Mrs. Shepherd promised obedience, and the two gentlemen departed.
The happy Cæsar, meanwhile, hardly felt the ground under him as he bounded away back again to his Phebe; and there was so much fun, frolic, and glee in the manner in which he related his adventures, that the sage Phebe, as well as her two little sisters, laughed long and loud at his story. Nevertheless, he was half ready to cry himself as he described his bitter mortification on finding that “the old grey, stick, the missis,” would not let him see Miss Lucy. But the triumph, the glory of obtaining all he wanted in spite of her, the “clever smartness” of the little Dido, and finally, the beautiful kindness of Miss Lucy herself, formed altogether a narrative that none of them could be tired of hearing.
It was Peggy who at last broke up the merry meeting, by reminding Cæsar that though his new people had been so unaccountable kind as to give him leave to come a-courting a spell, ’twould be very wrong to stay too late upon it.
“There’s the flowers to be watered, I’ll be answerable, if your new young lady loves ’em as well as our poor dear Miss Lucy; and pretty sorry and mad she’ll be in the morning, Cæsar, to find the blossoms all as dry as a squeezed cane, because you stopped to talk nonsense here.”
“Our Miss Lotte is never mad with anybody, mother, but she might be vexed mayhap; and so good night, my wife, and good night all the rest of ye, and pray that the Sabbath may come round quick, Phebe. God bless ye all! Good night.”
The happy lover hurried away, and was rewarded by arriving in time to help his beautiful young mistress — not in her usual evening attendance, however, upon her favourite flowers, but in running a dozen ways at once, in order to collect the scattered property of Fritz, whom some commercial business of importance obliged to set off early on the following morning for Philadelphia.
He had purposed remaining at Reichland at least a fortnight longer, and this sudden recall produced a chorus of lamentation from the whole family. It produced, however, something else also. Notwithstanding the general gossip of the neighbourhood on the subject, the young Baron Hochland had not, though as heartily in love as a man could be, yet ventured to ask Frederick Steinmark and his Mary if they would give up, and yield to him for ever and for ever, the charge, the care, and the possession of the treasure they valued most on earth.
When the letter which has been heretofore mentioned arrived from the Baron Steinmark, announcing his widowed and childless state, and asking his brother to return with his family to Germany, the hopes of Henrich and Lotte, and perhaps too of the gentle Mary herself, for their return to Europe were greatly excited; for they saw that the melancholy epistle had produced a deep impression upon the voluntary exile, and they believed that he would not have refused the request. But from the day that the letter arrived, the subject had never been alluded to by Frederick Steinmark; and gentle as was the rule he held over them, there was a deference felt, even in their gayest moments, towards him which effectually banished the subject.
It was this reserve, this uncertainty which the family still fancied hung upon the mind of their father, that had kept the young lover from declaring his wishes and his hopes. Were the Steinmark family to return to Germany, he felt that all difficulty would be removed, for then no separation would be needful; but if it were finally decided that they should remain, he dreaded to risk the hope on which he lived, by asking Lotte if she could consent to leave father, mother, brothers, for his sake, and for her native Germany.
But the departure of Fritz brought on the crisis at once. The Herr Hochland had arrived with him as his intimate friend, and as a total stranger to the rest of the family, it therefore was quite natural he should depart with him.
No one could feel this more strongly than the young baron. When Fritz turned to him after perusing his letter, and said, “My furlough is ended, Sigismond! I must depart to-morrow row!” the sensation he experienced was not altogether unlike that of being shot. He answered not a word, however, but immediately left the room. In a few minutes afterwards he might have been seen rapidly approaching Frederick Steinmark, whom he had traced to a distant field, and addressing him with a degree of agitation that made the first words he uttered perfectly unintelligible.
He little guessed that while stammering out his proposal of marriage to the tranquil-seeming father of Lotte, the philosopher himself experienced an emotion hardly less powerful than his own. He little guessed that his own timid doubts and fears were the cause of the heavy disappointment which had fallen upon the family, from the silence of its chief respecting the hoped-for return to the land of their fathers. But so it was. Frederick Steinmark had not only submitted cheerfully to his exile — he had most truly gloried in it, as long as he believed that it afforded him the best means of providing for his family without hazarding their independence by placing them in any degree under the protection of a brother whose affection for them was watched by so jealous an eye as that of his wife. But no sooner was this obstacle removed, than all the long-buried feelings, which in a mind less ably regulated would throughout the whole period of his exile have taken the tormenting form of useless regrets, rushed freshly and anew upon his heart; and not even Henrich, with all his young enthusiasm, could more ardently wish to turn back to the Fatherland than did his quiet father. But at the moment this summons arrived there were other thoughts, and very anxious ones, at work within the breast of Steinmark.
No father that loved as he loved Lotte could be insensible to the impression which she had made on the heart of Sigismond Hochland, and still less perhaps of that which the young man had made on hers. Though it was not in his nature to play the spy, and though he saw no more than every member of the family might, and indeed must have seen, he could not but observe how very nearly deaf and blind each seemed to be to all things in which the other was not concerned. Yet still no declaration of love was made by the baron, no hint given that the only hope which made life dear to him was that Lotte Steinmark might become his wife.
It was precisely at the period when the love between the two young hearts had become so evident that the least speculating in such matters must have expected “something would come of it,” that the letter from the Baron Steinmark arrived; and then it was that the wits of the father and the lover fell into a series of speculations which caused many hours of misery to themselves and others.
No sooner were the hopes of the young Steinmarks that this letter would induce their father to return to Germany made known to Sigismond, than he determined to wait only till this intention was made known, and then boldly ask the hand of Lotte in marriage; while, on the other hand, Frederick Steinmark was painfully withheld from making the much-longed-for announcement to his family, from the fear lest the high-born and wealthy Baron Hochland might interpret this sudden compliance with a request, well known to have been often previously refused, to a wish of placing his slenderly-portioned daughter in a position more likely to obtain his alliance.
Never was a mutual misunderstanding more complete, and never was an éclaircissement more welcome. — Not that it was made with equal frankness on both sides: it was not necessary for the father of a pearl of such price as Lotte to confess that he had been anxiously waiting for the proposal now made for her, because the secret of her young heart had betrayed itself, and he had seen that all her earthly happiness depended upon it. This was not necessary, and it was not done. But quite enough of the real truth was made manifest on all sides to render the hours of that day among the happiest of their lives. And then burst forth all their long-hoarded thoughts of home. Those who had kept this strangely strong instinct hidden at the very bottom of their hearts, now uttered hymns of thanksgiving and of joy. Mary, indeed, was not a German, but she was an European, and Germany was to her a most dear home. As for the pensive Henrich, his very nature seemed suddenly to have undergone a change; he outdid Karl in noisy gaiety, and notwithstanding all the necessary business to be performed on that memorable day, he would permit no member of the family to take
a share in it till they had once more assembled themselves round Sigismond while he again sang that familiar air which had caused so sad a revulsion of feeling among them in the strawberry-field.
Poor Karl indeed turned almost with a sorrowing eye towards his prosperous mill. “Shall I stay and grind out some more dollars, father, before I turn gentleman again, and rejoin you all in our glorious Fatherland?” said he, half jestingly and half in earnest.
“No, that shall you not, my son,” replied Frederick: “we have borne the labour and heat of the day together, and together will we enjoy the rest that is offered to us. But what says Fritz? He has not been a daily labourer, as we have — his prospects look almost too bright to leave without regret. What say you, Fritz? — Home and a light purse? — or Philadelphia and a heavy one?”
“I beg to preface my answer,” replied the young merchant, “by declaring that I am as good a German as any of ye. Nevertheless, having swallowed up so much of your hardly-earned transatlantic wealth, dear father, in becoming what I now am, I will not, if the choice be left me, leave the country till I can bring with me the means of living independently out of it. If the affairs of Wilcox, Steinmark and Co continue to prosper as well as they do at present, I may hope, unless some griping fit of avarice seizes on me, to come and turn my dollars into thalers before many years are over. —
But where’s Lottchen? I must positively be off before sunrise to-morrow; and if she does not make haste, I shall have nothing ready.”
But Lottchen was not just then to be found. In truth, she was at that identical moment walking very slowly, and with no symptoms of the hurry that the business of the hour called for, with young Sigismond at her side, beneath the shelter of a row of locust-trees at the farthest part of the garden.
The happiness of Hermann upon the events of this day was perhaps not less profound, though less demonstrative, than that of the rest. His mind was like a clear lake that bears on its sympathetic bosom the colours of the objects that Nature has placed around it; and as these become bright or dim by the influence of the varying heavens, such were their strongly marked effects on him. First among these kindred forms for ever reflected on his affectionate breast, was that of his father. The quiet boy, while learning from him, in common with the rest, such lore as an accomplished gentleman will almost inevitably communicate to his children, whether chance has placed him in a palace or a hut, the quiet Hermann, though nowise deficient in all such studies as occupied Lotte and his brothers, had in addition a separate and a secret study of his own — namely, the character of his loved and venerated father. The result of this was a degree of devoted attachment by no means common in any of the relations of life. But the boy had not blundered — Frederick Steinmark deserved it all.
It was therefore the deep-seated, delicious satisfaction which beamed from his father’s calm but expressive eye as he looked on the beloved beings he was at length allowed to make so very happy, that now found its answering perfection of contentment in Hermann’s heart.
* * * *
Never certainly could their new “help” Cæsar have found a more inconvenient day to ask for a holiday than the one he had chosen; but they all seemed too busy to remember it. When, however, in consequence of the well-inspired remonstrance of Phebe, the active and intelligent lad once more appeared amongst them, his appearance was hailed by a very general and approving acclamation; and “Cæsar, run there,” and “Cæsar, come here,” and “Cæsar, do this,” and “Cæsar, do that,” assailed him on all sides.
But he proved himself good at need, and with a happy smile that displayed his white teeth from ear to ear, and less blundering activity than ever negro showed before, he literally contrived to do all their biddings without mistaking one.
It was in obedience to one of these numerous behests, that he ran off with the swiftness of a stag to Whitlaw’s multifarious store, to procure cord and canvass, and sundry other packing necessaries, for the final completion of Fritz’s preparations; and just as he reached the door, young Whitlaw and his friend Mr. Smith passed before it, on their way to meet their horses, which a negro was leading round from the stable. They both knew him in an instant, and stood silently watching him at the door of the store till he had done his errand. A few words were then exchanged between them, the result of which was, that the negro was ordered to walk the horses about, while the two gentlemen paid a visit to our friend Clio.
CHAPTER VI.
WHEN Jonathan Jefferson arrived with his friend at Mount Etna about four hours before the moment our narrative has reached, he had the satisfaction of finding his stepmother exceedingly well dressed, and the best keeping room wearing an air of even more gentility and elegance than usual, as the lady had just enjoyed the satisfaction of showing off her house, herself, and her slaves to one of her relations, who had been kind enough to afford her an opportunity for this display by coming to dine with her.
Luckily they were but just departed; so Mrs. Whitlaw had not had time to order the “nigger gals” to take off their shoes and stockings and clean aprons, nor to lay aside her own magnificent cap with three full-blown roses in the front of it.
Old Whitlaw was, as usual, at the Eagle, and the faithful Clio in the store; so the young man was upon the whole very well satisfied with the aspect which “Mr. Whitlaw’s place at Mount Etna” presented to his friend. That this effect might not be injured by the ill-timed introduction of his labour-stained aunt, his usual salutation of “Where’s Aunt Cli?” was changed for the much more civil address of— “Good evening, mother. This is my friend, Mr. Smith of Cottenlands, one of the finest plantations near Natchez after the colonel’s; and a friend he is of his too, and much respected, so please to make him welcome.”
“To be sure I will, Jonathan; and I’m right-down glad to see him, I’m sure. ’Tis always a treat to us country ladies, Mr. Smith, when we are so happy as to get a visit from you town gentlemen. But you’ll take a drink, Jonathan, won’t you, you and Mr. Smith too? I’m sure you must be dry enough riding such sultry weather as this.”
The offer was accepted, and a “drink” of the usual refreshing kind was set before them, consisting of three parts whisky and one water, cooled, however, with a very commendable lump of ice, and flavoured with sugar and a leaf or two of green mint: a mixture, by the way, which, when the spirituous part is less nauseous and about one-eighth in quantity, is far from disagreeable under a Louisianian sun. While stretching their limbs in various graceful attitudes under the shade of Mrs. Whitlaw’s portico, and sipping their mint julap as sedulously as if their only motive in coming into the country was to enjoy themselves, they began to question her respecting the family at Reichland, and particularly as to any knowledge she might have of a certain Mr. Bligh, who was “remarkable intimate with um.”
Now the truth was, that Mrs. Whitlaw had never seen Mr. Bligh, or even remembered to have heard his name before: but there are some people who never hear a question asked in a tone that seems to indicate mystery and mischief, without choosing to appear acquainted with the matter; and of such was Mrs. Whitlaw. “Bligh!” she repeated; “oh, to be sure, I know him well enough.”
“You do, ma’am?” said Mr. Smith eagerly: “that’s well. Then you know, of course, that he’s on the saintly lay? You never happened to hear him preach yourself, did you, Mrs. Whitlaw?”
“I am not that sure, Mr. Smith,” replied the lady, who began to feel puzzled how to answer; “but the fact is, that he being a friend of the Reichland people, he can’t fail to be altogether dispisable in my eyes, for there’s nothing about ’em from end to end but what I hate and detest.”
A great many very pithy questions were then asked, and a great many unmeaning answers given; but Whitlaw contrived that one fact at least should be established in the mind of his friend, — namely, that slavery was an abomination in the eyes of the Steinmarks, and that they were never known to omit an opportunity of showing grace and favour to a negro whenever they could find an occasion to d
o so.
This was something, and Jonathan Jefferson felt that if he could set his father on the scent, it might lead to more. But to do this to advantage, he felt that it would be advisable to see him alone, as a few hints might be necessary which would not greatly add to the value of the testimony he sought, even in the eyes of his liberal and well-judging friend Mr. Smith. He therefore privately decided to ride over alone on the following morning for this purpose; and meanwhile he took an opportunity, while his respected stepmother was expatiating on the sins and detestabilities of the Steinmark race, to slip out in order to have a word with Aunt Clio. From her he knew that he should at any rate learn the truth in a moment, and be able to ascertain, without more ado, whether the people called Bligh were known to the Steinmarks or not.
Some moments were inevitably wasted by the unconquerable raptures of the good Clio at the unexpected sight of her nephew; and coffee was weighed amiss, and soap was cut awry; while she gazed with delight at his ever-improving elegance, now seen for the first time since his return from. New Orleans.
But if the spirit of Jonathan Jefferson was chafed by this very unnecessary delay, he found some atonement for it in the succinct brevity with which she answered his questions, as soon as he could find an opportunity to put them. “Do you know a man called Bligh, Aunt Cli?”
“Yes, Jonathan dear; he has been twice in the store with the family from Reichland, and three times he has bought coffee here for himself.”
“Has he got a sister?”
“I don’t know, Jonathan.”
“Is he a parson?”
“I expect not, for he wears a white jacket.”
“Is he a saint, Aunt Cli?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure, Jonathan.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 39