CHAPTER VIII.
TOBY TELLS THE STORY OF THE MURDERED FRANCILIA.
On an elevated terrace, fifty feet above the margin of a lake, was situated the summer pavilion occupied by the once wealthy planter, Gerald Leslie.
Thick shrubberies of magnolia and arbutus, intersected by winding pathways, and varied by rockeries, lay between the terrace and the limpid waters below. Tall palms spread their feathery branches above the roof of the pavilion, and exotic flowers bloomed beneath the colonnade of bamboo work which surrounded the light edifice. A flight of marble steps led from the glass door of the pavilion, and a balustrade of the same pure white material stretched the whole length of the terrace, at each end of which were sculptured marble vases, filled with the rarest blossoms. A flower garden, in exquisite order, surrounded the pavilion, while exactly opposite the veranda a rustic table and some garden chairs were placed beneath the luxuriant shade of a banana tree.
Seated on the steps leading from the pavilion, faithful as a dog who listens for the footsteps of his beloved master, the slave Toby might have been seen on the day following that on which Cora had paid her unwelcome visit at the house of Augustus Horton.
Gerald Leslie was at his office in New Orleans, where business often detained him when the best wishes of his heart would have kept him by his daughter's side.
The summer afternoon was hot and sultry, and all the windows were open. The slave seemed to be listening eagerly for some sound within.
"All is silent," he said, sorrowfully; "that pretty bird sings no more. What has happened? Something. I know. I saw by her sad face when she returned from New Orleans yesterday, that all was not well with the sweet young mistress. The sorrows of those he loves cannot escape the eyes of poor Toby."
At this moment a light footstep sounded behind him, and Cora Leslie emerged from the pavilion.
The young girl was dressed in the thinnest white muslin, which floated round her graceful figure, aerial as some vapory cloud in the summer sky. She was pale and a mournful shadow dimmed the orient splendor of her large black eyes. She descended the marble steps slowly without perceiving the faithful slave who had risen at her approach, and who stood aside regarding her earnestly.
"Miss Cora is sad," he said presently; "will she forgive the poor slave if he presumes to ask why?"
She started at the sound of the mulatto's voice, and turning toward him held out her hand silently.
Toby took the little hand in his and raised it to his lips.
"Miss Cora does not deny that she is sad," he repeated.
"Not so much sad, Toby, as bewildered," replied the young girl. "My reception at the house of my old school-fellow has filled my mind with perplexity. What could be the meaning of Adelaide Horton's conduct?"
"Forgive me, Miss Cora, if I remind you that your father particularly requested you not to leave the house during his absence."
"I know, Toby, I know. But why that request? Why am I a prisoner here? Why is my father's manner more indicative of sorrow than joy at my return to Louisiana? Why, on my first visit to the friend of my youth, do I find the door shut in my face?"
"But the English gentleman who conducted you home explained the reason of that, Miss Cora?"
"No, Toby; Mr. Margrave endeavored to explain, but in doing so he only revealed his embarrassment. There is some secret in all this. Some mystery that—Hark!"
The sound which arrested Cora's attention was the trampling of a horse's hoots upon the carriage drive below the terrace.
"Hulloa!" cried a voice from the same direction. "Hulloa, there! Is there any one to hold my horse?"
"A visitor!" exclaimed Cora.
"It is Mr. Augustus Horton," said Toby, looking over the balustrade.
"Adelaide's brother! Then I will see him."
"But in your father's absence, Miss Cora?" murmured the slave, anxiously.
"I will see him," repeated Cora; "he may come to offer an explanation—Heaven knows it is needed."
"Hulloa! every one asleep here?" cried the voice below.
"Coming, massa," answered Toby, running down the terrace steps.
Three minutes afterward Augustus Horton made his appearance in the flower garden, where Cora awaited him. He bowed carelessly to the young girl without raising his hat, but fixing upon her lovely face a gaze of ardent admiration.
He carried a light riding-whip in his hand, and was smoking a cigar, which he did not remove from his mouth.
"Miss Cora Leslie, I presume?" he said.
Cora bowed.
"Mr. Leslie is not at home, I understand?"
"I am expecting his return, at any moment, Mr. Horton," answered Cora.
Something in the planter's familiar manner, and in his ardent gaze filled the young girl with indignant surprise, and she looked at him with a glance of astonishment as he flung a sealed packet upon the table, and seated himself, without invitation, in one of the rustic chairs.
"I have some papers to restore to your father," he said; "but that is not the whole object of my visit. My sister told me that you were lovely, Miss Leslie, but I now perceive that in such a case a woman never tells more than half the truth."
Cora had remained standing during this speech. She now seated herself in the chair opposite to that taken by the young planter, and said, calmly—
"Pardon me, Mr. Horton; but I imagined that the object of your visit here—"
"Was to reply to the letter addressed by you to my sister, Adelaide? Yes, Miss Leslie, that letter proved to us that Mr. Margrave had not properly acquitted himself of the commission which he undertook."
"How so, sir?"
"My sister much regretted not being able to receive you, yesterday, and I should have shared those regrets, had she not chosen me to bring you her excuses."
"It is not an excuse which I require, Mr. Horton, but an explanation," replied Cora, with dignity.
Augustus shrugged his shoulders.
"What further explanations can you require, Miss Leslie," he said; "the preparations of her approaching marriage? A little touch of headache, perhaps? Is not this sufficient to explain all?"
"No, sir, it is not. Because I would rather hear the truth, bitter as that truth may be, than these courteous mockeries which put me to the rack. Mr. Percy's opposition to my return to America; my father's emotion on beholding me; the strange isolation in which I am kept; and, lastly, your sister's extraordinary conduct of yesterday—all these prove to me that some terrible fatality overshadows me; a fatality of which I am ignorant, but which I am determined to discover."
"Nay, Miss Leslie, what is that you would seek to know? Why not be content to reign by your grace and beauty? For the fatality of which you speak can cast no cloud upon your loveliness; and even the jealousy of our wives and sisters cannot rob you of your sovereignty."
"I do not understand you, sir."
"And yet I endeavored to make myself understood. Ah, Miss Leslie! we are but strangers, newly met, within this hour; but we Creoles are the children of a southern clime, and our passions are gigantic as the palms which wave above your head—rapid in growth as the lilies on the breast of yonder lake. Love, with us, is a flame; suppressed, it is true, yet needing but one spark from the torch of beauty to cause a conflagration."
"Sir!" cried Cora, indignantly.
The young girl felt that the Creole's burning, passionate words veiled a meaning which was an insult to her.
"Nay, hear me, hear me, Cora," continued Augustus Horton; "there is, perhaps, a secret; there is, it may be, a fatality which overshadows your young life. Be mine, and none shall ever taunt you with that fatal secret; be mine, and you shall be the proudest beauty in Louisiana, the queen of New Orleans, the idol of your lover's devoted heart; be mine, and the debt owed me by your father shall be cancelled; be mine, and I will tear into a hundred fragments the bill which I hold for fifty thousand dollars, and which it will half ruin Gerald Leslie to pay."
Her eyes flashing, her bosom heaving with offended modesty, Cora Leslie rose from her chair.
"Toby," she called, without even replying by so much as a look to the planter's appeal.
"Cora Leslie, what would you do?" exclaimed the Creole, rising.
"Toby!" repeated Cora.
"Beware, young lady!"
The mulatto appeared in answer to the summons of his young mistress.
"Toby, you will conduct this gentleman to the gates of my father's grounds, and remember that if he ever again dares to present himself here, it will be your duty to refuse him admittance. You hear?"
"Yes, mistress."
"Go, sir," said Cora, looking at Augustus for the first time since she had risen from her seat; "I am but a stranger in New Orleans, and you have done much to enlighten me as to the character of its inhabitants. You have done well to choose the hour of a father's absence to insult his only daughter. Go!"
"I obey you, Miss Leslie," answered Augustus, white with rage, and trembling in every limb with suppressed passion. "Believe me, I shall not forget our interview of to-day, and shall take an opportunity to remind you of it on some future occasion. For the present I am your debtor; but trust me, the hour of settlement will come between us, when you shall pay dearly for this insolence. In the meantime," he added, turning to the mulatto, "in order to teach your young mistress her proper position, be good enough to relate to her the story of Francilia."
With one savage glance at the indignant girl, he hurried down the terrace steps, sprang into the saddle, put spurs to his horse, and rode off at a gallop.
"Francilia," exclaimed Cora; "Francilia! what could he mean? Speak, Toby, tell me, who was this Francilia?"
The mulatto hung his head, and was silent.
"Speak, I say," repeated Cora.
"Francilia—was—a slave, belonging to Mr. Leslie, Miss Cora."
"Well, then, what could she have in common with me? Why did that man cast her name in my face as an insult?"
Toby made no reply.
"You do not answer me. Good Heavens! A terrible light flashes upon me. Speak, speak!" cried the excited girl, grasping the arm of the slave in her slender hand, "Toby, speak!"
The mulatto fell on his knees at the feet of his young mistress, and cried imploringly:
"Miss Cora, in the name of mercy, do not look at me thus."
"Toby, tell me," murmured Cora, in a voice hoarse with emotion; "who was my mother?"
"Mistress, dear mistress, for pity's sake do not ask me. I have promised not to reveal—"
"You said just now that you loved me," answered Cora; "if you spoke the truth, prove your affection; tell me who was my mother."
"Your mother—" faltered the slave; "no, no, I cannot, I dare not."
"But I command you—nay, I implore."
"Your mother—was called—Francilia."
"Oh, merciful Heaven, have pity upon me!" cried Cora, hiding her face in her hands; then, after a long pause—she said sorrowfully—
"And I did not even know the name of my mother. Francilia! A slave! This, then, is the secret of my life. Alas! She is dead: is she not?"
"She is."
"Dead, far from her child, who was not even permitted to weep for her."
"Thank Heaven that you do not curse her memory," murmured Toby, rising.
"Curse her!" exclaimed Cora; "Would that I could embrace her, as I do you," she added, throwing her arms about the old man's neck.
"Me, Miss Cora! Me, a mulatto!" remonstrated Toby, gently repulsing her.
"What of that? Does not the same blood flow in our veins? Are we not of the same down-trodden race? Ah, speak, speak, Toby, you knew my mother; tell me of her; you see I am calm, I can listen."
She drew the mulatto to one of the garden chairs, and, forcing him to sit down, placed herself at his feet; her hand in his; her eyes raised to his face.
"Francilia was but fifteen years of age," Toby began, "when a slave merchant brought her to Mr. Leslie; she was a quadroon, beautiful as you are, though her skin was not so white. She had long black hair, and large dark eyes, whose sweet and gentle glance I can see again in yours. She was at first employed in the service of Mrs. Leslie. Oh, Heaven! Poor child, how happy and light-hearted she was then; her joyous voice warbling the soft melodies of her nation; her merry laugh ringing through the corridors of the house. I saw her, and I dared to love her! That time was the happiest of my life, for she too loved me. Fools that we were. What right has the slave to love? The slave who belongs to another. One day, Francilia left for Saint Louis, with her master and mistress. They were to be absent some weeks. I was to remain behind. In bidding me farewell she left me this silver ring, which I wear on my finger. I would give it you, dear mistress, but I have sworn to keep it till my death. When Francilia—returned—she—"
The slave paused, overcome by emotion.
"Speak, speak, Toby!" said Cora.
"Oh, for pity's sake, do not accuse her! You know not what it is to be a slave, bound to obey, body and soul, the commands of a master. Is not even resistance a crime? When Francilia returned she had become your father's mistress. She confessed all to me, with tears, and heart-rending grief! A terrible rage possessed me! I was like a drunken man! If, in that moment, Mr. Leslie had appeared before me, I know that I should have become a murderer. But the habit of suffering teaches resignation to the slave. This first fury past, I felt my energy abandon me, and I could only weep with Francilia over our vanished happiness. Alas, poor child, she no longer laughed, she no longer sang!"
"Poor girl! Poor girl!"
"It was only when you came into the world," continued Toby, "that she seemed to re-attach herself to life, and I, bestowing on you all the deep devotion that I had felt for her—forgive me, Miss Cora, I loved you as if you had been my own child."
"Dear Toby."
"But she—oh, how she loved you. With more than a mother's love; with the love of the slave, who knows that even her child is not her own, but is a slave like herself—and who dares not to slumber beside the cradle of her infant, for they take away the children while the mother sleeps, and she awakes, perhaps, to find the cradle empty."
"Oh, cruel, cruel!"
"But this was not the fate with which you were threatened. Mr. Leslie had married a vain and capricious woman. They had no children, and his life was not a happy one. His love for you was intense—all the more intense, as he was compelled to conceal from all an affection which would have been considered a weakness. Your father's love for you had reassured Francilia, when one day (you were then four years old), he announced his determination of taking you to England. Francilia did not utter a word; the silent tears filled her mournful eyes. But when they tore you from her arms, she burst into a tempest of sobs, and fell insensible to the ground."
"Yes, yes, I remember."
"But all that is nothing!" cried the slave, his eyes flashing with vengeful fury; "nothing to—. Yet, no, no! I have no more to tell."
"But I insist on knowing all," exclaimed Cora vehemently. "What became of my unhappy mother? How did she die?"
"On his return from Europe, Mr. Leslie found her tranquil, and apparently resigned; but the glance of those mournful black eyes became an eternal reproach, which irritated and tormented him. He sent her to work on the plantation; but for some reason or other, go where he would, he was always meeting her, always encountering the same melancholy look, which seemed to ask him for her child. At last he could endure it no longer. He sold her."
"Oh, Heaven!" exclaimed Cora.
"He sold her to a man of the name of Craig—a bad man—who, under the mask of a sanctimonious life, concealed the base heart of a profligate and a villain. He thought, on purchasing the slave, that he would succeed her late master in her good graces; but finding that he could obtain nothing by persuasion, he would have had recourse to violence, when Francilia seized a knife and buried its blade in her heart."
"Oh, my mother, my murdered mother!"
"A negro belonging to this Craig stole the knife, which he gave to me. I have it still."
Cora sank on her knees, the tears streaming from her eyes, her clasped hands uplifted to Heaven.
"Alas, beloved mother!" she cried, "martyr to the base and cruel laws of this accursed land, it is after fifteen years that your daughter learns your unhappy fate; after fifteen years that she weeps for your memory!"