Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  “If it will please you, Miss Juno, I will be happy to promise it; though I can’t but think ’tis but an unnatural thing too. However, I know better than to make or meddle, Miss Juno, with what does not concern myself, and I’m mum, you may ‘pend upon it.”

  Having obtained this assurance, old Juno once more took her way to the house of Mr. Croft. Wherever there are negroes, the entrance of a negro is easy: Juno had already propitiated the kindness of a black cook and scullion in the kitchen of Mr. Croft, and she was courteously received when she again made her entry there.

  “Can I see the young lady,” she said, “before the business and bustle of the day begins? — I am going away to-day, and I have still something I must say to her.”

  “Ah, Miss!” said the black cook, shaking her head very mournfully, “you have brought sad work to pass. Is it true, I wonder, all that the white waiting-maid says — did you tell the young lady to her face that she was come of nigger blood?”

  Juno was greatly shocked to bear that her interview with her still fondly-cherished Selina had been made thus public; but finding that any farther attempt at concealment on her part must be in vain, she stated to her fellow-slave in plain terms the history of her relationship, and added, with as much composure as she could assume, that finding the knowledge of this gave the dear child too bitter pain and mortification to be endured, she was determined upon returning to her home at Natchez as soon as she should have once more seen and bad her farewell.

  “And fit and right too, miss, dat you should see your own, — for so she is, do all dat dey can to hinder it. I hab a child too, miss, and I know what it is to lub it.”

  “Then you will let me see her,” said Juno eagerly.

  “Ay, miss, without doubt. The proud white maid’s a-bed still, but Venus shall take you to her room.”

  Venus was accordingly summoned, and, to avoid disturbing Mr. Croft, led Juno by a back-stair to a door that opened into the young lady’s dressing-room. She opened it gently, and pointing to that of the bed-chamber which stood half open, she said, “Now go, miss, — she be your own blood and can’t quarrel wid you; but I must go down stairs ‘gen, or I shall catch it, from Miss Susan.”

  Saying this, the girl retired, leaving Juno to make he way alone into the presence of her estranged descendant.

  The old woman paused for a moment as if to take breath and revive her sinking courage, and then, making an effort to overcome the trembling at her heart, she pushed open the door and entered the bed-room of Selina.

  It was now past eight o’clock, but the bright daylight only found entrance there through the closed blinds, and on first going in the effect to Juno’s old eyes was that of almost perfect darkness; but by degrees the objects became visible, and she perceived that the fair creature to whom she came to bid adieu was still in bed. The air of the room was loaded with the perfume of many flowers, and she observed as she advanced that a variety of blossoms lay scattered on the floor and dressing-table. All was profoundly still.

  “She sleeps!” said Juno in a whisper; “sweet child! — most beautiful Selina! — she sleeps the sleep of innocence and peace!” — Then softly approaching the bed, she continued, while her voice trembled with tenderness, “I will kiss her as she sleeps; she will not know it, — she will not shrink from the hateful touch now, and at least I shall have lived to do that which my soul hath longed for through weary years. Selina! — my own Selina!”

  The faint light sufficed to show her, as she drew near, the fair young face that rested immovable upon the pillow; the odour of sweet flowers became stronger still, and Juno, as she gazed between the curtains, perceived with surprise that the profusion of dark hair that flowed like sable drapery on each side the face was bound by a wreath of orange-blossoms. The face beneath was whiter than they; and as the dim-eyed old woman gazed upon it, a strange terror seized her.

  “Does she live? — does she breathe?” she cried, stretching out a shaking hand to touch her forehead. That touch shot like an ice-bolt through her heart; for her hand rested on the cold marble brow of death.

  “Oh, God! — I have killed her!” — shrieked Juno in bitter agony; “she saw me, she knew me, and she died!”

  The old woman dropped on her knees beside the bed and sobbed aloud. Earnestly, most earnestly did she pray that the pang which wrung her heart might end her being; but she still lived to look upon that pale and innocent face, so beautiful in death, so like the lovely visions that for long years had visited her dreams, and the terrible idea that her approach had killed her, drew forth the heaviest groans that her long-tortured spirit had ever uttered.

  At length her reeling sense became calmer, and she remembered that the dead Selina was already cold when she first stretched out her hand to touch her. This thought for a moment seemed to bring relief, and she rose from her knees and looked around to discover if possible the cause and manner of her death.

  Near to the bed stood a small writing-table, and on it lay a sealed letter. Juno seized it, and with little thought for whom it was intended, broke it open instantly, and, removing one of the blinds, read with some difficulty the following lines:

  “My father, ere these words meet your eyes, your miserable Selina will be no more. But grieve not for this, kind and dear father! — she will be at rest, and that she could never be as long as life flowed through veins stained like hers. Father! that man — that Whitlaw, whom my soul abhorred as if by instinct — he knows the dreadful secret of my birth. — He has been here, father; he has loaded me with, insult — he permitted me to sit in his presence as a matter of grace and favour — he offered, as an honour, to make me his mistress. Father! father! — forgive me! I cannot live to remember this. — My destiny, my frightful destiny is the will of God. I know it, father; I know that this dreadful will was stamped upon my wretched race thousands of years ago. — But the Saviour has been since — the curse will not cling to us for ever! — Let me go to him — he will pity and receive me. And you too, father, pity and forgive me. I have this night taken bread and wine with you in his name, though you knew it not; and I felt it was a holy sacrament, and you blessed me. — But do not wish me to live and hear again such words as Whitlaw spoke to me to-day. No, father, no; I cannot live! — my punishment is greater than I can bear. Farewell! — kind and dear father, farewell! — we shall meet in heaven.

  “SELINA.”

  In many places there were traces of tears upon the paper; and the whole of it was evidently written in great and terrible agitation. But the deliberate preparation — the wreath that bound her virgin brow — the flowers that were strewed upon her couch — and still more, the supper of bread and wine to which she alluded, plainly showed that it was not in a moment of sudden agony that she resigned her life, but that many hours of meditation had preceded the act. A small bottle, labeled “LAUDANUM,” which made part of their travelling medicine chest, stood on the toilet, and indicated with sufficient clearness the manner of her death.

  Slowly and with faltering steps did Juno pace round the fatal chamber, conning over every object that served to interpret the tale of woe of which it was the scene. It seemed that the unhappy girl had placed herself on the ground to prepare her funeral wreath; for at one point the floor was strewed with fragments of leaves and stems, and close beside it stood her toilet-stool, covered with the relics of the beautiful gleaning which she had gathered with her own hands and borne in her bosom to her chamber.

  With her habitual acuteness, nothing blunted by the sorrow at her heart, Juno pondered on all she saw, till every scene and act of the tragedy became intelligible to her. Then did she sadly turn again to the light and once more peruse the letter of Selina.

  There is ever a strong propensity in the human mind to exonerate the conscience from its share of whatever suffering weighs upon the spirits, by laying the guilt that produced it on another. Juno’s first pang as she gazed on the dead Selina was that of self-reproach. It was her thoughtless and selfish pride that had br
ought sorrow and destruction on the unhappy girl, and gladly would she have redeemed the fault by resigning her own remnant of life to restore her. But now it was Whitlaw against whom all the anguish that wrung her heart turned for atonement and revenge: it was no longer herself, but the detested Whitlaw who had laid her low; and the springs of life seemed renewed in their energy as she once more dropped upon her knees beside the bed of death, and registered in heaven a vow of fearful vengeance.

  She arose from her terrible orison, calm, firm, and confident in strength; and replacing the letter on the desk, returned by the way she came, just as the hand of the English waiting-maid was attempting in vain to open the usual door of entrance to the chamber of her mistress.

  Greatly to the comfort of Juno, she found her way out of the house without interruption; and shrinking from the task of relating the scene she had witnessed to anyone, she instantly determined, with her usual promptitude of action, to leave New Orleans immediately.

  “At home,” she muttered, “it is at home, in my own silent, quiet hut, that all the thoughts that now roll through my brain like the dark clouds of a coming thunder-storm must be gathered together — and then they will take form and substance — and then they will burst — and then the bolt will fall!”

  CHAPTER III.

  AFTER leaving the presence of Selina, Whitlaw again visited Hogstown, and related to him with great glee the amusing narrative of her newly-discovered birth and kindred.

  “Arnt it capital, Hogstown?” said he, rubbing his hands and chuckling with delight. “The story wouldn’t have been that bad, if it had happened to a proud creole miss who had presumed to turn up her nose at one; but to overtake the heiress daughter of a d — d proud Englishman, is altogether one of the best bits of fun as I ever came across with. Arn’t it capital?”

  The story was certainly one likely to find favour with many at New Orleans; and as the young man judged, from the manner in which his proposals for keeping it secret had been received by the hapless Selina, that there was no very good chance of his being paid for his silence, he indulged himself by repeating it with great animation and spirit, both at the billiard and rouge-et-noir tables, which he visited the night after his last interview with her.

  Towards noon on the following day, some rumours of the terrible catastrophe began to spread through the city. The physician who was called in by the wretched father to see if any remains of life still lingered at the heart of his unfortunate child reported the adventure wherever he went, together with the vows of vengeance breathed by the bereaved parent against him to whom the last communication of his daughter pointed as the cause of the act which had left him childless.

  These rumours soon reached Whitlaw; and if old Juno took her departure with celerity for the purpose of arranging more at her ease the schemes of vengeance she meditated, Whitlaw’s movements were at least equally rapid and decisive in quitting the scene where alone he believed any disagreeable consequences were likely to follow the part he had acted in the tragedy, which was becoming every hour more universally the theme of conversation.

  It was hard, certainly, to be obliged so suddenly to quit a place so every way agreeable to him; but Whitlaw was nevertheless far from insensible to the consolation that this necessity had not overtaken him before he had realised such a sum as to make his retirement with it decidedly a matter of triumph. He went, too, with the pleasant conviction that he had been “handsomely revenged” for the twofold injury he had received at New Orleans; namely, the abduction of his money, and the scorning of his love; so, after a long and confidential conversation with Hogstown, who promised to supply him with all the information which his rapid retreat prevented his acquiring, he too took leave of New Orleans.

  Hogstown kindly accompanied him to the water’s edge; and his parting words were, “Remember them varmint Germans, Whitlaw. I shan’t be long after, I expect: and if between us we can’t clear ’em out, ‘twill be queer, I guess.”

  “I’ll do what I can to be ready for ye, my man,” was the laughing reply. “I’ve a notion, Hogstown, that you and I together might do pretty nigh anything we set our wits to — hey?”

  “Maybe we might, Master Whitlaw. But off with ye — she’s puffing like mad. Don’t forget the parson neither. — Good-bye.”

  It was fortunate for Juno’s equanimity that she escaped the chance of seeing Whitlaw on board the vessel that conveyed her to Natchez. Little as the communion between blacks and whites might be, she could hardly have been in the same boat without seeing him, and she was in a state of mind to render such a meeting very dangerous to herself at least. As it was, she reached her lonely dwelling without seeing or hearing anything to disturb the sort of artificial calm into which she had brought herself and upon which depended, as she justly believed, her best chance of success in the new project she meditated.

  The night on which she reached her home was passed in the silence and solitude she longed for, but without the relief of a single moment’s sleep. She laid herself upon her bed indeed, but her over-excited faculties seemed to have recovered all the vigour of youth, and she retraced with steady and unfailing recollection the long account of all she had endured from the tyrannous power usurped over her unoffending race by the cruel strength of their white brethren. She remembered the wanton development of all the faculties in herself which had opened so many new avenues of torture to her heart, — the light breath of love that had passed over her like the idle breeze of the false-seeming spring, feeling like the sweet air of heaven, but proving a blighting blast that cankered and mildewed her poor heart for ever. She recalled with maddening truth the first warm touch of her dear infant’s lips upon her bosom, the last agonising kiss that she was permitted to press upon them as she was torn away from her; the savage transfer of her loathing person to another — the brutal force that kept her soul and body in a subjection that seemed to make every breath she drew a poison to her nature, her long, her patient unrequited service, her dishonoured age — the conscious treasures of her mind converted to foolery and fraud. She remembered all — all that she might have been, all that in truth she was. And then came the closing item to this dread account — her lovely, her innocent, her own Selina — the being that her long-suffering life had passed in dreaming of, laid dead and stiff before her by the blasting breath of a reptile whose immortal soul she felt to be as much beneath her own in dignity, as he dared hold her unoffending race to his. “Shall he escape me, God of justice!” exclaimed the aged sufferer, trembling and exhausted by the long backward course her too faithful memory had run, “shall he escape?”

  Some feeling arising from a consciousness of the power she held over many human agents stole soothingly upon her senses, and just as night was giving place to morning, Juno fell into so profound a sleep that the light was again fading when she woke from it.

  It was then indeed the touch of Phebe’s hand upon her shoulder, rather than the natural end of her deep repose, which at length caused old Juno to open her eyes, and once more to feel with a sigh that she was still numbered with the living.

  “Oh, Juno! you are come back at last!” exclaimed Phebe, in a voice of such cheerful gaiety that the old woman looked at her with surprise. “How very glad I am to see you! how I have longed to kiss and thank you, Juno!”

  “Thank me — for what, Phebe? — what have I done to please you?”

  “Oh, Juno! — can you ask that question, and I the happiest girl in the wide world, and all your doing, Juno; for wasn’t I the most miserable, poor broken-hearted soul that ever cried through the live-long night, till you set about to help me?”

  “And where is Cæsar, then?” said Juno, suddenly recollecting herself.

  “Where should he be,” replied the laughing Phebe, “but just where it was your pleasure and will that he should be, Juno? — And, do you know, mother,” she continued more gravely, “I have truly need of all my Christian knowledge to keep me from believing that you have indeed some spirits to do your bidd
ing; — but they are good spirits, Juno, at any rate, and your power, let it be what it will, must, I am very sure, come to you from Heaven.”

  “I am glad you are so pappy, Phebe,” said the poor old woman, while an unseen tear trembled in her eye.

  “How I do love you, Juno!” cried Phebe, throwing her arms round her friend’s neck, and giving her a most cordial kiss.

  “Do you, my poor girl?” replied Juno, while the tear rolled down her cheek. “I am glad you are not white, Phebe.”

  “Good gracious!” exclaimed the gay-hearted girl, again laughing heartily; “that is queer to be thankful for. However, I don’t care now what colour I am: if Master Whitlaw don’t come back to plague me, I shall be as happy as a lily-white queen.”

  A quivering shudder passed through every limb of Juno as she heard the name; but Phebe saw it not, and though it was in some sort received as law throughout the estate that no one was to question Juno concerning her frequent journeyings, the gay state of her spirits at the present moment led her to transgress the law, and she said, “How very long you have been away, Juno! — Where can you have been to? — and how many times do you think Cæsar and I have come after work-hours to look for you?”

  “I shall go away no more, Phebe,” replied the old woman, gently, and without any symptom of the displeasure which an inquiry would have formerly produced.

  “No!” rejoined the girl cheerfully; “that’s good news at any rate, for you are never away, Juno, that I don’t wish you back again. — But now good night! Get to sleep again as fast as you can, for I must, be off; for, you see, I just think it’s possible the smart new gardener at Reichland may take it into his head to pay mother a visit to-night.” And with these words, she was tripping away, when Juno stopped her by saying, in a very feeble voice, “Phebe, dear, I have eaten nothing this day. Look on the shelf there, before you go; and if you can find a morsel of corn-cake, give it to me.”