"_I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honor more._"
LOVELACE
Just after Surrey, for the third time, had passed through the avenue of
trees, two men appeared in it, earnestly conversing. One, the older, was
the same who had met Willie as he was going out, and had examined him
with such curious interest. The other, in feature, form, and bearing,
was so absolutely the counterpart of his companion that it was easy to
recognize in them father and son,--a father and son whom it would be
hard to match. "The finest type of the Anglo-Saxon race I have seen from
America," was the verdict pronounced upon Mr. Ercildoune, when he was a
young man studying abroad, by an enthusiastic and nationally ignorant
Englishman; "but then, sir," he added, "what very dark complexions you
Americans have! Is it universal?"
"By no means, sir," was Mr. Ercildoune's reply. "There are some
exceedingly fine ones among my countrymen. I come from the South: that
is a bad climate for the tint of the skin."
"Is it so?" exclaimed John Bull,--"worse than the North?"
"Very much worse, sir, in more ways than one."
Perhaps Robert Ercildoune was a trifle fairer than his father, but there
was still perceptible the shade which marked him as effectually an
outcast from the freedom of American society, and the rights of American
citizenship, as though it had been the badge of crime or the strait
jacket of a madman. Something of this was manifested in the conversation
in which the two were engaged.
"It is folly, Robert, for you to carry your refinement and culture into
the ranks as a common soldier, to fight and to die, without thanks. You
are made of too good stuff to serve simply as food for powder."
"Better men than I, father, have gone there, and are there to-day; men
in every way superior to me."
"Perhaps,--yes, if you will have it so. But what are they? white men,
fighting for their own country and flag, for their own rights of manhood
and citizenship, for a present for themselves and a future for their
children, for honor and fame. What is there for you?"
"For one thing, just that of which you spoke. Perhaps not a present for
me, but certainly a future for those that come after."
"A future! How are you to know? what warrant or guarantee have you for
any such future? Do you judge by the past? by the signs of to-day? I
tell you this American nation will resort to any means--will pledge
anything, by word or implication--to secure the end for which it fights;
and will break its pledges just so soon as it can, and with whomsoever
it can with impunity. You, and your children, and your children's
children after you, will go to the wall unless it has need of you in the
arena."
"I do not think so. This whole nation is learning, through pain and
loss, the lesson of justice; of expediency, doubtless, but still of
justice; and I do not think it will be forgotten when the war is ended.
This is our time to wipe off a thousand stigmas of contempt and
reproach: this"--
"Who is responsible for them? ourselves? What cast them there? our own
actions? I trow not. Mark the facts. I pay taxes to support the public
schools, and am compelled to have my children educated at home. I pay
taxes to support the government, and am denied any representation or any
voice in regard to the manner in which these taxes shall be expended. I
hail a car on the street, and am laughed to scorn by the conductor,--or,
admitted, at the order of the passengers am ignominiously expelled. I
offer my money at the door of any place of public amusement, and it is
flung back to me with an oath. I enter a train to New York, and am
banished to the rear seat or the 'negro car.' I go to a hotel, open for
the accommodation of the public, and am denied access; or am requested
to keep my room, and not show myself in parlor, office, or at table. I
come within a church, to worship the good God who is no respecter of
persons, and am shown out of the door by one of his insolent creatures.
I carry my intelligence to the polls on election morning, and am elbowed
aside by an American boor or a foreign drunkard, and, with opprobrious
epithets by law officers and rabble, am driven away. All this in the
North; all this without excuse of slavery and of the feeling it
engenders; all this from arrogant hatred and devilish malignity. At
last, the country which has disowned me, the government which has never
recognized save to outrage me, the flag which has refused to cover or to
protect me, are in direct need and utmost extremity. Then do they cry
for me and mine to come up to their help ere they perish. At least, they
hold forth a bribe to secure me? at least, if they make no apology for
the past, they offer compensation for the future? at least, they bid
high for the services they desire? Not at all!
"They say to one man, 'Here is twelve hundred dollars bounty with which
to begin; here is sixteen dollars a month for pay; here is the law
passed, and the money pledged, to secure you in comfort for the rest of
life, if wounded or disabled, or help for your family, if killed. Here
is every door set wide for you to rise, from post to post; money yours,
advancement yours, honor, and fame, and glory yours; the love of a
grateful country, the applause of an admiring world.'
"They say to another man,--you, or me, or Sam out there in the
field,--'There is no bounty for you, not a cent; there is pay for you,
twelve dollars a month, the hire of a servant; there is no pension for
you, or your family, if you be sent back from the front, wounded or
dead; if you are taken prisoner you can be murdered with impunity, or be
sold as a slave, without interference on our part. Fight like a lion! do
acts of courage and splendor! and you shall never rise above the rank of
a private soldier. For you there is neither money nor honor, rights
secured, nor fame gained. Dying, you fall into a nameless grave: living,
you come back to your old estate of insult and wrong. If you refuse
these tempting offers, we brand you cowards. If, under these infamous
restraints and disadvantages, you fail to equal the white troops by your
side, you are written down--inferiors. If you equal them, you are still
inferiors. If you perform miracles, and surpass them, you are, in a
measure, worthy commendation at last; we consent to see in you human
beings, fit for mention and admiration,--not as types of your color and
of what you intrinsically are, but as exceptions; made such by the habit
of association, and the force of surrounding circumstances.'
"These are the terms the American people offer you, these the terms
which you stoop to accept, these the proofs that they are learning a
lesson of justice! So be it! there is need. Let them learn it to the
full! let this war go on 'until the cities be wasted without inhabitant,
and the houses without man, and the land be utterly destroyed.' Do not
you interfere. Leave them to the teachings and the judgments of God."
Ercildoune had spoken with such impassioned feeling, with such fire in
his eyes, such terrible earnestness in his voice, that Robert could not,
if he would, interrupt him; and, in the silence, found no words for the
instant at his command. Ere he summoned them they saw some one
approaching.
"A fine looking fellow! fighting has been no child's play for him," said
Robert, looking, as he spoke, at the empty sleeve.
Mr. Ercildoune advanced to meet the stranger, and Surrey beheld the same
face upon whose pictured semblance he had once gazed with such intense
feelings, first of jealousy, and then of relief and admiration; the same
splendor of life, and beauty, and vitality. Surrey knew him at once,
knew that it was Francesca's father, and went up to him with extended
hand. Mr. Ercildoune took the proffered hand, and shook it warmly. "I am
happy to meet you, Mr. Surrey."
"You know me?" said he with surprise. "I thought to present myself."
"I have seen your picture."
"And I yours. They must have held the mirror up to nature, for the
originals to be so easily known. But may I ask where you saw mine?
_yours_ was in Miss Ercildoune's possession."
"As was yours," was answered after a moment's hesitation,--Surrey
thought, with visible reluctance. His heart flew into his throat. "She
has my picture,--she has spoken of me," he said to himself. "I wonder
what her father will think,--what he will do. Come, I will to the point
immediately."
"Mr. Ercildoune," said he, aloud, "you know something of me? of my
position and prospects?"
"A great deal."
"I trust, nothing disparaging or ignoble."
"I know nothing for which any one could desire oblivion."
"Thanks. Let me speak to you, then, of a matter which should have been
long since proposed to you had I been permitted the opportunity. I love
your daughter. I cannot speak about that, but you will understand all
that I wish to say. I have twice--once by letter, once by speech--let
her know this and my desire to call her wife. She has twice
refused,--absolutely. You think this should cut off all hope?"
Ercildoune had been watching him closely. "If she does not love you," he
answered, at the pause.
"I do not know. I went away from here a little while ago with her
peremptory command not to return. I should not have dared disobey it had
I not learned--thought--in fact, but for some circumstances--I beg your
pardon--I do not know what I am saying. I believed if I saw her once
more I could change her determination,--could induce her to give me
another response,--and came with that hope."
"Which has failed?"
"Which has thus far failed that she will not at all see me; will hold no
communication with me. I should be a ruffian did I force myself on her
thus without excuse or reason. My own love would be no apology did I not
think, did I not dare to hope, that it is not aversion to me that
induces her to act as she has done. Believing so, may I beg a favor of
you? may I entreat that you will induce her to see me, if only for a
little while?"
Ercildoune smiled a sad, bitter smile, as he answered, "Mr. Surrey, if
my daughter does not love you, it would be hopeless for you or for me to
assail her refusal. If she does, she has doubtless rejected you for a
reason which you can read by simply looking into my face. No words of
mine can destroy or do that away."
"There is nothing to destroy; there is nothing to do away. Thank you for
speaking of it, and making the way easy. There is nothing in all the
wide world between us,--there can be nothing between us,--if she loves
me; nothing to keep us apart save her indifference or lack of regard for
me. I want to say so to her if she will give me the chance. Will you not
help me to it?"
"You comprehend all that I mean?"
"I do. It is, as I have said, nothing. That love would not be worth the
telling that considered extraneous circumstances, and not the object
itself."
"You have counted all the consequences? I think not. How, indeed, should
you be able? Come with me a moment." The two went up to the house,
across the wide veranda, into a room half library, half lounging-room,
which, from a score of evidences strewn around, was plainly the special
resort of the master. Over the mantel hung the life-size portrait of an
excessively beautiful woman. A fine, _spirituelle_ face, with proud
lines around the mouth and delicate nostrils, but with a tender,
appealing look in the eyes, that claimed gentle treatment. This face
said, "I was made for sunshine and balmy airs, but, if darkness and
storm assail, I can walk through them unflinching, though the progress
be short; I can die, and give no sign." Willie went hastily up to this,
and stood, absorbed, before it. "Francesca is very like her mother,"
said Ercildoune, coming to his side. It was his own thought, but he made
no answer.
"I will tell you something of her and myself; a very little story; you
can draw the moral. My father, who was a Virginian, sent my brother and
me to England when we were mere boys, to be trained and educated. After
his fashion, doubtless, he loved us; for he saw that we had every
advantage that wealth, and taste, and care could provide; and though he
never sent for us, nor came to us, in all the years after we left his
house,--and though we had no legal claim upon him,--he acknowledged us
his children, and left us the entire proceeds of his immense estates,
unincumbered. We were so young when we went abroad, had been so tenderly
treated at home, had seen and known so absolutely nothing of the society
about us, that we were ignorant as Arabs of the state of feeling and
prejudice in America against such as we, who carried any trace of negro
blood. Our treatment in England did but increase this oblivion.
"We graduated at Oxford; my brother, who was two years older than I,
waiting upon me that we might go together through Europe; and together
we had three of the happiest years of life. On the Continent I met
_her_. You see what she is; you know Francesca: it is useless for me to
attempt to describe her. I loved her,--she loved me,--it was confessed.
In a little while I called her wife; I would, if I could, tell you of
the time that followed: I cannot. We had a beautiful home, youth,
health, riches, friends, happiness, two noble boys. At last an evil fate
brought us to America. I was to look after some business affairs which,
my agent said, needed personal supervision. My brother, whose health had
failed, was advised to try a sea-voyage, and change of scene and
climate. My wife was enthusiastic about the glorious Republic,--the
great, free America,--the land of my birth. We came, carrying with us
letters from friends in England, that were an open sesame to the most
jealously barred doors. They flew wide at our approach, but to be shut
with speed when my face was seen; hands were cordially extended, and
drawn back as from a loathsome contact when mine went to meet them. In
brief, we were outlawed, ostracised, sacrificed on the altar of this
devilish American prejudice,--wholly American, for it is found nowhere
else in the world,--I for my color, she for connecting her fate with
mine.
"I was so held as to be unable to return at once, and she would not
leave me. Then my brother drooped more and more. His disease needed the
brightest and most cheerful influences. The social and moral atmosphere
stifled him. He died; and we, with grief intensified by bitterness, laid
him in the soil of his own country as though it had been that of the
stranger and enemy.
"At this time the anti-slavery movement was provoking profound thought
and feeling in America. I at once identified myself with it; not because
I was connected with the hated and despised race, but because I loathed
all forms of tyranny, and fought against them with what measure of
strength I possessed. Doubtless this made me a more conspicuous mark for
the shafts of malice and cruelty, and as I could nowhere be hurt as
through her, malignity exhausted its devices there. She was hooted at
when she appeared with me on the streets; she was inundated with
infamous letters; she was dragged before a court of _justice_ upon the
plea that she had defied the law of the state against amalgamation,
forbidding the marriage of white and colored; though at the time it was
known that she was English, that we were married in England and by
English law. One night, in the midst of the riots which in 1838
disgraced this city, our house was surrounded by a mob, burned over us;
and I, with a few faithful friends, barely succeeded in carrying her to
a place of safety,--uncovered, save by her delicate night-robe and a
shawl, hastily caught up as we hurried her away. The yelling fiends, the
burning house, the awful horror of fright and danger, the shock to her
health and strength, the storm,--for the night was a wild and
tempestuous one, which drenched her to the skin,--from all these she
might have recovered, had not her boy, her first-born, been carried into
her, bruised and dead,--dead, through an accident of burning rafters and
falling stones; an accident, they said; yet as really murdered as though
they had wilfully and brutally stricken him down.
"After that I saw that she, too, would die, were she not taken back to
our old home. The preparations were hastily made; we turned our faces
towards England; we hoped to reach it at least before another pair of
eyes saw the light, but hoped in vain. There on the broad sea Francesca
was born. There her mother died. There was she buried."
It was with extreme difficulty Ercildoune had controlled his face and
voice, through the last of this distressing recital, and with the final
word he bowed his forehead on the picture-frame,--convulsed with
agony,--while voiceless sobs, like spasms, shook his form. Surrey
realized that no words were to be said here, and stood by, awed and
silent. What hand, however tender, could be laid on such a wound as
this?
Presently he looked up, and continued: "I came back here, because, I
said, here was my place. I had wealth, education, a thousand advantages
which are denied the masses of people who are, like me, of mixed race. I
came here to identify my fate with theirs; to work with and for them; to
fight, till I died, against the cruel and merciless prejudice which
grinds them down. I have a son, who has just entered the service of this
country, perhaps to die under its flag. I have a daughter,"--Willie
flushed and started forward;--"I asked you when I began this recital, if
you had counted all the consequences. You know my story; you see with
what fate you link yours; reflect! Francesca carries no mark of her
birth; her father or brother could not come inside her home without
shocking society by the scandal, were not the story earlier known. The
man whom you struck down this morning is one of our neighbors; you saw
and heard his brutal assault: are you ready to face more of the like
kind? Better than you I know what sentence will be passed upon
you,--what measure awarded. It is for your own sake I say these things;
consider them. I have finished."
Surrey had made to speak a half score of times, and as often checked
himself,--partly that he should not interrupt his companion; partly that
he might be master of his emotions, and say what he had to utter without
heat or excitement.
"Mr. Ercildoune," he now said, "listen to me. I should despise myself
were I guilty of the wicked and vulgar prejudice universal in America. I
should be beneath contempt did I submit or consent to it. Two years ago
I loved Miss Ercildoune without knowing aught of her birth. She is the
same now as then; should I love her the less? If anything hard or cruel
is in her fate that love can soften, it shall be done. If any painful
burdens have been thrown upon her life, I can carry, if not the whole,
then a part of them. If I cannot put her into a safe shelter where no
ill will befall her, I can at least take her into my arms and go with
her through the world. It will be easier for us, I think,--I hope,--to
face any fate if we are together. Ah, sir, do not prevent it; do not
deny me this happiness. Be my ambassador, since she will not let me
speak for myself, and plead my own cause."
In his earnestness he had come close to Mr. Ercildoune, putting out his
one hand with a gesture of entreaty, with a tone in his voice, and a
look in his face, irresistible to hear and behold. Ercildoune took the
hand, and held it in a close, firm grasp. Some strong emotion shook him.
The expression, a combination of sadness and scorn, which commonly held
possession of his eyes, went out of them, leaving them radiant. "No," he
said, "I will say nothing for you. I would not for worlds spoil your
plea; prevent her hearing, from your own mouth, what you have to say. I
will send her to you,"--and, going to a door, gave the order to a
servant, "Desire Miss Francesca to come to the parlor." Then, motioning
Surrey to the room, he went away, buried in thought.
Standing in the parlor, for he was too restless to sit, he tried to plan
how he should meet her; to think of a sentence which at the outset
should disarm her indignation at being thus thrust upon him, and convey
in some measure the thought of which his heart was full, without
trespassing on her reserve, or telling her of the letter which he had
read. Then another fear seized him; it was two years since he had
written,--two years since that painful and terrible scene had been
enacted in the very room where he stood,--two years since she had
confessed by deed and look that she loved him. Might she not have
changed? might she not have struggled for the mastery of this feeling
with only too certain success? might she not have learned to regard him
with esteem, perchance,--with friendship,--sentiment,--anything but that
which he desired or would claim at her hands? Silence and absence and
time are pitiless destructives. Might they not? Aye, might they not? He
paced to and fro, with quick, restless tread, at the thought. All his
love and his longing cried out against such a cruel supposition. He
stopped by the side of the bookcase against which she had fallen in that
merciless and suffering struggle, and put his hand down on the little
projection, which he knew had once cut and wounded her, with a strong,
passionate clasp, as though it were herself he held. Just then he heard
a step,--her step, yet how unlike!--coming down the stairs. Where he
stood he could see her as she crossed the hall, coming unconsciously to
meet him. All the brightness and airy grace seemed to have been drawn
quite out of her. The alert, slender figure drooped as if it carried
some palpable weight, and moved with a step slow and unsteady as that of
sickness or age. Her face was pathetic in its sad pallor, and blue,
sorrowful circles were drawn under the deep eyes, heavy and dim with
the shedding of unnumbered tears. It almost broke his heart to look at
her. A feeling, pitiful as a mother would have for her suffering baby,
took possession of his soul,--a longing to shield and protect her. Tears
blinded him; a great sob swelled in his throat; he made a step forward
as she came into the room. "Papa," she said, without looking up, "you
wanted me?" There was no response. "Papa!" In an instant an arm enfolded
her; a presence, tender and strong, bent above her; a voice, husky with
crowding emotions, yet sweet with all the sweetness of love, breathed,
"My darling! my darling!" as _his_ fair, sunny hair swept her face.
Even then she remembered another scene, remembered her promise; even
then she thought of him, of his future, and struggled to release herself
from his embrace.
What did he say? what could he say? Where were the arguments he had
planned, the entreaties he had purposed? where the words with which he
was to tell his tale, combat her refusal, win her to a willing and happy
assent? All gone.
There was nothing but his heart and its caresses to speak for him.
Silent, with the ineffable stillness he kissed her eyes, her mouth, held
her to his breast with a passionate fondness,--a tender, yet masterful
hold, which said, "Nothing shall separate us now." She felt it,
recognized it, yielded without power to longer contend, clasped her arms
about his neck, met his eyes, and dropped her face upon his heart with a
long, tremulous sigh which confessed that heaven was won.