Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  “Yes, sir, we do,” was the reply; “we want several.”

  Edward’s blood mounted to his temples as he looked at her. Beautiful, graceful, elegant, and gentle as she was, he dared not place his sister near her. Let her moral character be what it might, disgrace must of necessity be coupled with her name. Her remarkable beauty made it certain that she must be addressed with the most brutal and unchecked licentiousness by every dissolute fellow that approached her. From this no possible degree of purity and discretion could secure her, for she was of the race whom all men are permitted to insult. Lucy’s present situation, perilous as it might soon become, was still infinitely better than any protection this unfortunate being could bestow; and Edward stood silent and embarrassed before her, at a loss how to leave the shop after such an opening without betraying the reason for it.

  But the poor quadroon understood him without his entering into any explanation.

  “Is the young lady a relation of yours, sir?” said she.

  “She is my sister.”

  “Then I think, sir; you had better inquire at Mrs. Shepherd’s, three doors below. She has a great deal of work, and there would be no objection to your sister’s being with her.”

  A bright blush mounted to her eyes as she spoke; but she smiled as she returned his parting bow. It was that soft, melancholy smile, however, which seems peculiar to her race, and it brought tears into Edward’s eyes.

  He followed her instructions, and entering the shop of Mrs. Shepherd, repeated his inquiry.

  “A handy young woman? — why yes, maybe I do,” was the satisfactory reply, but uttered by lips which nature had denied the power to smile, and in a voice that was in harsh discordance with the sweet tones of the quadroon.

  Edward felt all this strongly enough, poor fellow; but it was no time to dwell on smiles or silver sounds; and feeling this more strongly still, he civilly proceeded to state the merits and qualifications of his sister.

  “Is she a beauty, young man?” gruffly inquired the grim high priestess of this temple of fashion, fixing her rude eyes on Edward’s handsome features. “If she favours you, I don’t think she’ll suit me; I don’t approve of beauties.”

  Again Edward’s blood mounted to his forehead, but with a feeling widely different from that which last propelled it there. He conquered the rebellion, however, that was rising at his heart, and replied meekly, “My sister, madam, is a very quiet, modest-looking young woman, and would, I am sure, endeavour in all ways to give you satisfaction.”

  “It’s difficult to know. — Gals are unaccountable plagues. — What would she ask, too, over and above her board and lodging?”

  “She would be happy to come to you for a trial, madam, on very reasonable terms, — just enough to enable her to dress with propriety.”

  “Well, I expect I may try her. — Where does she bide?”

  “She has been living with me in the country, and she is there still.”

  “Living with you? — Has she no parents? How am I to know that she is not your miss?”

  This was too much, and Edward turned to leave the store. But probably there was something in the ad libitum nature of the arrangement proposed agreeable to the pecuniary taste of Mrs. Shepherd, for she prevented his departure by saying sharply —

  “You’d better stop, young man; — you may go farther and fare worse. If you’re a brother, and a good brother, you won’t think the worse of the place because I am careful who I takes into it.”

  There was truth in this, though the manner of it was detestable; so once more subduing his feelings, he turned back and said calmly, “I am indeed a brother, madam, and one that would die rather than expose my sister to danger of any kind; but I have not bee~ used to hear her suspected; and—”

  “Well, well, no harm’s done; I’m willing to give your sister a trial. — What’s her name?”

  “Bligh, — Miss Lucy Bligh.”

  “And when is she to come? She isn’t to stump it, I suppose? — have you any waggons your way?”

  “Oh yes; there will be no difficulty about that. I can bring her to you next market-day, if that will suit you?”

  “Next market-day? — why that’s four days, and we stifled with work here. However, the waggons will accommodate then maybe, and she will have to wash and stitch a spell, I expect, to fix herself. — So market-day let it be, — and that’s all said.”

  Edward took the hint and disappeared. He was comforted — certainly he was greatly comforted at having thus succeeded in the object next his heart; but it was with a pang he could scarcely conquer that he thought of his meek, gentle Lucy, who through all her troubles had never yet received a harsh word from any human being, given up to the power and the temper of the woman he had left.

  The sight of Mr. Giles Hogstown, whom at this moment he saw on the opposite side of the market-place evidently watching him, went farther perhaps to reconcile him to the deed he had done than anything else he could have encountered. Once more he felt certain he was right, and immediately turned all his thoughts to the little details necessary to prepare Lucy for the change in her position.

  Mrs. Shepherd’s hint about” stitching and fixing” was not lost on the thoughtful brother, and he immediately determined to dedicate the money he had brought with him to the purchase of a gown, et cætera, for his Lucy.

  He remembered of old that in the days of his Lexington splendour the finest shops were ever accounted the dearest; he therefore prudently determined to quit the gayer part of the town and to penetrate into the humbler quarter, where he might hope to find bargains that should suit his purse.

  Fate seemed to favour him. A low-browed door admitted him to a well-filled little store, from among the treasures of which he easily selected what he flattered himself would answer the purpose required.

  While making his purchases, he observed that the magazine he had selected for them was sufficiently humble to receive negro customers, for more than one entered for a cent’s worth of snuff or tobacco while he was there. Perceiving that the woman of the shop condescended also to gossip with them as she took their money, he ventured to join the conversation by asking if they could tell him whether a handsome young negro girl called Phebe had been sold at Natchez within the last few days?

  The question was one which immediately commanded the attention of his auditors.

  “Phebe?” said one. “No, massa — no Phebe sold this week at market. I hab the cat cause I bide see ’em all done sold. No Phebe ‘mongst ’em, massa.”

  “Handsome?” cried another; “der hab not bin a handsome nigger gal sold in Natchez market since my Sylvia. No, massa, no handsome gal this week.”

  This latter testimony might have had but little weight without the former; but both together, joined with the absence of everything resembling an advertisement of her on the walls of the market-house, convinced him that the poor girl had not been sold.

  Edward now turned his thoughts homeward; but, despite his nearly exhausted purse, he entered a baker’s store to purchase a roll before he set off towards the forest. Though pressed by hunger at the moment he did so, he would not eat the morsel then, for he remembered a clear brook that he should pass in his way, beside which he could rest himself, quench his ardent thirst, and, in short, double the luxury of his banquet.

  As he quitted the baker’s store, he was somewhat startled to meet again the deep-set eye of Hogstown glaring at him from the door of a whisky-store opposite. He remembered, however, that a few days would see his sister in safety; and solaced by this conviction, he walked out of the town little mindful whether Mr. Giles Hogstown watched him or not.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  “POOR Lucy! how will she bear it?” was an exclamation that escaped Edward Bligh’s lips almost as soon as he had fairly quitted the busy suburbs of Natchez, and found himself alone in the wide forest that surrounds it.

  It was a question which had never occurred to him as long as the separation was doubtful; but now, now that i
t was all fixed and settled, — now that he had spent almost their last dollar in obtaining a dress in which to send her from him, the fear that he should have to witness very bitter sorrow on her part, weighed heavily on his spirits; and his pace slackened and his step moved languidly as he thought of it.

  He had quite forgotten his little loaf, and the repose he had promised himself to take while he ate it, when he at length reached the pretty spot he had fixed upon for the purpose. The sight of it reminded him both of his need of refreshment, and of the means of taking it, which were within his reach; and though no longer feeling as light-hearted as when he projected the repast, he sat down on a bright white stone beside the little brook as he intended, and having first refreshed himself by a copious draught of its fresh and delicious water, he prepared to eat his loaf, when he was startled by the apparition of a negro head looking earnestly at him from a thick bush of canebrake on the other side of the stream.

  At first, the glance that regarded him seemed a furtive one, and some caution was taken to conceal the person from whom it came; but in the next moment a tall young negro burst from the covert, and springing by a strong effort across the brook, fell trembling and exhausted at Edward’s feet.

  He was dreadfully emaciated, and appeared so reduced in strength, that when Edward stretched out his hand and attempted to raise him, the poor fellow, though he evidently endeavoured to second the effort, was utterly unable to do so, and remained prostrate and panting on the earth.

  Edward dipped his hand in the running water and sprinkled him freely with it. The negro opened his eyes, which had closed heavily as he fell, and looking up in the face that was gazing on him with an expression of tender pity, but with no symptom of recognition, he exclaimed, “Oh, Master Edward! do you not know me?” Famine and fatigue had changed the voice less than the features, for he was now known in an instant.

  “Cæsar! my poor Cæsar!” cried Edward, wringing his attenuated hand, “what can have happened to bring you to this miserable condition?”

  “I am a runaway slave, Master Edward,” replied the young man, shuddering as he spoke the fearful words, “and I have eaten nothing but wild berries for the last five days.”

  The first impulse was naturally to give him the bread that lay on the moss at his side. This was done most cautiously and tenderly by Edward, who fed him with little morsels dipped in the stream as carefully as a mother would have ministered to her babe. But, this first and most imperious call answered, the next movement was that of terror at the dreadful risk of discovery that both were exposed to. The sun was not yet set, and within a quartet of a mile of the spot where they stood was the dwelling of a hunter well known to Edward, whose fortune would be made at a single stroke could he only see and give notice at Natchez of the vicinity of the poor exhausted Cæsar.

  For the present, nothing better could be devised by either of them, than for the negro to creep on his belly beneath the almost impervious covert of the bushes at a hundred yards’ distance from the path. His renovated strength sufficed for this, and there Edward left him, assuring him that he might go to sleep in safety, as the spot was too near a human habitation to leave any fear of wolves, and promising to return at midnight with the best nourishment he could procure, that his activity might be sufficiently restored to enable him to search a hiding-place of greater safety.

  Edward Bligh pursued his way home in a state of the most painful anxiety. During the few moments’ conversation they held together, he had learned from Cæsar that he was one of the slaves escaped from Oglevie’s factory; and the suspicion which had glanced across his mind when he heard of the tracts, that the delinquent might possibly be his own valued and faithful Cæsar, was thus unhappily confirmed.

  Among many pressing causes of uneasiness, the difficulty of concealing this unfortunate young man, and saving him from the fate that inevitably awaited him if discovered, now became the most urgent; but, weary and way-worn, he reached his home before his invention had suggested anything that promised even probable success.

  He found Lucy anxiously awaiting him, and a supper of such comfortable aspect provided, that his first idea was that he would return immediately to convey it to his starving protegé.

  A young farmer who passed whistling before the door at this moment reminded him, however, that the hour of darkness and silence was not yet come; so setting apart, to the great surprise of the wondering Lucy, considerably more than half the tempting steaks she had provided, he sat down beside her to partake the remainder.

  How much, how very much he had to tell her! — and where should he begin? The condition of poor Cæsar was the thing most freshly impressed upon his memory, and examining cautiously on all sides that none were near enough to overhear him, he related it to her exactly as it had become known to him.

  She was greatly agitated. Cæsar had been valued by the whole family for his many excellent qualities; but Lucy loved him for Phebe’s sake still more than for his own; and when she remembered the tender and innocent affection which had existed between them from early childhood, and the agony the poor girl would feel when she learned his situation, she wept bitterly.

  It was immediately agreed between the brother and sister, that he should every night be supplied with the means of sustenance by them. This part of the arrangement was easy enough; but where should they conceal him? How could they hope to find means of eluding the search which would most assuredly be made for him, and in which every white inhabitant of the country except themselves would join heart and hand?

  Some moments of silent meditation followed the fair statement of these very difficult questions by Edward, and then Lucy broke the silence by saying, “Edward! a thought has come into my head that may be worth nothing; yet the case seems so desperate, that I had better tell you what it is, in case by possibility you may turn it to account. You set off this morning, dear brother, in the hope of doing some important business by means of the town gossip, while I, staying at home, had a huge packet of country gossip brought me, quite unsought on my part, I assure you, but from which I think it is just possible we may extract something profitable to our poor Cæsar.”

  “Indeed! — That is the last thing I should expect, Lucy, from any gossip within reach of Fox’s clearing. Fox’s wife’s brother owns a slave; and the instant the abomination comes within the limits of a man’s kindred, if it be only to a cousin’s cousin, you are sure to hear them all join the hoop and cry after every runaway negro mentioned in their presence, as if the property of the whole family were at stake. — But tell me what you have heard.”

  “Nothing certainly to disprove the truth of your observation. I should be sorry to trust the safety of Cæsar to the tender mercies of Mrs. Fox, who seldom misses an opportunity of offering her testimony to the ‘unaccountable ignorance of them stupid niggers what genteel people is forced to have wait upon ’em.’ But my gossip did not come from her: it was that decent body Mrs. Martin, little Rosa’s mother, who gave me the information that I wish to turn to Cæsar’s profit. She brought the child to school this morning, that she might explain something about the work she was about; and of course I made her sit down, and so forth. She asked me, by way of making conversation I suppose, if I knew the German family called Steinmark, who own the large farm known by the name of Reichland. I told her I had heard them named as very rich people, but knew nothing more about them. ‘My!’ she exclaimed, ‘I wonder you never heard tell of their beautiful daughter! — why, she’s the talk of the country, but so proud that she won’t deign to speak a word to anybody. The brothers, at least the miller, is a very clever free-spoken man; and rich too, they do say, unaccountable: and now they are all mad with joy because the eldest son is comed back from Philadelphy richer than all the rest. But the thing I was going to speak of was, the unaccountable wonder that, with all the dollars that’s talked of among ’em, there is not one of the whole kit what owns a slave!’ — This, Edward, as nearly as I can recollect it, was Mrs. Martin’s harangue; a
nd it created a feeling of satisfaction at knowing that there was at least one household near us composed of right-thinking Christians. Do you think it possible that you could introduce yourself to this family, lead them to talk of the besetting sin of the beautiful country in which they have fixed themselves, and, if encouraged by their sentiments and manner of speaking, trust them at once with poor Cæsar’s secret, and implore their help to conceal him? Do you think it would be possible to do this?”

  “Lucy, I do,” was Edward’s prompt reply: and after meditating a moment he added, “It appears to me almost certain that a wealthy family in Louisiana, carrying on extensive concerns without slaves, must do so upon principle; and if this be the case, they will help us. — Do not doubt it, love! — let us thank Heaven for this most timely accident!”

  Lucy did thank Heaven; and so delighted did she feel at the idea of Cæsar’s probable escape, and the exceeding happiness she should convey to Phebe by telling her that he was safe and well, that she almost forgot how completely the fate of the unfortunate girl was still enveloped in mystery. Her first words on seeing Edward had been to ask if Phebe were sold, and his almost positive negative suggested the idea that she must be still near them.

  “My poor dear Phebe!” exclaimed the tender-hearted Lucy, who, though still fancy-free herself, appeared quite able to understand the effect of love on others; “she did so dearly love him! — I must see him, Edward, if only to tell Phebe that I have done so. It is quite dark now — may we not go to him?”

  There was one piece of intelligence which Edward had to communicate that he had not yet touched upon, and it was of a nature which, though pregnant with satisfaction to himself, he almost feared to mention; but Lucy must hear it, and that directly, or how would the “stitching and fixing” be accomplished? He thought that he should be less of a coward if Lucy’s sweet face were concealed by darkness as she listened to him, and he therefore readily acceded to her offer of accompanying him to the spot where he had left Cæsar.