CHAPTER XVIIWED
’Tis sure some dream, some vision vain,What I, the child of rank and wealth,Am I the wretch that wears this chain?G. M. L.
’Tis sure some dream, some vision vain,What I, the child of rank and wealth,Am I the wretch that wears this chain?G. M. L.
’Tis sure some dream, some vision vain,What I, the child of rank and wealth,Am I the wretch that wears this chain?
’Tis sure some dream, some vision vain,
What I, the child of rank and wealth,
Am I the wretch that wears this chain?
G. M. L.
G. M. L.
The sky was gray, the wind high, and the sea rough, yet David and Gloria remained on deck. He had led her to a bench behind the wheel-house, and there they sat, partly sheltered from the blast.
As the old flagman had truly said, there were not many travelers by the steamboat at this inclement season of the year—only a few country tradesmen, picked up at different points along the shores of the bay, who were taking time by the forelock and going to the Northern cities to purchase their spring goods.
All these were total strangers to Gloria and David; and as they lounged or sauntered, talking politics or smoking pipes, to and fro from stem to stern, on the deck, they scarcely bestowed a glance upon the young pair, seated behind the wheel-house, who, indeed, kept themselves aloof from all their fellow-passengers, until the ringing of the tea-bell brought them all down together into the ill-lighted saloon.
Here Gloria found herself the only lady at the table, with a dozen or more men, officers and passengers all counted; but as the motion of the steamboat was now very rough, she took it for granted that all the other ladies who might be on board were confined to their berths by sea-sickness.
After tea the young couple returned to the deck, but found the weather too blustering for the girl; so they went again to the saloon, but found that the table had been cleared of the tea-service and the men had gathered about it in parties of four to play cards, smoke and drink; so finally they went to the companion-way leading below, and there David Lindsay bid Gloria good-night, for there was no admittance for him in the Ladies’ Cabin.
When she reached this sanctuary she found that she was the only woman on board the steamer, with the exception of the stewardess.
This latter came to proffer her services to the young lady. She was a wonderfully tall, black and spare specimen of the negro race. A striped gown and a high turban added to her unusual altitude.
“’Ebenin, Miss. Well, as yer’s de only lady here, yer kin hab fus’ choice of dese here staterooms on each side de cabin,” she said.
“Is there any difference?” inquired the girl with a smile.
“Some is double and some is single, and dem in de middle is straight, and next to de stairs is crooked.”
“Well, you shall choose for me.”
“Den I ’vise you to take a double one in de middle.”
“Thanks,” said Gloria. She did not then go into the selected state-room, but she sat down in therocking-chair and put her feet to the fire in the stove.
“Reckon yer’s gwine back to school in de city arter the Christmas holidays?” ventured the stewardess.
“No,” replied the young lady.
“Den yer’s gwine long your pappy to buy goods maybe?”
“No.”
“To visit yer ’lations, den?”
“No.”
“Well, what on de face ob de yeth is yer gwine for?” bluntly inquired the stewardess.
“On business,” good-humoredly replied the girl.
“Oh!” said the woman.
There was silence for a few minutes, and then the woman began to murmur, partly to herself:
“Now, I wonder what business can call a young gal to town at this unlawful season ob de wintry wedder in a cold steamboat?”
As the young lady did not reply to this, the woman felt driven to say, more decidedly:
“You looks moughty youngish for de like ob sich, and I’d eben fink as yer ma or aunt would be goin’ wid you; but is yer gwine to buy yer weddin’ close?”
“Perhaps,” said Gloria.
“Dere! I did guess it, arter all!” triumphantly exclaimed the woman.
Then, to stop further examination, Gloria determined to turn the tables by questioning the questioner.
“What is your name, auntie?” she hastened to inquire.
“Laweeny Long, dough dey do mostly call me Long Laweeny, ’cause, yer see, honey, I is ober sixfeet tall, which can’t be said for all the men, let alone wimmin. Lay-wee-ny Long, honey! One ob de La Compte colored ladies, honey, and been runnin’ stewardess long o’ Cappin Bright ebber since my mist’ess died.”
“You are Lavinia, one of the La Compte colored people?” questioned Gloria, in surprise.
“Hi, what I tell yer? Yes, honey, one ob de La Compte colored ladies, I is. My mist’ess was Miss Eleano La Compte, what married a speckled foreigner, which he was a great man in his own country, too, I b’liebe! Howseber, he’s dead, and so is she, and lef’ one only darter an’ heiress, my present young mist’ess, dough I hab nebber seed her—Miss Delia Werry.”
“Miss de la Vera, do you mean?”
“Yes, honey, dat’s zactly what I said. Miss Delia Werry. Does yer know her, honey?”
“Not very well,” replied Gloria, with a smile. “At least, I may say with truth that I don’t know much good of her.”
“Now, look here, young gal!” wrathfully exclaimed Long Laweeny, “don’t you go a back-bitin’ my young mist’ess behind her back! Now, I tell yer good, don’t you! She’s my young mist’ess, she is, and what harm does you know of her, pray? Dere, now, what harm does you know of her?”
“I did not say that I knew any harm of her; and, moreover, if it will give you any satisfaction, auntie, I can tell you that I love Miss de la Vera very much, very much more than any one else in the world, I am afraid.”
“Den I’m glad yer does. But what make yer say yer don’t know no good o’ she?” inquired the woman, doubtfully.
“Oh, I was jesting, you see, only jesting; for I have as much respect for Miss de la Vera as I have for myself.”
“Den yer mus’ know her right well?”
“No, I’m sure I don’t, not half as well as I would like to know her. But now—you say you belong to the estate. How comes it then that you are here as stewardess on this steamboat?”
“Hi, honey, ’cause dere ain’t been no use for me at de house since de ’stablishment was broked up, arter old Marse Cappin La Compte died, an’ de young ladies went to Washington to lib long o’ deir gardeen. Dat was about twenty years ago, honey. And all we young women servants what belonged to de house was hired out at warious places, and only two or free old grannies left to look arter it, dough all de men—field hands and fishermen and blacksmiths and carpenters, yer know, honey—was left on de ’state, ’cause deir work was to be done, whedder or no, fambily or no fambily.”
“And have you been twenty years in this service?”
“No, honey, not quite. Only ’bout seben, I reckon. I was hired out at private service before that.”
“Do you like this life?”
“I used to, honey, but I’s gettin’ tired of it. An’ I’s wishin’ for the time to come when my young mist’ess, Miss Delia Werry, will come ob age or get married, so as to come and lib at home, an’ hab her colored people about her like oder ladies, I do.”
Gloria felt extremely interested in this old family servant of her ancestors whom she had so unexpectedly met in the cabin of the steamboat, and so, without revealing her own identity to the woman, she encouraged her to talk of La Compte’s Landingand the old people who had lived there in times past. And as “Long Laweeny” had so interested a listener she became very diffuse in her revelations.
“They do say, Miss, that the first founder ob de family in dese parts was a brave ole sea-king, what his inimies and back-biters called a booknear or pirate, and how he buried whole shiploads of gold and silver about dese here shores an’ islands, which, if dat same treasure would be foun’, it would make de people what owns de lan’s as rich as Jews. But I don’t know as to de trufe of it.”
These and many other tales and legends of the old family did Long Laweeny relate to her attentive listener, and so whiled away the time until a late hour, when Gloria thanked the woman for the entertainment and retired to her state-room.
Though the mind of the girl was deeply disturbed by the novelty of her present position, and the uncertainty of her future fate, she did not lie long awake, but rocked by the motion of the boat, soon fell sound asleep and slept profoundly until she was awakened by the movements of the stewardess bustling about the cabin and setting it in order.
On first opening her eyes she felt surprise and fear on finding herself in the berth of a state-room on a rocking steamboat; but instantly she remembered the rash step that had placed her in this position, and her soul was filled with dismay. For a moment she repented her reckless flight, and contemplated remaining on the steamer under the protection of Long Laweeny, and returning with it on its next down voyage to her home. Only for a moment did she think of such an alternative to going on and completing her other purpose. The visionof her uncle and his importunities frightened her from all idea of going back.
“No!” she said to herself, “I cannot trust him. I can trust David Lindsay.”
In the spirit of this trust she met her old playmate on deck.
He, too, had had his deep sleep of oblivion and his wakening to astonishment and perplexity. But no instant’s doubt of his future course disturbed his mind; he was devoted to his lady’s service, and determined to do her will. In this spirit of loyalty he received her on deck.
The wind had shifted to the northwest and cleared the sky of every cloud; but it was now blowing dead ahead, and so the boat had both wind and current against her, and her upward progress was slow.
Gloria and David had spent the day on deck, only leaving it to go to breakfast, dinner and supper in the saloon.
After supper they separated, as before, at the head of the companion-way leading down into the ladies’ cabin, where Gloria spent the evening in drawing out Long Laweeny to talk of the old La Comptes until bed-time, when she retired to her berth. The same evening David spent in talking to the officer of the deck until the hour came which relieved the latter, and drew the former to the saloon state-room, which he shared with a country storekeeper.
It was sunset when she entered the mouth of the Potomac and near daylight when she reached Washington.
When Gloria awoke that morning the first thing that struck her was the stillness of the steamer,and the next a small fleet of oyster-boats, a crowded wharf, and a row of dingy warehouses—all seen through the window of her state-room as soon as she slid back the shutter.
Then she dressed quickly, for she knew the boat was at Washington.
But again she was seized with that panic of dread which had temporarily overcome her on her awakening on the previous morning. Again she felt the impulse to fly from her purpose and return to her home while there was yet time. But the vision of her uncle in his madness arose before her mind’s eye and checked her impulse.
“No, I cannot trust him! I cannot trust myself! but I can trust David Lindsay!” she said, as she completed her toilet, put her little personal effects into her traveling-bag, and went up on deck.
David Lindsay received her there and led her at once to the saloon, where the passengers were already at breakfast. She, being the only lady, received much attention. Her seat had been kept for her, and dainties were pressed upon her; but so troubled was her spirit at the prospect of her fate, that she could only swallow a little coffee and make a pretence of eating.
When the counterfeit meal was over, she arose from the table, bowed to her fellow-passengers, and left the saloon, attended by David Lindsay.
“We may go on shore at once. I had already engaged a carriage when you first came on deck,” said the young man, as he led her across the gang-plank from the wharf, where the hack was waiting.
He handed her in, saw her comfortably seated, and followed and placed himself opposite to her.
“Where to, if you please, sir?” inquired the hackman,touching his hat, as he held the door open in his hand.
“Wait a moment,” replied young Lindsay; and then he bent forward and whispered to Gloria:
“You have been here before, and know the place. What hotel do you prefer?”
“Uncle and I stopped at Brown’s. It was good enough, I suppose. I know nothing about the others, except that some of them looked better on the outside,” replied Gloria.
“Brown’s Hotel,” was the order the young man gave to the hack-driver, who remounted to his box and drove off.
David Lindsay had never been in any city in his life, and, therefore, he was much more pleased with his first sight of Washington than strangers usually are.
“There is the Capitol!” he exclaimed, looking out of the window on the east side. “I know it by the picture, which is very faithful,” he added.
“Yes,” replied Gloria, scarcely knowing what she said, so troubled was her spirit.
The youth looked at her wistfully, doubtfully, sorrowfully. Then he dropped his eyes and voice to the deepest expression of reverential tenderness, and said:
“Miss de la Vera, do you repent this trust you are about to repose in me? If you do, oh, speak! I am yours to do you service. To secure your happiness in any way I may be permitted to do so! To attend you all through life, if I may be so blessed—or, if not, to take you safely wherever you would go, and leave you forever, if this should be your will,” he added, as his voice broke down with emotion.
She answered him by asking another question:
“David Lindsay, do you really love me—love me as you said you did that morning after you saved my life, when you did not know I heard you? Say, do you really love me as much as you said then?” she breathed, in accents scarcely audible.
“Do I love you? How do I love you? How can I tell you! I have no words to tell you! But I know that I could live for you, work for you, suffer for you, yes, Heaven knows, I could give my body to be burned for you, if that could insure your welfare. And because I love you so much more than I can tell you, I repeat now that I am yours to do your will, whatever it may be; yours to attend you through life if I am to be so happy, or yours to take you to some place of safety wherever you would go, and leave you there forever, at your command. Dearest lady, you have only to command.”
She was weeping heartily now.
He gently repeated his words:
“You have only to command.”
“I cannot—command—anybody! Not even myself!” she sobbed.
“What shall I do to console you? Did I not hear that Madame de Crespigney, the colonel’s old mother, was in Washington? Shall I inquire for her and take you there, and leave you under her protection?” he asked, turning pale at the thought of what her answer might be, though no other sign, not even a falter in his voice, betrayed his inward agitation.
“No!” exclaimed Gloria. “Take me there? Why, uncle would follow me. He would not compel me to return with him, but he would persuade me. Uncle masters my will when he pleads with me, and if I return to his power he may some time, insome paroxysm of his own distress, in some moment of my own idiotic pity, induce me to become his wife, and then, when I should have done so, I should go mad, and kill him or myself. No—no—no! I must put an eternal barrier between uncle and myself. David Lindsay, I cannot trust my uncle. I cannot trust myself. I can only trust you. Say no more about taking me anywhere but before some minister of the gospel. And”—(“don’t make me do all the courting,” she was about to add, but some subtile intuition warned her that she must not turn her tragic situation into jest, even with her trusted and faithful friend.)
The carriage, meanwhile, had rolled on to Pennsylvania Avenue, and now it drew up before “Brown’s.”
“Tell him to drive to the Ladies’ Entrance,” whispered Gloria, who saw that she would have to prompt her untraveled escort.
The order was given and obeyed.
David handed his companion down to the pavement, and paid and discharged the carriage.
“Ask to be shown to the ladies’ parlor. I can remain there until you go and find some minister, and—yes, it will be necessary for you to get a license from the register’s office at the City Hall,” she continued, in a whisper, as they followed an obsequious waiter to an upper front drawing-room that overlooked the avenue.
Gloria threw herself into a chair. There happened to be no other occupants of the parlor, though people, either the inmates of the house or visitors, might enter at any time.
“Will you want rooms, sir? The office is below,” suggested the waiter.
David Lindsay hesitated and looked at Gloria, who murmured:
“No, do not take rooms yet. You would have to register our names, and that would be awkward just now. Wait until afterwards.”
“We do not want rooms, but will take luncheon about noon,” said the young man, turning to the waiter, who then left them and went about his business.
“How will you occupy yourself while I am gone?” inquired David Lindsay, uneasily.
“Oh, you needn’t be away half an hour. I shall stand here and look out of the window,” she answered, taking up her post.
The young man left the room.
She did not stand there long, for again some nameless horror of her position, and dread of consequences, seized upon her soul, and drove her to walking rapidly up and down the floor, muttering to herself:
“Was ever a wretched human being driven to such extremity as I am? Is there any way out of my trouble except through this strange marriage, and am I, all this time, so insane, as I suspect I am, that I cannot see it? Even David Lindsay proposed to take me to old Madame de Crespigney, and David Lindsay worships me, poor boy, that I know! But I cannot go to Madame de Crespigney! I cannot go anywhere where Marcel could follow me and subdue me by his pleadings, and draw me to my own destruction and to his! I cannot trust Marcel! I cannot trust myself! I can only trust David Lindsay! And he is no clown, if he is a poor fisherman! See how he has improved himself. He talks as well as uncle does, though he may not be able to speakon so many different subjects. But, oh, Heaven, what is all this to the main question? That I should be obliged to marry any one to save myself from uncle and from my own heart! I don’t want to marry! I don’t! I don’t! I don’t! I never did wish to marry! I never meant to, either! But—if I must, I would rather trust David Lindsay than any one I know.”
So, muttering to herself, she paced rapidly up and down the floor until the entrance of other ladies into this public parlor arrested her murmuring complaints, though not her steps, for she continued to walk about the floor, stopping only once in a while to look out of the windows.
Several of the occupants of the room noticed the pale, sorrowful, and restless “child,” for such they took her to be, and formed their own theories of her distress. She was doubtless on her way to school, after her Christmas holidays, and was suffering from the separation from home and friends. But these people had their own affairs on their minds, and so could bestow but little attention on the troubles of the supposed homesick school-girl, whom they hoped to see presently taken care of by her parent, or guardian, or some other responsible person who had come with her as her escort.
For more than an hour Gloria walked restlessly about, or gazed from the front windows, while people came and went to and from the room, whose occupants were thus always changing.
Then at length David Lindsay returned. She drew him to a distant window, out of the hearing of all others, that he might give an account of himself.
“I was longer than you thought I should be, becauseI had to wait some time in the register’s office before I could get our license. Afterwards I had to inquire out the residences of clergymen, and I called at several before I could find any one disengaged. At length I found one at leisure—the Rev. Mr. O’Halloran, at St. Matthew’s church. He will meet us there immediately,” whispered David Lindsay.
Gloria began to tremble visibly.
“Are you ready?” inquired the young man.
“Yes,” she answered, in a tone scarcely above her breath.
He gave her his arm and led her forth, down the stairs and out of the house, to the carriage that stood waiting for them before the door.
In another moment they were bowling rapidly up the avenue and turning into a cross street. A ten minutes’ drive brought them to old St. Matthew’s. He helped her from the carriage and led her into the church, at whose lighted altar stood the priest in his vestments, attended by one or two sacristans.
In the front pew nearest the altar were three women at their devotions.
As these were not the hours of public worship, there were no other persons in the church. Gloria wondered to see these present, but was too much troubled with other thoughts to speak of the circumstance.
David Lindsay, however, voluntarily enlightened her.
“I told the priest, in answer to his questions, that we had no witnesses to bring with us. He then said that he would have to provide them. I suppose he has done so, and these are they,” he whispered,as he led his trembling companion up the aisle to the chancel.
Two hassocks had been placed on the floor before the altar railings. Upon these they knelt.
The priest opened his book and began the ceremony forthwith.
The women in the front pew left their seats and drew near enough to hear the low responses of the bridegroom and the bride.
The ceremony must have been relieved from all unnecessary forms, for it was very short, and very soon over.
“I pronounce you man and wife. Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”
The concluding words of the sacred marriage rites, uttered in the sweet and solemn tones of the officiating priest, fell upon the ears of the unhappy girl like the knell of doom.
The benediction was then pronounced, and the young pair arose from their knees.