“To Mr. John Croft.”
When this letter was delivered, the father and daughter were, as was very usual with them, sitting together. Mr. Croft read it through without uttering a word, and having finished it, he sighed deeply and began again at “Mr. Croft, — Sir:” but before he had finished the first page, he stopped short, and looking at his daughter with great gentleness, and as if he feared to give her pain, he said, “Selina! why have you not told me this? — why have you not told me that Mr. Whitlaw was your lover?”
“Who, father!” replied the poor girl almost in a swoon, “who do you say is my lover?”
“That young man called Whitlaw, Selina. Here is a letter from him — a very strange letter certainly, in every way; but it is evident he considers himself as your accepted lover.”
“He! — Oh, father! can you say that and bear me in your sight? He my accepted lover! The only human being — God forgive me! that I was ever sinful enough to hate.”
“My dearest child!” exclaimed her father in a voice that testified the most unequivocal satisfaction, “forgive me for having for a single instant believed it possible. But see how he writes, Selina! The presumptuous fool! What could I think, my dear girl, from such a letter as this?”
Selina received the letter and read it. Her father watched her countenance as she proceeded, and was surprised at the violent agitation it betrayed. From the moment he discovered that the tone of confident success assumed in this curious epistle was as unwarranted as it was displeasing, he felt greatly inclined to indulge in the ridicule it so naturally excited; but the emotion of his daughter forbad this, and he felt almost ashamed of having been disposed to treat lightly what evidently occasioned her much real suffering.
“Give me the letter, Selina, — it is really beneath your notice. Pray compose yourself and think no more of this presumptuous youth: never surely was any man so besotted by his vanity as this one!”
“I am very wrong, I believe, to be so deeply wounded by it. Is it pride, father, that makes my heart swell as if it would choke me when I think of this man’s fancying I could marry him?”
“Perhaps it may be, my love; and yet I think there are better feelings too that may have a part in it. This letter is offensive to your delicacy, Selina, as well as to your pride. But come, come, do not look so very like a duchess about it. I will give him his answer, and you shall hear no more of him.”
“Pray do not spare him, sir,” said the young lady, rising to leave the room. “I particularly request that you will let him understand that we had neither of us any ‘notion at all of what he was after.’ These, I think, are his own elegant words, and he will probably understand them better than any other you could use.”
Miss Croft retired to her own little dressing-room, where, as usual, though she was there only as a sojourner in the land, her lofty and romantic spirit had surrounded itself with the only food it loved to feed upon. A volume of Spenser was in her hand, and she was completely absorbed by the noble thoughts she found there, when her English maid entered and informed her that a poor old negro-woman desired to speak to her.
It was with the deep sigh with which one resigns an occupation that is very dear, for one that is not so, that the young enthusiast laid aside the cherished volume, and meekly said, “Let her come in.”
Selina’s was a kind and generous heart; and feeling no doubt that the poor old negro-woman described by her maid came to ask charity, she could not hesitate to receive her. But had she been engaged in an occupation less delightful than that of reading Spenser, this interruption would still have been distasteful to her. The oppressed and suffering condition of the coloured people at New Orleans was a source of constant annoyance to her comfort; yet she had a fanciful theory of her own respecting them, which, though it never could have led her generous and gentle temper to treat them harshly, made all intercourse with them in some degree painful and degrading. She firmly believed that this marked and hitherto most unhappy race were the descendants of Cain, and her feelings towards them were the result of both superstitious abhorrence and wounded compassion.
It was not, therefore, without a sort of mental struggle that she did, as we have seen, desire the old negro-woman to “come in.”
It was the uncouth and decrepit figure of Juno that met her eyes as she raised them on her maid’s re-entering with the announcement— “Here is the old woman, ma’am.”
Selina started. Though less wild and grotesque in appearance than when she sought to excite respect by the assumption of supernatural power, the aspect of Juno was still sufficiently singular to produce surprise at least, if not disgust and terror. Perhaps in the feelings of Selina there was a mixture of all three.
She recovered herself, however, and said very kindly, “Can I do anything to serve you, my good woman?”
“Music!” exclaimed Juno, fixing her eyes with impassioned earnestness on her face, “most sweet music!”
“What can she mean, Susan?” said the young lady, turning to her maid, who, with a look half frightened, half laughing, stood gazing on the odd looking stranger: “do you suppose she wants me to play to her?”
“Oh dear, no, ma’am; she never could think of such a thing. What do you want, old woman?”
“I want not you, young woman,” replied Juno with somewhat of her usual authority of tone; “I want only to see and hear that angel.”
Juno as she spoke advanced a few steps towards the object of her admiration, and gazing fixedly and wistfully in her face, large heavy tears fell drop by drop unconsciously from her eyes, and she seemed wholly to forget where she was, and the surprise she was likely to excite.
Agitated and displeased, Selina sought to shrink from her glance, and moving to a greater distance, said, “I think you must mistake me for some one else, good woman: pray do not stare at me so. Give her this, Susan, and take her down stairs: if she wishes for anything to eat, let her have it.”
The abigail took some money from the hand of her mistress, and offered it to the old woman.
“You are white, and no slave, young woman, — I know that well, and respect you accordingly; but I would not have you here at this moment, — it is a very awful one. Keep the money, — I have no need of it; you work for hire, and let that pay you for the trouble of leaving the room for a few minutes.”
The girl looked half frightened, and seemed about to obey her, when Selina cried out eagerly, “Do not go, Susan — I will not have you leave me.”
“Selina!” exclaimed Juno in a tone of tender reproach; “Selina! — child of Selina, as she was of my Selina, my own, my lovely one! — do you fear me? Let that woman go, Selina — it were better for us both — no, no, it were better for you, Selina, that she should not hear what I must now disclose; will you send her from us?”
“Surely she is mad, Susan,” cried the poor girl, greatly terrified; “you must not — indeed you must not leave me.”
The whole expression of Juno’s countenance changed as she listened to these words, and instead of tenderness, anger and despair seemed almost to convulse her features.
“No, girl, I am not mad, but I am black, and I am still a slave, — ay, still a slave, as when I gave birth to her who gave birth to your mother. You tremble, Selina — you turn deadly pale! — Alas! poor child! it was but cruel fondness to tell thee this; yet it is true, Selina: but this menial here should not have heard it. Tell her, my child, — my poor, pale, trembling child, — that she must not publish to the world, not to the New Orleans world, that thou hast a living parent in a poor old slave. Selina, dearest! — will you not speak to me? you are my child, the offspring of my blood, as surely as of the white man’s who had my early woman’s love — my first, my last, my only love. Selina! will you not speak to your old parent?”
“Oh, dreadful! dreadful!” shrieked the terrified Selina. “Where is my father? — Father! father! come to me!”
Susan, who had listened with equal attention and astonishment to this strange disclos
ure, and who found there was no more news to be learned by remaining in the room, thought that the best thing she could do in order to satisfy her mistress’s doubts and her own, would be to gratify the young lady by summoning her father.
She accordingly almost threw herself down the staircase which led to the room he occupied, and bursting open the door, she exclaimed, “For God’s sake, sir, come this instant to my young lady, or you will hardly find her alive!”
Mr. Croft, who had just despatched his letter to Whitlaw, which a feeling of anger at the painful emotion he had caused his daughter had led him to write with some severity, now fancied that the illness her maid announced proceeded from the same source, and that she was fretting at the insult she had received.
“Poor girl! — poor dear girl! — it is too bad, a great deal too bad; — but, hang the fellow! I think it will be long enough before he ventures upon a similar experiment.” It was thus Mr. Croft muttered forth his resentment as he hastily followed Susan to his daughter’s apartment. Great indeed was his astonishment at seeing her lying back in her chair almost insensible, while old Juno with mixed anger and alarm stood at a short distance from her, alternately uttering words of tenderest affection, and expressions of bitter reproach.
“Good God! what is the matter, my child? Who is this woman? Why are you looking so pale and so terrified?”
The voice of her father seemed to restore her faculties; she started up, and throwing herself into his arms, exclaimed, “Oh, father! father! tell me it is false! — tell me, swear to me, that I am not of the accursed race of Cain!”
“My dear Selina, what can have happened to put you into this dreadful agitation? Who is this old woman? and what has she been saying to you?”
“The old woman will tell you all you wish to know, if you are the father of Selina!” said Juno. “But let not that young woman, whose eyes look more curious than kind — let her not remain to hear it. She has already heard enough to puzzle her; and I have no wish that the matter should be made clearer to her understanding.”
“Go, Susan,” said Mr. Croft, more than ever bewildered; and replacing his daughter on her chair, he sat down beside her, prepared to hear some fortune-telling tale of dismal augury, and exceedingly well disposed to throw the speaker of it out of the window when it was done.
Susan retreated, and shut the door behind her; but Juno knew little of the nature of white waiting-maids, when she imagined that by sending her from the room because there was something going forward which she was not to know, she would thereby be kept ignorant of it. The door had a keyhole, and to that keyhole was applied Susan’s ear.
No sooner was she out of sight than Juno again spoke.
“It is woe and grief to me to have shaken the spirit of that lovely child, but nature cried aloud within me. She is mine — my child in the third descent; could I look at, and not claim her? But that claim seems to have broken her heart.”
“What on earth do you mean, woman?” said Mr. Croft sternly; “what raving nonsense is this? Selina, my love, look up; you surely cannot for a moment believe this wild and most improbable story?”
The unfortunate Selina however did believe it, though struggling hard to doubt it.
“Will you be pleased, sir,” said Juno, “to answer me one or two questions? My questions may enlighten you more than your answers can enlighten me.”
“What is it you would ask, woman?” said Mr. Croft: “be quick, and let us have an end to this mummery.”
“Was not your wife’s maiden name Woodthorpe? — Selina Woodthorpe?”
“Well! and what then?”
“Did you ever hear her mother’s maiden name? Was it not Seldon — Selina too, — Selina Seldon?”
“Yes, I know that was her name. I have several books belonging to her; and her name was written in them all.”
“That Selina Seldon, the mother of your wife, was my child. She was a yellow woman, and, as they say, a very lovely one. You look strangely at me; but my tale is a true one, and those by whose means I have ever been enabled to hear tidings of the only race on earth with whom I claim kindred — they can tell you so, and will, if you’ll be pleased to ask them.”
The manner of Juno was now so perfectly calm and rational, that there was no longer any possibility of believing her insane; but Mr. Croft, as he looked in the face of his daughter, trembled at the consequences this strange disclosure was likely to make upon her. Whatever he had thought of the old woman at first, he was now greatly persuaded that her story was a true one; he well remembered the beautiful but dark olive of his wife’s complexion, her raven hair, and the peculiar clearness of her large black eyes; but to him the conviction brought nothing terrible. His wife had been a very beautiful, accomplished, and estimable woman; had brought him a handsome fortune, and died regretted by a large circle of friends. Of what nation, country, or colour her mother or her mother’s mother might have been, was to him a matter of great indifference; though assuredly, had he known her origin, he would not have brought his daughter to New Orleans. All he could now do, however, was to calm the evident agony of poor Selina’s mind by endeavouring to throw doubt upon the statement of the old woman, which in fact was as yet quite unproved.
“Selina!” said he, “this story is far too wild and fanciful to be received as true upon any single testimony whatever. I will inquire into it. Should it prove as idle as it is likely to do, I trust you will dismiss it instantly and entirely from your thoughts. If, on the contrary, it should be borne out by testimony, our course is very simple: I will immediately purchase the freedom of this poor slave, leave her with ample means to pass her remaining days in comfort, and then return to, our own country, where this very romantic history will never be known or believed. Will not this satisfy you, my dear child?”
“Father! you do not yet believe it?”
“No, no, Selina! It is much too improbable.”
“Thank God! But if it be false, father, it is because that poor wretch is mad. She believes the tale herself, I am sure of it.”
“Poor child!” said Juno sadly; “does it cut so deeply? I would I had never told it! Farewell, Selina! Your name has been poor Juno’s talisman for many a year; it served to conjure off much shame and sorrow from her. But she shall never talk of it again — not even to the woods. Farewell!”
She waited not for any answer, but hastily retreated from the room. As she passed through the door, she perceived a female figure gliding rapidly down the stairs before it, and she thought it was that of the white waiting-maid whose presence had so much annoyed her. But Juno’s heart was too heavy at this moment to pay much attention to trifles, and she thought no more of it. All the bright but uncertain hopes with which she had entered the house were now crushed and dead; but perhaps the pang that rankled most painfully was the suspicion expressed by the father that she was an impostor. Her head was aching and giddy with the numberless projects that suggested themselves for proving with immediate and most imposing evidence the truth of her assertions, but the remembrance of Selina’s pale and wretched face chased them all. She determined therefore to see Mr. Croft alone on the morrow, for the purpose of showing him one or two memorials which she thought must bring conviction to his mind; “and then,” thought poor Juno, “then I will once more turn my back upon New Orleans — creep into the hut these hands have built, and die!”
CHAPTER XVIII.
MR. CROFT’S letter of dismissal to Whitlaw was not penned without some slight touch of the contempt and indignation his impudent assumption of success deserved; but it produced a degree of irritation on the mind of the young man more proportioned to his preposterous estimate of his own merits than to the degree of severity with which it was written.
The nation of Mr. Croft came in for no inconsiderable portion of the maledictions which followed the perusal of it. In fact, it was less wounding to his vanity to believe that he was dismissed because a d — d infernal proud Englishman would not suffer his daughter to marry an America
n, than that his personal qualities were not such as to make him acceptable to the young lady herself.
A very malignant feeling of jealousy, however, mixed with his disappointment. Perhaps, he really believed that no young girl, not prepossessed in favour of another, could have resisted him; and as if the Spanish feelings which had once been the soul of New Orleans still haunted its precincts and now visited him; visions of daggers, knives, and stilettos seemed to float before his eyes and arrange themselves in his brain. Before he could indulge himself, however, with even fancying how they might avenge him, it was necessary to ascertain who the individual might be for whose especial service he was willing to employ them. There was some very savage ingredient, as it should seem, in the passion of love whenever it found its way into the bosom of Whitlaw. Though long celebrated for his licentious amours, Lotte Steinmark was decidedly the first female whose beauty had really touched the heart of my hero; and to her brothers, who had seemed to stand round and guard her from him, he had vowed, and still held himself ready to perform the vow when ever occasion might offer, a vengeance not the less deep because delayed.
Selina Croft, if she had not effaced this first impression, had decidedly made a new one beside it; but in her case also, the tender feeling was soon merged and lost in sentiments of mortification and hatred.
During the few days which intervened between Whitlaw’s first visit to Mr. Croft and the delivery of the letter which brought his hopes to so abrupt a conclusion, he had more than once called, and been refused admittance.
But, quite persuaded that this was the consequence of a general, and not particular exclusion, he conceived the idea that the gallant and well-tried project of bribing the lady’s-maid with a little love and a little money might avail him.
The scheme was quite successful. Susan had left her own country chiefly in the hope of finding profit and adventure; and when, therefore, she saw herself dodged in one of the streets of New Orleans by a very tall and handsome gentleman, (Whitlaw was always well dressed,) she saw no harm in looking over her shoulder to see what he could possibly mean, or at length in listening to him while he declared that if her mistress were as handsome as herself, he would contrive to marry her, if her fortune were one half less; but that, as it was, she should be rewarded by his purse, as well as his tenderest admiration, if she would assist in bringing him within reach of Miss Croft.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 33