While the widowed mother, now doubly bereft--stricken down by the blow--
is still in a state of syncope, the faithful negress doing what she can
to restore her, there are sounds outside unheard by either. A dull
rumble of wheels, as of some heavy vehicle coming along the main road,
with the occasional crack of a whip, and the sonorous "wo-ha" of a
teamster.
Presently, a large "Conestoga" wagon passes the cottage-gate, full
freighted with what looks like house furniture, screened under canvas.
The vehicle is drawn by a team of four strong mules, driven by a negro;
while at the wagon's tail, three or four other darkeys follow afoot.
The cortege, of purely southern character, has scarce passed out of
sight, and not yet beyond hearing, when another vehicle comes rolling
along the road. This, of lighter build, and proceeding at a more rapid
rate, is a barouche, drawn by a pair of large Kentucky horses. As the
night is warm, and there is no need to spring up the leathern hood--its
occupants can all be seen, and their individuality made out. On the
box-seat is a black coachman; and by his side a young girl whose tawny
complexion, visible in the whiter moonbeams, tells her to be a mulatto.
Her face has been seen before, under a certain forest tree--a magnolia--
its owner depositing a letter in the cavity of the trunk. She who sits
alongside the driver is "Jule."
In the barouche, behind, is a second face that has been seen under the
same tree, but with an expression upon it sadder and more disturbed.
For of the three who occupy the inside seats one is Helen Armstrong; the
others her father, and sister. They are _en route_ for the city of
Natchez, the port of departure for their journey south-westward into
Texas; just starting away from their old long-loved dwelling, whose
gates they have left ajar, its walls desolate behind thorn.
The wagon, before, carries the remnant of the planter's property,--all
his inexorable creditor allows him to take along. No wonder he sits in
the barouche, with bowed head, and chin between his knees, not caring to
look back. For the first time in his life he feels truly, terribly
humiliated.
This, and no flight from creditors, no writ, nor pursuing sheriff, will
account for his commencing the journey at so early an hour. To be seen
going off in the open daylight would attract spectators around; it may
be many sympathisers. But in the hour of adversity his sensitive nature
shrinks from the glance of sympathy, as he would dread the stare of
exultation, were any disposed to indulge in it.
But besides the sentiment, there is another cause for their night
moving--an inexorable necessity as to time. The steamboat, which is to
take them up Red River, leaves Natchez at sunrise. He must be aboard by
daybreak.
If the bankrupt planter be thus broken-spirited, his eldest daughter is
as much cast down as he, and far more unhappily reflecting.
Throughout all that night Helen Armstrong has had no sleep; and now, in
the pale moonlight of the morning, her cheeks show white and wan, while
a dark shadow broods upon her brow, and her eyes glisten with wild
unnatural light, as one in a raging fever. Absorbed in thought, she
takes no heed of anything along the road; and scarce makes answer to an
occasional observation addressed to her by her sifter, evidently with
the intention to cheer her. It has less chance of success, because of
Jessie herself being somewhat out of sorts. Even she, habitually merry,
is for the time sobered; indeed saddened at the thought of that they are
leaving behind, and what may be before them. Possibly, as she looks
back at the gate of their grand old home, through which they will never
again go, she may be reflecting on the change from their late luxurious
life, to the log-cabin and coarse fare, of which her father had
forewarned them.
If so, the reflection is hers--not Helen's. Different with the latter,
and far more bitter the emotion that stirs within her person, scalding
her heart. Little cares she what sort of house she is hitherto to dwell
in, what she will have to wear, or eat. The scantiest raiment, or
coarsest food, can give no discomfort now. She could bear the thought
of sheltering under the humblest roof in Texas--ay, think of it with
cheerfulness--had Charles Clancy been but true, to share its shelter
along with her. He has not, and that is an end of it.
Is it? No; not for her, though it may be for him. In the company of
his Creole girl he will soon cease to think of her--forget the solemn
vows made, and the sweet words spoken, beneath the magnolia--tree, in
her retrospect seeming sadder than yew, or cypress.
Will she ever forget him? Can she? No; unless in that land, whither
her face is set, she find the fabled Lethean stream. Oh! it is bitter--
keenly bitter!
It reaches the climax of its bitterness, when the barouche rolling along
opens out a vista between the trees, disclosing a cottage--Clancy's.
Inside it sleeps the man, who has made her life a misery! Can he sleep,
after what he has done?
While making this reflection she herself feels, as if never caring to
close her eyelids more--except in death!
Her emotions are terribly intense, her anguish so overpowering, she can
scarce conceal it--indeed does not try, so long as the house is in
sight. Perhaps fortunate that her father is absorbed in his own
particular sadness. But her sister observes all, guessing--nay, knowing
the cause. She says nothing. Such sorrow is too sacred to be intruded
on. There are times, when even a sister may not attempt consolation.
Jessie is glad when the carriage, gliding on, again enters among trees,
and the little cottage of the Clancys, like their own great house, is
forever lost to view.
Could the eyes of Helen Armstrong, in passing, have penetrated through
the walls of that white painted dwelling--could she have rested them
upon a bed with a woman laid astretch upon it, apparently dead, or
dying--could she have looked on another bed, unoccupied, untouched, and
been told how he, its usual occupant, was at that moment lying in the
middle of a chill marsh, under the sombre canopy of cypresses--it would
have caused a revulsion in her feelings, sudden, painful, and powerful
as the shock already received.
There would still be sadness in her breast, but no bitterness. The
former far easier to endure; she would sooner believe Clancy dead, than
think of his traitorous defection.
But she is ignorant of all that has occurred; of the sanguinary scene
enacted--played out complete--on the edge of the cypress swamp, and the
sad one inside the house--still continuing. Aware of the one, or
witness of the other, while passing that lone cottage, as with wet eyes
she takes a last look at its walls, she would still be shedding tears--
not of spite, but sorrow.