’s influence, and Reuel would have approached the time of departure over a bed of roses but for the pain of parting with Dianthe.

  At length the bustle of graduation was over. The last article of the traveler’s outfit was bought. The morning of the day of departure was to see the ceremony performed that would unite the young people for life. It was a great comfort to Reuel that Charlie Vance had decided to join the party as a tourist for the sake of the advantages of such a trip.

  The night before their departure Aubrey Livingston entertained the young men at dinner in his rooms along with a number of college professors and other learned savants. The most complimentary things were said of Reuel in the after-dinner toasts, the best of wishes were uttered together with congratulations on the marriage of the morrow for they all admired the young enthusiast. His superiority was so evident that none disputed it; they envied him, but were not jealous. The object of their felicitations smiled seldom.

  “Come, for heaven sake shake off your sadness; he the happy groom upon whom Fortune, fickle jade, has at last consented to smile,” cried Adonis. So, amid laughter and jest, the night passed and the morrow came.

  After his guests had departed, Aubrey Livingston went to the telegraph office and sent a message:

  To Jim Titus,

  Laurel Hill, Virginia:—

  Be on hand at the New York dock, Trans-Atlantic Steamship Co., on the first. I will be there to make things right for you. Ten thousand if you succeed the first six months.

  A. L.

  * * *

  It was noon the next day and the newly wedded stood with clasped hands uttering their good-byes.

  “You must not be unhappy, dear. The time will run by before you know it, and I shall be with you again. Meanwhile there is plenty to occupy yon. You have Molly and Aubrey to take you about. But pray remember my advice,—don’t attempt too much; you’re not strong by any means.”

  “No, I am not strong!” she interrupted with a wild burst of tears. “Reuel, if you knew how weak I am you would not leave me.”

  Her husband drew the fair head to his bosom, pressing back the thick locks with a lingering lover’s touch.

  “I wish to God I could take you with me,” he said tenderly after a silence. “Dear girl, you know this grief of yours would break my heart, only that it shows how well you love me. I am proud of every tear.” She looked at him with an expression he could not read; it was full of unutterable emotion—love, anguish,
compassion.

  “Oh,” she said passionately, “nothing remains long with us but sorrow and regret. Every good thing may be gone tomorrow—lost! Do you know, I sometimes dream or have waking visions of a past time in my life? But when I try to grasp the fleeting memories they leave me groping in darkness. Can’t you help me, Reuel?”

  With a laugh he kissed away her anxieties, although he was dismayed to know that at most any time full memory might return. He must speak to Aubrey. Then he closed her lips with warm lingering kisses.

  “Be a good girl and pray for your husband’s safety, that God may let us meet again and be happy! Don’t get excited. That you must guard against.”

  And Reuel Briggs, though his eyes were clouded with tears, was a happy man at heart that day. Just that once he tasted to the full all that there is of happiness in human life. Happy is he who is blessed with even one perfect day in a lifetime of sorrow. His last memory of her was a mute kiss and a low “God bless you,” broken by a sob. And so they parted.

  In the hall below Molly Vance met him with a sisterly kiss for good-bye; outside in the carriage sat Mr. Vance, Sr., Charlie and Aubrey waiting to drive to the depot.

  * * *

  Reuel Briggs, Charlie Vance and their servant, Jim Titus, sailed from New York for Liverpool, England, on the first day of July.

  * * *

  The departure of the young men made a perceptible break in the social circle at Vance Hall. Mr. Vance buried himself in the details of business and the two girls wandered disconsolately about the house and grounds attended by Livingston, who was at the Hall constantly and pursued them with delicate attentions.