University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
LOVE-POWDER.

Scarcely had Calvert shut himself within his cabin, when
Sylvia, the mulattress, crawled out from a cupboard which had
concealed her under the stairs of the companion-way, and stole
up to the deck, where she joined Molyneaux.

He had corrupted her. This was one of the discoveries which
Belcher had made, leading him to suspect Molyneaux of other
treacheries; but he had failed to communicate the fact to his superior,
for the reason, probably, that Calvert had given rather indifferent
attention to all the reports which had been made him in
respect to his lieutenant's intimacy with Zulieme. But unquestionably,
now, the mulattress was in the pay of the lieutenant.

She approached him without preliminaries, he being ready to
welcome her communications; showing that the understanding between
them had been sufficiently well matured. In her negro
patois, which we do not care to adopt, she began thus:—

“We are to go to Charleston. He told her so to-night. They
had a long talk; and she 's to change her name, and live with a
Mrs. Anderson; and she 's to go to balls and parties every night;
and there 's to be fine times; and who but she?”

And so the Abigail rambled on, in a loose manner; contriving,
however, to report very fully all that Calvert had said to his wife
in respect to her abode in town.

“But had they no quarrel?”

“Oh, yes! but he smoothed it all over, easy enough, as soon as

he let her know that she was to go to Charleston. That 's what
she 's been dying for. She so loves to be dancing in a crowd of
people!”

“But what said he about my being in the cabin?”

“Oh, he told her he 'd kill her if she was another woman. But
I do n't see the sense of that. And she was spunky, and told him
to kill her, and she did n't care how soon; and she called him a
brute-beast of an Englishman; she did! She did n't pick the
words, but said 'em just as they come up. She ain't afear'd of
him, to be sure. When he says `dog,' she says `cat;' and if he
shows his teeth, she 's ready for a scratch, any day. Lord, how
she does give it to him sometimes!”

“It was a pretty bit of a quarrel, then?”

“It did me good to hear it, for he 's such a dog-in-the-manger,
and he 'd put his foot on her if she had n't the spunk. And I
do n't see why she should n't say what she pleases, when she
brought him all the fortune.”

“To be sure — why not? That 's right! So you think there 's
no love lost between them?”

“As for the love, there 's no saying. If there 's any between
'em, she 's got it. He do n't love nothing! But, somehow, she
has a sort of liking for him, though she does scratch.”

“But liking can 't last long, if it 's `cat and dog' between them.”

“No, indeed; and she 'd rather be dancing with you, a thousand
times, than sitting down at `dumby and doggy' with him.”

“But what was the upshot of it all? How did it end?”

“Oh, she hugged him and kissed him after he told her she was
to go to town; but there was a good deal of sobbing and crying,
and cross words, first.”

“Did she weep?”

“Yes, a little. It was a sort of scream and sob. Then she
hushed up, and laughed out; and he told her she was a baby, and
maybe kissed her; and so he told her to go to bed, and then he
came up to you.”

“Did he say anything of me?”

“Not much; only that he would kill you and kill her, if he
ever caught you in his cabin again. 'T was then she called him
a brute-beast of an Englishman.”

“Rough words, Sylvia.”

“Was n't they? But he made all smooth when he told her
that she was to go to town.”

“But if she likes me, Sylvia, what makes her so eager to get
away with him?”

“It 's the balls and dances, I tell you. It 's not to go with him.
He 's not to go with us. He 's to send us to Mrs. Anderson, in
the boat.”

“Ah! he 's not to go with her? What 's he to do with himself?”

“Stay here, I reckon.”

“I do n't like that! What would he stay for? He 's not
wanted here. I can see to the ship.”

“I do n't know. That 's what he told her.”

“What more? Did you pick up any more?”

The mulattress simply repeated what had been said already.

“Well,” said Molyneaux, “when you get to town, I shall probably
send some one to you: if I can, will come myself. You must
find out all you can; keep an eye on both of them; let me know
all you hear; and keep talking to her about me. You know how
to do it.”

“Do n't I! Oh, she thinks you a mighty fine man — a handsome
man—”

“Ah! she does? Well?”

“She says you have a most beautiful figure.”

“Ah! she sees that — she says that?”

“Yes, indeed; though she says 't ain't so mighty as the captain's.”

“No — thank God, I 'm not an elephant!”

“No, indeed, you 're not so big. Now, she says, if you only
knew how to dance—”

“What! I do n't know how to dance?”

“That 's what she says of all you English, except the captain.
Now, he can dance Spanish, and so lightly, though he 's so large
and heavy. But he learned among our people — and he 's so
active!”

“Not more so than I am.”

“You think not?”

“Certainly not! I 'm as light and active as any man in the
British islands.”

“Ah! is it possible?”

“I can run as fast, bound as high, jump as far, hop as long, as
any man of my size in Britain.”

“I 'm so glad to hear it! She likes to see men doing these
things. But you do n't dance so well as the captain. She says
so.”

“I do n't know how that can be. I 've never seen him dance.”

“Oh, he never will dance now. That 's one thing she quarrels
about. He won't play with her now as he used to. If he would,
I 'm sure you 'd stand no chance. But, because you play with
her, she likes you.”

“Well, if she likes me, I do n't care much whether it 's because
of my heels or my head. Liking can grow to loving.”

“That it can!”

“And I 'm sworn to have her.”

“And so you can!”

“You must do your best, Sylvia. There 's a dollar for you.
Tell me everything, and you shall have more. Do all that you
can to make her love me, and I 'll pay you well. And if I get
her, my girl, I 'll make you rich.”

“If we could only give her a powder, now—”

“A powder! what 's that? what for?”

“A powder to make her love you.”

“I 've heard of such; but that 's all nonsense.”

“Nonsense! I tell you it 's true. We 've got powders at Darien
that 'll make the eyes of a man or woman fasten upon a person
as if they could see nothing else; make 'em dream of 'em
every night, and always such sweet dreams; make 'em hunt after
'em, as a dog hunts after the deer; oh, make their hearts feel for
nothing else but them!”

“Why do n't you give her one of these powders, then, on my
account? I do n't much believe in what you tell me, but you
must try everything.”

“So I would if I had the powders. If I was at Darien, now,
I could soon get 'em. But they 're made out of roots that grow
only in our mountains. And you have to look for 'em at night,
and when there 's no moon, and that 's dangerous. But when you
have only the roots about you, in your pocket, and walk side-by-side
with the person you want to love you, they 'll almost grow to

you. They can 't leave you for a moment, without pain; and
they 're happy as soon as they can get to you again. I do think
that the captain had some of those roots in his pocket, when they
first brought him to our hacienda; and that 's the reason that my
young mistress took to him so mad as she did.”

“There 's reason in that. I wonder if he has any of them about
him still! — But it 's all nonsense. No use to talk about it. You
must do what you can, Sylvia, without the love-powder. Now,
I 'm a good-looking fellow — a handsome fellow: you can say
that, surely; and do n't let her forget it. Look at that leg.”

And he stuck his foot upon the gunwale, and stroked his calf
complacently.

“There 's a leg for you, Sylvia!”

“Yes, indeed; if you could only shake it Spanish fashion.”

“Oh, d—n the Spanish fashion! I can shake it Irish fashion,
you fool, and that never failed to please a woman yet. Do n't
forget that. Do you hear?”

“No, indeed.”

“Well, what can you say against my face — my figure?”

“Say against 'em, sir? Oh, bless your eyes, who can say anything
against 'em?”

“Well, but what can you say for them, Sylvia? That 's the
true question.”

“Well, sir, every woman sees a man with just her own pair of
eyes. Now, if 't was for myself, I like your face and figure so
well, that, if you was to ask me, I 'd have you to-morrow, and
jump at you too. And so, I reckon, would my mistress, if she
was only a free woman; for she says you 're a handsome fellow,
only you can 't dance Spanish.”

“I 'll make her a free woman, by all the holies! Remember
that! Tell her that! Let her but say that she loves me, and
I 'll go through blazes to set her free from this infernal bondage!
As for the dancing Spanish, let her know that my legs — and you
see them — were made for dancing Irish. Let her find a pair of
Spanish calves to match with these, and I 'll admit that there 's
some virtue in these d—d Spanish dances; but, till then, an Irish
jig for me, whenever good legs are to be shaken. Go, now, Sylvia.
There 's another dollar for you, my girl. Keep it up — do
you hear? The drop of water will wear away the stone; and

the right word, said at the right time, and at all times when you
get a chance, will wear down a flinty heart. Keep your ears
open, and your tongue only for me.”

While this scene was in progress, ignorant if not indifferent,
Harry Calvert was keeping painful vigil below. He did not
sleep — did not seek for sleep — was busy with books and papers.
He read and wrote alternately for two hours. Then rising, putting
away books and papers, he approached the berth where Zulieme
slept — slept like a child — just as heedless of the morning
as if it were never to dawn again. The strong man gazed on her
sleeping features, in a stern and meditative silence. What was
she to him? Were she lying there in the absolute embrace of
Death — as she was in that of its twin-sister, Sleep — he would
probably have been as sadly calm a spectator. What was she to
him? We have heard already. But, though indifferent, he would
not have had one breath of heaven too roughly to beteem her
cheeks. Not a harsh thought, not an ungenerous feeling, not a
hostile fancy, filled his heart or mind toward her. True, she was
but a child in his sight — erring, weak, silly — a creature quite
unsuited to his needs as to his nature; but whose was the fault
that she was here?

“That is the grief,” he murmured, as he gazed. “Did I not,
from the first, know that she was only the feeble, thoughtless creature
that I have found her? Knowing this, what had I to do
with her? Why did I pluck her from her proper home — from
the simple bed of security in which she had grown — beloved,
watched, nurtured tenderly, and honored — when I could not love
or honor, could hardly watch, and certainly not tenderly nurture?
I must not cast her off, nor scorn her, nor rate heavily her offences,
nor treat her with indifference! She must not feel, at my hands,
meaner measure of care and kindness than I have had at hers —
than she herself has always got from those of fond, foolish mother,
and idolizing, doting father. Love is impossible. That I feel!
But, for the rest — the care, the kindness, the protection, the indulgence
— these she must never lack! Were she guilty, now!
— But, no! Who that looks upon that sleep so placid, childlike,
satisfied — the lips slightly parted, the brow unruffled, the breathing
regular and soft like that of an infant, and the bosom so sweetly

heaving — shall doubt that he looks upon the sleep of innocence?
Ah! she is sobbing in her sleep — a half-stifled sob — a slight
convulsion of feeling, spite of sleep, as if the memory were busy
recalling those sharp words of mine to-night. Sleep on, poor girl,
sleep on! I will not question your purity, though I may your
prudence. Shall I chafe because you are ignorant of vice — of
those passions that make vice a necessity — that make jealousy
and suspicion the necessary guardians in a world consciously corrupt?
No, no! Sleep on: I will endure it as I may!”

She woke, and threw out her arms.

“Harry — is it you, Harry? Ah! you dear brute Englishman,
why do n't you come to bed? You know we are to go to Charleston
in the morning. Ha! ha! Harry.”

And she sighed, and lapsed away again in sleep.