"Life is all a wariorum,And we cares not how it goes!"
"Life is all a wariorum,And we cares not how it goes!"
"You will frighten the horses presently. Can't you behave yourself with common decency?" exclaimed Valentine, shaking off the hand that had been laid upon his shoulder.
"Let them talk about decorum,As has characters to lose,"
"Let them talk about decorum,As has characters to lose,"
sang the inebriate, chuckling and slapping the boy upon the back.
"If you do not be quiet, I'll get out of this buggy, and leave you to drive home as you can," said Valentine, impatiently.
This seemed to amuse the other very much; he burst out into a peal of laughter, falling back, and clasping his knees, and rolling with the tipsy enjoyment of the joke. When he had laughed himself into a fit of the hiccoughs, and hiccoughed himself into comparative calmness, he still seemed to enjoy the drollery of the idea, and recommenced laughing and singing by fits, and slapping Valentine upon the back.
"I tell you, if you do not quit this, I will get out!" exclaimed the boy, angrily. "You a gentleman!"
This language, instead of rousing Oswald to anger, seemed to strike him as the drollest of speeches, for he fell back into another peal of laughter; and when he had recovered himself he began, not in displeasure, but in a maudlin, jesting way, and with a very thick utterance, to taunt Valentine:
"Why, you ins'lent f'low, do you know who you're talking to? You're a spoiled negro—that is what you are! Now, don't you know, if I wa'n't the most forgivin' f'low in the world, that I'd have you tied up and whipt for such language?"
"Me?"
It is utterly impossible to convey in words any idea of the fierce, savage, almost demoniac glare of hatred and defiance with which that single monosyllable was uttered. But it was lost upon the tipsy master, who replied, nodding and chuckling:
"Yes, you, my little fellow! and I think it will have to be done, too, to bring you to a sense of your condition. Sit down, sir! What the devil do you mean by standing up and looking at me in that way?"
Valentine had risen to his feet, still unconsciously holding the reins, but no longer guiding the horses, who went on their own way, while he stood and glared at his master, with an almost maniacal light blazing from those pale-gray eyes.
"Sit down, sir, I say! What the h—ll do you mean? Sit down, I say, or, by the Lord Harry! I'll do as I've threatened!"
This is not a proper scene to go on with. Both were mad with wine, and one also with rage. The master, though not angry, nor by any means disposed to punish, grew every moment, from very wantonness, more taunting in his manner—the man became each instant more insolent; words rose higher between them; Valentine grew frenzied, dashed his clenched fist with all his strength into his master's face, and sprang from the buggy, leaving him to his fate.
Habitual evils change not on a sudden,But many days must pass, and many sorrows;Conscious remorse and anguish must be felt,To curb desire, to break the stubborn will,And work a second nature in the soul,Ere virtue can resume the place she lost.—Rowe's Ulysses.
Habitual evils change not on a sudden,But many days must pass, and many sorrows;Conscious remorse and anguish must be felt,To curb desire, to break the stubborn will,And work a second nature in the soul,Ere virtue can resume the place she lost.—Rowe's Ulysses.
Valentine awoke the next morning with a heavy weight upon his heart and a thick cloud over his brain.
The first fact that attracted his attention was the circumstance that he was not in his own apartment, but in his mother's bedchamber. A small wood fire was burning in the fireplace, and a teakettle was hanging over the blaze; the red hearth was neat and bright, and the only window was darkened by the lowered paper blind.
Phædra sat in her flag-bottomed elbow-chair, at the chimney corner; her work was on her lap, but she sat with her hands clasped upon it in idleness, and in an attitude of deepest grief. Such was the picture immediately before him.
He could not tell the hour, but supposed it to be near midday. He strove, through the aching of his head and heart, to recall the latest events of his waking consciousness, before he had fallen into the sleep or the insensibility from which he had just recovered. And, as memory came back in a rushing flood, bringing the hideous phantoms of the previous night's history, overcome with shame and sorrow, he groaned aloud, and buried his face in the pillow. Still he was in ignorance of what had occurred after he had sprung from the buggy; and in terror for what might have happened to Mr. Waring, whom he had left there to guide as he could, in a state of extreme intoxication, the frightened and rearing horses.
Phædra arose and approached the bed.
"Mother! tell me what has happened, for I remember nothing after getting home," said the boy, in a voice half smothered in emotion.
But Phædra sank down by the bedside, buried her face in the coverlid, and sobbed.
"Mother! tell me the worst at once. Was he thrown out? Is he dead?" asked Valentine, in a deep, breathless, husky voice, as he raised upon his elbow and leaned forward, his light eyes, from the tangled thicket of his dark hair, turning upon her like coals at a white heat.
"No, no, he is not dead. But it was a very narrow escape. Oh! Valley, such a good Providence, my boy," she said, taking his disengaged hand and hugging it closely to her bosom, and weeping over it, as if that hand had been saved from some great calamity.
"Tell me all about it, mother."
But Phædra was sobbing and choking, and could not utter a word more then.
"Where is he now, mother?" asked Valentine, after a little while.
"In his room—unable to rise, but out of danger, the doctor says."
A few more minutes passed in silence. Phædra rose and resumed her chair and her needlework, though the sudden sobs and deep heavings of her bosom betrayed the storm of grief still beating.
"Mother," said Valentine, after a few moments longer, "can you tell me now all about it? How did I get home? How did he? What happened to the buggy?"
"Oh, Valentine, first of all, you came home in a state that made my heart sick to see. I can't tell you how; but I hope never to see the like again. I could not have got you upstairs without help, but I managed to get you in here, and to bed, without any one seeing you."
"Mother——"
This single word, uttered in a tone of deepest regret, and humiliation; and then his voice broke down, and he covered his face with his hands.
"I had not more than got you to bed, when a violent barking of the dogs startled me, and I went out, and found it was master that Mr. Hewitt's niggers had brought home on a door. Dr. Carter, who was coming home from a night call, had found him lying on the side of the road that runs along by Mr. Hewitt's cotton field. And he had ridden up to Mr. Hewitt's house, and roused up the old gentleman and some of the niggers; and they took a barn door off its hinges, and spread a bed and laid him on it, and brought him home. It was well that it happened to be Dr. Carter who found him; for he stayed with him all night, and that has been the means of saving his life. Oh, Valley, it was such a kind Providence that saved him!" said Phædra, breaking off suddenly, and clasping her hands.
"And this morning, mother?" said Valentine, anxiously.
"Oh! This morning the horses were found near the stables, with a part of the gearing hanging to their necks; and the buggy was found on the road, broken all to pieces."
"I don't mean them—I mean Mr. Waring."
"He is out of danger this morning, as I told you before. He was stunned and very much bruised by being thrown from the buggy, but not otherwise injured."
"What does he say about the accident?"
"He says he doesn't know much about it. He says he supposes he must have been taking too much wine, and that the horses got unruly, and he couldn't manage them; and that was how they threw him out, and broke the carriage."
"Mother! I must get up and go to him now!" said Valentine, hastily.
"Oh, stop! Stay one moment, Valentine! Lie there, and let me speak to you! I have been praying for you all night, in my master's room, here, wherever I have been. Reflect; have you no thanks to offer to the Lord for his providential care, when you so little deserved it? And no sorrow, Valentine, for what has passed, and no promises for the future? Oh, Valentine, how is this course you and your master have begun, going to end?"
"Mother! for my own part, I can affirm that this is the first time I ever was in such a state as you saw me in last night. All I feel about it, shall be said in this one oath—I will never taste intoxicating drink again, so help me Heaven—and shall be proved every day of my life, in the way I keep it!" exclaimed Valentine, impetuously, earnestly, tearfully.
Phædra grasped his hand once more, and hugged it to her heart, and prayed "God bless" him.
"And now, mother, I must get up and go to him."
Phædra brought his clothes from the closet in which she had put them, and then left the room, while Valentine arose and dressed himself, and went to his master's apartments. It was in painful doubt and humiliating embarrassment that he sought Oswald Waring's presence. He got to the door, knocked, and at the words, "Come in," he entered.
Mr. Waring was in bed, and looking very pale and ghastly; and as Valentine saw him, a pang shot through his heart at the thought that, but for the merciful intervention of Providence in averting the consequences of his own rash anger, Oswald Waring might have been lying there—not a sick man, but a dead one! And a secret vow to forsake intemperance, in all its forms, material and moral, was made in Valentine's mind, and registered in heaven.
"Is that you, Valley, old fellow? I had begun to fear that you had suffered more than myself, when I asked after you this morning and they told me you were sick. Were you thrown out, also?"
"Good Heaven," thought Valentine, as a new light burst upon him; "he does not recollect what happened. He must have been much further gone than myself."
"Well, old fellow, why don't you answer me? I asked you if you were thrown out. Don't be afraid to tell me, for you see I'm a great deal better; besides, seeing you there alive and well, I shall not be much shocked to hear of what might have happened, you know. Come! where were you pitched, and how much were you hurt, and who picked you up? Tell me, for I can't get the least satisfaction out of anybody here."
"I was not thrown out—I sprang out."
"When the horses were rearing? A bad plan that, Val.; that is, if you really did it as you think you did. For my part, I doubt if you know anything more about it than I do myself; and if my soul were to have to answer for my memory, I could not tell whether I jumped out or was thrown out. Bad course we've been pursuing, old boy; like to have cost us both our lives, really has cost me that beautiful buggy—that is ruined, they tell me. Bad course; bad course, Val. Not safe for master and man both to be glorious at the same time. Another evening, old fellow, do you try to keep sober, when you think it likely that I shall be—otherwise."
"I never mean to touch another drop of intoxicating drink as long as I live, sir, so help me Heaven!" said Valentine, fervently.
"Oh, pooh, pooh! old fellow. Resolutions made with a bad headache, the day after a frolic, are as worthless as the oaths sworn in wine the night previous, both being the effects of an abnormal state of the soul and—stomach. Now, wine is a good thing in moderation—it is only a bad thing in excess. Don't look so dreadfully downcast, old fellow, nor make such dismally lugubrious resolutions. 'The servant is not greater than his master,' says the good Book; and, if I was overtaken, how could you expect to escape? Give me your honest fist, old fellow; those who have had such a d—d lucky escape together might shake hands upon it, I should think," said Oswald Waring, offering his hand.
Valentine took it and squeezed it, and then, in the warmth of his affectionate nature, pressed it to his heart, while tears welled to his eyes—tears, that came at the thought how nearly he had occasioned the death of this man—this man, who, with all his faults, had, from their boyhood, been ever kind, generous, forbearing—more like a brother than a master. All that was unjust and galling in their mutual relations was forgotten by Valentine at that moment; he only remembered that they had been playmates in childhood, companions in youth, and friends always, up to the present, and that he had narrowly escaped causing Oswald's death; and, in the ardor and vehemence of emotion, he pressed the hand that had been yielded up to him, to his heart, exclaiming in a broken voice:
"It was my fault, Master Oswald, all my fault; but I will never—never touch any sort of intoxicating liquor again—never, as the Lord hears me."
"Oh, tut, tut! you best fellow that ever was in the world! Who asks you for any such promises? Only promise that when there is a wine supper or card party in the wind, or any other signs of the times in the sky to warn you, you will take care to keep sober, knowing that I shall be likely to be something else. Wine is a good servant, but a bad master."
"Not good for me, ever, Master Oswald; certainly not good for me; probably not so for you, either."
"Come, come; you exceed your license, Valentine. You're a pretty fellow to preach to me, after nearly breaking my neck. However, that's ungenerous, after once forgiving you; so we'll say no more about it forever. But don't preach to me, whatever you do. Phædra nearly wears my patience out."
"Can I do anything to make you more comfortable, or help the time along?"
"N-o-o, I think not. Dr. Carter says I must keep quiet, and my head begins to ache now; so you had better darken the room, and leave me to rest."
Valentine closed all the shutters, and let down all the curtains, and then asked:
"Shan't I sit here, Master Oswald, to be at hand in case you should want anything?"
"No! Lord, no! it must be a d—l of a bore to sit in a dark room, with no better amusement than to watch somebody going off to sleep. No; go and take care of yourself, old fellow. I can ring if I should want anything," said Oswald, cheerfully.
"Always so very considerate when he is in his right mind," thought Valentine, as he took the tasseled end of the bellrope and put it in reach of his master's hand, before leaving the room.
That was the last time that Valentine saw his master in his right mind for many weeks. The effects of his fall, acting upon a system weakened and vitiated by dissipation, was much more serious than any one had foreseen. Before night a brain fever, with delirium, had set in, and, for days after, the life of Oswald Waring hung upon the feeblest chance. For many weeks of his illness, Phædra and Valentine nursed him with the most devoted affection. Poor Phædra prayed constantly for his recovery, and also for his reform, and solicited every Sabbath the prayers of the congregation of her church in his behalf. And Valentine, in deep despair, daily accused himself of his master's death, as if he had purposely stricken a fatal blow, and Oswald were already dead. The long days and nights of watching by the side of the sickbed, that might at any hour become a deathbed, were very fruitful in good to Valentine. There he learned to hate and dread the demon anger, that had caused him so much misery; there he came to listen with patience and reverence to his poor mother's tearful pleadings and counsels; there he began to pray. It was six weeks before Mr. Waring left his room, and one more before he was fully restored to health. And this brought midsummer—a season that camp-meetings were frequent in the neighborhood.
This summer there was much greater excitement than ever before among the religious revivalists. The Rev. Mr. M—— and several others, equally eloquent and successful field preachers, were making a circuit of the country. Their fame always preceded them as anavant courier, and crowds congregated to hear them.
There was a camp-meeting held, by permission of the owner, in a magnolia grove where there was a fine spring, upon the grounds of Mr. Hewitt, Mr. Waring's nearest neighbor. And it was given out that on Sunday morning the eloquent field preacher, M——, would address the assembled multitudes. There was a great deal of excitement and anticipation among all classes in that quiet rural district; and when the Sabbath came, congregations forsook their own churches, and assembled to hear M——. Crowds after crowds gathered; some went with the avowed purpose of getting converted; some to get revived; many to get excited; and most from motives of idle curiosity. Poor Phædra went for the candidly expressed purpose of being warmed and comforted. Valentine went to drive his master, who went only to kill a dull day.
Now, not only was Phædra praying with all her soul's strength for her son's conversion, but naturally that desired consummation was one of the most likely things in the world to eventuate; for Valentine's nature was just the one to be most deeply affected and impressed by the magnetic power of a man like M——, and he was also in the most favorable mood for receiving such impressions. And while hundreds around him were swayed, as by a mighty wizard's wand, under the wonderful eloquence of the most potent preacher since the days of Wesley and Whitefield, Valentine was deeply and almost fearfully excited.
And from that Sabbath, during the whole time of Mr. M——'s sojourn in the neighborhood, the boy was a regular attendant upon his ministry, and in the end was numbered among his converts. This is not the place to call in question the Rev. Mr. M——'s sincerity or consistency as a Christian; those who knew him best, believed him to be perfectly sincere in his religious enthusiasm, however inconsistent was sometimes his conduct. And, though it may be true that some of his converts were his only, and not God's, as they afterward demonstrated by their backsliding, yet it is equally true that many shining lights in the Christian Church at this day ascribe their first awakening to Christian life, under Divine Providence, to the electric power of M——'s eloquence. At the time that I write of, the people of that neighborhood adored him as an angel sent from God; though some years after the same people hunted him as a wild beast, from village to village, until old, poor, ill and exhausted, he died alone—a fugitive from their insane wrath. But to return.
M—— had succeeded in reviving the religious spirit of that district; and when he departed, he left behind him many new but zealous laborers in that vineyard of the Lord.
Among the most enthusiastic in the field of the colored mission of Magnolia Grove was Valentine. His sincere, ardent, earnest soul; his natural gift of eloquence; his sympathy with those in his own condition, if not strictly of his own race; his better education, and even his beauty of person, grace of manner, and sweetness of voice, all combined to make him the most popular and effective, and best beloved of all the class-leaders in the colored mission of Magnolia Grove. "Brother Valentine's" class was the largest and most important in the church. If ever Brother Valentine was announced to address the meeting upon any given day, there was sure to be a crowded house. And if ever Phædra held a prayer meeting in her quarter, there was sure to be a crowd to hear Brother Valentine speak.
Among the most zealous of the church members, and among those who never failed to be present at Phædra's weekly prayer meetings, was a young and pretty quadroon, named Fannie. She was a free girl and an orphan, and was employed as shop girl in a hair dresser's and fancy store kept by a respectable old French couple in the city of M. But though her home and her business was in town, and there were also two or three "colored missions" in that place, yet Fannie preferred to walk out every Sunday morning to the little log meeting-house in Magnolia Grove. And those who were envious of Fannie's beauty did not scruple to say that she came out so far for the sake of hearing Brother Valentine pray or exhort, or to let him hear her sing; for Fannie had a voice that might have made her fortune, had she been white, and had it been cultivated. However that might be, Phædra loved Fannie as if she had been her own daughter, and she always took her home from meeting, to dine and spend the afternoon at Red Hill. And after an early tea, Valentine always walked home with Fannie to the city.
It is also true that Valentine became a frequent customer at Leroux's, the hair-dresser's and fancy store where Fannie was employed; and as Valentine not only made his own but also his master's purchases, and as he had acarte blanchefor the same, his custom was of no trifling importance to the establishment. But, valuable as was this patronage, as soon as the proprietors began to suspect the nature of the attraction to their store, they felt it to be their duty to warn the young girl, which they would do in something like these terms:
"Take my advice, Fannie, and send that young fellow about his business; he may be a very good young man, I dare say; but he is a slave, and never will be able to do anything for you," Monsieur Leroux would say.
"You are free, Fannie, and you are very pretty, and all that; and you might look a great deal higher than that," would say Madam Leroux.
"Think,ma fille, if you take him, you will always have yourself and your family to support, for you never can have any help from a slave husband"—thus Monsieur Leroux.
"Consider,mon enfant, if you marry him, he may be sold away next year, or next month, even! How would you like that?" thus Madam Leroux.
And Fannie would blush, or smile, or pout, or drop a tear, or say to herself:
"Poor Valley! Maybe something may happen to set him free! Maybe I might work hard, and save money enough to"—she could not bring herself to say buy—"ransom him! And, anyhow, it is not his fault if he is not free. And it must be hard enough, the dear knows, to be as he is, without my letting him think that it makes any difference to me."
Obstacles and objections which, to cooler-hearted and clearer-headed people would seem very formidable, if not entirely conclusive, were but slight impediments in the way of these humble lovers.
Long courtships and protracted engagements are not common among quadroons, and in this case were not favored by Valentine. He had won little Fannie's heart and consent to speak to her employers, who, having advised her against the match, and holding no authority to go further in their opposition, gave a reluctant consent, with their good wishes and blessing.
Valentine had, all through the courtship, the hearty approbation of Phædra; and, lastly, he had none but his master to consult.
Mr. Waring rallied Valentine unmercifully upon his intended marriage; swore that, seriously, it was a pity such a fine young fellow as himself, who was such a favorite among the girls, should leave his gay bachelor's life, to tie himself down to a wife and family; asked him what he should do for kid gloves and perfumery, if he had to give all his pocket money to Fannie and the children; and finally made him a wedding present of a hundred dollars, and advised him to go out and hang himself.
In the following Christmas holidays, the slaves' annual Saturnalia in the South, the marriage of Valentine and Fannie took place. A mad marriage it was, where the bride had no dower and the bridegroom not even the ownership of his own limbs to work for their support. An impossible marriage it would seem, had it not really taken place, and did we not know, for a certainty, that such marriages between the free and the enslaved frequently took place.
Phædra gave a serious little Methodist wedding, and invited all her favorite brethren and sisters of the church to be present. And the young master loaned his dining-room for the occasion, and invited himself to do the lovers the honor of his personal attendance at the marriage ceremony. And he gave the little bride two testimonials of his friendly consideration—one in the form of a pretty wedding dress, that was gratefully received; the other in the guise of a hearty embrace and kiss, that was not quite so thankfully accepted.
"But now, mommer," whispered little Fannie, in the course of the evening, to Phædra, "Valley's young master has been so very kind and generous to us all, s'pose now he was to make Valley a present of his free papers, for a wedding gift to-night—to surprise us, you know; to see how delighted we'd all be, and to hear what we'd say. I think he might; 'deed, I shouldn't wonder if he did, only for the pleasure of the thing, you know. Should you, mommer?"
Phædra sighed; but, then, not to damp the girl's spirits, she replied: "He may do that some day, honey."
"Something seems to whisper to me that he is thinking of it to-night, mommer! Ah! the Lord send he may! Wouldn't we be happy? Valley would have a place in the same store with me; it would suit him, too; he has so much good taste! And then we could have such a pretty little home of our own! 'Deed, I believe he is thinking about it now. Look at him. I shouldn't be the least surprised to see him call Valley aside, and clap him on the shoulder, and call him 'old fellow,' and tell him he is a free man!"
The girl had read aright the thoughts of the master. Angels, who saw the future, with all the phantoms of its bright or dark possibilities—angels, who loved the goodness latent in his own abused nature—angels were whispering to him: "Make this young couple supremely happy—give him only the common right to himself, into which every creature is justly born—and then rejoice in their exceeding great joy!"
And never had the face of Oswald Waring looked so bright, benignant and happy, as when he, for a moment, entertained this thought.
"But pshaw!" he said to himself, directly. "Am I Don Quixote the younger, that I should be guilty of such a piece of extravagant generosity? Absurd! I really must begin to learn moderation at some time of my life. St. Paul says: 'Let your moderation be known unto all men.'"
Now, what on earth can the angels reply, when the other party quotes Scripture against them? Nothing, of course; and Oswald Waring had no more generous impulses that evening. But oh! if he had only listened to those angel whispers; if he had only realized poor little Fannie's romance; if he had only, for once in his life, yielded to his impulse to commit that mad, rash, extravagant piece of Quixotism, as he called the act which, for a moment, he had dreamed of performing—from what impending anguish, what temptations, crime, and remorse, would they not have been redeemed!
It had been arranged, as the best plan for all parties, under present circumstances, that Fannie should retain her situation as shop-woman at Leroux's hair-dressing and fancy store, where they were anxious to keep her as long as possible.
With Valentine's hundred dollars, and fifty dollars that had been made in overwork by Phædra, a room was taken in M——, and neatly furnished.
And there Valentine and Fannie went to housekeeping, after this fashion: Fannie, still tending Leroux's shop all day, ate and slept at home, where Valentine visited her once a week, or oftener, whenever he could do so.
In the meantime, as winter advanced, Mr. Waring's health was fully re-established; and, as many of his favorite boon companions, who had been absent on their summer tours, returned to the neighborhood, Oswald began to resume his former habits of extravagant and reckless dissipation. Deer-hunting, coursing, partridge-shooting, and other field sports, occupied the mornings; and dinner parties, oyster suppers, and other entertainments, accompanied and followed by wine-drinking, song-singing, card-playing, and similar orgies, at home or abroad, filled up the afternoons and evenings.
Again were Valentine's services brought into requisition three or four nights of every week, to drive his master to the city at dusk, and home again at dawn. Upon these occasions, Valentine would drive Mr. Waring first to the clubhouse, restaurant, or billiard-saloon, that happened to be his destination for the evening, set him down, take the carriage and horses to the livery stable, leave them, and then go to Leroux's and stay with Fannie until the hour of closing the store arrived, when he would take her home.
Valentine, from his "gentlemanly" appearance, dress, and address, as well as from his perfectly trustworthy character, was not an unwelcome visitor at the store, where, behind the counter and by the side of Fannie, he made himself so useful that Monsieur Leroux would often speculate as to the possibility of getting him for an assistant. This also was Valentine's and Fannie's great ambition; but it was a vain one, for his personal attendance was considered indispensable to his master's comfort.
Valentine's standing order, upon these occasions of their night visits to the town, was to be in waiting with the carriage for Mr. Waring at twelve o'clock. And the man was obliged to be punctual, though he had often to wait two or three hours for the coming of the master. And, as a general fact, the longer Mr. Waring remained among his boon companions, the more intoxicated he became; and when at last he appeared, all the old humiliations and provocations of Valentine's former days were renewed. You know what these were. It would be vain repetition to describe them again.
All this was, in every respect, very trying to the poor boy. He religiously adhered to his resolution of abstinence from all spirituous liquors, and constantly and prayerfully struggled against the ebullitions of his own impetuous temper. But the life he led acted nearly fatally upon a very fragile organization; and all individuals of antagonistically-mixed races are known to be frail. The continued loss of rest, habitual irregularity in food and sleep, affectionate anxiety upon account of his master, tender solicitude for his own gentle, little wife, frequent and excessive provocation from Oswald, all combined to wear and fret his originally excitable temperament to a state of unnatural nervous irritability, that could scarcely sustain with calmness the rudeness of the shocks to which, in his false position, he was constantly exposed; and therefore he was very frequently—to use his own expression at the "love feasts"—in great danger of falling from grace.
Reflecting upon this portion of the poor, doomed boy's life; recollecting the great, the almost superhuman struggle his spirit was making against the terrible, combined powers of evil; of his discordant organization; his fiery, impulsive temperament; his unfortunate education; his unhappy position, and his exasperating surroundings, all antagonistic, false and fateful, we find his parallel nowhere in modern times, and are forced to think of the age of antiquity, and of those mighty but ineffectual struggles of some foredoomed mortal, like Œdipus, in the power of the angry Fates.
Upon poor Valentine's silent, deadly struggle, none but the pitying eye of our Father looked. And nothing but a miracle could have averted its final and fatal issue; and miracles are not wrought at the expense of moral free agency. There came at last a day—an awful day—when the boy spoke, and others heard, of that fell struggle with the powers of darkness.
But we anticipate. The dark and trying seasons were relieved by brighter ones, alternating like night and day.
The hours spent with Fannie, either in the gay, lighted shop, among a thousand objects of taste and beauty, and occupations shared with her, and congenial to his own æsthetic fancy, or in their little home, that, despite of poverty, Fannie's taste had made beautiful, were seasons of unclouded happiness, in which all care was forgotten.
There were sunny hours, also, when Mr. Waring's better nature was in the ascendant; when he would feel like gratifying his own benevolence, and making Valentine happy, by fair promises of making him free; of setting him and Fannie up in the hair-dressing and fancy business, which he would laughingly declare to be exactly suited to Valentine; that Val could be the barber, and Fan the ladies' hair-dresser; and that they could have a nice little house in an eligible street, with the dwelling above, and the shop below. Thus he would talk, indulging his good humor at the small expense of his breath, and amusing himself with noticing the effect of his words upon Valentine's sensitive nature, playing upon its chords of hope and fear, as if his heart had been a harp, and his own the experimenting hand that tried its strings. Perhaps he intended to realize, at some future day, these expectations that he raised; at least, at the time of speaking he wished to please the boy by infusing a hope; but, alas! he only disturbed him, by exciting and aggravating his old passionate aspiration after liberty.
But, besides those happiest hours spent with Fannie, there were other seasons of forgetfulness, and of almost unalloyed bliss. These were the Sabbath services and the weekly meetings, where the ardent, zealous soul of the young man found its expression in eloquence that reached the hearts of all who heard him, either in exhortation or in prayer.
He was very much beloved by the brethren, and especially by the sisters, of the Magnolia Grove Mission.
There was, however, two or three among the class-leaders who objected to Valentine as being too much given to the vanities of this world, and who found great stumbling blocks in Valley's shining, black ringlets, and neat and even elegant dress. But as the fiend really did contrive to find his way into sinless Eden, so jealousy might possibly have crept into a "love feast" among Christian brethren and sisters; and Valentine's beauty, grace, eloquence and consequent pre-eminence, among the men, and popularity with the women, might have been the true ground of offense to his less gifted brothers.
However that might be, Valentine, perceiving only the ostensible matter of complaint, half resolved to give up his taste in dress and sacrifice his cherished ringlets, and seriously consulted Fannie upon the subject.
But Fannie would not listen to such a proposition with a moment's favor, and said that brother Portiphar and some of the others had such a grudge against beauty that they would turn all the Lord's fair roses and lilies into lobelia and rue, if they could. And Fannie's single opinion and vote outweighed all the others, and Valentine's hyperion curls continued to be an offense in Israel.
Thus passed the winter and spring. This first half year, with all its shadows, was yet the fairest portion of the young pair's married life. Toward its close clouds began to gather darkly and threateningly over their heads.
In the early part of summer Fannie was necessitated to give up her situation at Leroux's, and confine herself to such work as she could perform in the privacy of her own room, such as fine sewing and fancy work, which was not very lucrative; but even this resource in the course of a few weeks had to be abandoned, for Fannie was unusually delicate, and sadly needed rest and some one to take care of her for a while. And just about this time, late in July, Mr. Waring made up his mind to go to the North and spend the remainder of the summer in a tour among the fashionable watering-places. Of course, he designed to take his servant with him. In vain Valentine, hoping in the proverbial "good nature" of his master, proffered his earnest request to be left behind, urging the state of Fannie's health as the reason.
"Pooh, pooh, nonsense!" Mr. Waring could not spare the servant that was used to his ways. Fannie must do without her husband, and take her chance, as all those of her class had to do. Surely she must have known what she had to expect when she married a slave man.
"And now, Valentine, don't bore me any longer with the subject. You were a great fool to get married at all; and if you trouble me further, you will make me regret ever having given my consent to that foolish measure," concluded Mr. Waring.
Valentine controlled his own rebellious emotions, and leaving Fannie as comfortable as under the circumstances he could make her, accompanied his master to the North.
They visited first the Virginia Springs, then Niagara, Saratoga, Nahant, and at the end of three months, returned home.
In close attendance upon his master, Valentine was obliged to pass through M—— without stopping to see his wife.
But the next day, at his first disengaged hour, he set out for the city, where he found Fannie the mother of a little girl of six weeks of age, and reinstated in her former position at Leroux's.
Fannie was very happy, and gave a cheering account of all that had occurred. Everybody had been very kind to her; the sisters of the church had visited her often; Phædra had been with her, and Madame Leroux had made her many presents.
All this relieved and delighted the youthful husband and father; and when he pressed his infant daughter to his bosom, he wept tears of joy at the thought that her mother's heritage of freedom would be hers.
Some peaceful days followed this, in which Valentine, oblivious of every cause of disquietude, enjoyed the perfection of domestic happiness.
Then, early in November, Mr. Waring determined to go to New Orleans, to prosecute his acquaintance with a young widow, a native and resident of that city, whom he had met at Saratoga, and with whom he had been very much pleased. His servant was, of course, required to attend him, and upon this occasion Valentine obeyed without a single demur.
On reaching New Orleans, Mr. Waring took rooms at the St. Charles Hotel. Apparently his suit prospered, for their stay in that city was prolonged through November and December. And Valentine had no opportunity of visiting his girlish wife until after the new year.
Then Mr. Waring hastily, and in the highest spirits, returned home, to settle up certain necessary business with his lawyer appertaining to troublesome creditors, and give some commendable directions to his housekeeper touching the rearrangement of his disorderly bachelor's hall. This occupied two or three weeks, during which time Valentine, when not in close attendance upon Mr. Waring, found opportunities to visit his beloved Fannie, and caress the infant, of whom he was dotingly fond.
The first of February Mr. Waring went again to New Orleans to meet his engagement with Madam Moriere, his promised bride.
Their marriage was arranged to take place immediately, to save the delay of the seven weeks of Lent, just at hand, and during which no strict Catholic, such as madam professed to be, would dare to enter into the "holy state" of matrimony.
Immediately after the ceremony, the newly-married couple set out on a bridal tour.
Mr. Waring was attended by his favorite servant, and madam by her maid, a Frenchgrisette, who "made eyes" at Valentine, and otherwise harassed him with her coquetries during the whole journey. And this conduct of Finette first suggested to Valentine's mind the probability that, during his own enforced, long and frequent absences from home, some one as unprincipled as Finette might be making love to his own pretty Fannie, unprotected and exposed as she was in that French hair-dressing establishment. Valentine might have been sure of that; but Fannie, with her wise and affectionate consideration for him, had never troubled the transient happiness of his sojourn with her by any histories of the petty vexations that disturbed her own life during his absence. Besides, Fannie, with all her innocence, was city bred, full of experience and the wisdom it gives, and quite capable of taking care of herself. And Valentine never would have dreamed of the possibility of such annoyances for her had not the behavior of Mademoiselle Finette made the suggestion. And now the thought gave his excitable heart a great deal of disturbance, and made him very anxious to return home. Of course, Valentine's impatience did not expedite that desired event.
The bridal party were absent six weeks, and finally reached home about the middle of April—a most enchanting season in that climate, corresponding in its advanced state of vegetation with our June, but much more beautiful in the luxuriance and variety of its trees, shrubs, vines, fruits and flowers, than any season in our latitude. The Red Hill mansion was very lovely in its grove of magnolias. The internal arrangement of the house reflected great credit upon Phædra; and madam condescended to express much satisfaction with her new home and her good housekeeper.
As upon all former occasions, Valentine had been in too much requisition, when they passed through M——, on their way home, to stop and see Fannie; but the next morning Mr. Waring dispatched him to the city to attend to the careful packing and sending out some baggage that had been left, of necessity, the evening before, at the hotel.
And Valentine availed of that opportunity to visit his small family.
He found Fannie as pretty and as glad to see him as always, and his little darling Coralie, now seven months old, more beautiful and attractive than ever; but he could not linger with them; his duties to his master obliged him, in less than an hour, to tear himself away again and hasten with madam's trunks and boxes to Red Hill.
The necessity of leaving his treasures so soon again after so long an absence depressed Valentine so much that Fannie hastened to console and cheer him. He was not, after all, more unfortunate in that respect, she said, than sailors and soldiers, nor was she more to be pitied than their wives.
And she sent him off, comforted with the promise that she would get leave from Leroux and come out the next morning with her baby to spend the day with Phædra at Red Hill.
Fannie kept her word, and, during her visit the next day won her way so well into the good graces of madam that that lady expressed a kind interest in her and her little child, made them some pretty presents, and promised to facilitate as much as possible the frequent visits of Valentine to his wife and child. And the lady remembered and performed her promise so well that unusual indulgence was extended to Valentine, who was by her intercession enabled to pass every night with his family.
Mr. Waring, in his attachment to his bride, seemed for the time quite won from the extravagance and dissipation of his late bachelor life. He remained at home and addressed himself with commendable zeal to the management of his plantation, to the improvement of his land, his stock, his machinery, and agricultural system in general, and also, after his own blundering fashion, to the amelioration, comfort and welfare of his people.
Valentine, no longer distressed for or by his master, divided his attention between the manifold light duties that occupied him all day at Red Hill, and the evenings spent in assisting Fannie in her business behind the counter of Leroux's shop, and for which he now received a regular payment, in consideration of the fact that he stood at the post and performed the duties of Monsieur Leroux, whose age obliged him to leave the shop at an early hour of the evening, just as the custom was beginning to grow brisk. Thus they were enabled to add many little comforts to their humble home, and also to lay up a trifle against the chance of darker days.
Every alternate Sabbath they attended meeting together at Magnolia Grove, and afterward dined with Phædra at Red Hill, and went home at night; and, on the intervening Sabbath, when there was no service at the Grove Mission, Phædra would come into town and go to church with the children at the Bethel (colored) Mission of M——, and afterward take dinner with them, before returning home in the evening.
Thus passed the halcyon days of spring, preceding the awful moral storm which ended in that "household wreck."