"Oh! Clifford, how thy words revive my heart!"
King Henry VI.
"Villains!" cried a deep, powerful voice, as a huge form met them, in
full career, staggering through the darkness; "villains! unhand this
girl, or, by Heavens, you'll rue the hour you ever placed a finger on
her."
"Help! help!"
"And who are you, I'd like to know, that dares to put his finger in our
p-p-pie?" returned Quirk, trying to dash past the tall figure with his
burden.
"I am one that dares to protect defenceless virtue, whenever I see it
thus assailed. This girl is not what you take her for, or she would
never cry for help; and I tell you to put her down, or I will make you,"
returned the other, lifting his strong arm, and still preventing them
from passing.
The girl struggled in the grasp of her captors, and moaned.
The new comer sprang forward with a bound, and clasping his arms about
her, strove to draw her from their hold.
"Not so fast, not so fast," said Clinton, placing one hand over the
girl's mouth; "remember we're three to one here, and if you don't want
your head broke, you'd better keep away."
"That's the kind," said Arthur, coming forward; "hold on to her, Clin--"
The words were no sooner spoken, than the speaker fell to the pavement,
leveled by a heavy blow from the arm of the intruder, and a second blow
sent Quirk, staggering, into the gutter, while at the same moment the
girl was snatched from the now yielding arms of Clinton.
As she gained her feet, she flung back her hair from her eyes, and
looked up in the face of her rescuer.
"Monsieur Wilkins!"
"Good Heavens! is this Blanche?"
At the mention of Wilkins' name, Arthur and Quirk sprang to their feet,
and started on a run down the street, followed by Clinton.
"A devilish muss this," cried Quirk, as they paused on a corner, a few
blocks from the scene of their discomfiture.
"It was too dark for him to recognize a soul of us," returned Clinton;
"if it hadn't been for the lamp gleam coming suddenly through that
window, she would not have known him."
"I hope he didn't know me," said Arthur, rubbing his forehead, which had
struck the pavement as he fell, and feeling considerably sobered by his
fall, and the recent flight. "I don't want this scrape to go back to
Guly."
"Who's that? your young milk-and-water brother! Pshaw! what does he know
about the fun of such things? If you want to enjoy yourself, I advise
you to keep your sprees a secret from him; he has no soul to appreciate
such affairs."
"You are more than half right there."
"He's the kind of character I can't bear to be near," said Quirk,
emphatically.
"You couldn't pay him a higher compliment than to say that," returned
Arthur, warmly.
"Well, well, don't get into a miff about a trifle now. Clint, where
shall we go to?"
"I shall go home, I reckon; my head aches," said Arthur.
"No, you won't go home either," replied Clinton, pulling him along with
him, good-naturedly. "Let's make a night of it, now we have begun. What
do you say for the Globe ball-room? There's a high affair there
to-night, and
'We'll dance all night till broad daylight,
And go home with the gals in the morning.'"
"Agreed," said Quirk; "come along, Pratt. Your foot's in, and it'll be
dirty, whether you pull it out first or last; you may as well have the
good of it."
With a heart responding to this idea, Arthur suffered his companions
each to take an arm, and went on with them to the Globe ball-room. The
haggard ghost, the pale figure of warning and remorse, was gone for ever
from Arthur's heart.
Wilkins, the moment he discovered who it was he had rescued, gave scarce
a thought to the flight of those who had opposed him; but, with a gush
of thankfulness in his heart, he drew Blanche's arm within his, and led
her back toward her own house.
"How came you to be in the street at this hour, Miss? Do you know it is
after midnight, and young girls like you are never safe in these streets
at such hours?"
"Oh, sir," said Blanche, bursting into tears, "my grandpapa was taken
very ill. I had no one to send, you know, and of course I had to go for
assistance myself. I looked all up and down the street, and saw nobody,
not even a watch-man; so I put on my cloak, and ran for the doctor. He
wasn't home; so I went a little further to see old Elise, who always
gives me medicine that helps grandpapa, and she detained me a little
while preparing it; and when I came out, _they_ came behind me; I tried
my very best to run away, but I fell down, and they caught me. Oh, Mon
Dieu! Monsieur! what if you hadn't come just as you did!"
"You would have been a most miserable little girl, without doubt, Miss
Blanche."
"I can never thank you enough, Monsieur."
"You can repay me by never going out at such a time again."
"And when another case comes just as extreme, Mr. Wilkins, what can I
do? I couldn't let poor grandpapa die, could I?"
There was such an earnest intonation of voice in these words, and such a
simple innocence of manner, that Wilkins couldn't repress a smile.
"If I furnish you with a tidy little black girl, will you take good care
of her, Miss Blanche, and let _her_ do your errands?"
"Oh, Monsieur, that would be too much for you to do."
"No; I own a number of slaves, and the daughter of one of them is too
young to be put out to a place, and is just old enough to work for you."
"You are so very kind!"
By this time they had reached Blanche's home, and as she tripped up the
steps, she said:--
"Come and see grandpapa to-morrow, Mr. Wilkins; and let him thank you
for his kindness to his little house-keeper."
"I will come, Miss Blanche."
"And, Monsieur," she added, coming out again after she had passed into
the door, "bring Guly with you, won't you?"
"Oui, Mademoiselle."
The door closed, and Wilkins passed on, thoughtfully, towards
Royal-street. In the excitement of the recent adventure, he had almost
forgotten what had called him forth at that time of night, and now
walked on, like one who wanders forth purposeless, into darkness and
solitude. But suddenly, in passing a brilliantly lighted café, the
thought of Arthur crossed his mind; and, for the first time, the idea
flashed upon him, that he might have been one of those concerned in the
capture of little Blanche.
He stopped short, and was about to turn back, to endeavor to trace the
fugitives, when he remembered that Arthur had as yet but just commenced
the downward path, and that he could not already have become so fallen
as to commit so base an act as that which he had just witnessed. It had
been too dark to recognize faces, and his own excitement had prevented
him from thinking to notice the voices; and the more he thought of it,
the more convinced was he that Arthur was not among them. He had sat
with Guly by the fire until the midnight hour had passed, waiting for
Arthur's return; but when the fire died out, and the lamp faded, and he
still was absent, he persuaded Guly to go to bed, promising that he
would seek his brother before he slept. Guly would fain have accompanied
him, but Wilkins induced him to remain, not wishing to familiarize the
pure heart of his boy-friend with the scenes in which he felt convinced
he must look for the wanderer.
Wilkins faithfully kept his word, and left no place unsearched wherein
he thought it possible to find Arthur. He believed he would find him in
some one of the popular places of resort, standing ever open, with their
false glitter and dangerous splendor, to lure their victims to
destruction. But 'the wee small hour ayont the twal' found him still
searching, and still unsuccessful.
Disappointed, with lingering steps he turned toward the store, but, as
he stepped upon the sill, a slender figure darted from the alley-way,
and laid a chill and trembling hand upon his arm.
"Bernard!"
"Heavens, Minny! what brings you here?"
"Hopes and fears, and memories, and sorrows, which _will not_ die."
"Pshaw, girl! harping on the old string yet! What of your mistress?"
"She is well, and by this time happy in her dreams."
"And did she send you to me? how came you here?"
"I came here with the pass, which gives any negro a right to the
highway; and though I forged it, it served me well."
Minny stepped back into the shadow of the archway, and Wilkins, obeying
the convulsive grasp of that delicate hand, followed her.
"Bernard," said she, dropping her voice almost into a whisper, which
echoed deep and clear through the dark and narrow alley, "I have come to
you to-night, for the last time in my life, to stand before you for a
moment in the light of other days."
She paused, as if some smothered emotion overcame her; and the trembling
hand upon his arm slipped down, and was clasped an instant in Wilkins'
grasp. It lingered there but a moment, one wild sad moment to Minny, and
was withdrawn hastily, with a gush of tears.
"I cannot tell you," she proceeded to say, in a tone of touching
sadness, and speaking every word with impressive distinctness, "I cannot
tell you what came over me to-night, as I sat by the tall window,
looking up at the pale stars, and listening to the night-wind, but it
seemed to me like some vivid dream, or some shadowy vision of the past,
and as my mistress fell asleep, I sat there still, looking up at the
stars, with my vision between me and them. Listen, Bernard, and let me
tell you what it was."
Wilkins' heart was touched by the soul-reaching sadness of the girl's
manner, and he folded his arms patiently upon his breast, and leaned
back against the brick wall of the archway, with his head bent forward
to listen.
"I saw myself, Bernard, at first, as I was when first you came here. I
knew none of the sorrows of my situation then, if there were any; at
least I did not think it was anything to be a slave, and I was
light-hearted and innocent, and very happy. I saw myself tripping along
with my basket in my hand, as I so often used to do in my frequent
errands to the store, and I met you, and at last, one moonlight night,
you started with me from the store, and talked with me kindly and
gently, and left me only at the gate of the great house where I lived.
Bernard, do you remember?"
"Yes, Minny, I do remember."
"And the next night, and the next--and still the next--they all came
before me to-night so clearly. You were by my side, and talking sweetly,
gently, lovingly. Yes, you told your love to me, Bernard; I saw you in
my vision to-night as plainly as I saw you in reality then. On your
knees before me, me the quadroon, clasping my hand, kissing it, blessing
it, praying, imploring, beseeching me to be your wife. You were younger
then, and less ambitious. I loved you so passionately, so wildly--Oh! my
God! with what intenseness--and I told you so. To-night, looking up at
those stars above me, I seemed to hear the old cathedral bell, I saw the
doors swing slowly open, I heard the solemn service, you clasped me to
your heart--your own."
"Girl! girl!" cried Wilkins, striking his hand upon his brow
passionately, "why do you come to call all this up now?"
"Hear me, Bernard," said Minny, laying her hand again upon his arm. "You
must hear me out. My lips shall never call the past to your mind again,
never; but hear me now. I kept my place, and you kept yours. We met
clandestinely, when we could, and where we could; and when I found that
bondage kept me from your side, and that you had neither the gold to buy
me, nor the courage to have it said you bought your wife, then, then I
learned the bitter lot the quadroon has to bear. I was as white as you,
as free in heart and motion, with high and good impulses, and a
cultivated mind; and yet I had no liberty to go abroad, and make my home
with him I loved, and, for the first time in my life, I cursed the fate
which rendered me a slave! A little time went on, and what a change! Oh!
Heaven! that I should e'er have lived to see it! you grew cold and
distant as you rose in life, and when you gained the position you now
have here, I saw, because my very love made me see, that an ambitious
heart had turned your thoughts higher than the poor quadroon, the
beautiful but wretched slave. You loved my mistress! my master's
daughter! She whom he would rather this day bury in the Potter's field
than see your wife--and you know it! Oh! what agony then was mine! It
was my turn then to weep, and pray, and plead; was I not your lawful
wife, your own? Ha! what answer did you give me then? That our marriage
was a mere form, that it was illegal, and I was--what? No marriage could
be performed lawfully, you said, between a white man and a woman with
the blood of my race in her veins. I wonder that I did not go mad then;
I was taken terribly ill, but it was my fate to live on in misery. I
lived to see you and Miss Della meet often, after that first meeting at
the masked ball, and I lived to see her love you. When I found her
secret out, I gave you up for ever; and from that moment my love froze
up, and has hung in my heart like an unthawing icicle ever since."
"Have done, girl!" cried Wilkins, suddenly laying his heavy hands on her
shoulders, as she stood before him with the starlight she so loved, just
making her pale face and glittering eyes visible; "have done, I say, or
I will curse you. Hence! I have heard enough of this; why do you come
prating here, to tell me what I already know too well?--out upon you!"
In his impatient anger, Wilkins threw her from him, and strode
hurriedly, up and down through the narrow alley, where they stood. Minny
waited until his excitement had in a measure subsided, and he stood once
more with folded arms before her, and his dark eyes looking into hers.
"Now," said he, speaking half in mockery, half in awe of the
firm-hearted girl beside him, "now, my sin, my concentrated lightning,
my beautiful passion, my quintessence of gall and bitterness, go on.
I'll stand and listen now till doomsday, if you will it, though your
lips drop burning coals into my bare bosom, and scorch my soul. Go on,
I say, I'll listen."
Minnie drew herself up proudly before him, as she heard his words, and
stood with her beautiful head erect, and her keen eye fixed upon him,
unwaveringly.
"Had you possessed a soul to burn over a woman's woes, and a woman's
wrongs, it would have been scorched out long ago, Bernard; but let that
pass. I came to you this night, not only to tell over my own
wretchedness, a reviewal of which had risen up so forcibly before me,
but I came to you anew as the spirit of the past, to call up in your
breast the memory of what you have been, and to ask you if the future
brings a change. And now, Bernard, on all your hopes of happiness, here
or hereafter, answer me truly. Do you sincerely love this girl, whose
guileless heart you've won?"
"And whether I do or not, girl, is it you I must make my confessor? No,
never. It is a matter which concerns you not at all. Whether my heart be
black as hate, or pure as an angel's pinion, I lay it bare to no one.
Whatever my feelings or intent in this matter, they are my own."
"Not so, Bernard. If ambition has prompted you to gain her affections,
if love of wealth has sent you a wooer at that shrine, having in your
breast no faithful heart to bestow in return for hers, let me beg, let
me implore you, to stop where you are. Be merciful, compare the home
which you can give, to the home from whence you take her. Compare the
happiness which you can bestow to that of which you rob her, and feel,
that if you take her, with all this, to a loveless breast, you take her
to misery, to desolation, and death!"
"Do you deem me a villain, woman?"
"What you have been, you may be again."
Wilkins mused a moment; then, in a softer and more subdued tone, said:--
"No, no; oh no! God only knows--but never that to her, oh never!"
"Bernard! my mistress is dear to me; her happiness more sacred to me
than my own. If I believed that you would ever play her false, if I
believed that a sinister motive led you to accomplish this end, as I
stand before you here, I would expose you as you are. I would lay bare
to her the secrets of the past. I would warn her to recall the love
which she has lavished on you, though the next hour should be my last,
in consequence. Her happiness shall never be wrecked while I have the
slightest power to guide it clear from danger."
With his impetuous spirit growing calm, as Minny became more excited,
Wilkins looked upon her, as she confronted him, with her soul in her
face, and his eyes kindled with the admiration his impulsive but
generous heart could not but feel.
"Most nobly spoken, Minny!" he exclaimed, earnestly, "and now, as Heaven
hears, let me speak what I feel is truth. Minny, there is a first love,
a wavering, flickering, effervescing sentiment of youthful hearts,
faithful and enduring in some instances, but not in mine, and this, God
forgive me, I gave to you. True, I believed then I could never change;
but the change came, with the exhalation of my heart's first passion,
and though I never hated, I found I could no longer love you. Our
marriage was illegal; I did not know it when it took place, but I
learned it afterwards, when my love had chilled, and with perhaps a
cruel, but a just hand, Minny, just to us both, I severed the cord which
had bound us so sweetly, and our parted hearts drifted out of each
other's sight, on the billows of life's ocean."
"Aye, Bernard, the one, a torn and shattered wreck, cast helpless on the
desolate shores of sorrow and despair; the other, strong and uninjured,
floating away to new and pleasant places, with only the shadow of a sad
memory following it."
"Too true, Minny, too true! alas for the restless impulses of my
misguided spirit. Alas for the trusting hopefulness of thine. But,
Minny, as I stand before you now, with my whole heart open to your
sight, I can most truly declare, that my love for Della is all that you
would have it. She is trusting and innocent. I will never blight the
one, or betray the other. I will hold her to my strong heart as some
tender flower, which needs protection from a wintry blast, and from the
world's cold breath; I will shield and guard, and cherish her with my
life. God help me so to do!"
"Amen, Bernard, amen!"
"Minny, are you satisfied?"
"Yes! my heart trusts you once again. Even more hopeful for its trust
for another, than even for itself."
"Bless you, Minny; and now 'tis time your anxious heart found rest. I
will see you safe to your own gate, and then good-night."
Minny suffered Wilkins to draw her hand within his arm, and lead her
forth once more beneath the starry skies. They walked on silently, each
engrossed with their own reflections, with only the occasional
interruption of the watchman, or the rattle of some noisy vehicle,
hastening along the stony streets. Minny at last stopped at the entrance
of the vacant court, leading to the secret garden door. As she was about
to withdraw her hand from his arm, Wilkins retained it, firmly, yet
respectfully, in his own.
"I have been thinking, Minny, more deeply than I ever thought before, of
the great wrong which I have done you. The time may never come again
when we shall meet as to-night we've met, and before we part, I must
hear your lips pronounce my forgiveness."
"From the bottom of my heart, Bernard, I forgive you all that you may
ever have done to me; either in word, or thought, or deed."
"I have been a wretch, Minny."
"But," continued the girl, without heeding the interruption, and
speaking in an earnest, thrilling tone, "by the Heaven that is above us
both, Bernard, I here swear, that if you are ever cold or cruel to the
new bride you are winning, as true as there's a heart in my bosom, I
will be her avenger--mark my words; though I should have to follow you
to the ends of the earth, that revenge shall be mine."
A moment of silence ensued, and Minny stood like a breathing statue of
retribution, with her glittering eyes fixed upon the face before her.
"Ah, Minny, the chill breath of desertion and sorrow has extinguished
the last spark of affection which once glowed in your breast for me, or
you could never speak thus. But fear not; your young mistress shall be
to me as the apple of my eye, even as the core of my heart."
"Enough, enough. Good-night."
"Stay, Minny; can you learn to think of me kindly; and, in coming days,
to witness my affection for another unshrinkingly?"
"I have already learned to do so."
"And you will not let these gloomy visions of the past rise up between
you and the far-off stars?"
"Never again, never again."
He pressed the trembling hand he held between his own, and touched it to
his lips.
It was drawn quickly from him; a stifled sob fell upon his ear, and he
stood alone.
Slowly he turned his steps homewards, and with every echo of his
solitary footfall, with every sob of the passing night-wind, came back
upon his troubled heart, with thrilling sadness, Minny's last mournful
words, "Never again, never again!"
Again he reached the store, and the lock, obedient to the ponderous key,
turned noiselessly, and Wilkins entered. It was dark and gloomy, and a
chill passed over him as he fastened the door, and groped his way along
between the deserted counters. The scene through which he had just
passed had called up bitter and unpleasant memories, and there came over
him a sense of lonely desolation, such as he could not endure to
experience. He stopped a moment as he reached the high desk, and stood
there, silent and thoughtful.
"I will go to him," he muttered; "there is something holy in his
presence, which will make me happier."
With cautious steps he mounted the winding stairs, and sought the room
where Guly lay. The moment he approached the bedside, the boy started
from his restless pillow.
"Arthur, is it you?"
"It is me, Guly," returned Wilkins, in a low voice.
"You! and you come without him?"
"I come alone, Guly."
"And has anything happened--oh! do not keep it from me! Is Arthur hurt?
What brings you here, Wilkins, if it is not that?"
"I came here, Guly, with my own troubled heart, to look upon you as you
slept, and to go away happier. I have no news, either good or bad, of
poor Arthur."
Guly was silent a moment, then taking Wilkins' hand, he said:--
"I cannot tell you how much I thank you for the long and dreary walk you
have taken for my sake. Some day I hope to be able to repay your
kindness."
"Don't mention it, Guly; a mere trifle."
"It was a great deal to me; and now, Wilkins, would you just as soon lie
down by me as to sleep in your own bed? It must be nearly morning, but
this is a gloomy place to lie in alone, with only a troubled heart for
company."
"True, Guly; I will be with you in a moment."
They lay down together, and soon slept, side by side, exhausted by
watching and weariness; and the boy's fair head was pillowed on the
man's breast, rising and falling there like a golden shield, resting on
the bounding heart, "keeping the evil out."