The look, the air that frets thy sight,May be a token that below,The soul has closed in deadly fightWith some eternal fiery foe,Whose glance would scorch thy smiling grace,And cast thee, shuddering, on thy face.
The look, the air that frets thy sight,May be a token that below,The soul has closed in deadly fightWith some eternal fiery foe,Whose glance would scorch thy smiling grace,And cast thee, shuddering, on thy face.
Spring in the South is a season of the most enchanting beauty. Forests of odoriferous, blossoming trees, thickets of sweet-scented shrubs, and fields of fragrant wild flowers fill the atmosphere with their delicious perfume; climbing vines twine around the trees and overgrow the fences, transforming them into arbors and to hedges of flowering plants of matchless bloom and fragrance; while myriads of bright-winged birds enliven all the sunny air with their glad melody. It is a season and a scene no lover of nature could look upon without rapture.
But the summer, with its advanced luxuriance of beauty, too often brings malaria, pestilence and death.
The promise of the spring to one in Valentine's condition had been too fair to last for any length of time. Clouds began to gather over his head. First, as Mr. Waring went no longer to town to spend his evenings, it followed as a matter of course that he frequently required Valentine's services at that hour at home. On inquiring for his servant upon these occasions, and receiving the answer that Valentine had gone to town to see his wife, he would grow angry, and exclaim, with an oath:
"I have never had any good of that boy since his foolish marriage. In town every night! This thing is getting to be insufferable, and shall be stopped."
And one morning, when Valentine returned, Mr. Waring told him that he was not to take himself off to see his wife every evening, but that in future he must ask permission to do so.
Now, anger was Valentine's easily besetting sin, the one dangerous internal foe he had constantly to combat. Now, indignation rose and swelled in his bosom. And not from fear or from policy, but from Christian principle, he strove to quell its ragings. He answered only with a bow, and left the room for that silent, solitary struggle with himself that no eye but the Father's ever witnessed. He obeyed the mandate; it was galling, but he obeyed it; and each evening presented himself to his master with something like this style of request, which, as a compromise between asking a permission and intimating a purpose, was not so difficult to make:
"I have got through all my business here for to-day, sir, and am ready to go to town if you don't want me."
"Very well; take yourself off; only be sure to come back early in the morning, to be ready when I rise," would be the frequent answer. "The proud rascal! I believe he would almost as lief die as ask leave to do anything; but it is my own fault; I have treated that boy like a brother, until he is so spoiled as to be quite above his condition," Mr. Waring would add, half jesting, half in earnest.
But sometimes, when Valentine asked, leave would not be granted him; and this occasioned an irregularity in his nightly attendance at the shop, that finally obliged Monsieur Leroux to say to him:
"Valentine, my man, unless you can attend better, I shall have to discharge you altogether, and get a full clerk, which would be better anyway, as he could be here all the time."
Full of trouble at this prospect, Valentine the next day mentioned this to his master, who, happening to be in an ill-humor, answered:
"What the fiend is all that to me, sir? Old Leroux is liable to prosecution for hiring your services at all without a permit."
"But it was in over-hours—in my own time," remonstrated Valentine.
"Your own time! Pray, sir, what time is that? I have yet to learn that you have any time of your own!"
Valentine suppressed his indignation, but that was as much as he could do. He dared not trust himself to reply.
"Leave the room! The sight of you irritates me. And be very thankful that I do not prosecute your friend, old Leroux, with his mulatto clerks and shop-girls! These beasts of Frenchmen have not the slightest idea of the distinctions of race."
Silently, Valentine left the room, to retire and have another wrestle with his pride and anger.
That evening he was not permitted to go to see Fannie; and, from that time the permission to visit her was less and still less frequently granted.
Finally, old Leroux, who had long delayed the step for poor Fannie's sake, hired a clerk, and Valentine lost his over-hour situation, and with it many fair though humble hopes and prospects. He was much depressed; but Fannie bid him do right, trust in God, and cheer up; and said that she would probably get her own salary raised, and that they would get on very well.
Now, whether his marriage had changed his feelings toward Valentine, or whether it was Valentine's marriage that in time and effect grew displeasing to him, or whether both these causes combined to produce an estrangement between the master and the man, I know not; but certainly their mutual relations were changing for the worse. The master grew less considerate and indulgent, and more arrogant and exacting toward his poor servant; and that servant had a daily struggle with his own indignant sense of outraged manhood. Still, Fannie soothed him.
"Govern your temper, dear Valley, and God will bless you. Never mind me and Coralie; we shall get along well enough; and we can see each other Sunday at church, and Thursday at prayer-meeting, anyhow," she would say, cheerfully.
True, Fannie had her baby always with her, and that was a great comfort to the youthful wife and mother for the absence of her husband. They might have looked for some aid from the intercession of Mrs. Waring; but alas! for fair and false hopes, her romantic interest in little Fannie that had been but a frail spring blossom of her own happy bridehood, soon withered; and, added to that, her influence with her husband had waned with her honeymoon. So, between her indifference and her inability, together with her ignorance of the facts—for Valentine seldom had sight or speech alone with his mistress, or, when he had, was too proud and reserved to complain, and Fannie, from native modesty, would rather endure than plead—little aid was to be expected from Mrs. Waring's interference in behalf of the young couple.
The gathering clouds of fate darkened and deepened over the head of the doomed boy. His little home in the city was visited with sickness.
First, his little Coralie was taken ill. No father in this world, whatever his nature or degree might be, ever loved his infant with a more passionate attachment, than poor Valentine felt toward his little Coralie; she was the darling of his heart and eyes, the light and joy of his present, and the hope of his future. It was for her own sake that he wished to save money—to educate her. Daily he thanked God that she was born free.
Now, his bright, beautiful Coralie was pining away under a complication of infant disorders.
A sick and suffering child is one of the most distressing objects in nature, especially when that child is but a babe, and cannot, as the nurses say, "tell where its trouble is," and can only look at you with its pleading eyes, as if imploring the relief you cannot give. You who have ever had an ill and suffering infant, always pining and moaning with its aching head, too heavy for the slender, attenuated neck, dropped upon its nurse's or its mother's shoulder, yet still often looking up with a faint little smile to greet you when you come to take it, or piteously holding out its emaciated arms to coax you back when you are called to leave it—you can estimate the distress of the poor young father, living three miles distant from the sick child, that might at any hour grow suddenly worse, and die; and only permitted to visit it occasionally at the pleasure of others.
Fannie's health, never strong, began to fail; loss of rest night after night, with the sick child, joined to the fatiguing duties of her situation, which she was still obliged to retain as a means of support, exhausted her strength.
The poor infant, bereft all day of both parents, and left in charge of an old, free negress, that lived near the shop, had the sad, unnatural grief of home-sickness added to its other suffering, and so pined and failed day by day.
This state of things lasted for some weeks.
After a night of suffering to the child and sleeplessness to herself, Fannie would rise in the morning, and, though nearly blind, giddy and fainting from habitual loss of rest, she would set her room in order, eat a morsel of breakfast, bathe and dress the little one, collect all the articles it would need, and prepare its food and medicine for the day; and, lastly, dress herself with neatness and taste, for it was very necessary that the shop girl should look as well as possible; take her sick babe in one arm, and its basket of necessaries in the other, lock her door, and set out for the shop, stopping on her way to leave the child and its basket at Aunt Peggy's hut, where there was no cradle or rocking-chair, but, what was perhaps as well, a pallet laid in the coolest part of the room.
Here Fannie would sit and rest a moment, while she nursed her child, and then she would lay it down upon the pallet and leave it, thankful if the little creature happened to be sleeping peacefully, wretched if it chanced to be wakeful and to be wailing after its mother.
One morning, when Fannie had lingered beyond her hour for going to the store, trying to put to sleep or to pacify the suffering child, she finally laid it down upon the pallet, and, with many kisses and soothing words and promises to come back soon, tore herself away; but, just as she reached the door the little one struggled upon its feeble limbs, staggered toward her, and fell, with its weak hand clasping her skirts.
Fannie burst into tears, took the babe up in her arms, sat down upon a chair, and, pressing the little sufferer to her bosom, caressed and soothed it, and promised never to leave it again; and, speaking to the old woman, said:
"Please go over to Leroux's, Aunt Peggy, and tell monsieur that I can't come to-day on account of poor little Coralie; and I don't know when I can come—so he may, if he chooses, look out for somebody else to fill my place."
The prudent old woman expostulated, asked Fannie what she would do for a living if she gave up her situation at Leroux's, and advised her to hold fast, saying that the child might die, and then, there! she couldn't get the place again so easy as she had lost it.
But Fannie was firm. Pressing the infant closer to her bosom, she replied: Yes; that little Coralie might die, and then the thought of how often she had left the poor baby grieving for her mother would break her heart; that it was no use for any one to talk; come what might, she never would leave the sick child again.
Aunt Peggy carried the message, and brought back the reply that Madam Leroux had always expected this trouble to come upon Fannie; that she had always said so; and that Fannie would find her words true, that this was only the beginning of the troubles she would meet, for having been so lost to her own interest as to marry a handsome slave man, whose very hands were not his own, to help her.
Fannie said that she would trust in God, unto death and beyond death; for that often she thought the best way in which He could right His children's wrongs, and comfort their afflictions, was by taking them from this sad world to His own heaven.
Truly, the poor young creature needed all this faith to enable her to bear the troubles that were, and those that were to come. She carried little Coralie back to her own poor room. She sought out what plain sewing and clear starching she could get to do in her own home; but this was very little, now that so many of the ladies and gentlemen among whom she hoped to get employment had left the city for the Northern watering-places. It brought her a very scanty income; and as, out of this, room rent, fuel, light, food, clothing, medicine and other incidental expenses had to be paid, and as, besides, she would not suffer little Coralie to want any comfort, or even any luxury, that she could procure for her by her own exertions and self-denial, it followed, of course, that she herself went without a sufficiency of the real necessaries of life; and so, privation being added to her other ills, accelerated the decline of her health.
Valentine could only come to see them once a week. He would come Sunday morning, spend the day in nursing his darling, tear himself from her clinging baby arms, and return, almost broken-hearted, at night.
This was the condition of things when the yellow fever made its appearance at M——. This was nothing new—the pestilence was no stranger, it was an annual visitor at M——.
But this summer the fever appeared in its most terrible aspect, with all the malign, virulent and fatal characteristics of the plague.
I am not about to harrow your feelings or my own with any minute details of the misery that ensued as the pestilence advanced; of the physical agony, from pain, fever, thirst and famine; of the wretchedness, from bereavement, poverty and desertion; of the mental anguish, from terror, grief, horror and despair. The pestilence brings in its dread train almost every form of physical and moral evil; at the same time, providentially, it calls forth to combat these the most exalted virtues in the human character. You have only to call to mind the ravages of the yellow fever throughout the South in the past to estimate the horrors of the pestilence at M——. The people by hundreds fled the city; those that remained, by thousands died.
The population, reduced to less than one-half, consisted chiefly of the poorer classes, who could not get away, and of those heroic souls whom a high sense of Christian duty or simple humanity had retained in or brought to the scene of misery.
A dense, copper-colored cloud hung low, like a pall, over the plague-stricken city; its air was considered deadly to the newcomer that breathed it.
All intercourse between M—— and the surrounding plantations was interdicted. The greatest anxiety was felt by the planters, lest the fever should break out in their families, or, where it would be more likely to make its first appearance, among the slaves; the greatest precautions were taken to avert such a dread misfortune. The masters and their families confined themselves strictly to their own domains, and the slaves were positively forbidden to approach the city, or even the highways leading thitherward. As many of the neighboring negroes had friends or relatives living in the city, and as their affections are known to be rather obstinate and daring, to insure safety, a voluntary police was organized by the planters, whose duty it was, in turn, to guard the highways, and see that no negro passed without a written permit from the master or mistress.
Preventives of disease and disinfecting agents were diligently sought after. Alcohol, in the form of wine, brandy and whisky, was supposed to be a sovereign safeguard against the pestilence. I do not say that it was laid down as a medical dogma that an habitual inebriate enjoyed immunity from contagion; but I do say, what will probably shock my temperance readers, that all persons were counseled by their physicians to keep themselves always slightly under the influence of alcohol, so long as the pestilence should last. And most people took the advice, finding, at least, something in the half-stimulating, half-stupefying effects of liquor to brave or dull the sense of danger. Wine and brandy were freely used in the planter's family; whisky was freely circulated among the negroes of the plantation. Some among them of the Methodist persuasion and the temperance society demurred at breaking their pledge; but even these, when made to understand that the whisky was to be taken as medicine, by the advice of a physician, felt their consciences set at rest upon the subject, and never was doctor's stuff swallowed with less repugnance than their grog was taken, three times a day.
Valentine held to his principles; he would not break his pledge. In vain for a long time his master, and even his mistress, remonstrated with him.
Circumstances altered cases; times were changed; self-preservation was the first law of nature; in view of the present danger, his pledge was not binding; "for if he kept his pledge, he might lose his life," they would argue.
"That was the Lord's affair; all he had to do was to keep his pledge; and if he should die, so much the better; life had no charms for him," Valentine would reply.
And in truth the wretched young man was much to be compassionated. His wife and child alone and helpless in the midst of the plague, exposed to the united horrors of pestilence, famine and solitary death from desertion; himself forbidden to seek them at their utmost need. Thrice had he escaped and sought the city, and as often had he fallen into the hands of the voluntary police; they did not maltreat him, except inasmuch as they would not suffer him to pass without a permit from his master, and this permit could not be obtained. He could think of nothing but his wife and child. Were they living, and suffering unimagined miseries? Were they among the uncounted dead, whose rude coffins lay one upon another, three or four feet deep, not in graves, but in trenches? He did not even know. But all his thoughts by day, and his fitful dreams by night, were haunted with the forms of Fannie and of Coralie. He saw little Coralie in every phase of memory, and hope, and fear. He saw her bright and beautiful, as she had been in the sweet springtime; he saw her pale and pining, as he had seen her last in her wasting sickness; and he saw her lying dead in her coffin, and woke with a loud cry of anguish. His heart, his spirit, seemed broken.
Seeing his haggard and despairing looks, his mistress expostulated with him, and counseled the use of wine or brandy, saying that the depressing effects of the atmosphere were felt by everybody, even by those living in the country; that it affected all persons with despondency, causing them to look only on the darkest side of all things; and that it was only to be counteracted by the stimulating effects of alcohol.
At last Valentine followed this counsel and took the prescribed "medicine." Not to prevent contagion did he take it, though that purpose would have exonerated him from the charge of a broken pledge; but to dull the poignant sense of suffering, which was greater than he could bear.
Oh, fatal day that he placed again to his lips the maddening glass! All have seen how dangerous is such a relapse. It is generally a sudden and hopeless fall. It was so in the case of this poor fellow. He took the first glass, and, liking its effects, took a second and a third before stopping. If he awoke in the morning to remember his troubles, he drank all day to forget them, and fell at night into a heavy sleep. He zealously followed the medical prescription—nay, he quite overdid it, and kept himself not "slightly" under the influence of alcohol. And in a short space of time, if his master or his mistress remonstrated with him, it was not for total abstinence from intoxicating spirits, but for the opposite extreme of an habitual intemperance. Such was the state of affairs at Red Hill for a few weeks, during which Valentine had no direct or certain intelligence of Fannie and his little child.
I pray thee take thy fingers from my throat:For though I am not splenetive and rash,Yet have I in me something dangerous,Which let thy wisdom fear. Hold off thy hand!—Shakespeare.
I pray thee take thy fingers from my throat:For though I am not splenetive and rash,Yet have I in me something dangerous,Which let thy wisdom fear. Hold off thy hand!—Shakespeare.
One morning, near the last of August—yet, stay! Such mornings dawn unheralded by any sign to warn us what the fated day shall bring forth ere its close. Such mornings dawn as other mornings do—the doomed men and women rise as other people do—as you or I arose this morning, upon the dread day that unpremeditated crime or sudden death shall fix their mortal doom forever.
That morning Mr. Waring arose, feeling rather unwell and irritable, which was no unusual circumstance of late, for he was chafing between two conflicting interests, one of which called him away, while the other bound him at home. He was very anxious, with his wife, to leave the neighborhood of the infected city; but, in the present condition of affairs he hesitated to trust the plantation and negroes to the care of the overseer.
Valentine arose with the same heavy heart that had marked his waking hours for many days, yet dressed himself and combed his raven black curls with the habitual regard to neatness and beauty that had become a second nature. And it was curious to see how this habit of neatness and elegance lasted through all the darkest hours of his life.
Phædra got up and attended to the arrangement of the house and the preparation of breakfast with her usual exactness.
Mrs. Waring, suffering from the debilitating effects of the weather, indulged herself in the morning, and breakfasted in bed.
No foreboding was felt by any one; no token in sky or air, or circumstances without, of presentiment within their hearts, warned them of calamity, crime and sudden death at hand. That morning, after breakfast, Valentine strolled listlessly out toward the public road leading to the town. It was his daily habit. It had been commenced in the hope of meeting some one from the city who might be able to give him news of Fannie and her little child. And though he never met with success, he still rambled thither every day, as well from force of habit as from the faint hope that he might yet hear of them. He strolled to the highway, met his usual ill-success, and, after lingering an hour or two, sauntered dejectedly toward home.
When he reached a lane that separated his master's plantation on the right from Mr. Hewitt's on the left, his attention was arrested by the sound of a low voice. He listened.
"Hish-sh! Walley, come here—here to the gap."
The voice proceeded from behind the hedge, formed by a thick growth of Spanish daggers, that completely covered the fence on the left of the lane. There was a small broken place in it, toward which Valentine sauntered indifferently. He saw on the other side the huge head of a gigantic negro, a jet-black, lumbering, awkward, good-natured monster enough, who belonged to Mr. Hewitt, and who sported the imposing cognomen of "governor."
"Well, Governor, is that you? What do you want with me?"
"Hish-sh, Walley, don't talk so loud! our oberseer ain't far off. Brudder 'Lisha, he bin out from town."
"Well!" exclaimed Valentine, with breathless interest, bending forward.
"W'en you hear from Fannie las'?"
"Not for two weeks. Why do you ask? Have you heard from her? Speak! oh, for Heaven's sake, speak!" exclaimed Valentine, breathlessly.
"Fannie done got de feber."
"Oh, God!"
"Brudder 'Lisha, he done bin 'ere dis mornin' and tell we-dem."
"Oh, Heaven! oh, when was she taken? Who is with her? Is she——"
"Dunno nuffin 'tall 'bout it, 'cept 'tis she's got de feber. Brudder 'Lisha, he done bin dere to her place, an' heern it."
"Where is Elisha?"
"Done gone right straight back to town."
"And that is all the satisfaction you can give me," cried Valentine, beside himself with distress.
"Yaw, yaw! I trought how I'd watch arter you, and tell you—'long as you'd like to hear it. Hish-sh-sh! Walley, stoop down here close, till I whisper to you."
"What now!" exclaimed Valentine, in new alarm, bending his ear to the huge negro's lips.
"Hish-sh-sh! Walley, I wish how it wur my 'ooman as had de yaller feber!"
"Wretch!"
"An' wish we-dem's white nigger oberseer had it too!"
"What do you mean?"
"And I wish dey bofe might die long of it."
"Wretch! I say again!"
"Trufe, brudder! dat's me jes'! I'se de wretch! an' I wish how dis same wretch might hab de feber long o' de oder two, an' how I might die long of 'em, and how we might all go up to Marster's trone, and have de case 'cided whose wife dis 'ooman is for to be."
"Governor! What! do you mean to say that the new overseer is tampering with your wife's fidelity to you?"
"Hish-sh! he ain't fur off. Dunno what de debbil you mean wid your big words. But she lub fine dress, an' he gib it to her; she berry putty, mos' white, you know, an' he sen' me way off to de furres' fiel' to work."
"Why don't you talk to her?"
"'Taint no use; she 'ny eberyting."
"Why don't you speak to your master?"
"'Tain't no use; he won't nebber hear no 'plaints gin de oberseer."
"I am very sorry for you, poor fellow; and I would like to give you comfort and counsel, but I must hurry away from you, and try to get leave to go to town, and see poor dear Fannie. If I were you, Governor, I would speak to Major Hewitt upon this subject. He never would permit such a wrong done you."
"'Taint no use, I tell yer! But nebber min', Walley, listen yer; some ob dese yere days I fixes him!"
Valentine started at the demoniac look that, in a man usually so mild, accompanied these vague words; and, bidding the negro a hasty good-morning, he ran along the lane until he reached the house.
His own heart and brain were wild with grief and alarm as he hastened to the presence of his master, whom he did not doubt would now, in this extremity, permit him to go to the city.
Mr. Waring, in an irritable frame of mind, was walking up and down the front piazza, as Valentine stepped upon the floor.
"Well, what now?" he exclaimed, testily, at the sight of the young man's agitated countenance.
"My wife, sir; she has got the fever."
"Sorry to hear it, but—how did you hear it, sir? I hope no one from that place has had the temerity to set foot upon these premises, in face of the prohibition?"
"No, sir; I happened to meet with Governor, Major Hewitt's man, and he had seen an acquaintance of ours from the city, who came from Fannie's house this morning and brought the news."
"I wonder Major Hewitt does not take better care of his own interests than to permit stragglers from the city to infest his place. He will bring the pestilence among us before we know where we are," said Mr. Waring, angrily.
"But, Fannie, sir—my poor wife——"
"Well, what of her? I am sorry, of course—really sorry, Valentine. It is a pity you ever got married; if you had not, neither you nor Fannie would have had so much trouble. It was a very foolish piece of business!"
"Perhaps it was, sir; but people who love each other have a sort of propensity to get married. It can't be helped, I suppose; it's a way they've got."
"And a bad way—very bad way—that I ought never to have sanctioned."
"Nor imitated, sir!"
"You are an impertinent fellow! But I overlook that. There is some difference, I should judge, between you and me, and I certainly ought never to have consented to your taking that girl."
"It is too late to say that now, sir!" said Valentine, with a sigh so heavy that Mr. Waring inquired, quickly:
"So you repent it, do you?"
"No; God Almighty knows I do not!" replied Valentine, with sorrowful earnestness; adding, "but, oh, sir, I am losing precious time. I came here to ask you for a permit to go to town and see my wife."
"A permit! A permit to go to town, and to visit a woman ill with the very pestilence we are all doing our best to guard against? A permit to go there, and take the fever just as sure as you go, and bring back and spread the contagion among hundreds, whom we are all doing our best to guard from the pestilence! Impossible, Valentine! I wonder you could be so unreasonable as to ask it!"
"Unreasonable that I should want to go and see my suffering wife?"
"Yes—under the circumstances. Yes, I am sorry for her, Valentine, and sorry for you, though I cannot say that your manner is very respectful. Still, I am very sorry for you; and if it were possible for me to do anything for your relief, I would do it—as it is, I regret that I can do nothing."
"Oh, sir! Master Oswald, you could let me go to town," pleaded Valentine.
"At the imminent hazard of your own life, and the all but certainty of bringing the pestilence upon this plantation."
"All do not get the fever who are exposed to its influence; neither do they always spread contagion into the healthy places they chance to visit," reasoned the young man.
"The risk is too great," replied the master, curtly.
"Would you think it too great if your own wife were the one concerned, sir?" argued Valentine.
"Be more respectful, sirrah! There is some difference, I should say!" retorted the master, angrily.
"Yes, there is a difference!" cried Valentine; "and when I see anything to respect——" Suddenly he stopped. Swift as lightning came the thought that if he refrained from provoking his master now and came to him an hour hence, when he should be in a better humor, the prayer that he now denied he might then grant. Controlling his rising indignation, he bowed, turned abruptly, and went off.
"Impudent rascal! he was just about to say something that I should have had to knock him down for; and then he thought better of it, and stopped—it's well he did! Poor fellow, I am sorry for him, too; but it is all his own fault! If he were not so presumptuous, he would not feel so badly. That is the very deuce of it; for that prevents him from seeing that there is a difference." Such were the reflections of Mr. Waring as he continued to pace up and down the front piazza.
Valentine has mastered his anger, but he could not control the terrible anxiety that preyed upon his heart; Fannie suffering, Fannie dying, deserted, alone; little Coralie perishing from neglect—these were the torturing visions that maddened his brain.
He went and told Phædra, who wept bitterly at the sad story; but yet sought to comfort her son, and inspire hope, by promising to go herself and tell Mrs. Waring, and get her to intercede with her husband for Valentine.
This was done, but with little success; for, though Mrs. Waring was moved to compassion, and went to her husband and besought him to take compassion upon Valentine and send him to seek his sick wife and trust in Providence to avert all evil consequences, Mr. Waring was not only firm in his refusal, but also exhibited no small degree of impatience at her interference. Unwilling to inflict a hopeless disappointment upon the poor fellow, Mrs. Waring tempered the report of her ill-success by saying that, though Mr. Waring had now refused her petition, she still hoped that he would think better of it and grant the permit.
Yet all this time Fannie might be dying, and her child perishing for want—every moment was precious beyond price!
Phædra sought her master's presence, and pleaded with him—pleaded by her long years of faithful service; by her devoted care of him in his feeble infancy; by the days of his childhood, when he and Valentine were playmates; by all the long years, as boys and as men, those two had passed together, inseparable companions, until the marriage of each; by her own devoted attachment to them; by his love for his own wife; by every sweet affection and holy thought, to have compassion on her son, his own foster-brother, and let him go and minister to his sick—probably his dying wife. Phædra pleaded with more eloquence, but with not more success, than the others.
Some substances melt under the action of water—others, in the same element, turn to stone. Instead of melting Mr. Waring's obduracy seemed to ossify under the effects of tears and entreaties. He told Phædra, firmly, that he did not mean to gratify one man at the hazard of exposing many to contagion. And at the dinner-table, speaking partly in justification of his own line of conduct, and partly in apology for the manner in which he had met Mrs. Waring's intercession of the morning, he said:
"You emphasize this matter too much, madam; this Fannie is, after all, but one sufferer among thousands; you also mistake in endowing these creatures with the same acuteness of feelings that we possess; there is a difference, madam! there is a difference! I wish I could make people understand that there is a difference; neither Valentine nor Phædra seem to have the slightest conception of this difference."
"I must confess that in that respect I share their obtusity," remarked madam, while Mr. Waring, in apparent self-satisfaction, went on with his dinner.
But was he really satisfied with himself? Who shall answer?
Meantime, Valentine wandered about, consumed with sorrow and anxiety. Doubtless, he would have run away and endeavored to reach the town, but he knew how carefully the avenues thither were guarded, and how desperate was the attempt that he had already thrice before made to elude the police. It would involve a loss of several hours to make the attempt, which, if it should fail, as it was altogether likely to do, would entirely preclude him from all possible chance of seeing Fannie; therefore he thought best to make another appeal to his master before taking the last desperate step. He knew by experience that the hour after dinner always found Oswald Waring in his best humor.
It was then that he sought him.
He found him—not, as before, walking in the front piazza, where the afternoon sun was now shining, but reclining on a settee on the back piazza that was now in the shade. He lay languidly fanning himself with one hand, while he held a pamphlet that he was reading in the other. Valentine had resolved not to provoke him by any hasty words, as he had used in the morning. He resolved to govern his own spirit, to approach his master respectfully, humbly. He did so.
"Master Oswald!"
Mr. Waring looked up, seemed annoyed, and hastened to exclaim:
"Now, Valentine, if you have come again about going to see your sick wife, and all that humbug, I tell you it is no manner of use. I have been wearied nearly to death already with fruitless importunity, and I want to hear no more of it."
"Oh, sir!"
"I tell you it is of no use to talk to me!"
"Ah, but Master Oswald, only listen, even if you do no more!" pleaded Valentine, in the fond hope of an ardent nature, that, judging from the earnestness of his feelings, believes that if he gains a hearing, he gains his cause.
"Well, well! but I warn you it will be wasted breath."
"Ah, sir, do not say so! I am nearly crazy with trouble, sir, when I think of Fannie and poor little Coralie. She was very poor, sir, and the child was very sick, even before the pestilence appeared. Now she has the fever in that horrible place, with no one to help her or to take care of the poor child. She may be dying, sir, even while I speak! she may be dying, as many of the poor in that doomed city die, deserted—alone—but for the famishing infant, whose cries add to her own sufferings; she may have, as many of the poor have, famine and burning thirst added to her fever, with no one near to place to her lips a morsel of food or a drop of water! Think of it, sir! My God! do you wonder that I am almost frantic?" cried the young man, earnestly, beseechingly clasping his hands.
"An imaginary picture altogether, Valentine," coolly remarked Mr. Waring.
"A common reality among the poor of the city, this dreadful season, sir. You know it. You have heard it and read it. And she is very poor, sir. She and the child often suffered, even before the pestilence came and stopped her work with all the rest. Judge what her condition must be now. Oh, my God!" cried the young man, in a voice of agony.
"Your fears exaggerate the case, Valentine. There are almshouses and hospitals, and sisters of charity and relief funds, and all those sort of contrivances for the very poor."
"Yet you know, for I heard you read it, that all these places are full, that the relief fund failed to meet all the demands made upon it; and you know, besides, that all the poor white people have to be taken care of, before the colored people are thought of."
"Of course, there is a difference, you know. I wish, once for all, you would understand that fact," said Mr. Waring, replying only to the latter proposition. Then he added: "Your fears magnify the danger; the yellow fever cannot last forever, and she may get well."
"Not one in ten do—I heard you say it."
"Well, she may be that one."
"What, sir, with all the privations of her lot?"
"Yes, why not? You are out of sorts, Valentine. Go into the house and take a drink; it will set you up—in the dining-room—sideboard—left-hand corner—some fine old Otard brandy—help yourself; it will make a man of you."
"Thank you, Master Oswald; but that is not what I came for."
"What the devil did you come for, then, you troublesome fellow; tell me, and let me go to sleep," exclaimed the master, impatiently turning on his settee.
"I came to beg and to pray you, Master Oswald, for a permit to go to town."
"And you cannot have it, Valentine; so you may save your prayers. Once for all, if you and your mother, and madam, your mistress, to back you, were to pray from now till doomsday, you—cannot—have—it. Do you understand?" said his master, stolidly.
Valentine governed his own rising anger; it was as much as he could possibly do; he could not suppress his grief, but broke forth in a voice of agony:
"Oh! Fannie, Fannie, Fannie, and her little child!"
"D——n it, sir, stop your howling, or go somewhere else to howl. What the devil is Fannie or her brat to me? If they are suffering, it is her own fault; she had no business to marry a slave, whom she could never expect to help her. And if their sufferings afflict you, it serves you right; it is a just punishment for your cursed folly in marrying a free woman, with no master to look after her or her children."
"I will be silent! I will be silent!" thought Valentine, as he turned from his master.
A storm was raging in his breast; all the fierce passions of his nature were aroused; rage, grief, terror and despair, made a hell of his bosom. In passing through the hall, he suddenly dived into the dining-room, poured out and drained a half tumbler of the strong brandy; then he hurried through and out of the front door, to make ready for his flight.
These preparations were soon made, and Valentine commenced his journey.
The highway leading to M—— was bordered on one side by the hedge of Spanish daggers that skirted the lower cotton-fields of Major Hewitt's plantation, and on the other side by a causeway, that shut off an extensive cypress swamp that formed a portion of Mr. Waring's estate. Avoiding the middle of the road, Valentine leaped over the causeway, and, though he waded half a leg deep in water, he made his way safely under the shelter of the wall and the shadows of the trees.
He had waded thus a mile, on his way toward the city, when the sound of a voice, singing a Methodist hymn, and approaching from the opposite direction, arrested his attention. He knew the hymn, and the voice, that, in turn, sang and intoned it, and, by them, recognized, before seeing, Elisha, the colored class-leader of his own congregation, the man who had that morning brought the first news of Fannie's illness. A new, intense anxiety seized him. Elisha came from the direction of the city. "Might he not bring some later intelligence of Fannie?" he inquired of himself, as he hastened to climb the wall of the causeway, and peered through the parasitical vines that clung to the top, to survey the scene.
Lying between the dark-hued cypress swamp and the high hedge that shut off the cotton-fields, the road stretched westward, one long, irregular vista of yellow light shining in the last rays of the setting sun; and solitary, except for the lonely figure of the old negro preacher, who, stick and bundle slung across his shoulder, came trudging onward, and beguiling his way with chanting the refrain of a wild, weird revival hymn, in strange keeping with the time and circumstances:
"Go, wake him! Go, wake him!Judgment day is coming!Go, wake him! Go, wake him!Before it is too late!"
"Go, wake him! Go, wake him!Judgment day is coming!Go, wake him! Go, wake him!Before it is too late!"
"Hist! Elisha! Elisha!" called Valentine, in a hushed, eager voice.
"Who dar?" exclaimed the old negro, starting back so forcibly that the stick and bundle vibrated on his shoulder.
"It is I, Elisha! Come here, quickly. How is Fannie, my dear, suffering Fannie? Quickly! You have seen her since morning?" cried Valentine, in a low, vehement tone.
"Brudder Walley! I 'clar'; de werry man I lookin' arter!" said the old creature, approaching the causeway.
"Tell me! tell me! how is Fannie?" cried Valentine, impatiently.
"Ah, chile! we-dem mus' 'mit to de will o' Marster," sighed the old preacher.
"For Heaven's sake, be plain! Is she—is she still living?" questioned the youth, in an agony of anxiety.
"Wur, when I lef' dar, chile! wur, when I lef' dar! Dat all I can say for sartin 'bout libbin'."
Valentine groaned deeply, asking:
"When did you see her? Tell me everything—everything you know about her."
"I happen in dar, to 'quire arter her, 'bout noon. I fin' her all alone, berry low, berry low, 'deed. Flies, like a cloud, settled on her face; she onable to lif' her han', drive 'em 'way; lip bake wid thurst; and she onable han' herse'f a drap o' water."
"Oh, God! and the child—the child!"
"'Prawlin' on de floor, kivered with flies an' dirt, cryin' low an' weak, like, for hunder."
"Elisha, I must hurry; I must fly! Turn back, and walk a little way with me, while you tell me more; but if you see any one coming or going on the road, whistle, to warn me, for I have no permit," said Valentine, dropping behind the causeway, and plunging along through the water toward the city.
They could no longer see each other, and their conway.
"How you gwine cross bridge widout 'mit, Brudder Walley?"
"I don't know; I must try. Tell me more about Fannie."
"Well, you know, 'out my tellin' you, how I tuk up de chile offen de flure, an' wash it, an' dress it, and git milk, and feed it. An' how I go for water, and wash her face, and give her drink, an' fan de flies offen her, till she come to her min', like; an' how I'd stay 'long o' her till dis time, ony when she come to herself, she put her two hans togedder, so she did, de chile, and begged an' prayed me to come arter you, her 'dear Walley,' to come an' see her once more 'fore she died, an' take de poor baby home long o' you. An' so, dough I done travel dis yer yode once afore to-day, I takes my staff in my han' an' I sets off; an', franks be to de Lor', dey can't sturve me from trav'lin' de highway, dough I daren't now-a-day put my fut offin it, or onto one o' der plantashunes. So, now, bress de Lor', here I is; an' long as I wur so hoped up as to fall in 'long o' you, all I got to do now is, to 'company of you back to de city."
In a few earnest, fervent words, Valentine thanked his friend, and then, saving all his breath, and concentrating all his energies, in silence he toiled on, knee-deep in water and ankle-deep in mud, through the cypress swamp toward the city.
Old Daddy Elisha took up the burden of his hymn, and sang or intoned various portions of that weird melody as he walked.
Valentine, behind the causeway, in the shadow and the silence, passed unquestioned; but Elisha was frequently hailed by some vigilant member of the voluntary police. If personally known to the questioner, he was allowed to pass; if not, he was required to show his papers; a light had to be struck to examine them, and all this took up so much time, that although Elisha had the high road to walk upon, and Valentine the swamp to wade through, the latter far outstripped the former, and arrived first at the bridge over the A—— River.
To cross this bridge was the only means from this direction of reaching the city; but the bridge was guarded at both ends by the patrol, or voluntary police; to elude their vigilance was the only desperate part of Valentine's undertaking.
The river was broad, deep and strong in current; no one had ever dreamed of the feat of swimming across it. It was bordered on this side by a marsh so deep that, in the attempt to pass it, a man of moderate size and strength must have been swallowed up.
The bridge was a continuation of the road and causeway, flanked by parapets extending across the river, and joining the road on the opposite side.
Valentine never thought of the impossible feat of wading the marsh and swimming the river, neither did he dream of attempting to cross the bridge in the very face of the patrol guard that twice before had arrested him; but he projected a scheme almost equally wild and hopeless. This plan was to cross the river by clambering along the water side of this parapet—a plan involving less risk of discovery by the patrol, certainly—but undertaken at the most imminent peril of death, by losing hold and dropping into the river below.
Valentine waded on through the cypress swamp, until the trees grew more sparsely, and the mud under the water became deeper and more treacherous as it merged into the marsh nearest the river.
The poor fellow then clambered along, now on the broken causeway, his eyes all on fire with vigilance, and now dropping down into the swamp, and so in more peril and difficulty he went on, until he reached the place where the marsh merged into the river, and the road and causeway into the bridge and parapet.
Here he heard the patrol guard in their little guard-house laughing and talking over their drink, for they, too, had to keep the pestilence at bay with alcohol.
Here he attempted to gain the parapet, and in doing so, set in motion some alarm bell, at whose first peals he found himself suddenly surrounded, and in the hands of the patrol.
"My good fellow, that feat has been tried once before, so we prepared for the second, you understand," said one of his captors.
They all knew Valentine; with most of them he was a great favorite, though to others he was, for the sole reason of his natural superiority, very obnoxious.
While Valentine stood overwhelmed with despair, he discerned Major Hewitt among the party; and gathering some hope from the presence of that gentleman, he clasped his hands and appealing to him, said:
"Oh, Major Hewitt, you know me, sir! You have known me from childhood! Your dear lady knew me, too, and was very kind to the poor quadroon boy, when he was a child. And you know my poor little Fannie, too! Sir, my heart is breaking—that is nothing, but she is dying! Sir, my wife is dying, alone—not of the fever only, but of starvation, of thirst, of neglect, of bereavement of all aid; and she sends to me, sir—sends to pray me to come and see her poor face for the last time, and take her orphan baby from her dead arms, lest it die, too! You are powerful, Major Hewitt! Speak the word, and these gentlemen will let me pass!"
"Valentine, my poor boy, if your sorrow had not crazed you, you would understand at once that I cannot do so! But I tell you what I can do for you; I can persuade these gentlemen from detaining you in the guard-house, and I can write a note of intercession to your master. Return to him, Valentine—take my horse! There he stands; go to Mr. Waring; tell him what you have told me! Give him my note; he will not refuse you the permit, and when you have it, ride back hither as fast as you please," said the major.
He scribbled a note in haste. Valentine mounted the horse, received the missive, and, thanking the major from the depths of his heart, rode off. He met and hailed Elisha, told him in a few words what had passed, and added:
"Go on to the city, Elisha! Go to my dear Fannie! Tell her, if she can still hear your words, that I shall be with her in two hours, or die in the effort. No! do not tell her a word to alarm her! Say I will certainly be with her in two hours! For I will! despite of earth and h—ll, I will!"
Valentine galloped swiftly toward home, reached the lawn gate, sprang from his horse, secured the bridle, and hastened up to the house. There was no one in front; he entered the hall, looked into the dining-room; it was empty; he ran in, poured out a glass of brandy, drank it at a draught, and passed through the house to the back piazza, where he found his master, pacing up and down the floor. Mr. Waring had grown heated and angry between the frequent potations and the irritations of the day.
"Well, sir!" he said, turning abruptly to Valentine, "what now? How dare you enter my presence again, after your insolent conduct of this afternoon?"
"Master Oswald, I am very sorry if, in my great trouble, I was surprised into saying anything wrong. Will you read this note, sir?" said Valentine, trying, for Fannie's dear sake, to quell the raging storm in his bosom.
Oswald Waring took the note with a jerk, tore it open impatiently, and, casting his eyes over it with a scornful curl of his lip, tossed it away, exclaiming:
"Tush! Major Hewitt is a fool! Where did you get that, sir?"
Valentine hesitated.
"I ask you where you got that note, sir?"
"From Major Hewitt's own hand, Master Oswald," replied Valentine, at last.
"By ——! don't prevaricate with me, sir! Where did you see Major Hewitt, then? That is the question!"
Again Valentine was silent.
"What the demon do you mean, sir, by treating my questions with this contemptuous silence?" demanded Mr. Waring, angrily.
"Master Oswald!" began Valentine, seriously, impressively; "I will answer your question truly; but, first, let me beg you, let me pray you, by all your hopes of salvation, to listen to me favorably; for I swear to you by all my faith in Heaven, that it is the very last time I will make the appeal!"
"I am glad to hear it, you troublesome, confoundedly spoiled rascal! For it is the very last minute that I will bear to be trifled with!"
"I met Major Hewitt on the bridge——"
"On the bridge! On the bridge! Why, you insolent scoundrel; do you dare to stand there and tell me to my face that, in direct violation of my command, you attempted to go to town?"
"Sir! sir! listen to me! my worst fears are confirmed! My poor Fannie is dying, as I feared she might die—alone! deserted! dying not only of pestilence, but of famine and thirst, and every extremity of wretchedness! She sent a faithful messenger, praying me to come and see her once more, but once more, to close her eyes and receive the orphan child. Oh! could I disregard such an appeal as that? would not any man, or, I was about to say, any beast, risk life, and more than life, if possible, to obey such a sacred call? I would have periled my soul! Can you blame me?"
"They turned you back! They did right! Thank Heaven that I am disposed to consider that sufficient punishment under the circumstances and am ready to forget your fault. Go, leave me, sir—stop! into the house! not out of it! you're not to be trusted, sir."
A volcano seemed burning and raging in the young man's breast; nevertheless, he controlled himself with wonderful strength, while he still pleaded his cause.
"Major Hewitt felt my position, sir! He had compassion on me, and wrote that note. Give heed to it, sir! The time may come when, on your own deathbed, or by the sickbed of one you love, and fear to lose, and pray for, it may console and bless you to remember the mercy you may now show me; the Good Being has said, 'Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.' Give me the permit, sir! let me go and comfort my dying Fannie! Oh! I do beseech you!"
"Will you have done worrying me? Major Hewitt is an old dotard! The mercy you selfishly crave for yourself would be cruelty to all the other negroes! Once more, and for the last time, I tell you, and I swear it by all the demons, I will not give you the permit!"
"Then, by the justice of Heaven, I will go without it!"
"What?"
"I will go without it! If I cannot pass the bridge, I will swim the river! Aye, if it were a river of fire!" exclaimed Valentine, losing all self-control, and breaking into fury.
"Why, you audacious villain! You shall not stir from this house!"
"Neither man on earth nor demon from h—ll shall stop me!" broke forth the man, in a voice of thunder, striding off.
In an instant Mr. Waring had intercepted him, holding up a light cane, and exclaiming:
"Stand back, you villain!"
Valentine came on with the evident intention of attempting to pass.
Mr. Waring met him with a sudden, sharp blow with his cane across the face.
And as Valentine, giddy and blinded for an instant with the blood that streamed from the cut, staggered backward, Mr. Waring, by another heavy stroke with the loaded end of the cane, felled him to the floor, and proceeded to follow up his victory with several other severe blows.
But Valentine was struggling to his feet, and at last sprang up—reeled, righted himself, cleared the blood from his eyes, glared around; and just as Mr. Waring had broken his cane with a final stroke over his shoulder, Valentine saw and seized a heavy oaken stool, and, aiming one fatal blow with all his force, struck his master in the face! The heavy leg of the oaken stool, aimed with all the strength of madness, crushed the eye—entered the brain, and Oswald Waring fell, never to rise again!
But Valentine was maddened! frenzied! and showered blows upon the dying man like one unconscious of his acts, until the agonized screams of women brought him slightly to his senses, when he found himself seized between Mrs. Waring, who was, amid her frantic shrieks, trying to pull him away, and Phædra, who was crying, distractedly: "Oh! Valentine, you've murdered him!"
He glared from one to the other, in the amazed, bewildered manner of one half wakened from a horrible dream; looked at the mutilated form before him; looked at the strange weapon in his hand—the foot-stool, with its legs clotted with blood and hair; and then, with a violent start, and an awful change of aspect, as if, for the first time the reality, the horror and the magnitude of his crime had burst upon his consciousness, he stood an instant, and casting the weapon from him, broke from the hands of the women, cleared the porch at a bound, rushed across the yard, leaped the fence, crossed the road and plunged into the shadows of the cypress swamp beyond.
That night, as Fannie lay on the wretched bed of her poor room, in darkness and solitude, and in the semi-delirium of fever, suddenly an apparition, like some ghastly phantom of her husband, gleamed out from the surrounding shadows, stooped over, raised her in its ghostly arms, chattered, raved wildly, incoherently, and—was lost; whether really from the room, or only from her failing consciousness, is not certain—and, indeed, how much of this scene was an actual occurrence, and how much of it was the mere phantasmagoria of frenzy, the sufferer never knew!