The Bondwoman

As the weeks of that winter went by rumors from the Western world were thick with threats of strife. State after State had seceded. The South was marshalling her forces, training her men, urging the necessity of defending State rights and maintaining their power to govern a portion as ably as they had the whole of the United States during the eighty years of its governmental life. The North, with its factories, its foreign commerce, and its manifold requirements, had bred the politicians of the country. But the South, with its vast agricultural States, its wealth, and its traditions of landed ancestry, had produced the orators–the statesman–the men who had shone most brilliantly in the pages of their national history.

From the shores of France one could watch some pretty moves in the games evolving about that promise of civil war; the creeping forward of England to help widen the breach between the divided sections, and the swift swinging of Russian war vessels into the harbors of the Atlantic–the silent bear of the Russias facing her hereditary English foe and forbidding interference, until the lion gave way with low growlings, not daring to even roar his chagrin, but contenting himself with night-prowlings during the four years that followed.

All those wheels within wheels were discussed around the Marquise de Caron in those days. Her acquaintance with the representatives of different nations and the diplomats of her own, made her aware of many unpublished moves for advantage in the game they surveyed. The discussion of them, and guesses as to the finale, helped to awake her from the lethargy she had deplored. Remembering that the McVeighs belonged to a seceding state, she asked many questions and forgot none of the replies.

“Madame La Marquise, I was right,” said a white moustached general one night at a great ball, where she appeared. “Was it not a rose you wagered me? I have won. War is declared in America. In South Carolina, today, the Confederates won the first point, and secured a Federal fort.”

“General! they have not dared!”

“Madame, those Southerons are daring above everything. I have met them. Their men are fighters, and they will be well officered.”

Well officered! She thought of Kenneth McVeigh, he would be one of them; yes, she supposed that was one thing he could do–fight; a thing requiring brute strength, brute courage!

“So!” said the Countess Biron, who seldom was acquainted with the causes of any wars outside those of court circles, “this means that if the Northern States should retaliate and conquer, all the slaves would be free?”

“Not at all, Countess. The North does not interfere with slavery where it exists, only protests against its extension to greater territory.”

“Oh! Well; I understood it had something to do with the Africans. That clever young Delaven devoted an entire hour to my enlightenment yesterday. And my poor friend, Madame McVeigh, you remember her, Judithe? She is in the Carolinas. I tremble to think of her position now; an army of slaves surrounding them, and, of course, only awaiting the opportunity for insurrection.”

“And Louisiana seceded two months ago,” said the Marquise, and then smiled. “You will think me a mercenary creature,” she declared, “but I have property in New Orleans which I have never seen, and I am wondering whether its value will rise or fall because of the proposed change of government.”

“You have never seen it?”

“No; it was a purchase made by my husband from some home-sick relative, who had thought to remain there, but could not live away from France. I have promised myself to visit it some day. It would be exceedingly difficult to do so now, I suppose, but how much more spirited a journey it would be; for each side will have vessels on guard all along the coast, will they not?”

“There will at least be enough to deter most ladies from taking adventurous pilgrimages in that direction. I shall not advise you to go unless under military escort, Marquise.”

“I shall notify you, General, when my preparations are made; in the meantime here is your rose; and would not my new yacht do for the journey?”

So, jesting and questioning, she accepted his arm and made the circle of the rooms. Everywhere they heard fragments of the same topic. Americans were there from both sections. She saw a pretty woman from Alabama nod and smile, but put her hands behind her when a hitherto friendly New Yorker gave her greeting.

“We women can’t do much to help,” she declared, in those soft tones of the South, “but we can encourage our boys by being pronounced in our sympathies. I certainly shall not shake hands with a Northerner who may march with the enemy against our men; how can I?”

“Suppose we talk it over and try to find a way,” he suggested. Then they both smiled and passed on together. Judithe de Caron found herself watching them with a little ache in her heart. She could see they were almost, if not quite, lovers; yet all their hopes were centered on opposite victories. How many–many such cases there must be!

Before spring had merged into summer, a lady, veiled, and giving no name, was announced to the Marquise. Rather surprised at the mysterious call, she entered the reception room, and was again surprised when the lifted veil disclosed the handsome face of the octoroon, Kora.

She had lost some of her brilliant color, and her expression was more settled, it had less of the butterfly brightness.

“You see, Madame, I have at last taken you at your word.”

The Marquise, who was carefully noting the alteration in her, bowed, but made no remark. The face of the octoroon showed uncertainty.

“Perhaps–perhaps I have waited too long,” she said, and half rose.

“No, no; you did right to come. I expected you–yes, really! Now be seated and tell me what it is.”

“First, that you were a prophetess, Madame,” and the full lips smiled without merriment. “I am left alone, now that I have neither money nor the attraction for the others. He only followed the crowd–to me, and away from me!”

“Well?”

“Well, it is not about that I come! But, Madame, I am going to America; not to teach, as you advised, but I see now a way in which I can really help.”

“Help whom?”

Her visitor regarded her with astonishment; was it possible that she, the woman whose words had aroused the first pride of race in her, the first thought of her people unlinked with shame! That she had so soon forgotten? Had she remembered the pupil, but failed to recall the lesson taught?

“You have probably forgotten the one brief conversation with which you honored me, Madame. But I mean the people we discussed then–my people.”

“You mean the colored people.”

“Certainly, Madame.”

“But you are more white than colored.”

“Oh, yes; that is true, but the white blood would not count in America if it were known there was one drop of black blood in my mother. But no one need know it; I go from France, I will speak only French, and if you would only help me a little.”

She grew prettier in her eagerness, and her eyes brightened. The Marquise smiled at the change enthusiasm made.

“You must tell me the object for which you go.”

“It is the war, Madame; in time this war must free the colored folks; it is talked of already; it is said the North will put colored soldiers in the field; that will be the little, thin edge of the wedge, and if I could only get there, if you would help me to some position, or a recommendation to people in New Orleans; any way so that people would not ask questions or be curious about me–if you would only do that madame!”

“But what will you do when there?”

The girl glanced about the room and spoke more softly.

“I am trusting you, Madame, without asking who you side with in our war, but even if you are against us I–I trust you! They tell me the South is the strongest. They have been getting ready for this a long time. The North will need agents in the South. I have learned some things here–people talk so much. I am going to Washington. From there I will go south. No one will know me in New Orleans. I will change my name, and I promise not to bring discredit on any recommendation you may give me.”

“It is a plan filled with difficulties and dangers. What has moved you to contemplate such sacrifices?”

“You, Madame!” The Marquise flushed slightly. “From the time you talked to me I wanted to do something, be something better. But, you know, it seemed no use; there was no need of me anywhere but in Paris. That is all over. I can go now, and I have some information worth taking to the Federal government. The South has commissioners here now. I have learned all they have accomplished, and the people they have interested, so if I had a little help–”

“You shall have it!” declared the Marquise. “I have been dying of ennui. Your plan is a cure for me–better than a room full of courtiers! But if I give you letters it must be to my lawyers in New Orleans–clever, shrewd men–and I should have to trust you entirely, remember.”

“I shall not forget, Madame.”

“Very good; come tomorrow. What can you do about an establishment such as mine? Ladies maid? Housekeeper? Governess?”

“Any of those; but only governess to very small children.”

“Come tomorrow. I shall have planned something by then. I have an engagement in a few minutes, and have no more time today. By the way, have you ever been in Georgia or South Carolina?”

Kora hesitated, and then said: “Yes, Madame.”

“Have you any objection to going back there?”

The octoroon looked at her in a startled, suspicious way.

“I hesitate to reply to that, Madame, for reasons! I don’t mind telling you, though, that there is one place in America where I might be claimed, if they knew me. I am not anxious to visit that place.”

“Naturally! Tomorrow at eleven I will see you, and you can tell me all about it. If I am to act as your protectress I must know all you can tell me–all! It is the only way. I like the mystery and intrigue of the whole affair. It promises new sensations. I will help you show that government that you are willing to help your people. Come tomorrow.”

A few days later the Marquise set her new amusement on foot by bidding adieu to a demure, dark eyed, handsome girl, who was garbed most sedately, and whose letters of introduction pronounced her–oh, sentiment or irony of women–Madame Louise Trouvelot, an attache of the Caron establishment, commissioned by the Marquise to inspect the dwellings on the Caron estate in New Orleans, and report as to whether any one of them would be suitable for a residence should the owner desire to visit the city. If none should prove so, Louise Trouvelot, who comprehended entirely the needs of the Marquise, was further commissioned to look up such a residence with a view to purchase, and communicate with the Marquise and with her American lawyers, who were to give assistance to Louise Trouvelot in several business matters, especially relating to her quest.

CHAPTER XI.

ON THE SALKAHATCHIE

Scarce a leaf quivered on the branches of the magnolias, or a tress of gray-green moss on the cypress boughs. All the world of the Salkahatchie was wrapped in siesta. The white clouds drifting on palest turquoise were the only moving things except the water flowing beneath, and its soft swish against the gunnels of the floating wharf made the only sound.

The plantation home of Loringwood, facing the river, and reached through the avenue of enormous live oaks, looked an enchanted palace touched with the wand of silence.

From the wide stone steps to the wide galleries, with their fluted pillars, not a murmur but the winged insects droning in the tangled grasses, for the wild luxuriance of rose tree and japonica, of lawn and crape myrtle, betrayed a lack of pruning knives in the immediate season past; and to the south, where the rice fields had reached acre beyond acre towards the swamps, there were now scattered patches of feathering young pine, creeping everywhere not forbidden to it by the hand of man.

Spring time and summer time, for almost a century, had been lived through under its sloping, square, dormer-windowed roof. But all the blue sky and brilliant sunshine above could not save it from a suggestion of autumn, and the shadows lengthening along the river were in perfect keeping with the entire picture–a picture of perpetual afternoon.

“Row-lock,” “Row-lock,” sounded the dip and click of paddles, as a boat swept close to the western bank, where the shadows fell. Two Afro-Americans bent in rhythmic motion–bronze human machines, whose bared arms showed nothing of effort as they sent the boat cutting through the still water.

A middle-aged woman in a voluminous lavender lawn and carrying a parasol of plaid silk-green, with faded pink bars, sat in the after part of the boat, while a slight brown-haired girl just in front amused herself by catching at branches of willows as they passed.

“Evilena, honey, you certainly are like to do yourself a hurt reaching out like that, and if you should go over!”

“But I shan’t, Aunt Sajane. Do you reckon I’d risk appearing before Gertrude Loring in a draggled gown just when she has returned from the very heart of the civilized world? Goodness knows, we’ll all look dowdy enough to her.”

Aunt Sajane (Mistress Sarah Jane Nesbitt) glanced down at her own immaculate lawn, a little faded but daintily laundered, and at her own trim congress-gaitered feet.

“Oh, I didn’t mean you,” added the girl, laughing softly. “Aunt Sajane, I truly do believe that if you had nothing but gunny sacks for dresses you’d contrive to look as if you’d just come out of a bandbox.”

“I’d wear gunny sacks fast enough if it was to help the cause,” agreed Aunt Sajane, with a kindly smile. “So would you, honey.”

“Honey” trailed her fingers in the waters, amber-tinted from the roots of the cypress trees.

“If a letter from mama comes today we will just miss it.”

“Only by a day. Brother Gideon will send it.”

“But suppose he’s away somewhere on business, or up there at Columbia on state councils or conventions, or whatever they are, as he is just now?”

“Then Pluto will fetch it right over,” and she glanced at one of the black men, who showed his teeth for an instant and bent his head in assent.

“Don’t see why Judge Clarkson was ever named Gideon,” protested the girl. “It’s a hard, harsh sort of name, and he’s as–as–”

“Soft?” queried the judge’s sister, with an accompaniment of easy laughter. The youngest of the two oarsmen grinned. Pluto maintained a well-bred indifference.

“No!” and the girl flung a handful of willow leaves over the lavender lawn. “He is–well–just about right, the judge is; so gentle, so considerate, so altogether magnificent in his language. I’ve adored him as far back as when he fought the duel with the Northern man who reflected some way on our customs; that was starting a war for his state all alone, before anyone else thought of it, I reckon. I must have been very little then, for I just recollect how he used to let me look in his pockets for candy, and I was awfully afraid of the pistols I thought he must carry there to shoot people with,” and she smiled at the childish fancy. “I tell you, Aunt Sajane, if my papa had lived there’s just one man I’d like him to favor, and that’s our judge. But he didn’t, did he?”

“No, he didn’t,” said Aunt Sajane. “The McVeigh men were all dark, down to Kenneth, and he gets his fairness from your ma.” Then she added, kindly, “the judge will be very proud of your admiration.”

“Hope he’ll care enough about it to hurry right along after us. He does put in a powerful lot of his time in Charleston and Columbia lately,” and the tone was one of childish complaint.

“Why, honey, how you suppose our soldier boys would be provided for unless some of the representative men devote their time to the work? It’s a consolation to me that Gideon is needed for civil service just now, for if he wasn’t he wouldn’t be so near home as he is; he’d be somewhere North with a regiment, and I reckon that wouldn’t suit you any better.”

“No, it wouldn’t,” agreed the girl, “though I do like a man who will fight, of course. Any girl does.”

“Oh, Honey!”

“Yes they do, too. But just now I don’t want him either fighting or in legislature. I want him right along with us at Loringwood. If he isn’t there to talk to Mr. Loring it won’t be possible to have a word alone with Gertrude all the time we stay. How he does depend on her, and what an awful time she must have had all alone with him in Paris while he was at that hospital, or whatever it was.”

“Not many girls so faithful as Gertrude Loring,” agreed Aunt Sajane. “Not that he has ever shown much affection for her, either, considering she is his own brother’s child. But she certainly has shown a Christian sense of duty towards him. Well, you see, they are the only ones left of the family. It’s natural, I suppose.”

“I would think it natural to run away and leave him, like Aleck and Scip did.”

Aunt Sajane cast a warning glance towards the two oarsmen.

“Well, I would,” insisted the girl. “I wonder no more of them ran away when they thought he was coming home. How he must have raved! I shouldn’t wonder if it prostrated him again. You know old Doctor Allison said it was just a fit of temper caused–”

“Yes, yes, honey; but you know we are to sleep under his roof tonight.”

“I’ll sleep under Gertrude’s half of it,” laughed the girl. “It’s no use reminding me of my bad manners, Aunt Sajane. But as long as I can remember anyone, I’ve had two men in my mind. One always grunted at me and told me to take my doll somewhere else or be quiet. That was Kenneth’s guardian, Matthew Loring. The other man always had sugar kisses in his pocket for me and gave me my first dog and my only pony. That was Judge Clarkson. You see if my judge had not been so lovely the other would not have seemed so forbidding. It was the contrast did it. I wonder–I wonder if he ever had a sweetheart?”

“Gideon Clarkson? Lots of them,” said his sister, promptly.

“I meant Mr. Loring.”

“Nonsense, honey, nonsense.”

“And nonsense means no,” decided the girl. “I thought it would be curious if he had,” then an interval of silence, broken only by the dip of the oars. “Gertrude’s note said a Paris doctor is with them, a friend of Kenneth and mama. Well, I only hope he isn’t a crusty old sweetheartless man. But of course he is if Mr. Loring chose him. I’m wild to know how they got through the blockade. Oh, dear, how I wish it was Ken!”

“I don’t suppose you wish it any more than the boy himself,” said Aunt Sajane, with a sigh. “There’s a good many boys scattered from home, these days, who would be glad to be home again.”

“But not unless they gain what they went for,” declared the girl in patriotic protest.

The older woman sighed, and said nothing. Her enthusiasms of a year ago had been shrouded by the crape of a mourning land; the glory of conquest would be compensation, perhaps, and would be gained, no doubt. But the price to be paid chilled her and left her without words when Evilena revelled in the glories of the future.

“Loringwood line,” said Pluto, motioning towards a great ditch leading straight back from the river.

Evilena shrugged her shoulders with a little pretense of chill, and laughed.

“That is only a reminder of what I used to feel when Gertrude’s uncle came to our house. I wonder if this long dress will prevent him from grunting at me or ordering me out of the room if I talk too much.”

“Remember, Evilena, he has been an invalid for four years, and is excusable for almost any eccentricity.”

“How did you all excuse his eccentricities before he got sick, Aunt Sajane?”

Receiving no reply, the girl comforted herself with the appreciative smile of the oarsmen, who were evidently of her mind as to the planter under discussion, and a mile further they ran the boat through the reeds and lily pads to the little dock at Loringwood.

Mrs. Nesbitt shook out the folds of her crisp lawn, adjusted her bonnet and puffs and sighed, as they walked up the long avenue.

“I can remember when the lily pads never could get a chance to grow there on account of the lot of company always coming in boats,” she said, regretfully, “and I’ve heard that the old Lorings lived like kings here long ago; wild, reckless, magnificent men; not at all like the Lorings now; and oh, my, how the place has been neglected of late. Not a sign of life about the house. Now, in Tom Loring’s time–”

They had reached the foot of the steps when the great double doors swung back and a woman appeared on the threshold and inclined her head in greeting.

“Well, Margeret, I am glad to see some one alive,” declared Mrs. Nesbitt; “the place is so still.”

“Yes; just look at Pluto and Bob,” said Evilena, motioning towards the boatmen. “One would think a ghost had met them at the landing, they are so subdued.”

The brown eyed, grey haired woman in the door glanced at the two colored men who were following slowly along a path towards the back of the house.

“Yes, Miss Lena, it is quiet,” she agreed. “Please step in Mistress Nesbitt. I’ll have Raquel show you right up to your rooms, for Miss Loring didn’t think you could get here for an hour yet, and she felt obliged to ride over to the north corner, but won’t be gone long.”

“And Mr. Loring–how is he?”

“Mr. Loring is very much worn out. He’s gone asleep now. Doctor says he’s not to be seen just yet.”

“Oh, yes; the doctor. I’ll see him directly after I’ve rested a little. He speaks English, I hope. Are you coming up, honey?”

“Not yet. I’ll keep a lookout for Gertrude.”

Margeret had touched a bell and in response a little black girl had appeared, who smiled and ducked her head respectfully.

“Howdy, Miss Sajane? Howdy, Miss Lena?” she exclaimed, her black eyes dancing. “I dunno how come it come, I nevah heerd you all, for I done got–”

“Raquel, you show Mistress Nesbitt to the west room,” said the quiet tones of Margeret, and Raquel’s animation subsided into wordless grins as she gathered up the sunshade, reticule and other belongings, and preceded Mistress Nesbitt up the stairs.

“If there’s anything I can do for you just send Raquel for me.”

“Thank you, Margeret. I’ll remember.”

Margeret crossed the hall to the parlor door and opened it.

“If you’d rather rest in here, Miss Lena–”

“No, no; I’ll go look for Gertrude. Don’t mind me. I remember all the rooms well enough to make myself at home till she comes.”

Margeret inclined her head slightly and moved along the hall to the door of the dining room, which she entered.

Evilena looked after her with a dubious smile in the blue-gray eyes.

“I wonder if I could move as quietly as that even with my feet bare,” and she tried walking softly on the polished oak floor, but the heels of her shoes would persist in giving out little clicking sounds as Margeret’s had not.

“It’s no use. No living person with shoes on could walk silently as that woman. She’s just a ghost who–a-gh-gh!”

Her attempt at silent locomotion had brought her to the door of the library, directly opposite the dining room. As she turned to retrace her steps that door suddenly opened and a hand grasped her shoulder.

“Oh, ho! This time I’ve caught you, have I? you–oh, murder!”

Her half uttered scream had been checked by the sound of a voice which memory told her was not that of her bugbear, the invalid master of the house. It was, instead, a strange gentleman, who was young, and even attractive; whose head was a mass of reddish curls, and whose austere gaze changed quickly to an embarrassed stare as her hat slipped back and he saw her face. The girl was the first to recover herself.

“Yes, you certainly did catch me this time,” she gasped.

“My dear young lady, I’m a blundering idiot. I beg your pardon most humbly. I thought it was that Raquel, and I–”

“Oh, Raquel?” and she backed to the opposite wall, regarding him with doubt and question in her eyes.

“Exactly. Allow me to explain. Raquel, in company with some other imps of all shades, have developed an abnormal interest in the unpacking of various boxes today, and especially a galvanic battery in here, which–”

“Battery? In there?” and Evilena raised on her tip-toes to survey the room over his shoulder. “I know some boys of Battery B, but I never saw them without uniforms.”