The Bondwoman

“Retta, she wan’t caren’ then; she was young an’ happy all day long while her chile that was jest as white as Miss Gertrude dar be.

“Things went on that-a-way five yeahs, her chile was five yeahs ole when he start fo’ a business visit down to Charleston, an’ he say fo’ he start that Retta gwine have her freedom papers fo’ Christmas gift. Well, sah, he done been gone two weeks in Charleston when he start home, an’ then Mahs Larue persuade him to stay ovah night at his plantation fo’ a fox hunt in the mawnen’. Mahs Matt was theah, an’ some othah friends, so he staid ovah an’ next we heard Mahs Matt sent word Mahs Tom killed, an’ we all was to be ready to see aftah the relations an’ othah quality folks who boun’ to come to the funeral.

“An’ now, sah, you un’stan’ what sort o’ shock it was made Retta lose her mind that time. She fainted dead away when she heard it, but then she kind o’ pulled herself togethah, as a horse will for a spurt, an’ she looked aftah the company an’ took Mahs Matt’s orders ’bout ’rangements, but we all most scared at the way she look–jest a watching Mahs Matt constant, beggen’ him with her eyes to tell her ’bout them freedom papers, but seems like he didn’t un’stan’, an’ when she ask him right out, right ’long side o’ dead Mahs Tom, he inform her he nevah heah tell ’bout them freedom papers, Mahs Tom not tole him ’bout them, so she b’long to the ’state o’ Loring jest same as she did afore, only now Miss Gertrude owned her ’stead o’ Mahs Tom.

“That when she tried to kill herself, an’ try to kill the chile; didn’t know anybody, she didn’t, I tell yo’ it make a terrible ’miration ’mongst the quality folks, an’ I b’lieve in my soul Mahs Matt would a killed her if he dared, fo’ it made all the folks un’stan’ jest what he would ’a tried to keep them from.

“An’ that, sah, is the whole ’count o’ the reason leaden’ up to the sickness whah she lost her mine. We all sutten sure Mahs Matt sell her quick if evah her senses done come back, but she really an’ truly b’long to Miss Gertrude, an’ Miss Gertrude, she couldn’t see no good reason to let go the best housekeeper on the plantation, an’ that how come she come to stay when she fetched back cured by them doctors. She ain’t nevah made a mite o’ trouble–jest alles same as yo’ see her, but o’ course yo’ the best judge o’ how far to trust her ’bout special medicine an’ sech.”

“Yes,” agreed Delaven, thoughtfully. He arose and walked back and forth several times. Until now he had only come in contact with the pleasant pastoral side of life, given added interest because, just now, all its peace was encircled by war; but it was peace for all that–peace in an eminently Christian land, a land of homes and churchly environment, and made picturesque by the grotesque features and humor of the dark exiles. He had only laughed with them until now and marveled at the gaiety of the troops singing in the rice fields, and suddenly another window had been opened and through it one caught glimpses of tragedies.

“And the poor woman’s child?” he asked, after a little.

“Mahs Matt done send her down to Mahs Larue’s Georgy plantation, an’ we all nevah seen her no mo’. Mahs Larue done sold that Georgy plantation ’bout five yeahs back an’ move up fo’ good on one his wife own up heah. An’ little while back I hear tell they gwine sell it, too, an’ flit way cross to Mexico somewhah. This heah war jest broke them up a’ready.”

“And the child was sold?–do you mean that?”

“Deed we all nevah got a sure story o’ what come o’ that baby; only when Retta come back Mahs Matt tell her little Rhoda dead long time ago–dead down in Georgy, an’ no one evah heah her ask a word from that day to this. But one Larue’s niggahs tole me”–and the voice and manner of Nelse took on a grotesquely impressive air–“they done raise a mighty handsome chile ’bout that time what was called Rhoda, an’ she went to ferren parts with Mahs Larue an’ his family an’ didn’t nevah come back, no mo’, an’ Mahs Matt raise some sort o’ big row with Mahs Jean Larue ovah that gal, an’ they nevah was friends no mo’. To be suah maybe that niggah lied–I don’t know. But he let on as how Mars Larue say that gal gwine to fetch a fancy price some day, an’ I thought right off how Mahs Matt said Retta boun’ to fetch a fancy price in Orleans; an’ taken’ it all roun’ I reckoned it jest as well Retta keep on thinken’ that chile died.”

Delaven agreed. From the house he could hear the ladies talking, and Evilena’s laugh sang out clear as a bird’s song. He wondered if they also knew the story of the silent deft-handed bondwoman?–but concluded it was scarcely likely. Mrs. Nesbitt might know something of it, but who could tell Tom Loring’s daughter?–and Evilena, of course, was too much of a child.

“I should like to see the picture you spoke of,” he said at last, “the small one the painter left.”

“I reckon that picture done sent away with little Rhoda’s things. I ain’t nevah heard tell of it since that time. But it don’t look a mite like her now. All the red gone out o’ her cheeks an’ lips, all the shine out o’ her eyes, an’ her long brown hair has mo’ white than brown in it these days. This woman Marg’ret ain’t Retta; they jest as yo’ might say two different women;” then, after a pause, “any othah thing you want ask me, sah? I see Jedge Clarkson comen’ this way.”

“No, that is all; thank you, old fellow.”

He left Nelse ducking his head and fingering a new coin, while he sauntered to meet the Judge.

“How much he give you, Uncle Nelse?” asked a guarded voice back of the old man, and he nearly fell over backwards in his fright. A large, middle-aged colored man arose from the tall grass, where he has been hidden under the bank.

“Wha–what you mean–yo’ Pluto? What fo’ you hide theah an’ listen?”

“I wan’t hiden’,” replied the man, good naturedly. “I jest lay to go sleep in the shade. Yo’ come ’long an’ talk–talk so I couldn’t help hear it all,” and he smiled shrewdly. “I alles was curious to know the true way ’bout that Marg’ret–I reckon there was a heap that wan’t told to neighbors. An’ reason why I ask you how much he give you fo’ the story is ’cause I got that picture you tole ’bout. I married Mahs Larue’s Rosa what come from Georgy with them. She been daid ovah a yeah now, but it’s some whar ’mongst her b’longings. Reckon that strange gentleman give me dollar for it?–the frame is mighty pretty–what you think?”

CHAPTER XV

“Do tell me every blessed thing about her–a real Marquise–I love titles;” and Evilena clasped her hands rapturously.

“Do you, now? Faith, then I’m glad I secured mine before I came over,” and the laughing Irish eyes met hers quizzically.

“Oh, I never meant titles people earn themselves, Mr. Doctor, for–”

“Then that puts the Judge and Col. Kenneth and myself on the outside of your fence, does it? Arrah now! I’ll be looking up my pedigree in hopes of unearthing a king–every true Irishman has a traditional chance of being the descendant of rulers who ran barefoot, and carried a club to teach the court etiquette.”

She made a mutinous little grimace and refused to discuss his probable ancestors.

“Does not the presence of a French Marquise show how Europe sides with us?” she demanded, triumphantly. “Quantities of noblemen have been the guests of the South lately, and isn’t General Wolseley, the most brilliant officer of the British Army, with our General Lee now? I reckon all that shows how we are estimated. And now the ladies of title are coming over. Oh, tell me all about her; is she very grand, very pretty?”

“Grand enough for a queen over your new monarchy,” replied Delaven, who derived considerable enjoyment from teasing the girl about affairs political–“and pretty? No, she’s not that; she’s just Beauty’s self, entirely.”

“And you knew her well in Paris?” asked Evilena, with a hesitating suspicion as to why he had not announced such a wonderful acquaintance before–this woman who was Beauty’s self, and a widow. She wondered if she had appeared crude compared with those grand dames he had known and forgotten to mention.

“Oh, yes, I knew her while the old Marquise was living, that was when your mother and Col. Kenneth met her, but afterwards she took to travel for a change, and has evidently taken your South on her way. It will be happiness to see her again.”

“And brother Ken knew her, too?” asked the girl, with wide-open eyes; “and he never mentioned her, either–well!”

“The rascal!–to deprive you of an account of all the lovely ladies he met! But you were at school when they returned, were you not?–and Ken started off hot foot for the West and Indian fighting, so you see there were excuses.”

“And Kenneth does not know you are here still, and will not know the beautiful Marquise is here. Won’t he be surprised to see you all?”

“I doubt if I cause him such a shock,” decided Delaven; “when he gets sight of Judithe, Marquise de Caron, he will naturally forget at once whether I am in America or Ireland.”

“Indeed, then, I never knew Kenneth to slight a friend,” said the girl, indignantly.

“But maybe you never saw him face to face with such a temptation to make a man forget the universe.”

“Sh–h!” she whispered, softly. Gertrude had come out on the veranda looking for the Judge. Seeing him down at the landing she walked leisurely in that direction.

“You do say such wild, extravagant things,” continued Evilena, “that I just had to stop you until Gertrude was out of hearing. I suppose you know she and Kenneth are paired off for matrimony.”

“Are they, now? Well, he’s a lucky fellow; when are we to dance at the wedding?”

“Oh, they never tell me anything about serious things like that,” complained Evilena. “There’s Aunt Sajane; she can tell us, if any one can; everybody confides love affairs to her.”

“Do they, now? Might I ask how you know?”

“Yes, sir; you may ask!” Then she dropped that subject and returned to the first one. “Aunt Sajane, when do you reckon we can dance at Kenneth’s wedding–his and Gertrude’s? Doctor Delaven and I want to dance.”

“Evilena–honey!” murmured Aunt Sajane, chidingly, the more so as Matthew Loring had just crept slowly out with the help of his cane, and a negro boy. His alert expression betrayed that he had overheard the question.

“You know,” she continued, “folks have lots to think of these days without wedding dances, and it isn’t fair to Gertrude to discuss it, for I don’t know that there really has been any settled engagement; only it would seem like a perfect match and both families seem to favor it.” She glanced inquiringly at Loring, who nodded his head decidedly.

“Of course, of course, a very sensible arrangement. They’ve always been friends and it’s been as good as settled ever since they were children.”

“Settled by the families?” asked Delaven.

“Exactly–a good old custom that is ignored too often these days,” said Mr. Loring, promptly. “Who is so fit to decide such things for children as their parents and guardians? That boy’s father and me talked over this affair before the children ever knew each other. Of course he laughed over the question at the time, but when he died and suggested me as the boy’s guardian, I knew he thought well of it and depended on me, and it will come off right as soon as this war is over–all right.”

“A very good method for this country of the old French cavaliers,” remarked Delaven, in a low tone, to the girl, “but the lads and lassies of Ireland have to my mind found a better.”

Evilena looked up inquiringly.

“Well, don’t you mean to tell me what it is?” she asked, as he appeared to have dropped the subject. He laughed at the aggrieved tone she assumed.

“Whist! There are mystical rites due to the telling, and it goes for nothing when told in a crowd.”

“You have got clear away from Kenneth,” she reminded him, hastily. “Did you mean that he was–well, in love with this magnificent Marquise?”

Low as she tried to speak, the words reached Loring, who listened, and Delaven, glancing across, perceived that he listened.

“In love with the Marquise? Bless your heart, we were all of course.”

“But my brother?” insisted Evilena.

“Well, now he might have been the one exception–in fact he always did get out of the merely social affairs when he could, over there.”

“Showed his good sense,” decided Loring, emphatically. “I don’t approve of young people running about Europe, learning their pernicious habits and customs; I’ve had my fill of foreign places and foreign people.”

Mrs. Nesbitt opened her lips with a shocked expression of protest, and as promptly closed them, realizing the uselessness of it. Evilena laughed outright and directed an eloquent glance towards the only foreigner.

“Me, is it?” he asked, doubtingly. “Oh, don’t you believe it. I’ve been here so long I’m near a Southerner myself.”

“How near?” she asked, teasingly.

“Well, I must acknowledge you hold me at arms length in spite of my allegiance,” he returned, and in the laugh of the others, Mr. Loring’s tirade against foreigners was passed over.

It was only a few hours since Pluto arrived with the letter from Mobile telling of the early arrival of Mrs. McVeigh and her guest. Noting that the letter had been delayed and that the ladies might even now be in Savannah, Judge Clarkson proposed starting at once to meet them, but was persuaded to wait until morning.

Pluto was also told to wait over–an invitation gladly accepted, as visits to Loringwood were just now especially prized by the neighboring darkies, for the two runaways were yet subjects of gossip and speculation, and Uncle Nelse scattered opinions in the quarters on the absolute foolishness in taking such risks for freedom, and dire prophesies of the repentance to follow.

That his own personal feeling did not carry conviction to his listeners was evidenced by the sullen silence of many who did not think it wise to contradict him. Pluto was the only person to argue with him. But this proved to be the one subject on which Pluto could not be his natural good-natured self. His big black eyes held threatening gleams, rebellious blood throbbed through every vein of his dark body. He championed the cause of the runaways; he knew of none who had left a good master; old man Masterson was unreasonable as Matthew Loring; he did not blame them for leaving such men.

“I got good a mistress–good a master as is in all Carolina,” he stated, bluntly, “but you think I stay here to work for any of them if it wan’t for my boy?–my Rose’s baby? No, I wouldn’t! I’d go North, too! I’d never stop till I reached the men who fight against slave states. You all know what keeps me here. I’d never see my boy again. I done paid eighteen dollars towards Rose’s freedom when she died. Then I ask Mr. Jean Larue if he wouldn’t let that go on the baby. He said yes, right off, an’ told me I could get him for hundred fifty dollars; that why I work ’long like I do, an’ let the other men fight fo’ freedom But I ain’t contented so long as any man can sell me an’ my child.”

None of the other blacks made any verbal comment on his feelings or opinions, but old Nelse easily saw that Pluto’s ideas outweighed his own with them.

“I un’stan’ you to say Mahs Jean Larue promise he keep yo’ boy till such time as the money is raised?” he asked, cautiously.

“That’s the way it was,” assented Pluto. “I ain’t been to see him–little Zekal–for nigh on two months now. I’m goen’, sure, soon as Mrs. McVeigh come home an’ get settled. It’s quite a jaunt from our place to Mahs Larue’s–thirty good mile.”

Aunt Chloe poured him out some more rye and corn-meal coffee and insisted on him having more sweet potato pie. She swept an admonishing glance towards the others as she did so. “I did heah some time ago one o’ the Larue’s gwine way down to the Mexico country,” she remarked, carelessly. “I don’t reckon though it is this special Larue. I mind they did have such a monstrous flock o’ them Larue boys long time back; some got killed in this heah war what’s maken’ trouble all roun’. How much you got paid on yo’ little boy, Pluto?”

“Most thirty dollars by time I make next trip over. Takes mighty long time to save money these days, quarters scarcer than dollars use to be.”

His entertainers agreed with him; then the little maid Raquel entered to say Pluto was wanted by Miss Sajane soon as his lunch was over.

And as he walked across the grounds Evilena pointed him out to Delaven.

“That is our Pluto,” she said, with a certain note of pride in her tone; “three generations of his family belonged to us. Mama can always go away feeling the whole plantation is safe so long as Pluto is in charge. We never do have trouble with the folks at the quarters as Mr. Loring does. He is so hard on them I wonder they don’t all run away; it would be hard on Gertrude, though–lose her a lot of money. Did you know Loringwood is actually offered for sale? Isn’t it a shame? The only silver lining to the cloud is that then Gertrude will have to move to The Pines–I don’t mean to the woods”–as he turned a questioning glance on her. “I mean to Gertrude’s plantation joining ours. It is a lovely place; used to belong to the Masterson tracts, and was part of the wedding dowery of that Miss Leo Masterson Uncle Nelse told of–Gertrude’s mother, you know. It is not grand or imposing like Loringwood, but I heard the Judge say that place alone was enough to make Gertrude a wealthy woman, and the loveliest thing about it is that it joins our plantation–lovely for Gertrude and Kenneth, I mean. Look here, Doctor Delaven, you roused my curiosity wonderfully with that little remark you made about the beautiful Marquise; tell me true–were they–did Ken, even for a little while, fall in love with her?”

She looked so roguishly coaxing, so sure she had stumbled on some fragment of an adventure, and so alluringly confident that Delaven must tell her the rest, that there is no telling how much he might have enlightened her if Miss Loring had not entered the room at that moment through a door nearest the window where they stood.

Her face was serene and self possessed as ever. She smiled and addressed some careless remark to them as she passed through, but Delaven had an uncomfortable feeling that she had overheard that question, and Evilena was too frightened to repeat it.

CHAPTER XVI

The warm summer moon wheeled up that evening through the dusk, odorous with the wild luxuriance of wood and swamp growths. A carriage rolled along the highway between stretches of rice lands and avenues of pines.

In the west red and yellow showed where the path of the sun had been and against it was outlined the gables of an imposing structure, dark against the sky.

“We are again close to the Salkahatchie,” said Mrs. McVeigh, pointing where the trees marked its course, “and across there–see that roof, Marquise?–that is Loringwood. If the folks had got across from Charleston we would stop there long enough to rest and have a bit of supper. But the road winds so that the distance is longer than it looks, and we are too near home to stop on such an uncertainty. Gertrude’s note from Charleston telling of their safe arrival could say nothing definite of their home coming.”

“That, no doubt, depends on the invalid relative,” suggested her guest; “the place looks very beautiful in this dim light; the cedars along the road there are magnificent.”

“I have heard they are nearly two hundred years old. Years ago it was the great show place of the country, but two generations of very extravagant sportsmen did much to diminish its wealth–generous, reckless and charming men–but they planted mortgages side by side with their rice fields. Those encumbrances have, I fancy, prevented Gertrude from being as fond of the place as most girls would be of so fine an ancestral home.”

“Possibly she lacks the gamester blood of her forefathers and can have no patience with their lack of the commercial instinct.”

“I really do believe that is just it,” said Mrs. McVeigh. “I never had thought of it in that way myself, but Gertrude certainly is not at all like the Lorings; she is entirely of her mother’s people, and they are credited with possessing a great deal of the commercial instinct. I can’t fancy a Masterson gambling away a penny. They are much more sensible; they invest.”

The cedar avenues had been left a mile behind, and they had entered again the pine woods where even the moon’s full radiance could only scatter slender lances of light. The Marquise leaned back with half-shut slumberous eyes, and confessed she was pleased that it would be later, instead of this evening, that she would have the pleasure of meeting the master and mistress of Loringwood–the drive through the great stretches of pine had acted as a soporific; no society for the night so welcome as King Morpheus.

The third woman in the carriage silently adjusted a cushion back of Madame’s head. “Thank you, Louise,” she said, yawning a little. “You see how effectually I have been mastered by the much remarked languor of the South. It is delightfully restful. I cannot imagine any one ever being in a hurry in this land.”

Mrs. McVeigh smiled and pointed across the field, where some men were just then running after a couple of dogs who barked vociferously in short, quick yelps, bespeaking a hot trail before them.

“There is a living contradiction of your idea,” she said; “the Southerners are intensity personified when the game is worth it; the game may be a fox chase or a flirtation, a love affair or a duel, and our men require no urging for any of those pursuits.”

They were quite close to the men now, and the Marquise declared they were a perfect addition to the scene of moonlit savannas backed by the masses of wood now near, now far, across the levels. Two of them had reached the road when the carriage wheels attracted attention from the dogs, and they halted, curious, questioning.

“Why, it’s our Pluto!” exclaimed Mrs. McVeigh; “stop the carriage. Pluto, what in the world are you doing here?”

Pluto came forward smiling, pleased.

“Welcome home, Mrs. McVeigh. I’se jest over Loringwood on errend with yo’ all letters to Miss Lena an’ Miss Sajane. Letters was stopped long time on the road someway; yo’ all get here soon most as they did. Judge Clarkson–he aimen’ to go meet yo’ at Savannah–start in the mawning at daybreak. He reckoned yo’ all jest wait there till some one go fo’ escort.”

“Evilena is at Loringwood, you say? Then Miss Loring and her uncle have got over from Charleston?”

“Yes, indeedy!–long time back, more’n a week now since they come. Why, how come you not hear?–they done sent yo’ word; I know Miss Lena wrote you, ’cause she said so. Yes’m, the folks is back, an’ Miss Sajane an’ Judge over there this minute; reckon they’ll feel mighty sorry yo’ all passed the gate.”

“Oh, but the letter never reached me. I had no idea they were home, and it is too far to go back I suppose? How far are we from the house now?”

“Only ’bout a mile straight ’cross fields like we come after that ’possum, but it’s a good three miles by the road.”

“Well, you present my compliments and explain the situation to Miss Loring and the Judge. We will drive on to the Terrace. Say I hope to see them all soon as they can come. Evilena can come with you in the morning. Tell Miss Gertrude I shall drive over soon as I am rested a little–and Mr. Loring, is he better?”

“Heap better–so Miss Gertrude and the doctor say. He walks roun’ some. Miss Gertrude she mightily taken with Dr. Delaven’s cure–she says he jest saved Mahs Loring’s life over there in France.”

“Dr. Delaven!” uttered the voice of the Marquise, in soft surprise–“our Dr. Delaven?” and as she spoke her hand stole out and touched that of the handsome serving woman she called Louise; “is he also a traveller seeking adventure in your South?”

“Did I not tell you?” asked Mrs. McVeigh. “I meant to. Gertrude’s note mentioned that her uncle was under the care of our friend, the young medical student, so you will hear the very latest of your beloved Paris.”

“Charming! It is to be hoped he will visit us soon. This little woman”–and she nodded towards Louise–“must be treated for homesickness; you observe her depression since we left the cities? Dr. Delaven will be an admirable cure for that.”

“Your Louise will perhaps cure herself when she sees a home again,” remarked Mrs. McVeigh; “it is life in a carriage she has perhaps grown tired of.”