Chapter Twenty Four
A Rival
I cannot describe the effect produced upon me by this discovery. It was like a shock of paralysis. It nailed me to the spot, and for some moments I felt as rigid as a statue, and almost as senseless. Even had the words uttered by Gayarre been loud enough to reach me, I should scarce have heard them. My surprise for the moment had rendered me deaf.
The antagonism I had conceived towards the speaker, so long as I believed it to be the brute Larkin, was of a gentle character compared with that which agitated me now. Larkin might be young and handsome; by Scipio’s account, the latter he certainly was not: but even so, I had little fear of his rivalry. I felt confident that I held the heart of Aurore, and I knew that the overseer had no power over her person. He was overseer of the field-hands, and other slaves of the plantation – their master, with full licence of tongue and lash; but with all that, I knew that he had no authority over Aurore. For reasons I could not fathom, the treatment of the quadroon was, and had always been, different from the other slaves of the plantation. It was not the whiteness of her skin – her beauty neither – that had gained her this distinction. These, it is true, often modify the hard lot of the female slave, sometimes detailing upon her a still more cruel fate; but in the case of Aurore, there was some very different reason for the kindness shown her, though I could only guess at it. She had been tenderly reared alongside her young mistress, had received almost as good an education, and, in fact, was treated rather as a sister than a slave. Except from Mademoiselle, she received no commands. The “nigger-driver” had nothing to do with her. I had therefore no dread of any unlawful influence on his part.
Far different were my suspicions when I found the voice belonged to Gayarre. He had power not only over the slave, but the mistress as well. Though suitor, – as I still believed him, – of Mademoiselle, he could not be blind to the superior charms of Aurore. Hideous wretch as I thought him, he might for all be sensible to love. The plainest may have a passion for the fairest. The Beast loved Beauty.
The hour he had chosen for his visit, too! that was suspicious of itself. Just as Mademoiselle had driven out! Had he been there before she went out and been left by her in the house? Not likely. Scipio know nothing of his being there, else he would have told me. The black was aware of my antipathy to Gayarre, and that I did not desire to meet him. He would certainly have told me.
“No doubt,” thought I, “the visit is a stolen one – the lawyer has come the back way from his own plantation, has watched till the carriage drove off, and then skulked in for the very purpose of finding the quadroon alone!”
All this flashed upon my mind with the force of conviction, I no longer doubted that his presence there was the result of design, and not a mere accident. He was after Aurore. My thoughts took this homely shape.
When the first shock of my surprise had passed away, my senses returned, fuller and more vigorous than ever. My nerves seemed freshly strung, and my ears new set. I placed them as close to the open window as prudence would allow, and listened. It was not honourable, I own, but in dealing with this wretch I seemed to lose all sense of honour. By the peculiar circumstances of that moment I was tempted from the strict path, but it was the “eavesdropping” of a jealous lover, and I cry you mercy for the act.
I listened. With an effort I stifled the feverish throbbings of my heart, and listened.
And I heard every word that from that moment was said. The voices had become louder, or rather the speakers had approached nearer. They were but a few feet from the window! Gayarre was speaking.
“And does this young fellow dare to make love to your mistress?”
“Monsieur Dominique, how should I know? I am sure I never saw aught of the kind. He is very modest, and so Mademoiselle thinks him. I never knew him to speak one word of love, – not he.”
I fancied I heard a sigh.
“If he dare,” rejoined Gayarre in a tone of bravado; “if he dare hint at such a thing to Mademoiselle – ay, or even to you, Aurore – I shall make the place too hot for him. He shall visit here no more, the naked adventurer! On that I am resolved.”
“Oh, Monsieur Gayarre! I’m sure that would vex Mademoiselle very much. Remember! he saved her life. She is full of gratitude to him. She continually talks of it, and it would grieve her if Monsieur Edouard was to come no more. I am sure it would grieve her.”
There was an earnestness, a half-entreaty, in the tone of the speaker that sounded pleasant to my ears. It suggested the idea that she, too, might be grieved if Monsieur Edouard were to come no more.
A like thought seemed to occur to Gayarre, upon whom, however, it made a very different sort of impression. There was irony mixed with anger in his reply, which was half interrogative.
“Perhaps it would grieve some one else? Perhaps you? All, indeed! Is it so? You love him? Sacr-r-r-r!”
There was a hissing emphasis upon the concluding word, that expressed anger and pain, – the pain of bitter jealousy.
“Oh monsieur!” replied the quadroon, “how can you speak thus? I love! I, – a poor slave! Alas! alas!”
Neither the tone nor substance of this speech exactly pleased me. I felt a hope, however, that it was but one of the little stratagems of love: a species of deceit I could easily pardon. It seemed to produce a pleasant effect on Gayarre, for all at once his voice changed to a lighter and gayer tone.
“You a slave, beautiful Aurore! No, in my eyes you are a queen, Aurore. Slave! It is your fault if you remain so. You know who has the power to make you free: ay, and the will too, – the will, – Aurore!”
“Please not to talk thus, Monsieur Dominique! I have said before I cannot listen to such speech. I repeat I cannot, and will not!”
The firm tone was grateful to my ears.
“Nay, lovely Aurore!” replied Gayarre, entreatingly, “don’t be angry with me! I cannot help it. I cannot help thinking of your welfare. You shall be free; – no longer the slave of a capricious mistress – ”
“Monsieur Gayarre!” exclaimed the quadroon, interrupting him, “speak not so of Mademoiselle! You wrong her, Monsieur. She is not capricious. What if she heard – ”
“Peste!” cried Gayarre, interrupting in his turn, and again assuming his tone of bravado. “What care I if she did? Think you I trouble my head about her? The world thinks so! ha! ha! ha! Let them! – the fools! ha! ha! One day they may find it different! ha! ha! They think my visits here are on her account! ha! ha! ha! No, Aurore, – lovely Aurore! it is not Mademoiselle I come to see, but you, – you, Aurore, – whom I love, – ay, love with all – ”
“Monsieur Dominique! I repeat – ”
“Dearest Aurore! say you will but love me; say but the word! Oh, speak it! you shall be no longer a slave, – you shall be free as your mistress is; – you shall have everything, – every pleasure, – dresses, jewels, at will; my house shall be under your control, – you shall command in it, as if you were my wife.”
“Enough, Monsieur! enough! Your insult – I hear no more!”
The voice was firm and indignant. Hurrah!
“Nay, dearest, loveliest Aurore! do not go yet, – hear me – ”
“I hear no more, Sir, – Mademoiselle shall know – ”
“A word, a word! one kiss, Aurore! on my knees, I beg – ”
I heard the knocking of a pair of knees on the floor, followed by a struggling sound, and loud angry exclamations on the part of Aurore.
This I considered to be my cue, and three steps brought me within the room, and within as many feet of the kneeling gallant. The wretch was actually on his “marrow-bones,” holding the girl by the wrist, and endeavouring to draw her towards him. She, on the contrary, was exerting all her women’s strength to get away; which, not being so inconsiderable, resulted in the ludicrous spectacle of the kneeling suitor being dragged somewhat rapidly across the carpet!
His back was toward me as I entered, and the first intimation he had of my presence was a boisterous laugh, which for the life of me I could not restrain. It lasted until long after he had released his captive, and gathered his limbs into an upright position; and, indeed, so loud did it sound in my own ears, that I did not hear the threats of vengeance he was muttering in return.
“What business have you here, Sir?” was his first intelligible question.
“I need not ask the same of you, Monsieur Dominique Gayarre. Your business I can tell well enough ha! ha! ha!”
“I ask you, Sir,” he repeated, in a still angrier tone, “what’s your business here?”
“I did not come here on business, Monsieur,” said I, still keeping up the tone of levity. “I did not come here on business, any more than yourself.”
The emphasis on the last words seemed to render him furious.
“The sooner you go the better, then,” he shouted, with a bullying frown.
“For whom?” I inquired.
“For yourself, Sir,” was the reply.
I had now also lost temper, though not altogether command of myself.
“Monsieur,” said I, advancing and confronting him, “I have yet to learn that the house of Mademoiselle Besançon is the property of Monsieur Dominique Gayarre. If it were so, I would be less disposed to respect the sanctity of its roof. You, Sir, have not respected it. You have acted infamously towards this young girl – this young lady, for she merits the title as much as the best blood in your land. I have witnessed your dastardly conduct, and heard your insulting proposals – ”
Here Gayarre started, but said nothing. I continued —
“You are not a gentleman, Sir; and therefore not worthy to stand before my pistol. The owner of this house is not at home. At present it is as much mine as yours; and I promise you, that if you are not out of it in ten seconds you shall have my whip laid with severity upon your shoulders.”
I said all this in a tone sufficiently moderate, and in cool blood. Gayarre must have seen that I meant it, for I did mean it.
“You shall pay dearly for this,” he hissed out. “You shall find that this is not the country for a spy.”
“Go, Sir!”
“And you, my fine pattern of quadroon virtue,” he added, bending a malicious glance upon Aurore, “there may come a day when you’ll be less prudish: a day when you’ll not find such a gallant protector.”
“Another word, and – ”
The uplifted whip would have fallen on his shoulders. He did not wait for that, but gliding through the door, shuffled off over the verandah.
I stopped outside to make sure that he was gone. Advancing to the end of the platform I looked over the paling. The chattering of the birds told me that some one was passing through the shrubbery.
I watched till I saw the gate open. I could just distinguish a head above the palings moving along the road. I easily recognised it as that of the disappointed seducer.
As I turned back, towards the drawing-room I forgot that such a creature existed!
Chapter Twenty Five
An Hour of Bliss
Sweet is gratitude under any circumstances; how much sweeter when expressed in the eyes and uttered by the lips of those we love!
I re-entered the room, my heart swelling with delightful emotions. Gratitude was poured forth in, lavish yet graceful expressions. Before I could utter a word, or stretch out a hand to hinder, the beautiful girl had glided across the room, and fallen into a kneeling posture at my feet! Her thanks came from her heart.
“Rise, lovely Aurore!” said I, taking her unresisting hand, and leading her to a seat. “What I have done is scarce worth thanks like thine. Who would have acted otherwise?”
“Ah, Monsieur! – many, many. You know not this land. There are few to protect the poor slave. The chivalry, so much boasted here, extends not to us. We, in whose veins runs the accursed blood, are beyond the pale both of honour and protection. Ah me, noble stranger! you know not for how much I am your debtor!”
“Call me not stranger, Aurore. It is true we have had but slight opportunity of conversing, but our acquaintance is old enough to render that title no longer applicable. I would you would speak to me by one more endearing.”
“Endearing! Monsieur, I do not understand you!”
Her large brown eyes were fixed upon me in a gaze of wonder, but they also interrogated me.
“Yes, endearing – I mean, Aurore – that you will not shun me – that you will give me your confidence – that you will regard me as a friend – a – a – brother.”
“You, Monsieur! you as my brother – a white – a gentleman, high-born and educated! I – I – oh Heavens! what am I? A slave – a slave – whom men love only to ruin. O God! – why is my destiny so hard? O God!”
“Aurore!” I cried, gathering courage from her agony, “Aurore, listen to me! to me, your friend, your – ”
She removed her hands that had been clasped across her face, and looked up. Her swimming eyes were bent steadfastly upon mine, and regarded me with a look of interrogation.
At that moment a train of thought crossed my mind. In words it was thus: “How long may we be alone? We may be interrupted? So fair an opportunity may not offer again. There is no time to waste in idle converse. I must at once to the object of my visit.”
“Aurore!” I said, “it is the first time we have met alone. I have longed for this interview. I have a word that can only be spoken to you alone.”
“To me alone, Monsieur! What is it?”
“Aurore, I love you!”
“Love me! Oh, Monsieur, it is not possible!”
“Ah! more than possible – it is true. Listen, Aurore! From the first hour I beheld you – I might almost say before that hour, for you were in my heart before I was conscious of having seen you – from, that first hour I loved you – not with a villain’s love, such as you have this moment spurned, but with a pure and honest passion. And passion I may well call it, for it absorbs every other feeling of my soul. Morning and night, Aurore, I think but of you. You are in my dreams, and equally the companion of my waking hours. Do not fancy my love so calm, because I am now speaking so calmly about it. Circumstances render me so. I have approached you with a determined purpose – one long resolved upon – and that, perhaps, gives me this firmness in declaring my love. I have said, Aurore, that I love you. I repeat it again —with my heart and soul, I love you!”
“Love me! poor girl!”
There was something so ambiguous in the utterance of the last phrase, that I paused a moment in my reply. It seemed as though the sympathetic interjection had been meant for some third person rather than herself!
“Aurore,” I continued, after a pause, “I have told you all. I have been candid. I only ask equal candour in return. Do you love me?”
I should have put this question less calmly, but that I felt already half-assured of the answer.
We were seated on the sofa, and near each other. Before I had finished speaking, I felt her soft fingers touch mine – close upon them, and press them gently together. When the question was delivered, her head fell forward on my breast, and I heard murmuring from her lips the simple words – “I too from the first hour!”
My arms, hitherto restrained, were now twined around the yielding form, and for some moments neither uttered a word. Love’s paroxysm is best enjoyed in silence. The wild intoxicating kiss, the deep mutual glance, the pressure of hands and arms and burning lips, all these need no tongue to make them intelligible. For long moments ejaculations of delight, phrases of tender endearment, were the only words that escaped us. We were too happy to converse. Our lips paid respect to the solemnity of our hearts.
It was neither the place nor time for Love to go blind, and prudence soon recalled me to myself. There was still much to be said, and many plans to be discussed before our new-sprung happiness should be secured to us. Both were aware of the abyss that still yawned between us. Both were aware that a thorny path must be trodden before we could reach the elysium of our hopes. Notwithstanding our present bliss, the future was dark and dangerous; and the thought of this soon startled us from our short sweet dream.
Aurora had no longer any fear of my love. She did not even wrong me with suspicion. She doubted not my purpose to make her my wife. Love and gratitude stifled every doubt, and we now conversed with a mutual confidence which years of friendship could scarce have established.
But we talked with hurried words. We knew not the moment we might be interrupted. We knew not when again we might meet alone. We had need to be brief.
I explained to her my circumstances – that in a few days I expected a sum of money – enough, I believed, for the purpose. What purpose? The purchase of my bride!
“Then,” added I, “nothing remains but to get married, Aurore!”
“Alas!” replied she with a sigh, “even were I free, we could not be married here. Is it not a wicked law that persecutes us even when pretending to give us freedom?”
I assented.
“We could not get married,” she continued, evidently suffering under painful emotion, “we could not unless you could swear there was African blood in your veins! Only think of such a law in a Christian land!”
“Think not of it, Aurore,” said I, wishing to cheer her. “There shall be no difficulty about swearing that. I shall take this gold pin from your hair, open this beautiful blue vein in your arm, drink from it, and take the oath!”
The quadroon smiled, but the moment after her look of sadness returned.
“Come, dearest Aurore! chase away such thoughts! What care we to be married here? We shall go elsewhere. There are lands as fair as Louisiana, and churches as fine as Saint Gabriel to be married in. We shall go northward – to England – to France – anywhere. Let not that grieve you!”
“It is not that which grieves me.”
“What then, dearest?”
“Oh! It is – I fear – ”
“Tear not to tell me.”
“That you will not be able – ”
“Declare it, Aurore.”
“To become my master—to—to buy me!”
Here the poor girl hung her head, as if ashamed to speak of such conditions. I saw the hot tears springing from her eyes.
“And why do you fear.” I inquired.
“Others have tried. Large sums they offered – larger even than that you have named, and they could not. They failed in their intentions, and oh! how grateful was I to Mademoiselle! That was my only protection. She would not part with me. How glad was I then! but now – now how different! – the very opposite!”
“But I shall give more – my whole fortune. Surely that will suffice. The offers you speak of were infamous proposals, like that of Monsieur Gayarre. Mademoiselle knew it; she was too good to accept them.”
“That is true, but she will equally refuse yours. I fear it, alas! alas!”
“Nay, I shall confess all to Mademoiselle. I shall declare to her my honourable design. I shall implore her consent. Surely she will not refuse. Surely she feels gratitude – ”
“Oh, Monsieur!” cried Aurore, interrupting me, “she is grateful – you know not how grateful; but never, never will she – You know not all – alas! alas!”
With a fresh burst of tears filling her eyes, the beautiful girl sank down on the sofa, hiding her face under the folds of her luxuriant hair.
I was puzzled by these expressions, and about to ask for an explanation, when the noise of carriage-wheels fell upon my ear. I sprang forward to the open window, and looked over the tops of the orange-trees. I could just see the head of a man, whom I recognised as the coachman of Mademoiselle Besançon. The carriage was approaching the gate.
In the then tumult of my feelings I could not trust myself to meet the lady, and, bidding a hurried adieu to Aurore, I rushed from the apartment.
When outside I saw that, if I went by the front gate I should risk an encounter. I knew there was a small side-wicket that led to the stables, and a road ran thence to the woods. This would carry me to Bringiers by a back way, and stepping off from the verandah, I passed through the wicket, and directed myself towards the stables in the rear.
Chapter Twenty Six
The “Nigger Quarter.”
I soon reached the stables, where I was welcomed by a low whimper from my horse. Scipio was not there.
“He is gone upon some other business,” thought I; “perhaps to meet the carriage. No matter, I shall not summon him. The saddle is on, and I can bridle the steed myself – only poor Scipio loses his quarter-dollar.”
I soon had my steed bitted and bridled; and, leading the animal outside, I sprang into the saddle, and rode off.
The path I was taking led past the “negro quarters,” and then through some fields to the dark cypress and tupelo woods in the rear. From these led a cross-way that would bring me out again upon the Levee road. I had travelled this path many a time, and knew it well enough.
The “nigger quarter” was distant some two hundred yards from the “grande maison,” or “big house,” of the plantation. It consisted of some fifty or sixty little “cabins,” neatly built, and standing in a double row, with a broad way between. Each cabin was a facsimile of its neighbour, and in front of each grew a magnolia or a beautiful China-tree, under the shade of whose green leaves and sweet-scented flowers little negroes might be seen all the livelong day, disporting their bodies in the dust. These, of all sizes, from the “piccaninny” to the “good-sized chunk of a boy,” and of every shade of slave-colour, from the fair-skinned quadroon to the black Bambarra, on whom, by an American witticism of doubtful truthfulness; “charcoal would make a white mark!” Divesting them of dust, you would have no difficulty in determining their complexion. Their little plump bodies were nude, from the top of their woolly heads to their long projecting heels. There roll they, black and yellow urchins, all the day, playing with pieces of sugar-cane, or melon-rind, or corn-cobs – cheerful and happy as any little lords could be in their well-carpeted nurseries in the midst of the costliest toys of the German bazaar!
On entering the negro quarter, you cannot fail to observe tall papaw poles or cane-reeds stuck up in front of many of the cabins, and carrying upon their tops large, yellow gourd-shells, each perforated with a hole in the side. These are the dwellings of the purple martin, (Hirundo purpurea) – the most beautiful of American swallows, and a great favourite among the simple negroes, as it had been, long before their time, among the red aborigines of the soil. You will notice, too, hanging in festoons along the walls of the cabins, strings of red and green pepper-pods (species of capsicum); and here and there a bunch of some dried herb of medicinal virtue, belonging to the negro pharmacopoeia. All these are the property of “aunt Phoebe,” or “aunty Cleopatra,” or “ole aunt Phillis;” and the delicious “pepper pot” that any one of those “aunts” can make out of the aforesaid green and red capsicums, assisted by a few other ingredients from the little garden “patch” in the rear of the cabin, would bring water to the teeth of an epicure.
Perhaps on the cabin walls you will see suspended representatives of the animal kingdom – perhaps the skin of a rabbit, a raccoon, an opossum, or the grey fox – perhaps also that of the musk-rat (Fiber zibethicus), or, rarer still, the swamp wild-cat (bay lynx —Lynx rufus). The owner of the cabin upon which hangs the lynx-skin will be the Nimrod of the hour, for the cat is among the rarest and noblest game of the Mississippi fauna. The skin of the panther (cougar) or deer you will not see, for although both inhabit the neighbouring forest, they are too high game for the negro hunter, who is not permitted the use of a gun. The smaller “varmints” already enumerated can be captured without such aid, and the pelts you see hanging upon the cabins are the produce of many a moonlight hunt undertaken by “Caesar,” or “Scipio,” or “Hannibal,” or “Pompey.” Judging by the nomenclature of the negro quarter, you might fancy yourself in ancient Rome or Carthage!
The great men above-named, however, are never trusted with such a dangerous weapon as a rifle. To their skill alone do they owe their success in the chase; and their weapons are only a stick, an axe, and a “’coon-dog” of mongrel race. Several of these last you may see rolling about in the dust among the “piccaninnies,” and apparently as happy as they. But the hunting trophies that adorn the walls do not hang there as mere ornaments. No, they are spread out to dry, and will soon give place to others – for there is a constant export going on. When uncle Ceez, or Zip, or Hanny, or Pomp, get on their Sunday finery, and repair to the village, each carries with him his stock of small pelts. There the storekeeper has a talk with them, and a “pic” (picayune) for the “mussrat,” a “bit” (Spanish real) for the “’coon,” and a “quarter” for the fox or “cat,” enable these four avuncular hunters to lay in a great variety of small luxuries for the four “aunties” at home; which little comforts are most likely excluded from the regular rice-and-pork rations of the plantation.
So much is a little bit of the domestic economy of the negro quarter.
On entering the little village, – for the negro quarter of a grand plantation merits the title, – you cannot fail to observe all of these little matters. They are the salient points of the picture.
You will observe, too, the house of the “overseer” standing apart; or, as in the case of the plantation Besançon, at the end of the double row, and fronting the main avenue. This, of course, is of a more pretentious style of architecture; can boast of Venetian blinds to the windows, two stories of height, and a “porch.” It is enclosed with a paling to keep off the intrusion of the children, but the dread of the painted cowhide renders the paling almost superfluous.
As I approached the “quarter,” I was struck with the peculiar character of the picture it presented, – the overseer’s house towering above the humbler cabins, seeming to protect and watch over them, suggesting the similarity of a hen with her brood of chickens.
Here and there the great purple swallows boldly cleft the air, or, poised on wing by the entrance of their gourd-shell dwellings, uttered their cheerful “tweet – tweet – tweet;” while the fragrant odour of the China-trees and magnolias scented the atmosphere to a long distance around.
When nearer still, I could distinguish the hum of human voices – of men, women, and children – in that peculiar tone which characterises the voice of the African. I fancied the little community as I had before seen it – the men and women engaged in various occupations – some resting from their labour, (for it was now after field hours,) seated in front of their tent-like cabins, under the shade-tree, or standing in little groups gaily chatting with each other – some by the door mending their fishing-nets and tackle, by which they intended to capture the great “cat” and “buffalo fish” of the bayous – some “chopping” firewood at the common “wood-pile,” which half-grown urchins were “toating,” to the cabins, so that “aunty” might prepare the evening-meal.
I was musing on the patriarchal character of such a picture, half-inclined towards the “one-man power” – if not in the shape of a slaveholder, yet something after the style of Rapp and his “social economists.”
“What a saving of state machinery,” soliloquised I, “in this patriarchal form! How charmingly simple! and yet how complete and efficient!”
Just so, but I had overlooked one thing, and that was the imperfectness of human nature – the possibility – the probability – nay, the almost certainty, that the patriarch will pass into the tyrant.
Hark! a voice louder than common! It is a cry!
Of cheerful import? No – on the contrary, it sounds like the utterance of some one in pain. It is a cry of agony! The murmur of other voices, too, heard at short intervals, carries to my ear that deep portentous sound which accompanies some unnatural occurrence.
Again I hear the cry of agony – deeper and louder than before! It comes from the direction of the negro quarter. What is causing it?
I gave the spur to my horse, and galloped in the direction of the cabins.