CHAPTER IV.
CORA'S WELCOME.
While the difficulties of the planter were becoming every day more painful to encounter, and more perilous to his future prospects of happiness, the good ship Virginia reached her destination, and in due time Mrs. Montresor and her two fair charges arrived at New Orleans.
Cora Leslie had given her father no warning of her coming. It had pleased the loving girl to think that she should creep to his side when he least expected her, and that the happy surprise of her arrival would come upon him in the midst of his troubles.
It was growing dusk on a lovely summer evening, when the travelers reached New Orleans. Bidding a hasty adieu to Adelaide Horton and Mrs. Montresor, with a promise to call upon them early the next day, Cora sprang into the carriage which Mortimer Percy had procured for her, requesting him to give the address to the driver.
"Your father is in town, Miss Leslie," said the young man. "You will have scarcely ten minutes' drive."
"Ten minutes!" cried Cora, eagerly. "In ten minutes, then, I shall see my father!"
Her lovely countenance glowed with enthusiasm as she spoke; while her tiny hands were clasped in an ecstasy of delight.
Mortimer Percy's face grew strangely mournful as he looked upon the excited girl.
"One moment, Miss Leslie," he exclaimed, earnestly, pausing, with his hand upon the carriage door. "You remember what I said to you in Grosvenor Square, on the night of my aunt's ball?"
"Yes, perfectly."
"You remember that I then told you I feared your father's welcome might not be so warm a one as your loving heart would lead you to desire. If to-night you should find it so, remember my warning, and do not doubt your father's affection, even should he receive you somewhat coldly. Remember too, that come what may, and should the hour of trouble fall upon you, as it sometimes does on the youngest and the fairest; remember that you have always a friend in Mortimer Percy, and do not scruple to appeal to him."
He clasped her hand in his as he spoke, and she returned the friendly pressure.
"There is a mystery in your words which I seek in vain to fathom, Mr. Percy," she said; "and I know that your warnings fill me with a strange fear; but I know, too, that you have been very good to me, and should sorrow come, I will not hesitate to appeal to you and your cousin Adelaide."
"Adelaide is a good little girl," answered Mortimer, with a sigh; "but I shall be better able to serve you than she. Good night, Miss Leslie."
He released her slender hand, gave some directions to the driver, and in another moment the horse started, and Cora felt that she was on her way to her father's residence.
The sun was sinking in a bed of crimson glory, and the dusky shadows closing in the streets of New Orleans.
The houses and public buildings were dimly visible in the declining light, as Cora looked out of the carriage window. The place seemed strange to her after her long residence in England. She had no memory of anything she saw, and felt that she was an utter stranger in her native land.
But she had not long to think of these things. The carriage drew up before her father's house, and the door was opened by the black servant, Caesar. Without waiting to ask any questions, she hurried into the hall, after dismissing the driver; but as she was about to inquire for her father, another negro servant emerged from one of the doors opening into the hall, and advanced to meet her.
He was past middle age. His hair was grizzled with patches of gray, and his face had an expression of settled melancholy rarely seen upon the negro countenance. He was dressed in a loose linen jacket and trousers, and his manner and appearance altogether denoted his station, which was that of confidential man and general servant, factotum to his master, Mr. Leslie.
This man's name was Toby. He had served the planter faithfully for five-and-twenty years.
"Mr. Leslie can see no one this evening," he said, as he approached Cora.
"He will not refuse to see me," murmured the young girl; "he cannot deny himself to his daughter."
"His daughter!" exclaimed the negro, with an irrepressible burst of enthusiasm; "his daughter, Miss Cora, that was away across the sea—yonder, in the free country. Cora, the child I used to nurse in the years that are gone by; ah, forgive me, forgive me, forgive the poor old negro slave who is almost wild at the sight of his young mistress!"
The faithful creature fell on his knees at Cora's feet, and, clasping her hand in both his own, covered it with kisses.
"You remember me, then?" said Cora.
"I remember the little child that I used to carry in my arms, not the beautiful young lady from the happy English land; but the young lady has still the soft voice and the sweet smile of the little child, and she is not angry with poor Toby because he is beside himself with joy to see her once again."
"Angry with you!" exclaimed Cora; "but tell me—my father, where is he? Do not detain me longer when I should rush into his dear arms!"
"Your father—!" A sudden change came over the slave's manner. "Your father, Miss Cora! He thinks you still in the free English country, and when he hears that you have returned—" The negro paused, with an embarrassed countenance, as he uttered these words.
"What then?" cried Cora. "If I have returned without his knowledge, am I not his daughter; and who, in his hour of sorrow, has a better right to be at his side?"
"Yes, Miss Cora, but—"
"Tell me where is he?"
"In that room, Miss Cora," answered the negro, gravely, pointing to the door of the study.
Without waiting for another word, Cora softly opened the door, and gliding into the room, stood for a moment mutely regarding her father. The Venetian shutters were closed, and a shaded lamp burned upon the planter's desk—a lamp that left the room in shadow, and threw its full light upon the care-worn face of Gerald Leslie. The papers before him lay unheeded on his desk, with a half-burned cigar by their side. His finely molded chin rested upon his hand, his brow was contracted by painful thoughts, and his dark brown eyes were fixed gloomily upon the ground.
He had not heard Cora's entrance. The young girl crept softly to his side, and dropping on her knees at his feet, clasping her hands about his left arm, which hung loosely over the arm of his chair.
"Father," she murmured, "dearest father!"
It was with no exclamation of joy, but with a cry of something nearer akin to agony, that the planter turned and beheld his only daughter.
"Cora!" he exclaimed; "Cora, you here!"
"Yes, dearest father. I know—I know that it is against your commands that I have come, but I felt that it could not be against your wishes."
Gerald Leslie's head dropped upon his breast with a gesture of despair.
"It needed but this," he murmured, "to complete my ruin."
These words were uttered in a voice so low as to escape the ear of Cora; but she could still perceive that her coming had not given her father the pleasure she had fondly hoped to have seen written in his face, when he first beheld her.
"Father, father," she cried, piteously, clasping her arms about his neck, and gently drawing round his head, so as to be able to look in his face; "father, can it be that you do not love me?"
"Not love you, Cora, my darling, my darling!" Clasping his child to his breast, Gerald Leslie burst into a passion of sobs.
This was her welcome home.