Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  “He is most madly rash then,” replied Edward, who, while almost convinced by the reasonings of Steinmark, found but little to console him in admitting the result. “They tell me that dogs are used to hunt down the unhappy runaways; and if so, the poor fellow’s power of gliding on his belly, like a snake among the bushes, will not long avail him. But it is useless to meditate upon the dangers into which he may have thrown himself. I cannot thank you, sir — I cannot thank you as I ought to do, for all your generous kindness to him — and to me. Let me not longer detain you from your family. Farewell!”

  “Stay, Edward!” exclaimed Steinmark, retaining the hand extended to him. “Why should you leave us? Cæsar is gone, and therefore my roof is no longer a dangerous one to you. Return with me to the house, and after supper we will give you a gayer song than that with which the young traveller regaled us to-day.”

  Nothing could so soon have restored the usually even spirits of Frederick Steinmark to their tone, as perceiving that Edward had need of cheering kindness to support him under the anxiety he felt for Cæsar; but though poor Bligh felt to his heart’s core the sincerity and benevolence of the invitation, and though there was something more at his heart, perhaps stronger still, which prompted him to accept it, he was conscious that such heavy sadness rested upon him as must render him more a burden than an acquisition to his new friends. There was not one of them, not excepting the young baron, who had not repeatedly during the day demonstrated the most cordial desire to make it pleasant to him; and not an accent, not a movement, which testified this good-will, but had been felt and appreciated by its object: but poor Edward’s very soul had been shaken by the emotions of this eventful day. He knew not what to make of the strange battling of contradictory impulses within him. Never till this day had he been addressed in a voice of kindness to which his own voice had not responded cheerfully: but when young Sigismond had courteously attempted to draw him into conversation, a something within him seemed to make him shrink from the frank and graceful young man almost with loathing. When Lotte spoke to him, and with her gentle, kindly smile sought to draw him into the family circle, the effect was stranger still. When she spoke to another, his life seemed to hang upon her accents; when she looked at another, the light appeared to have passed from his eyes, and a deep shadow to overcast the spot on which he stood: but no sooner was he himself the object either of her words or her glances, than his presence of mind utterly failed him, and he no longer clearly knew what he did, nor what he said. It had been a day of torment and of pleasure such as he had never known; but he had no strength to renew these overwhelming emotions, and after the hesitation of a moment, he answered:

  “God bless you, Mr. Steinmark, for all your goodness! — but not now, not to-night: another time, if you do not grow weary of me and my troubles, I will venture to come amongst you, — though I fear I can be but a kill-joy at any time.”

  “You do not do, us justice, Edward,” returned Steinmark warmly. “If you esteemed me and mine as perfectly as we esteem you, it would be impossible for you to think that your sorrows were a burden that we would not one and all gladly aid you to bear and to cure.”

  “Nor do I doubt it, my dear and honoured friend; but there is a weakness of spirit almost too tender to bear the touch of kindness. Forgive my wayward folly, and — think me not ungrateful!”

  “Do not fear it, Edward — You are hardly fit for this working-day world, my friend; but could I shape your destiny, trust me, it should be such as to soothe, and not wound your nature. Good night! and remember, the sooner we see you again, the more welcome you will be.”

  Frederick Steinmark then returned into the house, and Edward Bligh took the winding path through the forest that led towards his home.

  CHAPTER V.

  THE day after old Juno had succeeded in rescuing Phebe from the immediate vengeance of Whitlaw, it happened, while he and his patron Colonel Dart were comfortably seated at breakfast, amicably discoursing upon the number of stripes that a female slave might safely receive without permanent injury to herself or her future progeny, they were startled by the sudden appearance of the old woman and her bamboo, standing under the flowery portico, within a foot of the window at which they sat.

  “What the devil brings her here?” muttered the colonel to his confidential clerk. But at the same instant he rose from his chair, and presenting her with a fresh buttered roll delicately spread with fine honey — a morsel just prepared for his own eating — he addressed her coaxingly with, “Well now, good Juno, you know that you are always welcome, come when you will. What news stirring, Juno? — what news?”

  This queer mixture of fraud, fun, and feeling, never enjoyed herself more than when she saw the savage, blood-thirsty Colonel Dart fawning upon her as gently as a lamb when bleating to its mother for food. She knew — for her comfort — that she had been his torment and his torture for the fifteen years that he had possessed the estate, making him dream by night and meditate by day on plots, poisonings, and assassinations without end.

  “May the pretty spirits that are chirping round old Juno keep the master of all from harm!” she replied, accepting the dainty morsel; and seating herself deliberately on the wooden pediment of the iron column which supported the roof of the portico, she began to eat it without appearing to pay the least attention to the still standing colonel or his confidential clerk, who had also arisen from his chair with considerable anxiety to hear what she had to say.

  The more mysteriously impertinent old Juno was, the more submissive and tractable did the colonel invariably become; and when, having about half eaten her roll, she raised her eyes and her bamboo, and said, as if addressing some object above her head, “Coffee! coffee! coffee!” the zealous believer seized hastily on the silver biggin, exclaiming as he began to pour out the fragrant contents:

  “Sugar and cream, Whitlaw! D — n your eyes! can’t you give me the sugar and cream!”

  “Voice of truth,

  The heart of ruth

  Deserves to hear

  Distinct and clear.”

  said Juno, solemnly and complacently, as she received her cup of coffee; and having drunk it without any symptom of haste, and finished eating her roll with the same steady equanimity, she rose from her seat, and standing in her ordinary attitude, with her two hands crossed, and resting on the top of her bamboo, she said: “Now, master of many slaves, and faithful servant of the powers of air, listen to Juno. Deep and terrible are the thoughts that are rolling at this moment through the souls of Louisianian slaves, — dark as their skin, and frightful as their chains. Juno knows all; and had you met her with a surly oath, as once in days of yore, when she came to show you that the bright fountain which rose and sparkled as if proud to meet your wants — when she came in the darkness of night to tell you that fountain was poisoned, — had you met her now as you did then, a dozen negro fists should be playing on your windpipe ere Juno would have told you one word of the matter.”

  Colonel Dart turned very pale, and Jonathan Jefferson Whitlaw found out a glass of rum and swallowed it.

  “Ay, ay, young master,” said Juno, with a smile that came direct from her heart, where her spirit was laughing merrily, “that rum is cheering, but the cane that gave it is watered, if the poet say true, with negro tears. What then?” she continued, pointing her wand towards the sky, and appearing to aim it first at one and then at another of the airy beings she always appeared to see about her, “What then? — Power is power, and strength is strength; and the low must fall lower, and the high must mount higher, before all is done. You are high, Colonel Dart, — you are very high, powerful, mighty, and greatly to be considered by slaves and freemen both. And you!” she continued wildly, fixing her eyes with a look of frenzy on Whitlaw, and then bursting forth into croaking song,

  “You too are high, high!

  But methinks I can spy,

  That yet ere you die,

  You will mount still, and fly

  ‘Twixt the ea
rth and the sky,

  Till the welkin shall ring merrily, merrily!”

  “What does she mean, Whitlaw?” said the colonel, in an accent that denoted both a puzzled state of mind and an anxious spirit.

  “It’s hard to say justly, colonel,” answered his confidential clerk, “she’s so unaccountable queer; but I guess,” he continued, as the bumper of rum strengthened and cheered the pulsations of his heart, “I guess that she means I shall come to riches and power before I die.”

  “I don’t know,” said the colonel doubtingly; “I expect there’s two—”

  “Whew! whew!” whistled the old woman shrilly through a hole that was pierced in her bamboo. “Hist, hist, hist! — here they come, here they come!

  Could you see them — and hear!

  Now they’re far — now they’re near!

  They have tidings to tell,

  Newly whisper’d in hell!

  Ay! — I hear what you say;

  But I am but weak clay,

  And must pause ere I dare

  These dire horrors declare.”

  Her voice sank as she pronounced the last words, and she appeared completely exhausted.

  “Give her rum, Whitlaw!” cried the colonel, trembling too violently to do it himself. “Why the devil, sir, can’t you give her a glass of rum?” Whitlaw obeyed, and the old woman eagerly swallowed the cordial.

  “It is well!” she cried, apparently reviving. “That was a lucky thought; or Juno might have perished ere her noble master got his warning.”

  “What warning, Juno?” said the colonel in very gentle accents, and evidently relieved at hearing his tormentor speak in tones of less immediate inspiration. “Come in, and sit down comfortably, Juno; and, in God’s name, tell me what you have got to say.”

  “In God’s name, massa? — No, no, no, no, — not in God’s name! — Please, massa, not in God’s name! — In the name of Juno’s spirits, — in the name of the green birds that be visible, and the birds of golden light that be not — save only to old Juno; — in the name of these say, master — in the name of these, and Juno will tell you all!”

  “In the name of what you will, woman — in the name of the devil, if it must be so, only tell me all you know.”

  “The devil?” said Juno, shaking her head, while a strangely malicious smile twinkled unobserved in her eyes. “The devil is the prince of darkness; but, dark or light, he is a prince, so ’tis fitting to speak of him with respect; ‘cause I was told in my youth that not even the great Washington could release us from his parliament. And so, massa,” she added, resuming her whining negro tone, “please to say, in the name of Juno’s spirits.”

  Whitlaw stamped (aside) with his feet; but the colonel deliberately uttered, “In the name of your spirits, Juno, tell me what you have heard respecting the Louisianian slaves.”

  As if propitiated by this obedience, the old woman began without farther grimace to explain in good intelligible English the object of her visit.

  “It matters little, master, and that you know by this time, where Juno gets her knowledge. How many a time have you gone to the right at my bidding, when if you had gone to the left, your life would have paid for your disobedience! And how often at dead of night have I brought you tidings of the death of a slave, who if he had lived four-and-twenty hours longer, would have laid low the head of him who is master of all! Is not this true, Colonel Dart? — is not this true as the spirits of the air are true?”

  “I should be ungrateful to deny it, good Juno,” replied the docile coward: “and you won’t deny, will you, that I have always been grateful for your watching over me? I do believe, Juno, that you have found the way of sending many a rogue out of this world, who if he had remained in it, would have done my business for me, one way or another.”

  “Ay, ay! it were best you did not doubt that, colonel, though you are master of all,” replied the old woman, with another comical twinkle of her eyes. “But listen! Time presses; and the present moment lost, the future will never restore it. There is at this hour in Orleans a dark and dreadful conspiracy, which if not smothered before it sees the light, will leave no white man alive within the State. I am no traitress, mark me! I would not have even you think that; though I know,” continued the artful old woman, “that your generosity might find an excuse for it if I were. But I am no traitress; no one has trusted me — at least no earthly one has trusted me, and therefore I betray none. You, my master, must remain with your own; the taint has not yet reached them, and at the present moment you are safe. But this young man here, whom you have made to understand your wants and wishes, this young master Whitlaw, whose zeal is equal to your own, and who looks forward, as all noble spirits should do, to obtain an exalted situation before he dies, — let him go to New Orleans. Spare not your purse, Colonel Dart, or your blood may flow instead of your dollars: let this young man set off tomorrow for New Orleans. When arrived there, I will take care that it shall be given him to know what he is to do. Will you do this, master, on the strength of Juno’s word?”

  “What say you, Whitlaw?” said the colonel, turning to him. “It is certainly no joke to hear of such goings on, so near, and yet to know so devilish little about it. Are you up to this, my boy? Say yes, and by G — I’ll roll out as many dollars as you can spend.”

  The heart of Whitlaw beat high. The idea of a trip to New Orleans, with plenty of money to spend, seemed to his imagination like a glimpse at paradise; but, with his wonted discretion, he took care that no symptom of this feeling should appear on his countenance.

  “I expect, colonel,” he replied sedately, “that I shall be after doing whatever you wish in this matter; but it’s no joke neither, I guess, to run one’s head into such a wasp’s nest as New Orleans must be at this present, if all she says is true.”

  Juno watched his countenance keenly as he spoke; and her eye, long accustomed to read that index of men’s thoughts ever to be found in their faces by those who know how to look for it, detected his extreme satisfaction under the mask of indifference he tried to put on.

  “Does your heart fail you, Master Whitlaw? If it does, say so. But do not pretend to doubt the word of Juno. There is no need for you to go to New Orleans, Master Whitlaw — I will find another to do the work.”

  “No, no, good Juno,” said the young man promptly; “it is my duty to do whatever the colonel wants done; and if New Orleans was on fire from end to end, I’m the man that would walk through it at his bidding. So I’m ready to start, colonel, to-morrow, or to-day either if you like it better.”

  “You’re the man for these times, Whitlaw, and none but you — that’s a fact. I calculate that to-morrow will do, Juno? The Tecumsah goes down to-morrow, I know; and that’s the steamer I support; — the captain keeps me in cigars. But you’re sure he’ll know what to do when he gets there, Juno?”

  “Did Juno ever promise to give you a warning and fail? Tell me that, master.”

  “Never, my good friend — never. Another glass of rum, Juno, and then be off — I’ve lots of letters to write.”

  Juno took the offered glass in silence, and then retreating by the window at which she had entered, and giving a sort of farewell wave with her wand, she disappeared.

  For some minutes after her departure the colonel and his confidential clerk sat opposite to each other in silence, both desirous to escape making the first observation upon the extraordinary visit they had received. But the perseverance of Whitlaw beat the colonel’s patience, and he broke out with sundry contradictory exclamations. “Cursed witch! — where the devil could she learn all this? But I never caught her out in tricking me yet. — I say, Whitlaw, we should be stumped considerable if we found out, after all, ’twas but a flam — hey?”

  Whitlaw trembled for his visit to that land of promise New Orleans, and all the glorious joys that the colonel’s dollars would procure him there. In answer therefore to this appeal, he shook his head, and said with much solemnity, “Colonel Dart, that woman
is of no common breed — I have witnessed her power and her fore-knowledge before to-day. This expedition that she advises is not without peril; but peril must be stood to in time of need. You’ve behaved nobly by me, and let me be flogged like a nigger if I show a white feather in the matter! Let us take the witch at her word, colonel, and do her bidding now if we never do it again. God help me! but it makes one’s blood run cold to hear her! How soon did she say we should all be murdered in our beds if we neglected the warning?”

  Whitlaw here touched the right string.

  “Hold your tongue, in the devil’s name!” cried the colonel pettishly, while a cold shiver ran through his limbs. “What’s the use, Whitlaw, of sitting here croaking over her d — d news, when you’ve got to get your plunder together, and I’ve so many letters to write to them as I shall want you to question? — besides counting the dollars out. The queer hag told me not to spare — and she’s right there too, — what’s a bag of dollars compared to one’s life?”

  This was a sentiment in which Mr. Jonathan Jefferson Whitlaw agreed most cordially; but it was with his usual prudence that he indicated this — only shrugging his shoulders, and again shaking his head very solemnly.