 | CHAPTER XI. The King of the Hurons |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
And fetters flame with flaxen band,
Has yet a harder task to prove—
By firm resolve to conquer love.”
—Scott.
When Henrich returned from his fruitless quest after the slave,
he found Miss Montaigne still trembling with unsubdued excitement,
and fearful that even her present refuge might afford no sufficient
protection against her lawless persecutor. She had started at every
sound during his absence, and felt as if she were again exposed to
all the perils which had so recently impended over her; her fears
had been augmented, too, by the remembrance of Henrich's instinctive
offer to avenge her wrongs, and she did not hesitate, on his
return, to exact from him a promise that he would not seek personally
to visit retribution upon the offender: “I have, indeed, a right,”
she said, “to require this at your hands; for if gratitude did not
prompt a regard for your interest, I cannot but remember that my
own security may continue to depend upon yours.”
Huntington replied with suppressed emotion: he was too happy
to have been her preserver; her lightest word should be to him a
law, and he would leave no vigilance unexercised to secure her
continued safety. Such were his words; yet, fearful of seeming to
presume on the benefits he had conferred, they were delivered
rather with an air of distant respect, than of cordial regard.
The fate of Jule continued to excite commiseration, and Blanche
was already engaged in planning schemes to discover her future
slave entered the house, bringing the first intelligence of her escape.
Emily and Mrs. Sniff were also soon added to the company, panic-stricken
by the tidings of the recent atrocity, to which they had so
unwittingly been rendered accessaries. Jule, of course, became the
lion of the hour, and related her adventures with much minuteness,
awakening the deepest interest, and not a little merriment beside;
yet poor Blanche, to whom the recital only imparted a more vivid
sense of the danger she had escaped, was in no mood for laughter.
Indignation succeeded alarm in her breast; and she felt her wrongs
the more keenly, when she reflected with what impunity they had
been committed. To seek legal redress would be utterly futile: the
slave being inadmissible as a witness, there was no evidence to connect
Grover personally with the transaction; and even had proof
been attainable to set in operation the unwieldy machinery of the
law, the offender's rank would shield him from any adequate punishment.
Miss Roselle declared she would never again set foot in the
dove-cot, and freely accepted, in behalf of herself and Blanche, the
tender of a refuge in Mynheer Waldron's hospitable house until a
new home could be found. The engrossing subject was discussed
until a late hour of the night; and Blanche again and again reiterated
her thanks to the gratified slave, and exacted from her a
promise to call on the ensuing day for some more substantial token
of her regard.
“Sumfin to remember you by, Missa Blanche;—notting else,”
said Jule, who was unwilling to be thought mercenary.
“It shall, indeed, be something to remember me by, poor child!”
replied Miss Montaigne,—“if the priceless boon of freedom is
worthy of remembrance.”
“Freedom, Missa Blanche!” exclaimed Jule, with starting tears—
“Oh no—dat cannot be; Harry Bolt loves Jule—would marry
Jule, if she free; but dat can't be—dat cost two hundred dollars!”
The negress emphasised the last words in a manner that implied
conviction that she had quite put at rest Miss Montaigne's benevolent
intentions in her behalf.
“Well, well,” replied Blanche, scarcely refraining from tears,—
“come and see me, Jule, and bring Harry Bolt along with you.”
To this invitation the negress, after consulting her mistress's eye,
and seeing no indications of disapproval, promised compliance. The
widow was mortified and vexed by the conduct of her distinguished
friends, almost into a state of speechlessness, which, in her case,
might be considered the very collapse of grief. She was, however,
but little alarmed for her own safety; and being mindful of certain
valuables which would be exposed by her absence, she returned to
her house, taking with her the reluctant negress and a borrowed
farm-dog for her protection.
When Henrich Huntington arose on the ensuing morning he was
quite unable to discover his grandfather's old-fashioned rickety
house, with its high, precipitous roof, its clumsy chimneys, its loose
clanging window-blinds, and its scarecrow weathercocks, which he
had long been accustomed to laugh at and ridicule. In its place he
saw a venerable edifice, time-stained it is true, but also time-honored,
possessing in all its parts an air of the utmost cheerfulness, and
challenging his profoundest respect. The declivity of the rafters
exactly suited his taste; the chimneys had grown into favor; the
iron roosters, if a little scrawny were still graceful and life-like; and,
if here and there a shutter, deprived of a hinge, hung obliquely at
its post, he was not sure that it did not improve the general air of
the building. The very garden, large and shapeless, had a new,
fresh, pleasing aspect; and if its only flowers were the coarse, gaudy
hollyhock and the unfragrant poppy, both had a certain peculiar
beauty, and the odor of the latter could hardly be called disagreeable.
Whether the presence of Miss Montaigne had anything to do with
this transformation, can of course be only a matter of conjecture
thoughts; and if, with an effort, he banished the beautiful
vision as something dangerous to dwell upon, it still recurred in
each unguarded moment, to his mind. So the calm lake, broken
by some disturbing pebble, loses for a while its image of the sky,
but still resumes the picture, with its own returning placidity.
But let him not be blamed, if at times he yielded to this pleasing
thraldom, for the charms of Miss Montaigne were calculated to
fascinate even a less susceptible mind than that of Henrich.
There are no words to paint the singular sweetness of her smile,
which seemed like a gleam of sunlight from some inner world of
purity and love. Rich in its golden treasures of thought and feeling
must have been the heart which emitted rays like these; and
Henrich was but too happy to catch their casual radiance, to treasure
them in his memory, to recall them in dreams, and to wonder what
there was of human suffering or achievement that could win from
relenting Heaven a treasure so transcendent. Never before had his
own poverty or obscurity been to him a source of serious regret;
but now he felt that he could make any effort to open the gates of
wealth or scale the cliffs of Fame.
Willing to diminish the distance between them, he had tried to
discredit the rumor of her rank and wealth, as one which might
well have originated in Mrs. Sniff's desire to create a temporary
éclat for herself; but there was something in the deportment of
Blanche which gave confirmation to the story. An air of unstudied
gentility pervaded her movements, with a tasteful avoidance of show
and affectation, and an entire freedom from that obtrusive dignity
which, ever guarded against aggression, betrays its uncertain footing
by its very efforts to stand. The mystery that enveloped her,
the singular mode of her arrival, the uncertain duration of her stay,
and her voluntary seclusion from society, all added to the interest
which she excited in the mind of Henrich; nor had he failed to
observe, in estimating her position, that independent action, even in
companion being in reality her sister. Her offer to enfranchise the
slave was made without consultation with Emily, nor did it seem to
excite any surprise in the latter. Henrich did not, indeed, yield a
moment's credence to the exaggerated views of his voluble neighbor,
yet he was compelled to believe it probable that Blanche belonged
to that aristocratic division of English society, between which, and
everything below it, so strong a line of demarcation exists.
The accident which had made him her benefactor, while it tended
to augment his growing attachment, and to impart an air of romance
to its character, seemed, in reality, rather to widen than diminish
the distance between them. A chivalric sense of honor forbade the
exhibition of a sentiment which might seem to found its claims for
reciprocity upon such an obligation, or which might impose any
restraint upon Blanche in seeking, in her still dependent state,
his fullest assistance and counsel. The proud consciousness that
she looked to him for protection was itself a pleasure which he
would not lightly jeopard; and he resolved, while sedulously watching
her interests, to guard with equal assiduity his own demeanor.
The negress, Jule, did not forget her appointment with Miss
Montaigne; and while the latter was discussing with Henrich a
subject connected with her welfare, made her appearance, accompanied,
according to promise, by her beau. Harry Bolt was a rare
specimen of colored humanity. His skin was of that exceeding
blackness aud coarseness of texture, which, to use a horticultural
simile, may be compared to a black turnip; and his coarse woolly
hair, from some unknown cause, perhaps by reason of a monopoly
of the coloring matter by other parts of the system, had turned
white at an unusually early age, and had given him an appearance
not very common even among the oldest negroes, and exceedingly
rare at the age of twenty-four. He was also very tall and awkward,
yet, despite so many disadvantages, could not be called ill-looking,
for he had a pleasing countenance, with fine eyes, and a perfect
his courage gave out at the door, and after much shuffling and
whispering on the outside, his companion entered alone.
“Harra 'fraid to come in, Missa Blanche,” she said; “he say he
don't know how to act.”
“Never mind, Jule,” replied Miss Montaigne: “tell him he need
not act at all—bring him in.”
Harry accordingly shuffled into the room, looking very sheepish,
and with his head hanging down, but he soon became composed
enough to listen to the questions of the young lady; and although
lost in conjecture as to her design, succeeded in giving very coherent
answers. He even confessed to the “soft impeachment” of loving
Jule, without any change of color, which, being rather deeply set,
would have required a pretty strong emotion to disturb.
“'Taint no use, though,” he said, twirling his cap; “'taint no
use, unless Missa Sniff die. Missa Sniff haint got any relations, and
she promise to give up Jule when she die.”
“That is liberal, certainly,” replied Blanche.
“Yes, dat berry liberal, sartain,” said the negro, quite gravely;
“but dat long time fust—last winter she berry sick with fever, and
we had some hope, but she come out of it, and now she better an
ever; got strong constooshun, Missa Sniff has.”
Jule listened on the broad grin to this narrative of disappointed
hope; but checking herself, as she thought of her perpetual bondage,
she added, sadly, “I told you it could not be, Missa Blanche; Jule
can't be free.”
“But Harry can work, lay up money, and buy you, Jule?”
“Yes, Missa, he got ten dollars laid up now —”
“Eleven!” said Harry, triumphantly.
—“But he ony can save three dollar a month, and so it will
take six years amost—and dat long time to work for me; I tell him
guv me up, and get a free wife somewhere,” said Jule, putting the
corner of a check apron to her eye; “but he says he wont —”
“And so I wont!” exclaimed Harry; “what for should I do such
a ting as dat; de time will come round byme by; it's ony six more
Pinksters, and Pausses, and Christmasses; and I shall be ony forty
when de time is up.”
“Forty, Harry?” said Henrich; “why how old are you now?”
“I'm twenty-four, Massa Huntington; I speak de trut; not a day
older: I shall be twenty-four a fortnight ago to-morrow.”
“And in six years you will be forty; will you?”
Harry hesitated and looked at Jule, who seemed also in some
doubt, and said she believed it was forty or thirty; but Massa
Henrich was a scholar and could reckon it up himself.
“But tell me,” said Blanche, “how did you yourself become free,
Harry?”
“I tell you dat,” answered the negro, excitedly; “my Massa
good man, he belong to de church—deacon Bolt, a berry good man
—he own me and a plenty more. I tended dat church, swept it,
washed it, ring de bell, and dig de graves—dig poor Massa's grave
at last, and when he die he guv me to de church in his will—kase
he berry good man.”
“He was, indeed,” said Blanche, smiling; “then you belonged to
the church, did you?”
“Yes, Missa Blanche,” said the negro, grinning; “dat what I tell
um—I b'longed to de church—de best white man among 'em didn't
b'long to de church as much as I did; but de church folks talked it
over and had a meetin' all about it, and frighten me berry much—
I didn't know what dey were going to do to me!”
“Well, what did they to you, Harry?”
“Golly gosh!” said the negro—“dey said dey wouldn't hab me!
—dey turn me out o' de church, and guv me free papers, and paid
me ten dollars a year for ringing de bell eber since!”
It need hardly be said that Miss Montaigne was fully prepared
to carry out her generous purposes. Although parsimony was not
among the faults of the Baron Montaigne, his daughter would
application of the funds with which he had supplied her; but she
had, fortunately, a private purse equal to the emergency, which she
had saved out of her allowance for pocket-money during the last few
years of her abode in England; and over this, at least, her control
was complete.
Slaves were not at that day of nearly as great value in the
province as they subsequently became; and the price which Jule
had named for herself proved to be correct. Mrs. Sniff had long
been desirous to sell the girl, and break up her lonely establishment,
and no difficulty was encountered in the arrangement, which had
already been effected through the agency of Henrich, who had,
indeed, but just returned and placed the deed of manumission in the
hands of the delighted Blanche, when Jule and Harry arrived.
There was a little pause in the conversation, during which Miss
Montaigne hesitated how to bestow her boon; and Jule, glancing at
Henrich, seemed to suspect that she and Harry might be trespassing
by too long a stay.
“Shall we go, now, Missa Blanche?” she said.
“Not yet,” replied the young lady, with emotion, handing, at the
same time, the papers to Henrich; “please to explain it to them, Mr.
Huntington,” she said in a low voice, turning away her face, and
affecting to look for something in her reticule.
“Jule has told you, I suppose, Harry,” he said, “what took place
yesterday, and how she saved Miss Roselle from being carried off by
the pirates?”
“She tell a-me-all,” said Harry; “sma'at gal, Jule is, and run like
an ostridge.”
“Miss Roselle is very thankful to her—she will never forget the
favor that Jule has conferred upon her; and in order to do what she
can in return, she is going to make Jule a great present, and one
that will last for a life-time.”
“Golly!” exclaimed the negro, in whose mind, as in the slave's,
must be made of good strong stuff, if it last so long as dat!”
“It is made of paper!” replied Henrich; “in other words, Miss
Roselle has bought Jule, and made her free—here is the deed; take
it, she is no longer a slave.”
“Free?—free?—free, Missa Blanche?” shouted Jule, flinging up
her arms as if she were throwing off some imaginary shackles; “oh,
dat is too much, too much! oh Missa Blanche, Jule nebber earn dat
—oh Missa Blanche, Jule will pray for you, night and mornin', all
her life—all her life;” and the poor girl fairly sobbed with emotion.
Harry manifested no less delight, but in a far different way. He
did not trust himself to speak in the presence of Miss Montaigne;
but thrusting the paper into his hat, with a sort of hysterical chuckle,
he rushed from the house, and uttering a succession of shouts, threw
himself upon the grass in the lawn, where he continued to roll for
many minutes.
“And am I really free, like a white woman?” said Jule, examining
her arms and chest, and looking up and down her figure, as if
she expected to see some physical transformation in her person;
“no more b'long to Missa Sniff, no more work for her—wash, iron,
cook, chop wood, make garden, do ebbery ting—no more scold,
scold, scold, and call me lazy beast, when I do my best—oh! Missa
Blanche, it is too much—too much!”
“You have fully deserved your freedom, Jule,” said Miss Montaigne,
“and I am delighted that it makes you so happy; go, now,
Harry is waiting for you; some other time you shall thank me, if
you wish.”
Jule accordingly departed, still ejaculating “Oh, Missa Blanche!
Missa Blanche! it is too much! too much!”
| CHAPTER XI. The King of the Hurons | |