Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

His pace slackened as he thought of this; and his last steps were taken so languidly, and the expression of his countenance as he approached her was so sad, that as she rose to meet him she exclaimed, “Alas! Edward, I see that you have failed! God help him, poor fellow! — his fate in this world is sealed.”

  This was uttered with such rapid vehemence, that the” No! no! no!” of Edward was unheeded, and the poor girl burst into tears.

  “Why, what a kill-joy face must mine be, Lucy, that the sight of me, even when I bring you the most happy tidings, should throw you into such complete despair! I have not failed, Lucy: on the contrary, I have found a safe asylum for Cæsar — if any can be safe, — and for myself a friend such as I never hoped to meet on earth. This Frederick Steinmark, Lucy, is a man that one might fancy was created to make a link between earth and heaven!”

  “Edward!” ejaculated his sister with a feeling almost like dismay at a burst of such unwonted vehemence from one so calm — at least on all themes but one; “how strongly wild that sounds, when speaking of a man whom you have known perhaps for forty minutes! But, if he will save Cæsar, I too will love and honour him, — though scarcely with such high-flown ecstasy as yours.”

  Edward answered her reproof with a bright and happy smile —

  “You know not what you talk of, my dear child. You can have no idea of the being that lives yonder, enshrined in the forest, and hid as it should seem from all the world: his eye, his smile, his voice, his words—”

  As he thus vividly brought the image of his new acquaintance before his mind’s eye, his memory suddenly recalled to him the looks, words, and actions he had witnessed the day before in Mr. Monroe Vandumper’s store.

  “God of the universe!” he exclaimed with awe, “inscrutable are thy ways! — All, all have immortal souls! — All in thine own image! — Oh! how defaced, deformed! — Can they be recognised? Can we believe them of the same race? — What is the tincture of the skin, compared to this deep-dyed deformity? — deep to the centre, to the inmost soul!”

  Lucy walked beside him, her arm locked in his; but she felt that these words were not addressed to her. It was not the first time that she had heard her brother break forth thus in soliloquy, as if his mind started aside from the theme on which they were conversing; and whenever this happened, a vague terror, lest sorrow might at last shake his noble understanding, shot through her heart. But the fear was as transitory as the cause of it, and left no trace of which she was conscious on her mind, except perhaps a sort of quiet firmness that she cherished there, as a fund of strength in time of need, that might make stand against the rash enthusiasm that he often manifested.

  Having thus given vent, perhaps unconsciously, to the thoughts that were at work within him, Edward walked on in silence. Lucy had no courage to interrupt his meditation, but she sighed deeply.

  “Forgive me, dearest love!” he exclaimed, “for suffering my thoughts to wander from Steinmark and from you, to Natchez, and some of the vilest beings that inhabit it. Shall I tell you, Lucy, why it was that when I approached you laden with good news, I looked as if I were the bearer of all that was dismal?”

  “I wish you would; — I cannot understand it.”

  “It was because I have found a blessing that you cannot share with me if you keep the engagement I have made for you at Natchez.”

  “God bless you, dearest Edward! — but do not always let your thoughts and cares be fixed on me. I shall do very well; and should I find it otherwise, you know we have already settled that I should return to you. Meanwhile, I trust that this good German who has so enchanted you will prove a useful friend to you as well as to Cæsar.”

  “Ay, Lucy, that’s the point. Not for myself, however; — I want no man’s aid: — but you, Lucy; — might I not hope to gain his friendship and protection for you?”

  “In what way, Edward?”

  “Nay, I hardly know. He seems to have many sons; and if they all live at home, it would be unseemly to ask an abode for you with them.”

  “Ask an abode for me, and with total strangers, Edward? — Indeed I shall prefer your former plan. Your sour Mrs. Shepherd has no terrors for me. I sew with great rapidity; and that will win me favour in her sight. All this I can agree to readily: but I pray you, Edward, do not consign me to the charity of strangers.”

  “Strangers! — Steinmark is no stranger to me, Lucy.”

  “But, my dear Edward,” she replied anxiously, “remember how much you have already asked of him. Though his ample premises and the respect always shown to wealth may enable him for a while to conceal Cæsar, it is not the less certain that he runs great risk in doing so. Remember the outrages that have been committed at New Orleans against a native creole, as wealthy probably as your new German friend, and for a less offensive act than concealing a runaway slave. Mr. Steinmark braves all this at your request; — pray, do not tax this new-made friendship farther.”

  “I feel that you are right — at least for the present, Lucy. But I wish that you had seen him: your accent, if not your words, would, I am sure, be different.”

  Lucy would not dispute this point with him; and their conversation during the rest of the day turned chiefly upon the manner of life she would be likely to lead at Natchez. The visit to Reichland had produced effects exactly opposite on the minds of the brother and sister respecting the new scheme. Her dread of being dependant upon strangers reconciled her perfectly to that which a few hours before she had shrunk from with distaste and fear; while the bare possibility that the protection of Steinmark might be obtained for her, made Edward deeply regret the measure, in the success of which he had so recently rejoiced.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  AS soon as the night closed in, Edward set off, accompanied by his sister, for a certain point in the thickest part of the forest between Fox’s clearing and the plantation of Colonel Dart. It was here that for some weeks past, at the same dark hour of every Sabbath night, he had met such of the negroes as had courage to creep from their beds and assemble around him to pray, to listen to a portion of the Scriptures, and to such an exhortation from him as their peculiar circumstances called for.

  The eloquence of Edward Bligh was of no mean order. His copious reading had enriched his style; and his strong feelings and enthusiastic piety lent a fervour and a force to all he uttered that could hardly fail of producing great effect. The poor negroes who listened to him failed not to feel this effect, though unconscious of the cause that produced it. Their souls were roused from apathy, and in many cases elevated to hopes as pure, as well-founded, and as sublime as those which inspired the young preacher who addressed them.

  The first time they met to keep holy the Sabbath night, the only mode of obeying the commandment within their reach, Peggy, Phebe, one man, and three other women, formed the congregation; but the number had gradually increased, and on the preceding Sunday amounted to near fifty. Each individual approached the spot as nearly as might be alone, and no sound was heard, no human voice presumed to pierce the solemn stillness till the low clear tones of Edward were heard to pronounce “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”

  As it was considered essential to the safety of the meeting that the persons who composed it should arrive singly, Edward and Lucy did not join them till it was supposed they had all assembled; and it is difficult to conceive anything more wild and impressive than the scene which had hitherto greeted them when they reached the ground.

  Seated in dusky groups, sometimes but dimly visible, still as the solid earth on which they reposed, and silent as the stars that gleamed above them, the humble people waited to hear the word of God.

  A less exalted spirit than that of Edward Bligh might have been warmed into enthusiasm by this spectacle; and he never took his place amongst them without silently renewing the vow he had made to Heaven, that no earthly consideration should ever induce him to abandon the attempt of leading these suffering spirits to seek for consolation before the
throne of God.

  On the night which followed Edward’s visit to Reichland, he and his sister reached the ground a little earlier than usual, that no time should be lost in waiting for them. They knew how impatiently Cæsar must be expecting them, and were anxious that the delay necessarily occasioned by the meeting should be as short as possible.

  They were not therefore greatly surprised, on entering the small and closely-sheltered space selected for the meeting, to find it untenanted. They sat down in silence on the moss-covered root of an old plane-tree, and remained for about a quarter of an hour patiently waiting the arrival of their sable friends.

  Edward looked at that portion of the sky which the opening gave to his view, and perceived by the position of the stars that the usual hour of meeting was past.

  “Something must have happened at the plantation, Lucy, to prevent the people from coming to-night,” said Edward in a whisper.

  “Poor Phebe! this then accounts for her absence,” replied Lucy in the same still tone. “But we must wait no longer, Edward; or you may be too late for your appointment with Mr. Steinmark.”

  Edward rose without answering, and taking the arm of his sister, was about to traverse the opening in the direction of Cæsar’s retreat, when the moonlight made distinctly visible the diminutive and decrepit figure of old Juno, who at that moment issued from behind a palmetto that grew beside their path.

  “The favour of the Most High shield and protect you, blessed children!” she said as they approached. “Marvel not that your poor people are not here to receive the balm you bring them. It is at Juno’s bidding that they are absent; and you will not believe that it was for nothing she forbad those who hunger and thirst to come where only they could find the nourishment they lack.”

  “Wherefore, then, Juno, have you prevented their coming?” said Edward.

  “Shall I tell you now?” said the old woman. “See,” she continued, pointing with her bamboo towards the heavens, “it is late, and my tale might wax long: — must I indeed tell you all now?”

  “No, no,” said Lucy eagerly. “Juno, be here to-morrow night.”

  “Not so, sweet one,” replied the old woman mournfully.

  “The night after, then?”

  “Not so,” she repeated, in the same accents. “On Wednesday, then?”

  Juno shook her head, saying —

  “When you may see Juno safely, you shall see her, chosen of Heaven! But you must be patient. It grows late,” she continued, looking again towards the sky; “do not force me to remain longer with you now.”

  “No, no,” said Edward hastily, and drawing his sister onward; “we will not stay to hear you now, Juno: — another time. Good night!”

  “The blessings of the suffering wrap you round like incense, and hide you from every wicked eye!” said the aged woman, stepping out of their way, and dropping on her knees beside the path. She then raised her clasped hands to heaven, and her lips moved in prayer.

  “One word, one single word, dearest Edward!” said Lucy eagerly; and withdrawing her arm from his, she stepped back to the old woman, and laying her hand upon her shoulder, uttered the name of “Phebe!” but without adding a word to it.

  “Safe!” was the equally laconic reply; and Lucy darted after her brother, repeating the word in an accent of the most heartfelt joy.

  “Alas! my love,” said Edward gravely, “do you really place any confidence in the words of that poor maniac?”

  “And you still will have it, Edward, that Juno is not in her right senses? How strange that seems to me!”

  “My doubts of her sanity cannot seem more strange to you, Lucy, than your belief in it does to me.”

  “And what are the grounds, Edward, upon which you found the idea that she has lost her reason? Surely, not because she is old, and speaks in language that shows more instruction than can be met with in those around her? — And yet, if it be not on these grounds, I see not any other for the suspicion.”

  “Is it possible, Lucy, that you do not perceive her wild enthusiasm?”

  “I perceive her enthusiasm,” replied Lucy gravely; then added with a sigh, “But why should we call it wild, Edward?”

  “Because it evidently betrays her into excess, not of faith — that is impossible! — but into unreasonable excess of fervour in the expression of it.”

  A painful feeling oppressed the heart of Lucy as she listened to him. She had conversed much and often with old Juno; but, in her estimation, enthusiasm often took a shade of greater wildness than in her. She drove the idea from her with an effort, and replied —

  “You have no faith, then, in that delightful word pronounced so confidently? You do not believe that Phebe is in safety?”

  “I confess, Lucy, that Juno’s saying it goes not for much with me. — It may be true, or it may not. It may be true in some mystical sense of her own, in explaining which she might keep the word of promise to the ear, and break it to the sense. I am greatly grieved that this poor crazy soul should have such influence among our people as to prevent their meeting us.”

  Lucy feared to push the discussion farther; there was a vexed tone in her brother’s voice very unusual with him, and she began talking of Cæsar, and of the probable security of the asylum promised him.

  Earnestly and cheerfully he entered on this theme, assuring her that he conceived the situation more secure than any other could possibly be, as from the circumstance of Mr. Steinmark’s having no negroes in his employ, there could be no pretence to search among his labourers; a process which was often the means of betraying an unfortunate wretch into the savage hands from which he had escaped.

  On arriving at Cæsar’s lair, they found the poor fellow eagerly looking out for them. His body indeed was completely concealed; but his black head was protruded beyond the bush, and was most distinctly visible in the moonlight.

  Lucy chid him for this imprudence; but Cæsar seemed too happy to listen to her, and crawling briskly from his hiding-place, he actually began to gambol round them in the very ecstasy of joy at their return.

  There was, however, no time to be lost — not even sufficient to explain the success of their exertions to the gay object of them. “Follow me, Cæsar,” said Edward hastily; “we must be quick, or the friend that waits for us may give us up and be off his post.”

  This hint was abundantly sufficient; there was no farther need to urge Cæsar onward, and he set off with all the recovered power of his active limbs.

  “Do we walk too fast for you, Lucy?” said Edward, pausing for a moment.

  “You can take a shorter cut,” she replied, “than that which leads by our door. Fear not for me, dear Edward; even without this glorious moon I should not fear to find my way alone. Adieu, good Cæsar! We shall meet again; and now go on with all the speed you can.”

  So saying, she dropped quietly behind them, and in a few minutes they were out of sight.

  Another moonlit mile, traversed without encountering a single living object, unless the ceaseless note of the wakeful bull-frog which accompanied her the whole way, be considered as giving evidence of an exception, brought Lucy in safety to her dwelling; but she was too anxious to hear that Cæsar was in safety also, to permit her going to bed till Edward returned. She had not long, however, to wait for him. Frederick Steinmark, faithful to his word, was found at the appointed spot. A cordial shake of the hand being exchanged between him and Edward, and a promise asked and given that he would speedily return to Reichland, they parted. Steinmark led Cæsar to a luxurious bed of straw and a substantial supper in a loft used only for the stowage of spare planks; and Edward returned to his sister, bidding her sleep as “doubtless and secure” as he was quite sure the object of her anxiety was about to do.

  END OF THE FIRST VOLUME

  VOLUME II.

  CHAPTER I.

  THE lean and withered Juno, on leaving the hut of Peggy with young Whitlaw, continued her strange hobbling pace till she reached the running stream at the back of it
. There she stopped and awaited him; for although he could easily have passed with one step the space which she painfully conquered by three, he lagged behind her. The effect this old woman and her grimaces produced on him were, in truth, complicated and contradictory in the extreme. He loathed her age and ugliness; he scorned her helpless, slavish poverty; he hated her assumption of licence, and even power, above her fellows; but stronger than all was, nevertheless, the sentiment which made him shrink from her mockings and mysteries, and yet bend and servilely crawl before them.

  Juno pretty well knew that “such and so great” was her power; and many a good time and oft had the wily old woman indulged her abhorrence and revenge towards him and his occupation, by playing upon the terrors which ever lie crouching in the mind of a bad man, ready to torment him whenever some influence from without can be made to rouse and set the imps in action.

  A metaphysician might have understood all this wonderfully well, and yet have been puzzled to work the machinery of such a mind as skilfully as Juno did. In truth, she knew to a nicety how far she might carry her tricks with every individual with whom she had to deal; and if all who undertook to rule their fellows studied the ins and outs of human feelings as patiently as old Juno, power as gigantic as Napoleon’s might perhaps be seen to sweep over the earth oftener than once in half a dozen centuries.

  The history of this whimsical being, half saint, half sorceress as she was, may be given in few words. She was born in the family of a French creole, the mistress of which chose her out of a number of new-born blackies submitted to her inspection, much as a young lady might select a kitten from among a litter for her own particular amusement.

  The hateful position which gave Madame Briot the power of doing this was not of her own seeking, nor its consequences her own choice; but the steady, gentle kindness, with which the helpless being she had thus drawn near her, was fostered as long as she lived, was indeed all her own. It was, however, with more amiability of feeling than correctness of judgment that the little negress was permitted not only to be in attendance during all the lessons received by Madame Briot’s children, but to read the books they read, and to emulate their progress in every branch of education through which white teachers could be prevailed upon to lead her. The dancing and music masters luckily both declared that they could by no means consent to such unwonted degradation; and thus Juno escaped the danger of becoming “elegantly accomplished.” But even so, the hours devoted to the fine arts by her young mistresses were not passed without danger by her; for she spent them wholly in reading, and that reading was of the miscellaneous kind furnished by a New Orleans circulating library.