Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  What to do she knew not. To remain thus strangely though safely accompanied, was impossible; and rather than do so without making some effort to extricate herself from her embarrassing position, she determined to walk straight on and take her chance as to whither the doing so might lead her. She wished, and indeed hoped, that the friendly Choctaws would accompany her, for the dread of Whitlaw, and of being again made a prisoner, haunted her; but she knew not how to make known either her purpose or her wishes, and therefore set off without attempting it, trusting wholly to their sense of her helpless and unprotected situation as an incitement to their continuing near her.

  Nor was she deceived in thus trusting. The apparent chief of the party placed himself at a few paces before, one of the others kept at a similar distance behind, and the other two flanked her right and left, taking care, however, never to approach her so nearly as to lessen the appearance of respect with which they seemed desirous to treat her.

  In this way they proceeded, whether right or wrong Lucy had still no means of judging, for about two miles, when the report of a rifle from among the trees, and very near them, caused the whole party to halt. A scout was immediately despatched in the direction from whence the noise proceeded, and the rest stilly and silently awaited his return. In less than ten minutes the man returned, followed by a hunter — or, to use the phrase of the country, a gunner — armed cap-â-pie for the chase. He was a fair young man, with bright curly locks, and light blue eyes, whose gay and good-humoured expression might have encouraged the most timid female to address him, even in circumstances of less desperate need than those which beset Lucy.

  The young stranger exchanged a few words with the Indians in their own tongue, and then advancing cap in hand towards Lucy, begged to know if he could in any way assist her.

  As briefly as possible she explained her situation, stating that she had lost her way in the forest, and encountered the party of Indians, who had shown the kindest inclination to befriend, but ineffectually as far as concerned her finding the road, for they could not understand her questions.

  “Do you, sir,” she continued, colouring and trembling with anxiety for his answer, “do you chance to know a little farm called Fox’s clearing?”

  “Fox’s clearing?” said the young man eagerly; “that is the residence of Mr. Bligh — is it not? I cannot be mistaken, your resemblance to him is most striking, — surely, you must be his sister?”

  “Is it possible that you know my brother, sir?” replied the delighted Lucy. “Edward Bligh is indeed my brother. Are we near his home? — How very fortunate I am!”

  “I am sure, Miss Bligh, I shall consider myself so, if I can be in any way useful to you,” said Karl Steinmark; for it was his happy countenance, beaming with good-humour and benevolence, that the poor wanderer had had the extreme good fortune to encounter in this desolate region. “Tell me,” he added, “what I can do to serve you?”

  “You seem to speak these good men’s language,” replied Lucy. “Will you express to them, as strongly as you can, my sense of their great kindness: they have fed and guarded me as if I were a child of their own nation.”

  “Poor people!” said Karl mournfully; “their nature might have been better dealt with.”

  “And will you, sir, give this money?” she said, presenting her little purse: “I wish I had more to offer them.”

  Karl performed his part as ambassador and interpreter very gracefully, and, excepting in the matter of the purse, was most graciously received and listened to; but respecting this the tawny heroes were inflexible, uttering, as with one voice, their refusal of payment.

  “Have you anything about you, the most trifling thing in the world, by way of token of remembrance,” said Karl, “that would delight them? — but you must not press payment upon them.”

  Lucy’s hand was instantly in her pocket; and she drew thence a small silver knife, and a pair of very delicate scissors.

  “Ay! these will delight them,” said Karl.

  “But here are but two things,” said Lucy mournfully; “and I could not bear to leave two forgotten.”

  “I dare not offer to help you out,” said Karl, smiling, “with any of my own pocket furniture, for I am quite sure that those who got my things would look with quite as jealous eyes upon those who got yours as if they were left unremembered entirely.”

  “Though they will not take money,” said Lucy, rejoiced at the bright idea, “they will not perhaps refuse the purse, especially if you tell them that it was made by myself.”

  “Excellent!” cried Karl, “the very best thing possible: and suppose I make up the number with my powder-horn?”

  Lucy again put her hand in her pocket, and drew thence all that remained in it; namely, her cambric handkerchief — and her thimble.

  No sooner had Karl thrown his eyes upon this last article, than he uttered an exclamation of delight. “My powder-horn! — a dozen powder-horns would not redeem this! — Now then, Miss Bligh, if you will make your offerings, I will attend you with the best explanation I can.”

  Lucy did so; and the grace and feeling she contrived to throw into the simple act of presenting to each the little token by which they were to remember her, almost caused her interpreter to forget the explanation he had promised to give. But an appealing look from her recalled him to his duty; and he performed it so well, that each and all of her honoured guard retired to follow their way as much gratified and as happy as she wished to make them.

  The affair being thus satisfactorily adjusted, and Karl and the lady left alone, he renewed his inquiry of how he could be useful to her.

  “Can you tell me the way to Fox’s clearing?” she said, “or tell me even in what direction it lies?”

  “I doubt if I could even do that,” he replied, “for I have never been there; but if you will permit me, Miss Bligh, to lead you to my mother and sister, I can assure you a most cordial welcome, and much nearer rest and shelter than Fox’s clearing. In fact, we are not more than a mile from Reichland, and your brother’s home lies beyond it.”

  “Indeed I will go with you very thankfully,” said Lucy, “for I doubt if I could walk many miles farther. — Your name is Steinmark, then, sir?” she added: “I thought it could be no other.”

  However fatiguing the mile appeared to Lucy, it certainly seemed no very long walk to Karl. The gentleness, intelligence, and refinement which he in common with all his family had remarked in Edward, with that sort of liking with which qualities highly prized and rarely met are requited, were all found, as he thought, more remarkably still in his sister, and without that settled sadness on the brow, which to a gay spirit like that of Karl was inexpressibly painful, often checking the kindness it longed to offer, from the fear of bringing annoyance instead of relief.

  It was with something like a feeling of triumph from having found what would be so welcome to all, that Karl led his pale and exhausted companion into the common sitting-room at Reichland: but poor Lucy felt great embarrassment from becoming the object for so many eyes, kind though they were, to fix upon; and the more so, from the complicated length of narrative which she thought would be necessary to explain why it was that she had been found so strangely.

  She knew not how fully her name was enough, if not to explain her present situation, at least to render all explanation unnecessary; she knew not that her dear Edward, though often silent and sad on other subjects, had warmed into eloquence and animation when she had become the subject; and still less did she imagine that the favourable impression thus made had been strengthened by the almost rapturous encomiums of Cæsar, who had managed since his residence among them to assure the family, one and all, that the whole wide world did not contain anyone person so filled with virtues and good gifts of all sorts as his quondam mistress Miss Lucy Bligh.

  Unconscious of all this, Lucy shrunk from the affectionate eyes that were fixed upon her; and having vainly endeavoured to tell the gentle Mary, who hung over her with maternal kindness, wh
y it was that, with uncovered head and thus wholly unprotected, she with unwomanly boldness attempted to traverse the forest alone, — having attempted this, and failed from weakness of many kinds, she stopped short, and covering her face with her hands, burst into tears.

  It was Lotte who now came forward, and gently drawing her mother aside, knelt down in the place where she, had stood before Lucy. The young girl sympathised with the young girl’s feelings; she understood her shyness — she felt for her fatigue, for her embarrassment, even for her dishabille, and whispered to her in the voice of confidence and affection, “Come upstairs, dear Lucy! — come to my room, dear friend! — I know you will be better there.”

  Lucy knew it too, and pressing the hand that had taken hers, she rose, and accompanied her new friend as she led the way to a quiet, comfortable little room upstairs.

  This was exactly the situation and the consolation that was most likely to restore her; and here it was that, without restraint or embarrassment of any kind, she related the whole of the circumstances which had befallen her, from Cæsar’s unlucky visit, to the fortunate arrival of Karl Steinmark at the spot where he found her surrounded by her body of Choctaw guards.

  Lotte listened with the most earnest attention, and without saying a single word to interrupt her; but when the narrative was ended, she manifested the interest she took in it, by her anxiety immediately to consult her father as to what steps should be taken to secure the safety of Mr. Bligh.

  “Undress yourself, Lucy, and get into bed; I am sure your limbs must feel stiff and aching after such a night. You must have some coffee, and lie quite still for an hour or two: by that time your brother will be here, and then you shall come down and assist at the general consultation.”

  So saying, she gave her an affectionate kiss and left her.

  The tale was listened to by all the party with indignation and anxiety. The state of the public mind through all the Southern States respecting the slave population, and the general acknowledgement of the necessity that the strongest measures should be resorted to in order to ensure the continued subjection of these unhappy people, was well known to Mr. Steinmark, who was watching the struggle between the two parties with the deepest interest: he saw at once that the violent detention of Lucy was for the purpose of preventing such a notice of the discovery of the prayer-meeting being conveyed to her brother as would prevent its taking place. The immediate danger was avoided by the noble exertions of Lucy; but it was so evident that young Bligh must now be it marked man, that Frederick Steinmark instantly determined to hasten his own departure for Europe, that he might convey both Edward and his sister from the country that their virtues had rendered so dangerous to them.

  His first care was to summon Edward; and Hermann, who knew his abode from having on some former occasion accompanied him home, was despatched to Fox’s clearing for this purpose; while a very joyful degree of activity was communicated to the rest of the family, by the information that all hands must set to work in order to prepare for departure by the earliest ship that should leave the port of New Orleans for Europe.

  The sale of his highly-cultivated and very valuable property at Reichland he had already nearly settled with Colonel Dart, on whom, with his usual good-nature, he had called the day before in order to negotiate the purchase of Phebe; and on mentioning to him, as one way of advertising the property for sale, that it was his intention to dispose of it previously to his setting off for Germany, that very wealthy gentleman declared himself ready to become the purchaser at such a valuation as three respectable persons competent to judge the value should put upon it.

  Nothing, in fact, could be more agreeable to Colonel Dart than the opportunity of making this purchase. He had a much larger capital than he knew how to employ; and, moreover, was very sincerely rejoiced to find that a proprietor who cultivated his land by free labour was about to take himself away.

  The happy Phebe, it was already settled, should come to them on the morrow, and, together with her intended husband, accompany them to Europe. The Baron Hochland declared himself perfectly ready to start at the same time, though complaining a little at the stern decision of the whole family, that Lotte should be bestowed on him in the presence of her uncle, and on the soil that gave her birth. In a word, all preliminaries for departure had already been so nearly arranged, that it was evident a little extra activity might enable them to proceed to New Orleans in the course of a week.

  Never was the satisfaction of a whole household more general and complete than that of Frederick Steinmark upon this occasion. From Mary, who now prepared to change her usual mode of doing everything so quietly that her agency could sometimes be scarcely detected, into the bustling rapidity that seemed absolutely necessary to keep her au courant du jour, down to the German labourers who had accompanied them out, and now were right glad to accompany them back again, all was joy and thanksgiving: and affectionate as was the interest they had felt for Edward before they were fully aware of the perils which beset him, that interest now seemed increased tenfold, both by the perils themselves, and by that delightful feeling which in the heart of the good is more attaching perhaps than even the gratitude for benefits received — the consciousness of having bestowed them.

  “We shall save him, poor fellow! and his pretty sister too, by this forced march,” exclaimed the father of the family with the most animated satisfaction; “and we shall, moreover, carry away two other human beings, whom we found groaning in the chains of slavery, with no other fetters upon them than those of wedlock: and if we leave one dear son behind is to make spoil of a little barbaric gold or Yankee silver, we have found another to supply his place — have we not, Lotte? Then will not the return of the exile to the land of his fathers be triumphant?”

  He was answered by a chorus, and one which rung most sweetly on his ear, for no single voice was out of tune as it pealed round the wide chamber, “IT WILL! — IT WILL!”

  “I wish Edward Bligh were here,” exclaimed Henrich: “I long to hear what he will say to it.”

  CHAPTER IX.

  IT was late in the evening when at length Hermann Steinmark returned, bringing Edward with him. He had found him very unwell, feverish, and out of spirits; and the kind-hearted lad’s project of not telling him that his sister was at Reichland, in order to give him an agreeable surprise, was of necessity abandoned, as the invitation to accompany him was most decidedly though gratefully declined, and all other reasons tried in vain to overcome his reluctance to leaving home, till at last the baffled envoy was driven to exclaim, “Why, Mr. Bligh! — your sister Lucy is at Reichland.”

  “Lucy! — my sister Lucy at Reichland! What has happened to her, Mr. Hermann? Has she been ill treated? — Is she ill?”

  “She has a very long and interesting story to tell you, Mr. Bligh,” replied Hermann, “and she is in a great hurry that you should come and hear it — so make haste and let us set off. And there’s abundance of other news for you to hear too, and you will be interested in it all, Mr. Bligh. It is so long since we have seen you, that I don’t believe you know that my father has decided upon returning home directly. But come, I will tell you all the news as we walk along. — I don’t believe that you have ever been told yet that Lottchen is really going to be married to Sigismond.” They were in the act of passing through the door as this was said: Hermann was a step before the unfortunate young man who thus received the confirmation of all he dreaded to hear.

  No answer was returned; and young Steinmark walked on for a few paces, supposing that Edward was following; but receiving no reply to a question which he addressed to him, he turned round, and to his surprise found himself alone.

  He retraced his steps, and again entered the little sitting-room. Edward was not there however; and supposing he was gone to communicate some wish or order to the other inhabitants of the dwelling, Hermann sat down to await his return. In about half an hour his step was heard descending the ladder-stair from the rooms above, and the next moment
he appeared.

  Young Steinmark was most painfully shocked and surprised by his appearance. His face was utterly colourless, his eyes had an expression of unsettled restlessness, and his whole manner was nervous and agitated to a degree that it was embarrassing to watch, but impossible to overlook.

  “You are ill, Mr. Bligh!” said Hermann, rising and taking his hand; “I am sure you are feverish, and it is better you should not go out tonight; — let me tell your sister that you will come to her to-morrow.”

  “No, Hermann, no,” replied Edward in an accent of decided resolution; “if my orphan sister were only to be reached by passing through a furnace seven times heated, still I would go to her. Excuse this delay — it was not to be avoided: but let us set off now — we shall soon be there.”

  They did set off accordingly, but it was in vain that Hermann endeavoured to beguile the way by conversation. He talked of Cæsar, of Phebe, of the Old World and of the New, but all fell unheeded upon the dull ear of Edward; and if anything could have brought sorrow to the happy heart of the young German, this silent melancholy walk must have done it. But after being quite convinced that it was not without great reluctance that his companion uttered even the monosyllables “yes” and “no,” he desisted from the attempt, and consoled himself as well as he could for his absence from the busy happiness at home by remembering how gratefully his father always seemed to acknowledge, every attention paid by himself and his brothers to the melancholy Edward.

  When at length they reached the happy parlour at Reichland, they found Lucy seated in the midst of the family circle, looking almost as happy as any of them. Frederick Steinmark was himself seated next her on one side, and Lotte on the other; and long before Edward arrived they had made her acquainted with the plan already formed for screening herself and her brother from dangers and difficulties of all sorts, by adopting them into the bosom of their family and their country. “My little girl will be running away from her mother very soon,” said Frederick; “and you, Lucy, are exactly the being to take her place: Edward shall become a minister of Luther’s own church, and I will even give up our beloved Cæsar and his little wife Phebe to wait upon him.”