"All the world's a stage."
"Oh, Massa Gulian," said Jeff, one day, following Guly, who had entirely
recovered from his illness, to his room, "what shall I ever do, Massa
Gulian, I'se so berry mis'ble?"
"And what has occurred, my poor fellow, to make you so unhappy?"
"Why, it's 'bout dis robb'ry, young massa. Don' you see dat old Master
s'picions me? Tudder day, he said he bleeb'd I know'd suthin' 'bout it,
'cause he found dat knife of mine dar in de winder; and the Lord knows
I'se innocent as a lamb, ob eben tinking such a ting."
"Mr. Wilkins, I think, convinced him of your innocence, Jeff. He told
him every fact, concerning you, that he could think of, to prove you
guiltless."
"Yes, but--but I heerd Master mutter to hisself dat he couldn't clar me
in his own mind till somebody else was cotched, and proved guilty; and
nobody has been cotched, and I'se berry wretched, 'deed, sah, I is."
Jeff looked all he expressed, and Guly pitied him in his heart.
"Be of good cheer, and trust in God; all will yet be well. It were
impossible for any one to think you guilty, Jeff, of this."
"Seems to me dat de Lord has deserted me 'tirely. What makes my heart
ache most, is Massa's manner; you see he allus used to be berry kind to
me; fact is, he neber whipped me in the world, and he used to trust me
with so many of his private affairs, and wus allus so kind of
confidential like, long o' me, and sometimes sent me wid money to de
bank, and all dat. Don't do it now; scowl on his face de minit he cum
near me, and look so like a tunder cloud, I 'spects to be struck wid
lightnin' ebery minit. If he'd tie me up, and whip me, and den be
hisself agin, I wouldn't care; but de Lord knows I lub my Massa dearly,
and can't bar' to hab him turn de cold shoulder to me, and show he hab
no more confidence in his nigger, 'tall."
Guly tried to say something encouraging; but, though Jeff listened
respectfully, it was very sadly; and several times he wiped the tears
from his cheeks, while his young master was speaking.
"Massa Guly," said he, taking a small parcel from his pocket, "here's
suthin' I found in de winder, de morning after de robb'ry, when dey was
cleaning up. I 'spect it b'longs to de tiefs, but I don't want you to
open it till some one's cotched, and then if it finds an owner, well and
good; but if it don't, I want you to keep it to 'member me. It's a purty
thing, an' it's mine if it don't get an owner, 'cause I found it; and,
as I said, I want you to hab it."
"You are not going away, are you, Jeff?"
"Yes, young massa, berry fur."
"Why, how so?" said Guly, in surprise, "I had heard nothing of it."
"Well, please not to say nothin' 'bout it, massa; 'twouldn't do no good,
an' I don't want it talked of. Ole Massa's plantation's a good way up de
river, an' he sends all his bad niggers dar. Mebbe I won't see you 'gin,
Massa Gulian, so good bye."
Gulian gave him his hand, and the negro took it in both of his, and
bending over it, burst into a loud fit of weeping.
"Oh, Massa Guly, if I'se ever hurt your feelin', or done anyting berry
wrong, I hopes you will forgive me. De Lord bress you, Massa Guly;
you'se been de light ob mine eyes, an' de joy ob my soul, eber sin' you
fuss cum here. De Lord bress you, foreber an' eber."
With a despairing, broken-hearted gesture, Jeff dropped the hand, and
hurried from the room; and, at that moment Wilkins, who still retained
his place as head clerk, called Guly a moment to his side.
"Guly," said he, laying his hands upon his shoulders, "do you remember
the time you promised me, if ever I needed a friend, you would be that
one?"
"Yes, Wilkins; and will fulfill my promise any moment!"
"Will you be at the Old Cathedral, with Blanche, at midnight?"
"Blanche! midnight! the Old Cathedral? I don't understand your meaning."
"I want you to meet me at that hour, with Blanche, at the Cathedral."
"Would she go?"
"Oh, yes; I have it all arranged with her; Old Elise will stay with her
grandfather till she returns. You will be there?"
"Since you wish it--yes, without fail. You will explain matters when we
meet there?"
"They will explain themselves. Don't forget."
The day wore on, and everything went on in its usual manner, until just
before Mr. Delancey's dinner hour, when, to the surprise of all, the
loud report of a pistol was heard, coming from the little court, just at
the back part of the store. As its echo died away, all those clerks not
at the moment engaged, rushed to the long windows, and sprang through
into the court, to learn what the matter was. Guly was the first on the
spot, and to his horror and amazement, found Jeff lying on the ground,
weltering in his blood, but still showing signs of life.
"Jeff!" he exclaimed, bending over him, "what have you done!"
"Oh--Massa--Guly"--gasped the negro, turning his dimming eyes to the
boy's face, "you'se come with your blue eyes to light me to Heaven.
Couldn't lib longer, and hab de master dat I lubbed tink me a robber.
I'se tried allus to be a good nigger, an' hope's I'll go to de good
place."
"God grant it."
"Young Massa, is dis death?"
"'Tis coming, Jeff."
"Let me pray; I only knows one prayer, an' it's so short."
"Say it."
"'Now I lay me'--oh, I'se goin' fast, young massa."
"Go on."
"'Down to sleep'--Massa Guly dis long sleep."
Guly took his hand.
"'I pray de Lord my--soul--to keep; an'--should--I die'--Oh, dis is de
wrong prayer--Bressed Lord, forgive my sins, and take me to dat Heaven
where de white folks go, dat I may see Massa Guly, wid his white wings
on. Good-bye, young massa. Last at my side in death, I'll be fust at
yours in Heaven."
With a convulsive effort, the dying man turned upon his side, the limbs
grew rigid, the death-rattle shook an instant in his throat, and poor
Jeff was dead.
Guly left the negro's side, to acquaint Mr. Delancey, who had remained
sitting stiffly in his chair, of the facts. The merchant listened
unmoved, but ordered the body to be sent to his house, and a longer or
better ordered funeral never passed through the streets of New-Orleans,
than that which next day bore poor Jeff to his last resting-place.
Whether or not that Master felt he had wronged a true and faithful
slave, could not be told; but all he could do to show he honored his
memory, was done; and as much expense and pomp were displayed in those
last rites, as ever were lavished over a white man's bones.[A]
[Footnote A: A fact.]
"Everything ready now, Minny?" said Della, glancing tearfully around her
sumptuous apartments.
"Everything is prepared, Miss. Shall we go?"
"Sure you are able to walk to the carriage, Minny?"
"Oh, yes, Miss; certain of it."
Once more Della turned to look upon those objects, which use and long
association had endeared to her. There were her books, her birds, her
flowers, the bed, where she had dreamed so many happy dreams, and the
cushioned chair, where she had so often sat listless and happy. With a
sigh, which she could not repress, she waved them a fond adieu, and,
taking Minny's arm, crept out upon the balcony, down the stairs, and
through the secret garden-door. Here was an outlet Mr. Delancey had
never thought of; and while the guard, he had placed at her door, stood
vigilant and wakeful, the bird flew through the window.
Once in the street, at night, and in darkness, Della grew timid, and
clutched convulsively her attendant's arm; but they went on steadily,
until arriving at an adjacent corner, a third person joined them, and
helped them into the carriage, which stood waiting near by.
"Oh, Bernard!" cried Della, laying her trembling hand upon his arm, as
he sat beside her in the carriage, with Minny, and they were being
whirled through the almost deserted streets, "no hand can ever come
between us again. I am yours at last."
"Nothing shall ever part us more," returned Bernard, drawing her fondly
towards him. "You have given up much for me, but the aim of my life
shall be to make you happy."
"I have lost nothing, Bernard, compared to the love I have gained. Only
never let that swerve or falter, and I shall be the happiest wife that
ever God looked down upon and blessed."
The carriage stopped at the door of the cathedral, and the party
entered the church, where a priest was already in waiting. Blanche and
Guly made their appearance from a side aisle, and Wilkins introduced
them to Della, telling her he had engaged them, as dear friends of his,
to officiate in the approaching ceremony. Della expressed her pleasure,
and half-crying, half-smiling, kissed Blanche affectionately, telling
her she hoped, since she was one of Wilkins' friends, that she would
henceforth be a sister to her, and that they would all be very happy.
Then Wilkins drew that fluttering hand in his, and led Della to the
altar. Guly and Blanche stepped to their places, and the ceremony began.
Leaning against a pillar, a little in the shadow, behind the
marriage-group, stood Minny, the quadroon; with face blanched to an
almost unearthly pallor, she listened to the vows which fell from
Bernard's lips. With chilled heart, again came back the memory of the
hour when those same lips, in this very spot, had thus sworn to love and
cherish her. But what of this? her heart had been _legally_ broken, and
she had no right to complain!
The ceremony ended, Bernard and his bride, and Minny, started for the
lake shore, where, though late in the season, they intended to remain
awhile, previous to returning to take up their residence again in the
city. They set Blanche down at her own door, and Guly, who was waiting
for the adieus to be over, stepped forward, and pressing Wilkins' hand,
exclaimed:--
"Matters have indeed explained themselves, my friend; I little thought
of this. May you be as happy as you deserve to be!"
"Thank you, Guly; I shall, no doubt, be much happier than I deserve to
be." Then bending forward, he added, in a lower tone, "If the old
gentleman is stormy to-morrow, at the loss of his daughter, remember you
know nothing about the affair; you'll lose your place, I'm afraid, if
you do."
"You surely don't mean 'tis Mr. Delancey's child?"
"Aye, the same."
"Can it be possible! It will, no doubt, be a bitter blow to him; but I
believe you worthy of any man's daughter, Wilkins. God bless you."
Wilkins smiled at Guly's warmth, and, waving his hand, the carriage
rolled out of sight; and Della, trustful and happy, laid her head upon
the broad breast which had vowed to cherish her, and wept her tears, and
smiled her smiles--a bride.
Guly, after seeing Blanche safely to her home, turned away, and hurried
to his room, thinking over the strange events of the day, and wondering
what the morrow would bring.
In wedding Della, Wilkins had accomplished two things; he gratified the
love he really felt for her, and, at the same time, in so terribly
wounding Mr. Delancey's pride, he had amply revenged himself for the
long years spent in his service in that humility of manner which the
merchant ever seemed to exact from his clerks, as though they were but
slaves of a whiter hue.