University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

A year elapsed and Alice May left the boarding school to return to
Louisiana, for she was a dark-eyed child of the sunny south. She returned
home with her father a betrothed bride! During the year that ensued
her first interview with Edward Orr, in Mount Auburn, and the
bow she had from him at the window, he had sought her acquaintance,
and intimacy grew to love. They parted in the drawing-room of the
Tremont, where he had called to bid her good-bye the evening preceding
her departure. He promised in the spring to come out and be
married—for till then he would not come into possession of his estate.
Their engagement was known to and approved of by her father, a tall,
handsome man, with a haughty air, and manners something cold and
unprepossessing. Edward did not like him from the first; perhaps
because his arrival in Boston was the signal of his departure from
Alice. He was, however, tender and affectionate to his child, who
seemed to be devotedly attached to him. Of him, Edward had learned
that he was a wealthy planter who resided near Lauvidais in the
vicinity of New Orleans, that he was a widower, and that Alice was
his only child.

The parting between the lovers was favored by the voluntary and
judicious absence of Colonel May from the room, and with the usual
protestations of love, in this case, painfully sincere, and a promise
mutually drawn from each other to write once a week. Alice at length
received the last lingering kiss—and the next moment was left weeping,
alone.

It was the evening of the 22d of February. It was to be celebrated
by one of the most magnificent assemblies that had ever been in
the capital of Louisiana. In a planters' villa a few miles from the city
was one fair inmate preparing for the brilliant scene. It was Alice
May. Four months had elapsed since she had left Edward, and her
love burned clear and pure and steady. He was her idol—her heart

of hearts. She wrote to him oftener than he had stipulated, and was
thinking of him daily, hourly. Her letters were transcripts of her
heart's deep, holy and fervent feelings. Her life was wrapped up in
his, and she knew from his letters that he loved her with the same unwavering
devotion.

She had been much courted, caressed and flattered since her return
home. In every place she was the star of all eyes. But her love for
Edward Orr was the polar star of all her regard, and the compliments,
the flattery and homage she received, made no impression upon her.
If she had had her own will she would have withdrawn from society;
for she cared for no pleasure that he did not share with her. But her
father, proud of her extraordinary beauty, and flattered by the attention
paid her, carried her to every public place of amusement, with
which the city was then rife. On the present occasion she had entreated
to remain at home, as she had felt all day unusually depressed.
But he had a motive in urging her compliance with his wishes, and
she consented to prepare and accompany him to town in the carriage.

She was seated at her window which looked out upon a spacious
lawn, ornamented with noble elms and sycamores, with a glimpse of
the river beyond. The moon was filling her shield with light as the
twilight deepened, and shone broadly down between the light trellised
columns of the piazza. A mocking bird near by was making the air
musical with a hundred stolen songs, and at intervals from the quartier
of the slaves came the low chant of some African air.

Behind Alice was kneeling a young female slave braiding her long
raven hair; for she had for some months ceased to let it have its freedom.
Reclining on a couch beside her, lay a beautiful quadroone
about thirty eight years of age. She was an invalid, and her large
black eyes seemed to beam with unearthly beauty. Her hand was
thin and transparent, and a deep rose seemed opening beneath the
olive delicacy of her cheek. She was a consumptive, and lay there
like a child unconscious of her danger, and as interested in the trifles
about her, as if death had not lifted his finger and beckoned her away.

Her name was Desirée, and she was a slave. Many years before,
struck with her beauty, while she was yet a child, Colonel May had
purchased her for his wife's attendant. The lady educated her, and
made her rather a friend and companion than a slave. When the
handsome Desirée had reached her twentieth year her mistress died,
since which period she had been a housekeeper and overseer of the
other female domestics. To her, Alice was greatly attached, and the

affection of the quadroone for her young mistress was like that of a
mother to her child.

`Ah, Miss Alice, your hair is already as long as mine,' she said,
admiring for some time the raven tresses of the maiden; `and I have
been said to have the most beautiful hair in Louisiana!'

`Was my mother's hair like mine, Desirée?'

`Mistress' hair was fair brown,' answered the slave, with a hesitation
in her manner, and looking as if she would have avoided replying
to the question.

`I wish I could have seen to recollect my mother. She died, alas,
when I was born! Motherless I have been from my birth, and oh,
how have I sighed to lean on a dear mother's bosom!'

The quadroone sighed; then her eyes suddenly sparkled with animation;
she half rose from the couch, and with parted lips eagerly
bent towards her young mistress as if she would speak! but the words
died in her heart as she sank back upon her couch and hid her face
in her hands.

During the remainder of the toilet she remained silent; and at
length Alice being richly yet tastefully dressed drove off with her father.