Chapter Thirty
Thoughts
That night I passed without repose. How was it with Eugénie? How with Aurore?
Mine was a night of reflections, in which pleasure and pain were singularly blended. The love of the quadroon was my source of pleasure; but, alas! pain predominated as my thoughts dwelt upon the Creole! That the latter loved me I no longer doubted; and this assurance, so far from giving me joy, filled me with keen regret. Accursed vanity, that can enjoy such a triumph, – vile heart, that can revel in a love it is unable to return! Mine did not: it grieved instead.
In thought I reviewed the short hours of intercourse that had passed between us – Eugénie Besançon and myself. I communed with my conscience, asking myself the question, Was I innocent? Had I done aught, either by word, or look, or gesture, to occasion this love? – to produce the first delicate impression, that upon a heart susceptible as hers soon becomes a fixed and vivid picture? Upon the boat? Or afterwards? I remembered that at first sight I had gazed upon her with admiring eyes. I remembered that in hers I had beheld that strange expression of interest which I had attributed to curiosity or some other cause – I knew not what. Vanity, of which no doubt I possess my share, had not interpreted those tender glances aright – had not even whispered me they were the flowers of love, easily ripened to its fruits. Had I been instrumental in nurturing those flowers of the heart? – had I done aught to beguile them to their fatal blooming?
I examined the whole course of my conduct, and pondered over all that had passed between us. I thought of all that had occurred during our passage upon the boat – during the tragic scene that followed. I could not remember aught, either of word, look, or gesture, by which I might condemn myself. I gave full play to my conscience, and it declared me innocent.
Afterwards – after that terrible night – after those burning eyes and that strange face had passed dreamlike before my disordered senses – after that moment I could not have been guilty of aught that was trivial. During the hours of my convalescence – during the whole period of my stay upon the plantation – I could remember nothing in my intercourse with Eugénie Besançon to give me cause for regret. Towards her I had observed a studied respect – nothing more. Secretly I felt friendship and sympathy; more especially after I had noted the change in her manner, and feared that some cloud was shadowing her fortune. Alas, poor Eugénie! Little did I guess the nature of that cloud! Little did I dream how dark it was!
Notwithstanding my self-exculpation, I still felt pain. Had Eugénie Besançon been a woman of ordinary character I might have borne my reflections more lightly. But to a heart so highly attuned, so noble, so passionate, what would be the shock of an unrequited love? Terrible it must be; perhaps the more so at thus finding her rival in her own slave!
Strange confidante had I chosen for my secret! Strange ear into which I had poured the tale of my love! Oh that I had not made my confession! What suffering had I caused this fair, this unfortunate lady!
Such painful reflections coursed through my mind; but there were others equally bitter, and with bitterness springing from a far different source. What would be the effect of the disclosure? How would it affect our future – the future of myself and Aurore? How would Eugénie act? Towards me? towards Aurore —her slave?
My confession had received no response. The mute lips murmured neither reply nor adieu. I had gazed but a moment on the insensible form. Aurore had beckoned me away, and I had left the room in a state of embarrassment and confusion – I scarce remembered how.
What would be the result? I trembled to think. Bitterness, hostility, revenge?
Surely a soul so pure, so noble, could not harbour such passions as these?
“No,” thought I; “Eugénie Besançon is too gentle, too womanly, to give way to them. Is there a hope that she may have pity on me, as I pity her? Or is there not? She is a Creole – she inherits the fiery passions of her race. Should these be aroused to jealousy, to revenge, her gratitude will soon pass away – her love be changed to scorn. Her own slave!”
Ah! I well understood the meaning of this relationship, though I cannot make it plain to you. You can ill comprehend the horrid feeling. Talk of a mésalliance of the aristocratic lord with the daughter of his peasant retainer, of the high-born dame with her plebeian groom – talk of the scandal and scorn to which such rare events give rise! All this is little – is mild, when compared with the positive disgust and horror felt for the “white” who would ally himself in marriage with a slave! No matter how white she be, no matter how beautiful – even lovely as Aurore – he who would make her his wife must bear her away from her native land, far from the scenes where she has hitherto been known! His mistress– all! that is another affair. An alliance of this nature is pardonable. The “society” of the South is satisfied with the slave-mistress; but the slave-wife– that is an impossibility, an incongruity not to be borne!
I knew that the gifted Eugénie was above the common prejudices of her class; but I should have expected too much to suppose that she was above this one. No; noble, indeed, must be the soul that could have thrown off this chain, coiled around it by education, by habit, by example, by every form of social life. Notwithstanding all – notwithstanding the relations that existed between herself and Aurore, I could not expect this much. Aurore was her companion, her friend; but still Aurore was her slave!
I trembled for the result. I trembled for our next interview. In the future I saw darkness and danger. I had but one hope, one joy – the love of Aurore!
I rose from my sleepless couch. I dressed and ate my breakfast hurriedly, mechanically.
That finished, I was at a loss what to do next. Should I return to the plantation, and seek another interview with Eugénie. No – not then. I had not the courage. It would be better, I reflected, to permit some time to pass – a day or two – before going back. Perhaps Mademoiselle would send for me?
Perhaps – At all events, it would be better to allow some days to elapse. Long days they would be to me!
I could not bear the society of any one. I shunned conversation; although I observed, as on the preceding day, that I was the object of scrutiny – the subject of comment among the loungers of the “bar,” and my acquaintances of the billiard-room. To avoid them, I remained inside my room, and endeavoured to kill time by reading.
I soon grew tired of this chamber-life; and upon the third morning I seized my gun, and plunged into the depth of the forest.
I moved amidst the huge pyramidal trunks of the cypresses, whose thick umbellated foliage, meeting overhead, shut out both sun and sky. The very gloom occasioned by their shade was congenial to my thoughts; and I wandered on, my steps guided rather by accident than design.
I did not search for game. I was not thinking of sport. My gun rested idly in the hollow of my arm. The raccoon, which in the more open woods is nocturnal, is here abroad by day. I saw the creature plunging his food into the waters of the bayou, and skulking around the trunks of the cypresses. I saw the opossum gliding along the fallen log, and the red squirrel, like a stream of fire, brushing up the bark of the tall tulip-tree. I saw the large “swamp-hare” leap from her form by the selvage of the cane-brake; and, still more tempting game, the fallow-deer twice bounded before me, roused from its covert in the shady thickets of the pawpaw-trees. The wild turkey, too, in all the glitter of his metallic plumage, crossed my path; and upon the bayou, whose bank I for some time followed, I had ample opportunity of discharging my piece at the blue heron or the egret, the summer duck or the snake-bird, the slender ibis or the stately crane. Even the king of winged creatures, the white-headed eagle, was more than once within range of my gun, screaming his maniac note among the tops of the tall taxodiums.
And still the brown tubes rested idly across my arm; nor did I once think of casting my eye along their sights. No ordinary game could have tempted me to interrupt the current, of my thoughts, that were dwelling upon a theme to me the most interesting in the world – Aurore the quadroon!
Chapter Thirty One
Dreams
Yielding up my soul to its sweet love-dream, I wandered on – where and how long I cannot tell, for I had taken no note either of distance or direction.
I was roused from my reverie by observing a brighter light gleaming before me; and soon after I emerged from the darker shadow of the forest. My steps, chance-directed, had guided me into a pretty glade, where the sun shone warmly, and the ground was gay with flowers. It was a little wild garden, enamelled by blossoms of many colours, among which, bignonias and the showy corollas of the cotton-rose were conspicuous. Even the forest that bordered and enclosed this little parterre was a forest of flowering-trees. They were magnolias of several kinds; on some of which the large liliaceous blossoms had given place to the scarcely less conspicuous seed-cones of glowing red, whose powerful but pleasant odour filled the atmosphere around. Other beautiful trees grew alongside, mingling their perfume with that of the magnolias. Scarce less interesting were the “honey-locusts” (gleditschias), with their pretty pinnate leaves, and long purple-brown legumes; the Virginian lotus, with its oval amber-coloured drupes, and the singular bow-wood tree (madura), with its large orange-like pericarps, reminding one of the flora of the tropics. The Autumn was just beginning to paint the forest, and already some touches from his glowing palette appeared among the leaves of the sassafras laurel, the sumach (rhus), the persimmon (diospyros), the nymph-named tupelo, and those other species of the American sylva that love to array themselves so gorgeously before parting with their deciduous foliage. Yellow, orange, scarlet, crimson, with many an intermediate tint, met the eye; and all these colours, flashing under the brilliant beams of a noonday sun, produced an indescribable coup-d’oeil. The scene resembled the gaudy picture-work of a theatre, more than the sober reality of a natural landscape.
I stood for some minutes wrapt in admiration. The dream of love in which I had been indulging became heightened in its effect; and I could not help thinking that if Aurore were but present to enjoy that lovely scene – to wander with me over that flowery glade – to sit by my side under the shade of the magnolia laurel – then, indeed, would my happiness be complete. Earth itself had no fairer scene than this. A very love-bower it appeared!
Nor was it unoccupied by lovers; for two pretty doves – birds emblematic of the tender passion – sat side by side upon the bough of a tulip-tree, their bronzed throats swelling at intervals with soft amorous notes.
Oh, how I envied those little creatures! How I should have rejoiced in a destiny like theirs! Thus mated and happy – amidst bright flowers and sweet perfumes, loving the livelong day – loving through all their lives!
They deemed me an intruder, and rose on whirring wing at my approach. Perchance they feared my glittering gun. They had not need. I had no intention of harming them. Far was it from my heart to spoil their perfect bliss.
But no – they feared me not – else their flight would have been more distant. They only flitted to the next tree; and there again, seated side by side, resumed their love-converse. Absorbed in mutual fondness, they had already forgotten my presence!
I followed to watch these pretty creatures – the types of gentleness and love. I flung me on the grass, and gazed upon thorn, tenderly kissing and cooing. I envied their delight.
My nerves, that for days had been dancing with more than ordinary excitement, were now experiencing the natural reaction, and I felt weary. There was a drowsiness in the air – a narcotic influence produced by the combined action of the sun’s rays and the perfume of the flowers. It acted upon my spirit, and I fell asleep.
I slept only about an hour, but it was a sleep of dreams; and during that short period I passed through many scenes. Many a visionary tableau appeared before the eye of my slumbering soul, and then melted away. There were more or less characters in each; but in all of them two were constant, both well defined in form and features. They were Eugénie and Aurore.
Gayarre, too, was in my dreams; and the ruffian overseer, and Scipio, and the mild face of Reigart, and what I could remember of the good Antoine. Even the unfortunate Captain of the boat, the boat herself, the Magnolia, and the scene of the wreck – all were reproduced with a painful distinctness!
But my visions were not all of a painful character. Some were the very opposite – scenes of bliss. In company with Aurore, I was wandering through flowery glades, and exchanging the sweet converse of mutual love. The very spot where I lay – the scene around me – was pictured in the dream.
Strangest of all, I thought that Eugénie was with us, and that she, too, was happy; that she had consented to my marrying Aurore, and had even assisted us in bringing about this happy consummation!
In this vision Gayarre was the fiend; and I thought that after a while he endeavoured to drag Aurore from me. A struggle followed, and then the scene ended with confused abruptness.
A new tableau arose – a new vision. In this Eugénie played the part of the evil genius. I thought she had refused my requests – refused to sell Aurore. I fancied her jealous, hostile, vengeful. I thought she was loading me with imprecations, my betrothed with threats. Aurore was weeping. It was a painful vision.
The scene changed again. Aurore and I were happy – she was free – she was now mine, and we were married. But there was a cloud upon our happiness. Eugénie was dead.
Yes, dead. I thought I was bending over her, and had taken her hand. Suddenly her fingers closed upon mine, and held them with a firm pressure. I thought that the contact was disagreeable; and I endeavoured to withdraw my hand, but could not. My fingers remained bound within that cold clammy grasp; and with all my strength I was unable to release them! Suddenly I was stung; and at the same instant the chill hand relaxed its grasp, and set me free.
The stinging sensation, however, awoke me; and my eyes mechanically turned towards the hand, where I still felt pain.
Sure enough my wrist was punctured and bleeding!
A feeling of horror ran through my veins, as the “sker-r-rr” of the crotalus sounded in my ear; and, looking around, I saw the glittering body of the reptile extended along the grass, and gliding rapidly away!
Chapter Thirty Two
Stung by a Snake
The pain was not a dream; the blood upon my wrist was no illusion. Both were real. I was bitten by a rattlesnake!
Terror-stricken I sprang to my feet; and, with an action altogether mechanical, passed my hand over the wound, and wiped away the blood. It was but a trifling puncture, such as might have been made by the point of a lancet, and only a few drops of blood oozed from it.
Such a wound need not have terrified a child, so far as appearance went; but I, a man, was terrified, for I knew that that little incision had been made by a dread instrument – by the envenomed fang of a serpent – and in one hour I might be dead!
My first impulse was to pursue the snake and destroy it; but before I could act upon that impulse the reptile had escaped beyond my reach. A hollow log lay near – the trunk of a large tulip-tree, with the heart-wood decayed and gone. The snake had made for this – no doubt its haunt – and before I could come up with it, I saw the long slimy body, with its rhomboid spots, disappear within the dark cavity. Another “sker-r-rr” reached my ears as it glided out of sight. It seemed a note of triumph, as if uttered to tantalise me!
The reptile was now beyond my reach, but its destruction would not have availed me. Its death could not counteract the effect of its poison already in my veins. I knew that well enough, but for all I would have killed it, had it been in my power to do so. I felt angry and vengeful.
This was but my first impulse. It suddenly became changed to a feeling of terror. There was something so weird in the look of the reptile, something so strange in the manner of its attack and subsequent escape, that, on losing sight of it, I became suddenly impressed with a sort of supernatural awe – a belief that the creature was possessed of a fiendish intelligence!
Under this impression I remained for some moments in a state of bewilderment.
The sight of the blood, and the stinging sensation of the wound, soon brought me to my senses again, and admonished me of the necessity of taking immediate steps to procure an antidote to the poison. But what antidote?
What knew I of such things? I was but a classical scholar. True, I had lately given some attention to botanical studies; but my new knowledge extended only to the trees of the forest, and none of these with which I was acquainted possessed alexipharmic virtues. I knew nothing of the herbaceous plants, the milk-worts, and aristolochias, that would now have served me. The woods might have been filled with antidotal remedies, and I have died in their midst. Yes, I might have lain down upon a bed of Seneca root, and, amidst terrible convulsions, have breathed my last breath, without knowing that the rhizome of the humble plant crushed beneath my body would, in a few short hours, have expelled the venom from my veins, and given me life and health.
I lost no time in speculating upon such a means of safety. I had but one thought – and that was to reach Bringiers at the earliest possible moment. My hopes rested upon Reigart.
I hastily took up my gun; and, plunging once more under the dark shadows of the cypress-trees, I hurried on with nervous strides. I ran as fast as my limbs would carry me; but the shock of terror I had experienced seemed to have enfeebled my whole frame, and my knees knocked against each other as I went.
On I struggled, regardless of my weakness, regardless of everything but the thought of reaching Bringiers and Reigart. Over fallen trees, through dense cane-brakes, through clumps of palmettoes and pawpaw thickets, I passed, dashing the branches from my path, and lacerating my skin at every step. Onward, through sluggish rivulets of water, through tough miry mud, through slimy pools, filled with horrid newts, and the spawn of the huge rana pipiens, whose hoarse loud croak at every step sounded ominous in my ear. Onward!
“Ho! whither am I going? Where is the path? where the tracks of my former footsteps? Not here – not there. Good God! I have lost them! – lost! lost!”
Quick as lightning came these thoughts. I looked around with eager glances. On every side I scanned the ground. I saw no path, no tracks, but those I had just made. I saw no marks that I could remember. I had lost my way. Beyond a doubt I was lost!
A thrill of despair ran through me – the blood curdled cold in my veins at the thought of my peril.
No wonder. If lost in the forest, then was I lost indeed. A single hour might be enough. In that time the poison would do its work. I should be found only by the wolves and vultures. O God!
As if to make my horrid fate appear more certain, I now remembered to have heard that it was the very season of the year – the hot autumn – when the venom of the crotalus is most virulent, and does its work in the shortest period of time. Cases are recorded where in a single hour its bite has proved fatal.
“Merciful heaven!” thought I, “in another hour I shall be no more!” and the thought was followed by a groan.
The danger nerved me to renewed efforts. I turned back on my tracks. It seemed the best thing I could do; for in the gloomy circle around, there was no point that indicated my approach to the open ground of the plantations. Not a bit of sky could I discover, – that welcome beacon to the wood-ranger, denoting the proximity of the clearings. Even the heaven above was curtained from my view; and when I appealed to it in prayer, my eyes rested only upon the thick black foliage of the cypress-trees, with their mournful drapery of tillandsia.
I had no choice but to go back, and endeavour to find the path I had lost, or wander on trusting to mere chance.
I chose the former alternative. Again I broke through the cane-brakes and palmetto-thickets – again I forded sluggish bayous, and waded across muddy pools.
I had not proceeded more than a hundred yards on the back track, when that also became doubtful. I had passed over a reach of ground higher and drier than the rest. Here no footprints appeared, and I knew not which way I had taken. I tried in several directions, but could not discover my way. I became confused, and at length completely bewildered. Again was I lost!
To have been lost in the forest under ordinary circumstances would have mattered little, – an hour or two of wandering – perhaps a night spent under the shade of some tree, with the slight inconvenience of a hungry stomach. But how very different was my prospect then, with the fearful thoughts that were pressing upon me! The poison was fast inoculating my blood. I fancied I already felt it crawling through my veins!
One more struggle to find the clearings!
I rushed on, now guided by chance. I endeavoured to keep in a straight line, but to no purpose. The huge pyramidal buttresses of the trees, so characteristic of these coniferae, barred my way; and, in passing around them, I soon lost all knowledge of my direction.
I wandered on, now dragging wearily across the dull ditches, now floundering through tracts of swamp, or climbing over huge prostrate logs. In my passage I startled the thousand denizens of the dank forest, who greeted me with their cries. The qua-bird screamed; the swamp-owl hooted; the bullfrog uttered his trumpet-note; and the hideous alligator, horribly bellowing from his gaunt jaws, crawled sulkily out of my way, at times appearing as if he would turn and assail me!
“Ho! yonder is light! – the sky!”
It was but a small patch of the blue heaven – a disc, not larger than a dining-plate. But, oh! you cannot understand with what joy I greeted that bright spot. It was the lighthouse to the lost mariner.
It must be the clearings? Yes, I could see the sun shining through the trees, and the horizon open as I advanced. No doubt the plantations were before me. Once there I should soon cross the fields, and reach the town. I should yet be safe. Reigart would surely know how to extract the poison, or apply some antidote?
I kept on with bounding heart and straining eyes – on, for the bright meteor before me.
The blue spot grew larger – other pieces of sky appeared – the forest grew thinner as I advanced – I was drawing nearer to its verge.
The ground became firmer and drier at every step, and the timber of a lighter growth. The shapeless cypress “knees” no longer impeded my progress. I now passed among tulip-trees, dogwoods, and magnolias. Less densely grew the trunks, lighter and less shadowy became the foliage above; until at length I pushed through the last selvage of the underwood, and stood in the open sunshine.
A cry of agony rose upon my lips. It was wrung from me by despair. I had arrived at my point of starting – I was once more within the glade!
I sought not to go farther. Fatigue, disappointment, and chagrin, had for the moment paralysed my strength. I staggered forward to a prostrate trunk, – the very one which sheltered my reptile assassin! – and sat down in a state of irresolution and bewilderment.
It seemed as though I were destined to die in that lovely glade – amidst those bright flowers – in the midst of that scene I had so lately admired, and upon the very spot where I had received my fatal wound!