Through the damp streets, where shone mistily through the heavy fog the lamps on the corners, Guly, with anxious heart and hurried step, wandered alone. He sought every place of which he believed his brother to have any knowledge, and left no spot unvisited where they had ever been together. All in vain. None of whom he inquired had seen Arthur, and of many he could not bring himself to inquire, blushing at the thought of his brother being known to them. Still, as he turned to retrace his steps, he found himself involuntarily looking into the richly furnished saloons, where the show of luxury, and display of wealth, lead so many, through their very love of gorgeousness, to drink, to distress, to death! Each time, as his eyes turned thitherward, a sigh of relief rose from his heart to find that Arthur was not an inmate there. Thus seeking, thushoping, he found himself again before the door of No. —, Chartres-street. Having no pass-key, he rapped for admittance, for the store was closed, and all around it dark. Wilkins' voice bade him enter. Trying the door, he found it unlocked, and going in, saw Wilkins sitting by the coal fire—which the chill air of November now rendered necessary—alone, and apparently in deep thought. With as cheerful an air as he could assume, he approached him, and laying a hand upon each shoulder, as he stood behind his chair, bent forward, and looked up in the thoughtful eyes gazing on the fire.
"What can be the subject of your meditations, Mr. Wilkins? your face looks sad enough to be the index of a sorrowful heart?"
Mr. Wilkins made no reply, but lifting his arm, drew the golden head upon his bosom, and held it there, stroking back with listless fingers the soft bright curls.
"Has anything unpleasant happened since I went out, Wilkins?"
"No, Guly; nothing has happened. I was alone here—the fire was bright, the arm-chair empty, so I sat down, and fell to thinking, that's all. Have you been to see Blanche?"
"Blanche! I don't suppose I could have found her, had I thought of trying."
"True enough. We are going there together. What of your brother, Guly?"
Guly told him of his ineffectual search; the fact of his not having seen him in any of the saloons, and the hope he entertained of seeing him walk in, by and by, feeling happier for his walk, and seating himself there by the fire.
Wilkins shook his head, doubtingly.
"Your brother's spirit is one which needs to be peculiarly dealt with, until he grows a little older, and less impetuous. I'm sorry to say it, but he has more pride than principle just at this age; and he ought to have the blessing of a home and a mother's love, till the principle could be made to predominate. Get a chair, Guly, and sit close by me, here."
Guly brought the chair, and placed it close to his companion, and seated himself. Wilkins drew his head again upon his bosom.
"It is abouthim," continued Wilkins, "that I have been thinking this evening. I really take a deep interest in his welfare, and wish I knew how to guide him. For his sake I wish my own heart was more disciplined, that I was not so utterly incapable."
"Don't let such thoughts as these prevent you from using your influence with my poor brother, Wilkins. I am too young, too weak, too inexperienced, to control him. He would naturally scorn the advice of one so much younger; butyou, oh! don't let too lowly an opinion of yourself deprive Arthur of the counsel and guidance he so much needs."
"Ah! Guly, you don't know me. I might tell him how he should do; but my example, if he should ever chance to see it, would disgust him with my advice. Had it been different when I first came here, I might now be a better man. I was an orphan, came here from the North, had no soul in this vast city to love or care for me, and for five years I have lived here loveless and lonely, save when with those companions which a friendless being is almost sure to fall in with here; and I can turn to no one, feeling that they care for me."
"Wilkins, I love you; indeed, I love you as a brother."
"I believe you, Guly; though we are so different; though my cherishing you is like the lion mating with the lamb, still I believe in my heart the honest love I feel for you, God has blest me by causing you to reciprocate. I have been a better man since I first held you here on my heart. A better man, Heaven knows!"
"Wilkins, in all the five years you have been here, do you mean to say Mr. Delancey has never asked you to his house, or noticed you any more than he does now?"
"I have never been asked to enter his door, Guly, any more than you have. He would as soon, I suppose, turn a herd of swine into his drawing-room, as to ask his clerks there. He is very proud."
"That isn't pride, Wilkins; it is meanness. A truly proud man would adopt the contrary course, I am sure;and so attach all his employees to himself, and to his interests."
"Ah! he never thinks of that. His negroes get better treatment than his clerks, by far; and there isn't a soul among them but what loves him dearly, and would die for him, I don't doubt, at any moment. So you see he can be kind, strange as it may seem."
"It is strange, Wilkins. Mr. Delancey is a man I cannot understand or appreciate. I don't think I like him at all."
"He certainly has done nothing to make you, my poor boy. His pride, for it is pride, renders him very disagreeable. If all the sin, which his harshness and indifference has caused in others, were laid up against him, 'twould make a mighty pile. There's a day of retribution coming for him, though."
As Wilkins spoke he bent forward, and rested his head on his hand, with a peculiar smile upon his lips.
"A day of retribution! What do you mean, Wilkins? Is there any trouble brooding for him?"
"All pride must have a fall," muttered Wilkins, as if to himself, while he gave the coals a vehement thrust. "Don't ask me anything more about it, Guly."
"But you have roused my curiosity," said Guly, looking up in surprise. "If it isn't a secret, I would like to know more of what you mean."
"I mean a great deal, and would tell you sooner than any one else; but it would do you no good if I would tell you, which I can't, and so we'll say no more about it."
"Has Mr. Delancey any children?"
"Two—a son and a daughter; at least hehada son."
"And did he die?"
"Oh, no; he fell in love with a poor but worthy girl, who has no doubt made him an excellent wife, or at least would have done so had it been in her power. Instead of taking his daughter-in-law to his heart and home, and making her what his wealth could have made her, with her worth and beauty, he met the whole affair with stern opposition, and after his son's marriage turned him from him with a curse, and disinherited him. How the poor fellow has managed to live since, I can't imagine; for he had no profession, nor anything to live by but his wits. I heard once he had become reckless and dissipated, and had sworn vengeance on his unnatural father, but I've heard very little of him of late."
"This is shocking. A clerk can expect but little from such a father. Oh, horrible!"
"He is a man you will probably never know, however long you may live with him. Had it not been for the necessary contact my position in his employ brought us into, I should never have known him at all."
"And you believe he really deemed Arthur guilty to-day?"
"That is more than I can answer. Mr. Delancey is close with regard to money matters."
"My poor brother! Wilkins, promise me to do all you can for him. Oh! I know how much danger surrounds him. What can I, so young and feeble, do? We two are all that is left our mother. Help me—I'm sure you will—to save him."
"I will, Guly—by my sworn love to you, I will. Sometime, my boy, when I may greatly need a friend to help me through a trouble or sorrow that is coming upon me—when those that know me may shun me—you, who love me, will be that friend. May I rely upon you?"
"Depend upon me?—yes, truly, Wilkins—in anything that's right."
Guly's heart was racked with more sorrowful anxiety for his brother than he could, or cared to, express; but in spite of his efforts to restrain them, the bright tears fell down his cheeks at Wilkins' kind words, and dropped upon the broad breast which supported him. Wilkins raised his hand, and wiped them away.
"Don't cry, Guly; your grief unmans me."
"Oh, Wilkins, how can I help it?"
Wilkins answered nothing, but drew the slight form closer in silent sympathy. The hours went on, and midnight still saw them sitting there together—the golden head upon the broad, kind breast, and the eyes of both looking thoughtfully into the coals.
Della sat in her large chair, before the dressing-glass, with her delicate feet buried in the rich softness of a velvet cushion; her hands were folded in her lap, and her eyes fixed upon Minny's face, which was clearly reflected in the mirror, as she stood behind her mistress, arranging the shining bands of long fair hair.
"Minny, how very,verywhite you are! How came you to be so white, when your mother is the blackest slave papa owns?"
A scarlet flush rose to the quadroon's cheek.
"My father, Miss, was as white as your own."
"Were you born here, Minn?"
"My mother was in your father's service when she gave me birth, Miss Della. Will you have your bandeaux single or double for this evening?"
"Double, Minn, so the wreath can lie nicely in between; and make those braids as rich as possible. I wish to look my best to-night. You have always lived here since you were born, Minn?—was a baby when I was a baby?"
"Yes, my dear Miss, and my mother was your nurse; your own mother not liking to spoil her figure by nursing her child, you were put to my mother's breast. So mother tells me."
"Well, if you had been a white child, that would have made us foster-sisters, wouldn't it? That's the reason old Mag loves me so well. I never knew of this before."
"It's something very common here, you know, Miss, for white children to have their foster-mothers among the slaves. Fashionable ladies always think it ruins their forms to have a child at the breast."
"Yes, I know, Minn; and I think it a very shameful practice, too. I never want to be a fashionable woman, if it is going to deprive me of performing a mother's holiest offices for my children. I'm sure after a child of mine had been reared at a black mother's breast I should feel they were black children, had black blood in their veins, and I never could feel right toward them again."
"You are one in a thousand, dear Miss Della; and suchfeelings are right, and good, and noble. But if you ever wish to be truly a mother to your children, don't marry a fashionable man, whose pride will be to show you off all the time in gay company, and who will be always fretting to keep your beauty good. It is such husbands that make bad mothers. A woman can't be a votary of fashion and a good mother."
"I never shall marry a fashionable man, Minny—youknowthat; but when Idomarry I shall try and be a good, and true, and dutiful wife, nothing more. I haven't a taste for high life—that is, gay life, which has no heart in it. But, Minny, let's go back to you; I commenced about you; what made you change the subject, child?"
"Did I, Miss?"
"Yes. Who was your father, Minny?"
Minny's cheek lost it's flush, and became pale as death.
"I cannot tell you, Miss."
"But youknow."
Minny made no answer, but her hands shook violently, and the braids she had just fastened fell loose again from her trembling fingers.
"What ails you, Minn? why don't you answer me?" said Della, looking up earnestly at Minny, in the glass.
"I never told you a lie in the world, Miss Della; and I don't answer you because I can't tell the truth now."
"Youmusttell me if you know, Minny; and you must tell the truth, too."
"Oh, Miss Della," said the girl, sinking at her mistress's feet in a fit of wild weeping, "don't, don't ask me this. I never knew it myself till yesterday, and then I wrung it from my mother, who charged me, if I valued her life, never to lisp it again. It made me wretched. Oh, Miss Della, it would kill you."
"Kill me? How can it affect me, silly child? What nonsense."
Della lifted up the beautiful head which was bowed before her, and turned the pallid face toward her own.
"Tell me, you foolish one," she persisted, her curiosity fully aroused. "I must and will know about it now;" and she stamped her little foot with an air of command, which, toward her favorite, was very rarely assumed.
Minny pressed her hands, clasped one upon the other, hard against her heart, as if its throbbing was painful, and raised her eyes, full of a strange, wild light, to her mistress's face.
"I would sooner die than tell you, Miss."
There might have been something in that agonized look that called forth emotion, or there might have been something in that cold, fixed gaze, which stamped for the instant the father on that upturned, ashy face; for as she met the glance, Della suddenly clasped her hands to her face, and, with an exclamation of horror, fell back fainting.
Minny sprang wildly to her feet—"Oh, Miss Della!"she exclaimed, as she bent over the senseless form before her, pouring out her passionate accents as if there was an ear to hear them. "Oh, Miss Della, how could you crave this knowledge to-day, of all other days? Had it been yesterday morning, or ever before in all our life here together, I would not have known, and you would have never known. To-day, of all days! Oh, I have broken this poor, sensitive heart; woe is me, woe is me! Oh, if I had only died before I learned this dreadful secret, only died! only died!"
With trembling hands, and eyes raining down their gushing tears, Minny bathed the pale brow, and brought rare perfumes, and chafed the little hands.
"Miss Della! Miss Della! I knew it would kill you—and you only guessed; I never told you—oh, no, never, never, never!"
Slowly Della returned to consciousness, and as her eyes unclosed, they fell upon the agonized face of her weeping attendant. She closed them quickly, and raised her hand so as to wave her from her sight, but it dropped listlessly back into her lap, and she lay still in the large chair, apparently as weak and helpless as an infant.
"Oh, Miss Della! God forgive me for what I have done, though I never meant to do it—never thought to do it. What could have turned your thoughts on this to-day?"
"Go away," murmured Della, faintly; "go away, so that I may open my eyes and not see you."
Minny moved a few paces back.
"I can see you in the glass yet; go away so that I can't see you anywhere, Minn."
Weeping bitterly, Minny retired to the other apartment; and Della, with folded hands, sat quite still with downcast eyes and pallid cheeks, looking like a statue of meditation.
A little French clock upon the mantle-piece struck the hour, and went on with its monotonous tick, tick—that unobtrusive voice of warning and admonition—until the half hour was sweetly chimed, and still Della sat there, pale, and still thinking. At length she rose, and with an energy unusual with her, walked hastily back and forth across the room. It had a soothing effect, and her brow was calm and resolute, yet shadowed as if with some new lesson of life, harshly forced upon her. She seated herself once more before the mirror.
"Minny, I am ready for you now."
Minny came, with her face calm and corpse-like, and once more essayed to bind up the rich bands of hair.
"Place my wreath a little more front. My cheek needs the shade of that bright rose to relieve its pallor—so—that effect is charming."
"Your hair is dressed, Miss."
Della sprang to her feet like one who resolutely tossed some load from the heart, and taking the hand-mirror fromthe table, surveyed the arrangement of her hair altogether.
"Beautiful! Minny, you have excelled yourself to-night."
"Thank you, Miss. What dress?"
"My India mull, and the rose-colored ribbons."
The dress was brought, and Della stood before the full-length mirror while Minny fastened it.
"Tie my shoulder-knots in your prettiest manner, Minny."
"Yes, Miss; and my reward shall be a rehearsal of the list of conquests?"
"I suppose so," smiled Della; "Minn, I pet you a great deal too much."
"I know it, Miss; and make me love you a great deal too well."
Della sighed.
At this moment there was a tap at the door, and Mrs. Delancey, in full evening costume, entered the room.
"Most ready, dort, darling?"
"Yes, mamma, I will be down in a few minutes."
"You look very sweetly in that simple dress; what prompted you to choose that to-night, treasure?"
"An instinctive knowledge, I presume, mamma, that I would look very sweetly in it," replied Della, archly.
Mrs. Delancey was a fine-looking woman—very fussyand very French. She smiled, and displayed her brilliant teeth at her daughter's answer, then stooped, and kissed her brow. Mrs. Delancey loved her child, with all the strength of affection she was capable of feeling. She was even first in her heart in some moments of pride and ambition, and second never, save to her love of fashion and display.
"Clasp this string of pearls about your throat, it will relieve the plainness of your attire."
"I'd rather not have it relieved, mamma."
"What a strange whim," returned the lady, proceeding to fasten on the necklace.
As the toilet was declared finished, Mrs. Delancey stepped back to observe the effect.
"Charmante, ma chere!" she exclaimed. "Remember, love, your father and I wish you to be particularly agreeable to General Delville this evening. He is a splendid match, rich as a Jew, and of such fine family!"
"He is the gentleman who was of age when papa was born, isn't he, mamma?"
"Hush, child; what of that! He may be a little old, but all the better—you'll be left a charming young widow the sooner."
Della lifted a bracelet from the table, and fell to examining it with the closest inspection, while her little satin-slippered foot kept up an unconscious, nervous tapping upon the carpet.
Mrs. Delancey looked at her watch—"Nine o'clock, Della; the guests will begin to arrive, shortly. You need not come down till your father comes for you. Remember,ma chere, General Delville, particularly."
So saying, the proud mother swept from the apartment.
As the door closed upon her, Della stepped through the open window, and passed out upon the balcony. Minny busied herself with putting aside the jewels which had not been wanted, and other unnecessary articles of dress, which the capricious fancy of her mistress had drawn from their proper places during the process of preparation.
A half hour passed before Mr. Delancey sought his daughter's apartment; when he entered, Della was seated gracefully on an ottoman, arranging a bouquet of orange flowers and mignonnette. It was a sweet picture, and the father stopped to look upon it.
Della looked up, and her eye went quickly from her father's to Minny's face, then dropped again upon her flowers.
"Are you ready, Della?"
"One minute, papa."
"You are looking very lovely to-night, my daughter. Be careful and have your manners to correspond with your looks. My choicest friends are here this evening, and I wish to see you Queen of Hearts."
"Especially to General Delville?"
"Especially to General Delville, Della. I shall be very happy to see you his wife, and it is in your power to become so if you choose."
"I should like to know how many wives he has already, before I take that step, so that I may know how strong a fortification my eyes need against finger-nails."
"Fie, Della! the General has never been married, and you will no doubt occupy the first place in his heart."
"I have always hoped that when I married such might be my lot, but it cannot be in this case, I know. If General Delville has lived in New-Orleans till he has grown old enough to be my grandfather, he can't have much of a heart left."
"Della, you astonish me!" said her father, with the frown deepening. "One would think you had no ambition whatever to make a good match."
"Papa, do you love me at all?"
Mr. Delancey started at the abrupt question, and gazed upon his daughter in surprise.
"Love you, Della? the whole of my heart is centred in you."
Della sighed, as if the answer did not quite please her, and taking her father's proffered arm, went down the broad staircase, and into the magnificent drawing-room.
Wealth, and beauty, and state, and grandeur, all were there; yet first, and fairest, and brightest, shone the merchant's daughter. The happy father and proud mother watched her, as with a light step she flitted through the thronged rooms, the "observed of all observers," and there was a light in her eye, an animation in her tread, and a glow on her cheek, which was all the more beautiful for being rare.
She leant upon Mr. Delville's arm, the envied object of many a young heart there; and when seated at the harp, her clear, unaffected voice rose in strains of thrilling melody. General Delville was at her side, listening with earnest attention, and turning the leaves of her music with all the grace of a more youthful courtier.
Aware, as he was, of the sanction of the father and the eagerness of the mother, it was no wonder that the General strove to win to his withered heart so fair a flower. He had been a great traveler, and had feasted his eyes on the beautiful women of the East, and the more frigid beauties of northern climes. He had been courted rather than courting, and had gone through life dreading to take to his heart a wife, lest, when too late, he should find his wealth had been the talisman that drew her there.
But in Della, he thought he saw a sweet and guileless girl; and put forth all his attractive powers of conversation and graces of person (which, old as he was, became him well,) to interest her in himself. Her father watched the progress of their acquaintance with a delight whichmanifested itself, even inhiscold eyes, and Della received the assiduous attentions of her white-haired admirer with a triumph for which she was excusable; yet with no desire to win him closer than now.
The evening wore away, the splendid supper was over, and the guests, one by one, took their departure. Many a youthful suitor made his adieus to Della that night with a jealous pang, as Delville's apparent success arose to his mind. When the rooms were cleared, Mr. Delancey called his daughter to his side.
"I cannot let you retire, Della, without telling you how much you have pleased and gratified a father's heart this night. I am more than ever proud of you; you will well adorn the station in which Delville can place you. Bless you, Della. Good night."
"Good night, papa."
Della moved gracefully away, and slowly mounted the broad staircase leading to her chamber.
"No blessing of love—no blessing of affection," she murmured softly, as she went on, step by step—"only a blessing through his pride—cold, hollow, empty pride, with nothing noble, nothing lofty in it; having for foundation only an eligible match for me, or my station, or my appearance. What a life, what a life!"
Della expected to find Minny asleep, as the hour was late; but when she entered her apartment, Minny wasthere, walking the floor with her hands clasped thoughtfully before her.
"Undress me, Minn. I am weary—weary."
"Haven't you been happy, Miss?" asked the girl, as she knelt to unfasten the slender slipper from the pretty foot.
"Yes—and no, Minn. If triumph could make me happy, I must have been, so far as that is concerned; but in thinking of you I have been unhappy; and I have thought of you all the evening."
"Of me, Miss, in the midst of all that gaiety!"
"Of you. Would you like to be free, Minny?"
"Free, Miss Della? to have my freedom, and leave you?"
"Yes, Minny, if you would like your freedom, you shall have it this very night; papa will do anything I say with regard to it, and you may go, dear Minn, whenever you choose. You shall have money to carry you where you like. In the North you might do well; marry some rich abolitionist, perhaps, and be very happy. I am in earnest, Minn; you have but to speak."
"Miss Della, if I have offended you in any way, if I have hurt your heart by any means, if I have spoken, acted, or looked anything that displeased you, do anything to punish me save sending me from you. What would my freedom be to me away from you? Miss Della, you will never know how poor Minn loves you."
The girl had spoken in such a subdued voice, uttering her short sentences between the sobs that were trying to struggle up, that, as she paused in her task, and looked in her mistress's face with an expression of such tearful, doubtful anxiety on her features, Della was deeply touched, and sat a moment with her handkerchief pressed to her eyes. She took it down at last, and went on very calmly and thoughtfully.
"Minny, it is very painful for me to talk of this, but you must understand me: I'm afraid I can never be quite happy again, with you performing such offices as this for me. The discovery I made this afternoon—that unfortunate discovery for both of us—was terrible—very terrible!"
"Oh, Miss, that of all things you should have asked me that! I will never, never remember it, if you will only forget it, and let me be to you what I have ever been."
"I was right in what I suspected—I am sure I guessed the truth—you must tell me now, Minny," said Della, taking one of Minny's hands in hers, and speaking in a tone half doubtful that she might be wrong. "My father was your father,n'est ce pas, dear Minny?"
Heedless of the kindness with which the words were spoken, Minny threw up her hands with a gesture of despair, then flung herself full length upon the floor, in a burst of passionate grief.
"Get up, Minny; get up, and come by me here; come!"
With the deep sobs still bursting from her lips, the girl rose, and sat, with bowed head and falling tears, at her young mistress's feet.
"Minny, you understand me now, don't you? Think of it, Minny: you are my sister!"
"Oh! none the less your slave, Miss."
"My father's child must never be a slave to me."
"Miss Della! Oh that this knowledge should have ever come to either of us; don't for the love of mercy talk so; don't put me from you; what am I but a negro's child, the fruit of the white man's sin?"
"I know, Minny, I know the world would never look upon this as I do; but you are in my sight as much my sister as if my father had lost a first wife and wedded again, and we were the fruits of the two marriages. The same blood is in your veins that is in mine. He who gave you being, to me is 'father,' to you is 'master.' You are more beautiful than I, as well as better fitted for the society into which I am forced to move, yet you are a slave!"
Della leaned back in her chair a moment; and again held her handkerchief to her eyes; she controlled herself quickly however, and continued:
"I set the case before you just as it is, Minny; I want you to view it in its true light—then choose between what I offer you, and what you must otherwise be. Don't tremble so, Minny; I never have felt towards you as a mistresswould to a slave. When I look back, I remember you were the only playmate I ever had, the closest and best companion of my wayward girlhood; and I feel that I have always loved you, always respected you, and, Minny, I always shall. I am certain, Minn, that though there may be black blood circling round it, there never was a purer heart, a nobler soul, than yours. Were it not for my father's sake your position should be different in this house, but in honor to him I can only do you good by sending you where your birth and parentage will ever be a mystery. Minny, dear, will you go?"
The girl had sat during all this time quiet as a statue, at her mistress's feet. As she heard her stop speaking, she raised herself upon her knees before her, and clasping her small hands above her, exclaimed:—
"As God hears me, Miss Della, I would rather stay by you, rather be the veriest slave that ever breathed, a mere thing to answer to your beck and call, so that I may be near you, and love you, and do for you, than to be the wife of the richest white man that ever lived—to be looked upon as white myself—or to move in those circles which you would fain believe me fitted for. As God hears me this is true!"
"Heaven bless you, Minny! Then we will never part."
With an exclamation of joy, Minny clasped her young mistress to her heart, and poured forth, with passionatevehemence, her prayers and tears and blessings. It seemed as if she could never cease, and Della twined her fair arms, jeweled, and white, and beautiful, beneath the thick black curls, which covered Minny's neck, and gave her kiss for kiss, and tear for tear.
"When I am Bernard's wife, Minn, then I can make you happier. You have all those dear letters safe, quite safe?"
"I keep them as the apple of my eye, Miss. You can never make me happier, dear Miss, than I am now. I can never wish to be more blest than I am this minute."
"Dear Minny, you have a woman's heart, and that must know a woman's longings. When I have it in my power I shall at least try to make you happier, though it may be in a different way. You have always been more a friend and a fond companion than a slave to me, and now, now—" Della paused, as if it were impossible for her to speak the words she would, then added, after a moment's pause, "Minny, never let this dreadful secret go farther, place a seal upon your lips, and let it die with you for my sake. And, if you will stay, Minny, rather than to go and be free and happy in your own way, I will do everything for you, love you, care for you, all—only never, never let this dreadful truth be known."
"Never, Miss, so help me Heaven! Only let me stay with you, and be what I have ever been to you, and I willbe content. Try, dear Miss, to forget all that's passed to-day, and let us stand together in the old light."
"No, Minny, I can never forget it. The old light can never shine on me again; but I will try always to remember it as I should; and now, Minn, finish, undressing me; or rather, teach me to undress myself."
"I claim this as my privilege, Miss, and never want you to learn how."
Della smiled, and patted Minny's cheek. There had a change come over her in the last few hours, such as she never thought to experience. It seemed as if she had become more of a woman in that short space than she had ever thought she would become. Her judgment and heart, too, seemed suddenly to have expanded; and she felt more respect for herself than she had ever done before. She had always been one who thought for herself, notwithstanding there were so many to think for her; and, with a spirit above all affectation, she looked at things in a plain, common-sense, and true light. When the first shock was over in regard to her relationship to Minny, she had struggled with her natural feelings of wounded pride, till the matter stood before her as it was. Her father was not one to win his child's affections, and Della had always feared more than loved him; but of one so cold and stern she had never in all her life thought this. But now that she knew it, she almost wondered how it was she had neversuspected as much before. Few girls, in Della's position, would have talked with a slave as she talked to Minny—would ever have thought of placing matters in so strong a light before her; but Della was guileless and innocent at heart, with a child-spirit in some things, yet more than woman's strength in others. She never thought Minny could take advantage of the new aspect of affairs she painted for her; she only felt that Minny was enduring a life of wrong, and longed to give her redress. And Minny's was a great, and noble, and truthful heart. From earliest childhood she had been taught to regard Miss Della as her mistress, and was never absent from her side. Della had been educated at home; and Minny, with her quick mind, and an occasional lesson from her young mistress, together with her earnest desire to learn, had acquired more real knowledge than Della herself, though lacking some of the light accomplishments in which her mistress excelled. Thus had they grown up together, and they were not to be parted now.
When Arthur left the store, the evening after the unfortunate affair of the bank deposit, he had gone forth with no definite purpose, no chosen course for his footsteps, only with a longing desire to feel the breath of Heaven upon his hot brow once again, and to look up at the stars, which he felt glad would gaze on him always the same, from the deep blue sky above; no matter what changes came o'er the heart of man, or how black the frown adversity might bend upon him. Perhaps had the youth, that night, been left to commune with his own rebel thoughts, and to the companionship of those holy stars, and the still voice of the night, he would have become himself again, and sought his pillow with a heart refreshed from the storm that had swept over it. But his evil genius pursued him; and before he reached the first corner, he heard a quick step behind him, and turning, stood face to face with the last person he at that moment wished to meet—Quirk, his fellow-clerk.
Since the Sabbath which they had spent so disgracefully together, he had shunned Quirk in every way. He had avoided his glances, shunned his presence, and turned a deaf ear to his sneers and gibes. But now there was no way to avoid him, and Arthur greeted him with as good a grace as possible.
"What the devil's the matter with you, Pratt?" he exclaimed, after the first words of recognition. "I can see plainly there's been a muss between you and old D., someway, but I'll be hanged if I could find out what 'twas about. He hasn't found out we lost that pass-key, has he?"
"D——n the key," said Arthur, uttering his first oath with cool nonchalance; "I don't know whether he's found it out or not, and care less."
"You'd have to care, I reckon, if he did find it out, though," returned the other. "Don't you see the store is liable to be entered any night, if a clever fellow happened to find that key? You see the number of the store and all is on it."
Arthur walked on for a moment in silence, then replied:
"If a 'clever fellow,' as you say, had found it, and wanted to use it for such a purpose, he'd have been in, Iguess, before now—that key has been gone a month or more."
"Aye, but the nights have been too fine; starlight or moonlight all the while; and may be he is waiting for the new stock of goods, who knows?"
"Well, if that's going to happen," said Arthur, earnestly, "I only hope it will not come just yet; I've got trouble enough for one season."
"Trouble! what have you got to trouble you, I'd like to know? But I forgot, you haven't told me what occurred to-day; and that's just what I come after you for, to find out."
"Well, I may as well tell you, I suppose, if you are so anxious to know. Delancey, I don't believe, will keep it to himself, and you may as well know it from me as him."
"Never hope for him to keep anything secret that could hurt a body; I never knew him to screen a clerk's faults yet. He is of the opinion that to make the matter public, is the best way to ensure better luck next time. Let's step in here, and take something refreshing; and you can tell me the story over our glasses."
Arthur complied, and entering one of those gorgeous saloons, which can be found in almost every block of the Crescent City, Quirk stepped to the counter, and ordered a bottle of wine, and, in an under-tone, added:—"A private apartment, also, if you have one empty."
The clerk, who was a portly, sensual-faced, red-haired man, raised his brows, and, tipping a sly wink at Quirk, said:—"Up stairs or down?"
"Both, perhaps," returned the other, with a laugh; "but if we want an upper one, we'll let you know. Down stairs for the present."
The man had by this time lighted a lamp, at the wick of which he had been working for some time, and taking the bottle of wine, he led the way into the back part of the saloon, where was a door partially concealed by red moreen hangings. He shoved aside the curtain, and passed into a long vestibule, elegantly furnished, with doors opening on each side, not unlike the state-rooms of a steamboat. These doors led into small apartments, carpeted, lighted, and containing four chairs and a card-table, with a pack of cards.
"You are perfectly private here, gentlemen."
"Yes," replied Quirk, seating himself with the air of a man who has bought his comfort, and means to enjoy it. "Ah, Quibbles, what shall we do for cigars? I forgot them."
"We have some prime Havanas, sir; how many did you order?"
"Oh, bring me half a dozen; that's enough after wine."
Quibbles departed on his mission.
"This is a nice place, Pratt, to tell secrets in; don't you think so?"
"I do, indeed," said Arthur, looking around with a knowing air, and thrumming on the table with his fingers.
The clerk at this moment returned with cigars and wine glasses, and drew the cork of the wine bottle.
"Quibbles."
"Yes, sir."
"Has Clinton been here to-night?"
"Not yet."
"When he comes tell him we are here, and send him in, will you?"
Quibbles bowed, and retired.
"Is that the proprietor of this establishment, Quirk?" asked Arthur, helping himself to a glass of wine.
"Ho, ho, bless your heart, no. The proprietor is one of the pillars of an up-town church, and would feel his reputation ruined, and himself disgraced, if seen behind the counter of such a concern. He hires this man to play proprietor, and keeps the place open for the benefit of those who prefer bar-rooms to churches. You see, Christians go into anything that pays well, here."
Arthur bent over his glass with something like a frown on his young brow; then holding his wine up between his eye and the light, he shook it slowly, and watched the ruddy reflection playing on his hand.
"Didn't I hear you ask if Clinton had been here, Quirk?"
"Aye, just so."
"Does he frequent this place?"
"Well, between you and me, he does."
"Does he use these?" said Arthur, lifting a few of the cards, and letting them fall slowly through his fingers.
"Well, sometimes he does one thing, sometimes another; you see this is a very extensive establishment, and sometimes he drinks in the saloon, sometimes gambles in here, and sometimes passes the evening up stairs with the ladies, and occasionally does all in the course of an evening. He's a fine fellow, I tell you; a fast un, though."
"What ladies are in the house, the family of the man out yonder?"
"Ha! ha! ha!" roared Quirk, uproariously; "what a prime innocent it is, though. Why, my boy, this is one of the fashionable establishments of the city."
A glow of shame crossed Arthur's cheek, as the truth flashed upon his mind, and dashing his glass angrily down, blushing at the thought of being led into such a place, he was about to pass out of the door.
"Why, hold on, Pratt; have you forgotten what you came here for? You haven't told me a word of what you were going to."
"Nor shall I in this hole," returned Arthur, laying hishand upon the door-key; "if you want to hear it you must get out of here."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Quirk, trying to detain him; "hold on till we finish this bottle."
"Not I," replied Arthur, "I've had enough;" and dashing open the door, he rushed against the trim figure of Clinton, who was just about to enter.
"Whither so fast, whither so fast!" cried Clinton, so cheerfully, as he laid both hands on Arthur's shoulders, and playfully detained him, that he could not answer the speaker with a frown; so, holding out his hand, he shook that of the new comer heartily, and suffered himself to be led back into the card-room.
"If you hadn't have come just as you did, Clin, this chap would have been off like a shot from a shovel, his young modesty was so shocked just by my telling him the state of affairs in the house here," said Quirk, tipping back in his chair against the wall, while a sneer mingled in the smile upon his lips.
"Well, if he isn't used to such things, I don't wonder," returned Clinton, drawing Arthur to a seat by his side, and squeezing cordially the hand he still held.
"You're a pretty one to side that way," said Quirk, half angry at Clinton's remark. "If he ain't used to such things, it's time he was initiated, if he ever expects to be a man."
"Time enough, time enough," replied Clinton, good-naturedly, shaking the bottle to see if there was anything left in it, then touching a table-bell at his side, he summoned Quibbles.
"A couple of bottles of champagne here, and clean glasses."
They were brought instantly.
"How came you to drop in here, boys, to-night? I declare it is an unexpected pleasure."
"Pratt had something on his mind, and came in here to tell me of it; but he got so d——d huffy, I don't suppose I shall hear it now."
"Something on your mind, eh, Pratt?" said Clinton, in a commiserating tone, as he filled Arthur's glass, and shoved the bottle to Quirk; "if so, here's to the end of it."
They touched glasses, and drank off the sparkling draught.
"Now for the story, whatever it is!" cried Clinton.
"It is no story, only a little affair that happened after I left you this afternoon," returned Arthur.
"Indeed! after you left me! I am all impatience, my dear fellow, let's hear."
In as few words as possible, dwelling as lightly as he could on what Mr. Delancey had said to him, Arthur told it all as it had happened, his companions listening attentively meanwhile.
"Why, my dear soul!" cried Clinton, clapping his hand on Arthur's shoulder, as he finished speaking, "your pocket must have been picked. There's always a crowd in the street at that time of day, and somebody has just been cute enough to rob you."
"So Mr. Delancey thought, and he said probably you did it," returned Arthur, though in the tone of one who tells what he feels assured is false.
"The deuce he did!" exclaimed Clinton, filling the glasses again, and holding up his own to conceal the flush upon his face.
"Well, it's too bad anyhow," said Quirk, with returning good nature. "You don't get any credit for honesty, and have to bear the loss besides—outrageous!"
"How did the old man know anything about me?" said Clinton, with an indifferent air; "I'll have to call him out, if he touches upon my character in this style."
Quirk laughed, and Arthur hastened to explain to Clinton how the remark had been made, and how light a bearing, after all, it had upon himself.
Clinton received it with a careless bow, as if, at best, he considered it a matter of no consequence.
"And so he actually insinuated that you had it, eh, in the end?"
"Yes—and that's the most I care for; if he had believed me honest, I could have borne the rest unmurmuringly; but to be thought a thief!"
"It seems hard enough, don't it?" said Clinton, in a tone of sympathetic kindness, well-calculated to win on the trusting heart beside him, and laying one hand familiarly on Arthur's knee.
"It's a deuced piece of business, that's all about it!" cried Quirk, growing excited with the wine he had swallowed; "it's an insult I wouldn't take from any man—old or young, or little or big; I'll be dem'd if I would."
An insult! that was a light in which he had not exactly placed it before, and Arthur's blood rose at the thought. Clinton remarked it, with a twinkle of gratification in his keen eye, which he strove to conceal from Arthur's observation.
"It's enough to drive one desperate! I scarcely know what I should do under such circumstances," said he, suddenly, with his eyes fixed keenly upon Arthur's flushed face.
"There's no way for me to do but to put up with it," returned Arthur, doggedly; "I've got to stay there, and make it up; and I may as well do it quietly as to make a disturbance about it, because it's got to be done."
"It's enough to tempt one to try the strength of the oldadage——," continued Clinton, thoughtfully, and pausing in the midst of his sentence.
"What's that?" asked Arthur, without looking up.
"Why, to take the game as well as the name," said the other, with a short laugh, and without taking his eyes from Arthur's face.
"True enough," cried Quirk, "you might as well be a thief as to be called one, according to my opinion."
Arthur placed his elbow on the table, and looked into the lamp-blaze thoughtfully, with his head on his hand.
"You are both ready to advise," said he, after a moment's silence, "but I doubt if either of you know what you'd do in my case, after all."
"I'd be avenged," said Clinton, resolutely; "but you are not me, and I don't ask you to do as I would."
"That's just the thing!" cried Quirk; "and if you can hit upon a plan, carry it out; there'll be some satisfaction in that."
"Revenge!" said Arthur, bitterly; "how can I be revenged? It would be a sparrow struggling against a vulture."
"You admit you have been wronged?"
"Most unjustly so."
"And you would be avenged, if you could?"
"Yes, if I spilled my heart's blood."
Arthur had drank deeply of the wine, and his blood washeated with it, and his worst passions aroused. He had been goaded into the belief that he had been grossly insulted and had taken it submissively, and that revenge was his only resource. He threw aside his chair, and strode back and forth across the narrow room, with the excited tread of the caged lion.
Clinton watched him furtively from beneath his brows for a moment, then rising, linked arms, and leaned toward him in a confidential manner.
"My poor friend, I pity you from the bottom of my heart; count upon me whenever you are in want of a friend, will you?"
"Always, Clinton; thank you."
"And if I should try to think upon some good plan, lay some good plot, by which you could gain retribution for this great wrong, would you then be courageous, and carry it out handsomely?"
"Would I? Never fear me there. I'll show you that I'm not one to bow my neck to the insults of a money-holder. I'll carry out anything you say."
"Bravo! my boy; you've got the right kind of spirit in you; that's what I like to see—you're a man of pluck."
"About when do you think you'll have this grand plot ready for me, eh?"
"The first dark night."
"You'll consult the clerk of the we-weather as to when that is c-coming, eh?"
"I suppose so," said Clinton, laughing. "Meanwhile, come down to my house the last of the week, say Friday night, and I'll have all things in cap-a-pie order for you."
"How do I know where to find you, my more than brother," said Arthur, clasping Clinton's hand closely.
"Quirk knows the way. You'll come?"
"Depend upon it."
"Good! that's settled; now for a bumper on it."
"Well, I don't know, Clinton; I—I—declare I'm afr-afraid I'll be (hic) drunk if I drink any more."
"Nonsense! down with it; let's finish the last bottle."
The wine was swallowed, and Clinton, taking Arthur's hand in his, shook it heartily.
"Ah! my boy, you've proved yourself 'one of us' to-night; glad to claim you as a b-hoy. Whenever you're in want or trouble, signal the b-hoys, and you'll be helped out of it. It's a better society than any of the Odd Fellows or Free Masons can ever be, and costs you nothing besides. What say you now for a stroll?"
"Agreed! for my part, I am ready for anything."
"Then hurrah, boys!" cried Clinton, beginning to sing a lively air; and lighting their cigars, they passed out into the saloon.
"Put all this in my bill, Quibbles," said Clinton, as he passed that gentleman, on his way to the door.
"That'll do, sir—all right."
With noise and laughter, and rude jest, the drunken trio went down the street. It needed but a glance to show that the younger of the three, he with the bright complexion and jetty hair, was but a novice in dissipation, and more than one felt a glow of pity, as he jostled past them in the light of the bright windows of Royal-street. Alas! alas! Arthur; where was the ghost in your heart now? that haggard figure, pointing ever with its skinny finger backward!
They kept on until they reached St. Ann-street, into which they turned; as they did so, their attention was attracted by the appearance of a slight female figure, with a short cloak about her shoulders, and the hood drawn over her head. The moment she heard the unsteady steps behind her she hurried her pace, which was already rapid, and sped along with feet winged with fear.
"By Jove! that's a graceful little minx!" exclaimed Clinton.
"She's inclined to lead us a chase, too," said Quirk.
"Let's after her."
"Agreed."
And with a shout, the three started in pursuit, scarce conscious, in their excitement, of the object they had in view.
With a scream, the light form bounded onward, and fledaway like the wind. Strong limbs followed; but her feet were fleet, and lightly clad, and with the hood falling from her head, and hands clasped upon a parcel she carefully carried, she seemed almost to fly before her pursuers. With a cry of delight, she saw the gleam of a lamp come through an open door, a little beyond, when, as she attempted to spring an intervening gutter, her foot struck the curb-stone, and she fell to the earth.
In an instant she was lifted in the arms of Quirk and Clinton.
"Oh, grandpapa! grandpapa!" she shrieked, in thrilling accents, "what will become of your poor, poor Blanche? Help! help!"
Her cries were unheeded by her merciless captors, and they bore her down an adjacent street.
"Villains!" cried a deep, powerful voice, as a huge form met them, in full career, staggering through the darkness; "villains! unhand this girl, or, by Heavens, you'll rue the hour you ever placed a finger on her."
"Help! help!"
"And who are you, I'd like to know, that dares to put his finger in our p-p-pie?" returned Quirk, trying to dash past the tall figure with his burden.
"I am one that dares to protect defenceless virtue, whenever I see it thus assailed. This girl is not what you take her for, or she would never cry for help; and I tell you to put her down, or I will make you," returned the other, lifting his strong arm, and still preventing them from passing.
The girl struggled in the grasp of her captors, and moaned.
The new comer sprang forward with a bound, and clasping his arms about her, strove to draw her from their hold.
"Not so fast, not so fast," said Clinton, placing one hand over the girl's mouth; "remember we're three to one here, and if you don't want your head broke, you'd better keep away."
"That's the kind," said Arthur, coming forward; "hold on to her, Clin—"
The words were no sooner spoken, than the speaker fell to the pavement, leveled by a heavy blow from the arm of the intruder, and a second blow sent Quirk, staggering, into the gutter, while at the same moment the girl was snatched from the now yielding arms of Clinton.
As she gained her feet, she flung back her hair from her eyes, and looked up in the face of her rescuer.
"Monsieur Wilkins!"
"Good Heavens! is this Blanche?"
At the mention of Wilkins' name, Arthur and Quirk sprang to their feet, and started on a run down the street, followed by Clinton.
"A devilish muss this," cried Quirk, as they paused on a corner, a few blocks from the scene of their discomfiture.
"It was too dark for him to recognize a soul of us," returned Clinton; "if it hadn't been for the lamp gleam coming suddenly through that window, she would not have known him."
"I hope he didn't know me," said Arthur, rubbing his forehead, which had struck the pavement as he fell, and feeling considerably sobered by his fall, and the recent flight. "I don't want this scrape to go back to Guly."
"Who's that? your young milk-and-water brother! Pshaw! what does he know about the fun of such things? If you want to enjoy yourself, I advise you to keep your sprees a secret from him; he has no soul to appreciate such affairs."
"You are more than half right there."
"He's the kind of character I can't bear to be near," said Quirk, emphatically.
"You couldn't pay him a higher compliment than to say that," returned Arthur, warmly.
"Well, well, don't get into a miff about a trifle now. Clint, where shall we go to?"
"I shall go home, I reckon; my head aches," said Arthur.
"No, you won't go home either," replied Clinton, pulling him along with him, good-naturedly. "Let's make a night of it, now we have begun. What do you say for the Globe ball-room? There's a high affair there to-night, and
"Agreed," said Quirk; "come along, Pratt. Your foot's in, and it'll be dirty, whether you pull it out first or last; you may as well have the good of it."
With a heart responding to this idea, Arthur suffered his companions each to take an arm, and went on with them to the Globe ball-room. The haggard ghost, the pale figure of warning and remorse, was gone for ever from Arthur's heart.
Wilkins, the moment he discovered who it was he had rescued, gave scarce a thought to the flight of those who had opposed him; but, with a gush of thankfulness in his heart, he drew Blanche's arm within his, and led her back toward her own house.
"How came you to be in the street at this hour, Miss? Do you know it is after midnight, and young girls like you are never safe in these streets at such hours?"
"Oh, sir," said Blanche, bursting into tears, "my grandpapa was taken very ill. I had no one to send, you know, and of course I had to go for assistance myself. I looked all up and down the street, and saw nobody, not even a watch-man; so I put on my cloak, and ran for the doctor. He wasn't home; so I went a little further to see old Elise, who always gives me medicine that helps grandpapa, and she detained me a little while preparing it; and when I came out,theycame behind me; I tried my very best to run away, but I fell down, and they caught me. Oh, Mon Dieu! Monsieur! what if you hadn't come just as you did!"
"You would have been a most miserable little girl, without doubt, Miss Blanche."
"I can never thank you enough, Monsieur."
"You can repay me by never going out at such a time again."
"And when another case comes just as extreme, Mr. Wilkins, what can I do? I couldn't let poor grandpapa die, could I?"
There was such an earnest intonation of voice in these words, and such a simple innocence of manner, that Wilkins couldn't repress a smile.
"If I furnish you with a tidy little black girl, will you take good care of her, Miss Blanche, and letherdo your errands?"
"Oh, Monsieur, that would be too much for you to do."
"No; I own a number of slaves, and the daughter of one of them is too young to be put out to a place, and is just old enough to work for you."
"You are so very kind!"
By this time they had reached Blanche's home, and as she tripped up the steps, she said:—
"Come and see grandpapa to-morrow, Mr. Wilkins; and let him thank you for his kindness to his little house-keeper."
"I will come, Miss Blanche."
"And, Monsieur," she added, coming out again after she had passed into the door, "bring Guly with you, won't you?"
"Oui, Mademoiselle."
The door closed, and Wilkins passed on, thoughtfully, towards Royal-street. In the excitement of the recent adventure, he had almost forgotten what had called him forth at that time of night, and now walked on, like one who wanders forth purposeless, into darkness and solitude. But suddenly, in passing a brilliantly lighted café, the thought of Arthur crossed his mind; and, for the first time, the idea flashed upon him, that he might have been one of those concerned in the capture of little Blanche.
He stopped short, and was about to turn back, to endeavor to trace the fugitives, when he remembered that Arthur had as yet but just commenced the downward path, and that he could not already have become so fallen as to commit so base an act as that which he had just witnessed. It had been too dark to recognize faces, and his own excitement had prevented him from thinking to notice the voices; and the more he thought of it, the more convinced was he that Arthur was not among them. He had sat with Guly by the fire until the midnight hour had passed, waiting for Arthur's return; but when the fire died out, and the lamp faded, and he still was absent, he persuaded Guly to go to bed, promising that he would seek his brother before he slept. Guly would fain have accompanied him, but Wilkins induced him to remain, not wishing to familiarize thepure heart of his boy-friend with the scenes in which he felt convinced he must look for the wanderer.
Wilkins faithfully kept his word, and left no place unsearched wherein he thought it possible to find Arthur. He believed he would find him in some one of the popular places of resort, standing ever open, with their false glitter and dangerous splendor, to lure their victims to destruction. But 'the wee small hour ayont the twal' found him still searching, and still unsuccessful.
Disappointed, with lingering steps he turned toward the store, but, as he stepped upon the sill, a slender figure darted from the alley-way, and laid a chill and trembling hand upon his arm.
"Bernard!"
"Heavens, Minny! what brings you here?"
"Hopes and fears, and memories, and sorrows, whichwill notdie."
"Pshaw, girl! harping on the old string yet! What of your mistress?"
"She is well, and by this time happy in her dreams."