She then proceeded to relate, that on the Saturday night, Juno entered her hut long after she and the children were in bed, and having awakened her, very gently whispered in her ear —
“Pray to the great God of the white man and the negro, kneeling on your own floor, tomorrow night, if you would save from destruction those who have mercifully spoken to you in the name of the Lord.”
A similar visit, Peggy said, accompanied by the same admonition, had been made in the course of that night to every hut on the estate inhabited by any of the congregation; and, “wonderful to tell,” she ‘added, “in two instances in which poor unconverted souls were lodged in the same chamber with the faithful, old Juno contrived to do her errand without their knowing that she had entered among them at all.”
The old woman’s manner of effecting her object upon this occasion was certainly extraordinary, and her step must have been as rapid as it was silent, for it appeared that between the setting and the rising of the sun she had traversed the grounds in all directions.
“At any rate, Peggy,” observed Edward as he prepared to take his leave, “she has not improved my opinion of her by preventing my faithful flock from meeting me in the forest. Should she repeat this, I shall deeply regret that our meetings were ever made known to her.”
So saying, he departed, leaving a degree of peace and hope with Peggy, respecting the fate of her child, which he was himself very far from sharing.
Edward had refused to let his sister accompany him on this midnight expedition, in consideration of the early hour at which the waggon would pass on the morrow which was to convey her to Natchez; and it was in truth not long after his return that the indescribable rumble of a huge American market-waggon, over corduroy roads, was heard approaching Fox’s clearing. The first vibration of this sound gave Lucy warning to descend from her little low-roofed chamber, which now seemed to wear an aspect a thousand times more endearing than it had ever done before; but she had time to linger, and even to mount the ladder-like stair again, to bid it another farewell, before the far-resounding machine appeared in sight.
Edward would willingly have disbursed double the number of cents charged for Lucy’s fare to Natchez, for the comfort of escorting her to her strange home; but he felt strongly persuaded that nothing would so much contribute to her safety, in case danger fell upon him, as their never having been seen together there. The only person who knew him by name in the town was Mrs. Shepherd; and from her he thought there could be little to fear, even should she hear of him as the woodland apostle of the negroes, provided he avoided as effectually as it was possible the identifying himself as the brother of her work-woman.
Without fully entering with Lucy into all his reasons for this, — for not for worlds would he have told her how darkly the shadows of events that were to come rested upon the path he had to tread, — Edward made her understand that, in his opinion, it would be better for them to meet only every Sunday in the forest, and pass that day together in the quiet, peaceful manner they were wont to do, than for him to be ever seen with her at Natchez.
Neither the employment he had chosen for her, nor the wild and precarious existence he had marked out for himself, appeared to Lucy at all likely to contribute to the happiness of either. A thousand times would she have preferred continuing the drudgery of their teaching together as they had hitherto done, to the certain separation and very doubtful advantages of this new scheme; but Edward had made her feel that it was her duty to obey him, and she determined to do so, — unless, as a terrible idea which often came across her made her think possible — unless a more obvious duty still should oblige her to substitute her own judgment for his.
It was therefore with a feeling of depression almost equal to what it might have cost her in better days to have quitted a far different home, that Lucy mounted the waggon that was to convey her from Fox’s clearing to the gay and beautiful-looking town of Natchez.
There are few congregations of houses in any land that offer a fairer aspect to the eye than this of Natchez. The sudden and isolated elevation of its position, commanding, as it does, an unbroken expanse of forest of enormous extent, through which the gigantic Mississippi rolls its majestic stream, brightly visible at intervals for many miles both up and down its course, is of itself, in that region of level sameness, a very exhilarating feature.
The town, though it has no architectural graces to embellish it, is nevertheless gay-looking and pretty in no common degree. Nothing seems to suggest ideas of greater enjoyment in the external appearance of dwelling-houses than those contrivances for obtaining air and shade which are found in all warm countries. Whether the same effect be produced by this on the imaginations of those who are to “the manner born,” I know not; but I believe no native of a somewhat northern climate ever looks upon these preparations for shade in the midst of sunshine, without feeling that they promise a very enviable sort of enjoyment.
Natchez abounds in verandas, balconies, and awnings; in addition to which, abundance of fine orange-trees fill the air with their perfume. The vegetation is universally bright and abundant, and the whole scene animated by the variety of its living groups; among which, creoles, quadroons, and negroes are found in nearly equal proportions; while not unfrequently a party of Indians, more picturesque than any of them, may be seen sadly and silently gazing upon the wide expanse that was once their own, but which they now traverse with the timid step of an intruder.
On the whole, therefore, the spectacle that meets the eye on emerging from the forest behind Natchez is sufficiently beautiful to enliven any spirit less profoundly sad than that of poor Lucy; but, in truth, she saw it not. Seated in a corner of the waggon, her close bonnet pulled low over her face, and her eyes shut, — in the hope of stopping the national catechism to which she was exposed from the driver, as to whence she came, where she was going to stop, et cetera — by feigning to be asleep, — the melancholy girl saw nothing till the vehicle drove up to the brick pavement before Mrs. Shepherd’s door; and perhaps she would willingly have closed her eyes again, when they showed her the grim, sharp, sour features of the stiff mistress of the establishment to which she was about to belong.
“Soh! here you be, then,” was the first salutation that greeted her. “Well, I didn’t need have been in a pucker about your beauty, nohow! Why, you’re as pale as new whitewash. I calculate you can’t stand much steady work, Miss?”
“I am not in bad health, madam; but I rose very early this morning, which has perhaps made me paler than usual.”
“Humph! I expect that you calculate early-rising to be bad for the health, then: but that’s not a notion that will be approbated here; so it’s not over and above lucky.”
“I am never late in bed,” replied Lucy gently. It required an effort to pronounce even these few words without tears. The observation of Mrs. Shepherd unluckily touched a chord that suddenly took her memory back to the time, little more than one short year ago, when Phebe used to enter her pretty, nicely-curtained apartment on tiptoe, and before she let in a sunbeam upon her young mistress, watched cautiously to see if her fine eyes were open to receive it.
Poor Lucy felt much more angry at her own weakness for suffering such a thought to affect her, than at the harshness of the words which gave rise to it. But some of her mental reproaches ought to have fallen upon her uncalculating thoughtlessness in leaving her breakfast untasted. The waggon-road to Natchez, from the necessity of going round a very wide, unfordable creek, was somewhat more than twelve miles; and, deliberate as that motion must have been which carried her over it at the rate of two miles an hour, it is nevertheless certain that the continuance of it for six hours, when fasting, did make Lucy feel very painfully exhausted; a weakness which may be the more readily excused, when the depressed state of her spirits at parting for the first time in her life from her brother is taken into consideration.
Her slight and delicate frame, however, was animated by a mind that would not have disgraced one prom
ising greater strength; and her tearful propensities were chased by a genuine smile when Mrs. Shepherd continued the conversation by saying, “I expect you’ll be for beginning your boarding at once, Miss Bligh?”
“I should indeed be very glad of some breakfast,” replied Lucy.
“I guess so; and I’ll be setting the work you are to start with while you eat it: that’s tit for tat, you know. Dido!” screamed the mistress of the house, without moving from her place behind the counter.
A little negress of about ten years old answered the call.
“Take a cup of coffee and a roll for the new lady into the keeping-room; and tell Miss Clarinda Butterworth to come to me.”
Miss Clarinda Butterworth appeared accordingly.
“Here’s the new Miss for the plain-work, Miss Clary. Show her in; and then step back to me for the frock-skirts she’s to begin with. She’ll be after eating her breakfast while I fix ’em.”
The young person thus addressed was far from ill-looking; but there was a little air of pretension and hauteur about her, particularly observable as she ran her eyes over the attire of the humble personage committed to her charge, which might have been very disagreeable to one who had in any degree aspired to competition with the elegance of a young Natchez sempstress of unmixed white blood. Luckily, this was a presumption that Lucy dreamed not of; and consequently the little toss of the head, and the lazy, reluctant sort of step, with which Miss Clary preceded her to the keeping-room, were as harmless as the chirpings of a gay-plumaged bird.
The keeping-room was a good-sized parlour behind the shop; and Lucy found assembled there four young women, who, with herself and her conductor, formed the whole company of Mrs. Shepherd’s very thriving needlework establishment.
“How d’ye do, Miss Lucy Bligh?” exclaimed a bright-faced, black-eyed girl as she entered, whose countenance expressed, in pretty equal proportions, boldness and good-humour: “we’ve been looking for you this half-hour.”
“You behave yourself, Miss Arabella Tomkins,” said a damsel at least a dozen years her senior, who, from her situation at the head of a long worktable, a careful frown upon her brow, and an air of precision over her whole person, was evidently the deputy commander-in-chief: “that’s no way to receive a new-comer.”
Lucy paused for a moment after she entered, to see if she should be invited to any particular place in the apartment: but this not being the case, she placed herself at a little table near one of the windows, which, being open, tempted her, both from the fresh air and fine prospect which it offered.
“Beg your pardon, but that’s my place if you please,” said the haughty Miss Clarinda, placing her hand upon the back of the chair thus unintentionally usurped. Lucy quitted it instantly; when her conductor, putting the middle finger of her right hand in her mouth, and then ensconcing it in her thimble, sat herself down to work, without uttering a single syllable more; either of introduction or welcome.
“Will you please to sit here?” said a girl, the sweetness of whose voice and accent caused Lucy involuntarily to hasten her step as she approached to accept the offered, chair. This welcome overture came from the youngest and the prettiest girl in the room; but her large eyes, as she raised them to give the stranger a glance of welcome, had an expression of shyness that made Lucy feel the more grateful to her for the effort she had made to relieve her from her awkward position.
“Thank you very much,” said Lucy, “but I am afraid I shall be in your way; don’t let me derange all this beautiful lace.”
“Oh no!” replied the little beauty; “here is quite room, and to spare, for you and me too.”
“Mind your work, Miss Talbot,” was uttered from the top of the table.
A girl on the other side of Lucy laughed aloud, and then said, in a tone that hardly affected to be a whisper, “Cross old maids are a plague everywhere, a’n’t they, Miss Bligh?”
“You think you may say anything to-day, ‘cause of the pine-apple, Miss Olivia; but Mrs. Shepherd must look for another fore-woman if your tongue’s to run that rate.”
Miss Olivia hummed a tune.
At this moment the little Dido entered, with a tray bearing a large cup of coffee and a very delicate-looking white roll. Wherever there are slaves, all white persons who are hired to work at any employment are sure to be delicately fed; as the difference made between the two races is always as marked as possible in this particular, as well as in all others.
“I suppose you are half starved, Miss Lucy Bligh?” said the laughing eyed Arabella, in a tone that seemed to hover between quizzing and kindness.
Lucy wisely chose to answer to the latter only, and replied with a very sweet smile, “It is very true indeed. I have eaten nothing today, and have been travelling ever since four o’clock.”
“My — !” responded Arabella, the good-humoured division of her piebald character coming forward; “what’s one cup of coffee after that? I say, black devil, — you Dido, you, — bring another cup of coffee here, hot, hot, hot, and another roll, this instant, or I’ll roll you in no time.”
“You are very kind,” said Lucy, really enjoying her repast, and cheered to think that neither Mrs. Shepherd, her prim deputy, nor even the sublime Clarinda were to be her only companions; “but I am afraid that Mrs. Shepherd will think me absolutely voracious,”
“Never mind her if she does,” said Arabella: “she’s bound to board, as you know, and we’re not to be treated like niggers.”
Miss Clarinda Butterworth left the room while this was passing, and presently returned with an armful of little white dresses, which, with a fitting accompaniment of threads and needles, she delivered over to Lucy “to begin;” who, hastily concluding her breakfast, set herself with a most willing spirit to her task.
“Three on one side the table, and one on the other, ladies, is the way to have room fit — for nothing but just to run your needles into each other’s eyes; so you’ll please to walk over, Miss Lucy Bligh, and seat yourself by Miss Arabella Tomkins.”
Lucy obeyed; but it was not without reluctance that she quitted the side of the pretty creature who had been addressed by the forewoman as Miss Talbot. It is true that she had not again addressed her; but her first friendly words, and sundry little kind attentions during her breakfast, made her feel as if she were leaving a friend.
Before Lucy again seated herself, she proposed to lay aside her shawl and bonnet, which Miss Talbot had taken from her and laid upon the table.
“These things will be in the way here, ma’am,” said she, addressing the superior: “shall I take them to my room?”
“You’re to sleep with me, Miss Bligh,” exclaimed the pretty little Talbot eagerly; “so I will show you the way.”
The two girls left the room together, but not without a word of admonition from their chief, intimating that they were not to stay too long.
In the short interview which they allowed themselves after mounting to the little attic allotted for their use, Lucy was pleased to observe that her companion uttered no phrase against any of the party they had left, or even the sour Mrs. Shepherd herself, but pointed out with pretty eagerness all the little preparations she had made ‘for her comfort, and then said, “Now let us make haste down stairs; it is much better to please Miss Frampton if we can.”
Lucy’s judgment as well as her temper led her to agree very heartily in this opinion, and she followed her new friend down stairs with more lightness of heart than she had felt since Edward first announced her new vocation. “It’s eleven o’clock, ladies,” was uttered by Miss Frampton as they entered. The two girls separated, each taking her allotted place; and we must now leave Lucy sedulously engaged in propitiating the favour of her employer by the rapid and skilful movement of her delicate fingers.
CHAPTER III.
FOR some hours after Lucy’s departure, her brother again fell into that wavering state of mind which had already nearly shaken his reason. He had sent from him the only earthly object to which his
heart clung; he had consigned to another the precious charge which his dying father bequeathed to his care; he had left himself alone, surrounded by ignorance and sin, while the one bright spirit that God had given to cheer and sustain him in his thorny path was by his own act banished from the place that Nature assigned her by his side, to buffet alone with the rude encounters inevitable in the position in which he had placed her.
“Lucy! my pretty Lucy!” he exclaimed, while tears of anguish rolled down his pale cheeks, “how wilt thou bear ‘the spurns that patient merit of the unworthy takes,’ when thou hast no fond brother close at hand to love and comfort thee?” And then his imagination, active to an excess that too surely indicated disease, placed his gentle sister before him in a hundred different situations in which she was exposed to vulgar insolence, or still more offensive admiration.
He started up, determined at all risks to follow and reclaim her; but ere he had walked a quarter of a mile from his door, another set of images seized upon his fancy with equal distinctness. He heard the mingled accents of penitence and hope rising amidst the midnight silence of the forest from the race oppressed in body and in soul, whom God had called upon him to succour; he saw them clinging to him and the faith he taught, in defiance of stripes and bonds. Should he forsake them? No! not even if by so doing he could place this beloved sister on the throne of the world. No! he would share their bonds — he would partake their stripes — he would follow and exhort them to lift their tearful eyes to God, till the bloody death that threatened him should close his lips for ever.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 19