Time passed away, and with it the average share of changing events.
Alfred Noble became junior partner in the counting-house he had entered
as clerk, and not long afterward the elder partner died. Left thus
to rely upon his own energy and enterprise, the young man gradually
extended his business, and seemed in a fair way to realize his favorite
dream of making a fortune and returning to the North to marry. The
subject of Slavery was then seldom discussed. North and South seemed
to have entered into a tacit agreement to ignore the topic completely.
Alfred's experience was like that of most New Englanders in his
situation. He was at first annoyed and pained by many of the
peculiarities of Southern society, and then became gradually accustomed
to them. But his natural sense of justice was very strong; and this,
added to the influence of early education, and strengthened by scenes of
petty despotism which he was frequently compelled to witness, led him
to resolve that he would never hold a slave. The colored people in his
employ considered him their friend, because he was always kind and
generous to them. He supposed that comprised the whole of duty, and
further than that he never reflected upon the subject.
The pretty little picture at Pine Grove, which had made so lively
an impression on his imagination, faded the more rapidly, because
unconnected with his affections. But a shadowy semblance of it always
flitted through his memory, whenever he saw a beautiful child, or
observed any unusual combination of trees and vines.
Four years after his interview with Mr. Duncan, business called him to
the interior of the State, and for the sake of healthy exercise he
chose to make the journey on horseback. His route lay mostly through a
monotonous region of sandy plain, covered with pines, here and there
varied by patches of cleared land, in which numerous dead trees were
prostrate, or standing leafless, waiting their time to fall. Most of
the dwellings were log-houses, but now and then the white villa of some
wealthy planter might be seen gleaming through the evergreens. Sometimes
the sandy soil was intersected by veins of swamp, through which muddy
water oozed sluggishly, among bushes and dead logs. In these damp places
flourished dark cypresses and holly-trees, draped with gray Spanish
moss, twisted around the boughs, and hanging from them like gigantic
cobwebs. Now and then, the sombre scene was lighted up with a bit of
brilliant color, when a scarlet grosbeak flitted from branch to branch,
or a red-headed woodpecker hammered at the trunk of some old tree, to
find where the insects had intrenched themselves. But nothing pleased
the eye of the traveller so much as the holly-trees, with their glossy
evergreen foliage, red berries, and tufts of verdant mistletoe. He
had been riding all day, when, late in the afternoon, an uncommonly
beautiful holly appeared to terminate the road at the bend where it
stood. Its boughs were woven in with a cypress on the other side, by
long tangled fringes of Spanish moss. The setting sun shone brightly
aslant the mingled foliage, and lighted up the red berries, which
glimmered through the thin drapery of moss, like the coral ornaments of
a handsome brunette seen through her veil of embroidered lace. It was
unlike the woodland picture he had seen at Pine Grove, but it recalled
it to his memory more freshly than he had seen it for a long time. He
watched the peculiar effects of sunlight, changing as he approached the
tree, and the desire grew strong within him to have the fairy-like child
and the frolicsome dog make their appearance beneath that swinging
canopy of illuminated moss. If his nerves had been in such a state that
forms in the mind could have taken outward shape, he would have realized
the vision so distinctly painted on his imagination. But he was well and
strong; therefore he saw nothing but a blue heron flapping away among
the cypresses, and a flock of turkey-buzzards soaring high above the
trees, with easy and graceful flight. His thoughts, however, continued
busy with the picture that had been so vividly recalled. He recollected
having heard, some time before, of Mr. Duncan's death, and he queried
within himself what had become of that beautiful child.
Musing thus, he rode under the fantastic festoons he had been admiring,
and saw at his right a long gentle descent, where a small stream of
water glided downward over mossy stones. Trees on either side interlaced
their boughs over it, and formed a vista, cool, dark, and solemn as the
aisle of some old Gothic church. A figure moving upward, by the side of
the little brook, attracted his attention, and he checked his horse
to inquire whether the people at the nearest house would entertain a
stranger for the night. When the figure approached nearer, he saw that
it was a slender, barefooted girl, carrying a pail of water. As she
emerged from the dim aisle of trees, a gleam of the setting sun shone
across her face for an instant, and imparted a luminous glory to her
large brown eyes. Shading them with her hand, she paused timidly before
the stranger, and answered his inquiries. The modulation of her tones
suggested a degree of refinement which he had not expected to meet in
that lonely region. He gazed at her so intently, that her eyes sought
the ground, and their long, dark fringes rested on blushing cheeks. What
was it those eyes recalled? They tantalized and eluded his memory. "My
good girl, tell me what is your name," he said.
"Louisa," she replied, bashfully, and added, "I will show you the way to
the house."
"Let me carry the water for you," said the kind-hearted traveller. He
dismounted for the purpose, but she resisted his importunities, saying
that _she_ would be very angry with her.
"And who is _she_?" he asked. "Is she your mother?"
"Oh, no, indeed!" was the hasty reply. "I am--I--I live there."
The disclaimer was sudden and earnest, as if the question struck on a
wounded nerve. Her eyes swam with tears, and the remainder of her answer
was sad and reluctant in its tones. The child was so delicately formed,
so shy and sensitive, so very beautiful, that she fascinated him
strongly. He led his horse into the lane she had entered, and as he
walked by her side he continued to observe her with the most lively
interest. Her motions were listless and languid, but flexile as a
willow. They puzzled him, as her eyes had done; for they seemed to
remind him of something he had seen in a half-forgotten dream.
They soon came in sight of the house, which was built of logs, but
larger than most houses of that description; and two or three huts in
the rear indicated that the owner possessed slaves. An open porch
in front was shaded by the projecting roof, and there two dingy,
black-nosed dogs were growling and tousling each other. Pigs were
rooting the ground, and among them rolled a black baby, enveloped in a
bundle of dirty rags. The traveller waited while Louisa went into the
house to inquire whether entertainment could be furnished for
himself and his horse. It was some time before the proprietor of the
establishment made his appearance. At last he came slowly sauntering
round the end of the house, his hat tipped on one side, with a rowdyish
air. He was accompanied by a large dog, which rushed in among the pigs,
biting their ears, and making them race about, squealing piteously. Then
he seized hold of the bundle of rags containing the black baby, and
began to drag it over the ground, to the no small astonishment of the
baby, who added his screech to the charivari of the pigs. With loud
shouts of laughter, Mr. Jackson cheered on the rough animal, and was
so much entertained by the scene, that he seemed to have forgotten the
traveller entirely. When at last his eye rested upon him, he merely
exclaimed, "That's a hell of a dog!" and began to call, "_Staboy_!"
again. The negro woman came and snatched up her babe, casting a furtive
glance at her master, as she did so, and making her escape as quickly as
possible. Towzer, being engaged with the pigs at that moment, allowed
her to depart unmolested; and soon came back to his master, wagging his
tail, and looking up, as if expecting praise for his performances.
The traveller availed himself of this season of quiet to renew his
inquiries.
"Well," said Mr. Jackson, "I reckon we can accommodate ye. Whar ar ye
from, stranger?"
Mr. Noble having stated "whar" he was from, was required to tell "whar"
he was going, whether he owned that "bit of horse-flesh," and whether
he wanted to sell him. Having answered all these interrogatories in a
satisfactory manner, he was ushered into the house.
The interior was rude and slovenly, like the exterior. The doors were
opened by wooden latches with leather strings, and sagged so much on
their wooden hinges, that they were usually left open to avoid the
difficulty of shutting them. Guns and fishing-tackle were on the walls,
and the seats were wooden benches or leather-bottomed chairs. A tall,
lank woman, with red hair, and a severe aspect, was busy mending a
garment. When asked if the traveller could be provided with supper, she
curtly replied that she "reckoned so"; and, without further parlance, or
salute, went out to give orders. Immediately afterward, her shrill voice
was heard calling out, "You gal! put the fixens on the table."
The "gal," who obeyed the summons, proved to be the sylph-like child
that had guided the traveller to the house. To the expression of
listlessness and desolation which he had previously noticed, there
was now added a look of bewilderment and fear. He thought she might,
perhaps, be a step-daughter of Mrs. Jackson; but how could so coarse a
man as his host be the father of such gentleness and grace?
While supper was being prepared, Mr. Jackson entered into conversation
with his guest about the usual topics in that region,--the prices
of cotton and "niggers." He frankly laid open his own history and
prospects, stating that he was "fetched up" in Western Tennessee, where
he owned but two "niggers." A rich uncle had died in Alabama, and he had
come in for a portion of his wild land and "niggers"; so he concluded
to move South and take possession. Mr. Noble courteously sustained his
share of the conversation; but his eyes involuntarily followed the
interesting child, as she passed in and out to arrange the supper-table.
"You seem to fancy Leewizzy," said Mr. Jackson, shaking the ashes from
his pipe.
"I have never seen a handsomer child," replied Mr. Noble. "Is she your
daughter?"
"No, Sir; she's my nigger," was the brief response.
The young girl reëntered the room at that moment, and the statement
seemed so incredible, that the traveller eyed her with scrutinizing
glance, striving in vain to find some trace of colored ancestry.
"Come here, Leewizzy," said her master. "What d'ye keep yer eyes on the
ground for? You 'a'n't got no occasion to be ashamed o' yer eyes. Hold
up yer head, now, and look the gentleman in the face."
She tried to obey, but native timidity overcame the habit of submission,
and, after one shy glance at the stranger, her eyelids lowered, and
their long, dark fringes rested on blushing cheeks.
"I reckon ye don't often see a poottier piece o' flesh," said Mr.
Jackson.
While he was speaking, his wife had come in from the kitchen, followed
by a black woman with a dish of sweet potatoes and some hot corn-cakes.
She made her presence manifest by giving "Leewizzy" a violent push, with
the exclamation, "What ar ye standing thar for, yer lazy wench? Go and
help Dinah bring in the fixens." Then turning to her husband, she said,
"You'll make a fool o' that ar gal. It's high time she was sold. She's
no account here."
Mr. Jackson gave a knowing wink at his guest, and remarked, "Women-folks
are ginerally glad enough to have niggers to wait on 'em; but ever sence
that gal come into the house, my old woman's been in a desperate hurry
to have me sell her. But such an article don't lose nothing by waiting
awhile. I've some thoughts of taking a tramp to Texas one o' these
days; and I reckon a prime fancy article, like that ar, would bring a
fust-rate price in New Orleans."
The subject of his discourse was listening to what he said; and partly
from tremor at the import of his words, and partly from fear that she
should not place the dish of bacon and eggs to please her mistress, she
tipped it in setting it down, so that some of the fat was spilled upon
the table-cloth. Mrs. Jackson seized her and slapped her hard, several
times, on both sides of her head. The frightened child tried to escape,
as soon as she was released from her grasp, but, being ordered to
remain and wait upon table, she stood behind her mistress, carefully
suppressing her sobs, though unable to keep back the tears that trickled
down her cheeks. The traveller was hungry; but this sight was a damper
upon his appetite. He was indignant at seeing such a timid young
creature so roughly handled; but he dared not give utterance to his
emotions, for fear of increasing the persecution to which she was
subjected. Afterward, when his host and hostess were absent from the
room, and Louisa was clearing the table, impelled by a feeling of pity,
which he could not repress, he laid his hand gently upon her head, and
said, "Poor child!"
It was a simple phrase; but his kindly tones produced a mighty effect on
that suffering little soul. Her pent-up affections rushed forth like
a flood when the gates are opened. She threw herself into his arms,
nestled her head upon his breast, and sobbed out, "Oh, I have nobody to
love me now!" This outburst of feeling was so unexpected, that the
young man felt embarrassed, and knew not what to do. His aversion to
disagreeable scenes amounted to a weakness; and he knew, moreover, that,
if his hostess should become aware of his sympathy, her victim would
fare all the worse for it. Still, it was not in his nature to repel the
affection that yearned toward him with so overwhelming an impulse. He
placed his hand tenderly on her head, and said, in a soothing voice, "Be
quiet now, my little girl. I hear somebody coming; and you know your
mistress expects you to clear the table."
Mrs. Jackson was in fact approaching, and Louisa hastily resumed her
duties.
Had Mr. Noble been guilty of some culpable action, he could not have
felt more desirous to escape the observation of his hostess. As soon
as she entered, he took up his hat hastily, and went out to ascertain
whether his horse had been duly cared for.
He saw Louisa no more that night. But as he lay awake, looking at a star
that peeped in upon him through an opening in the log wall, he thought
of her beautiful eyes, when the sun shone upon them, as she emerged from
the shadows. He wished that his mother and sister were living, that they
might adopt the attractive child. Then he remembered that she was a
slave, reserved for the New Orleans market, and that it was not likely
his good mother could obtain her, if she were alive and willing to
undertake the charge. Sighing, as he had often done, to think how many
painful things there were which he had no power to remedy, he fell
asleep and saw a very small girl dancing with a pail of water, while
a flock of white doves were wheeling round her. The two pictures had
mingled on the floating cloud-canvas of dream-land.
He had paid for his entertainment before going to bed, and had signified
his intention to resume his journey as soon as light dawned. All was
silent in the house when he went forth; and out of doors nothing
was stirring but a dog that roused himself to bark after him, and
chanticleer perched on a stump to crow. He was, therefore, surprised to
find Louisa at the crib where his horse was feeding. Springing toward
him, she exclaimed,--
"Oh, you have come! Do buy me, Sir! I will be _so_ good! I will do
everything you tell me! Oh, I am so unhappy! Do buy me, Sir!"
He patted her on the head, and looked down compassionately into the
swimming eyes that were fixed so imploringly upon his.
"Buy you, my poor child?" he replied. "I have no house,--I have nothing
for you to do."
"My mother showed me how to sew some, and how to do some embroidery,"
she said, coaxingly. "I will learn to do it better, and I can earn
enough to buy something to eat. Oh, do buy me, Sir! Do take me with
you!"
"I cannot do that," he replied; "for I must go another day's journey
before I return to Mobile."
"Do you live in Mobile?" she exclaimed, eagerly. "My father lived in
Mobile. Once I tried to run away there, but they set the dogs after me.
Oh, do carry me back to Mobile!"
"What is your name?" said he; "and in what part of the city did you
live?"
"My name is Louisa Duncan; and my father lived at Pine Grove. It was
such a beautiful place! and I was _so_ happy there! Will you take me
back to Mobile? _Will_ you?"
Evading the question, he said,--
"Your name is Louisa, but your father called you Loo Loo, didn't he?"
That pet name brought forth a passionate outburst of tears. Her voice
choked, and choked again, as she sobbed out,--
"Nobody has ever called me Loo Loo since my father died."
He soothed her with gentle words, and she, looking up earnestly, as if
stirred by a sudden thought, exclaimed,--
"How did you _know_ my father called me Loo Loo?"
He smiled as he answered, "Then you don't remember a young man who ran
after you one day, when you were playing with a little white dog at Pine
Grove? and how your father called to you, 'Come here, Loo Loo, and see
the gentleman'?"
"I don't remember it," she replied; "but I remember how my father used
to laugh at me about it, long afterward. He said I was very young to
have gentlemen running after me."
"I am that gentleman," he said. "When I first looked at you, I thought I
had seen you before; and now I see plainly that you are Loo Loo."
That name was associated with so many tender memories, that she seemed
to hear her father's voice once more. She nestled close to her new
friend, and repeated, in most persuasive tones, "You _will_ buy me?
Won't you?"
"And your mother? What has become of her?" he asked.
"She died of yellow fever, two days before my father. I am all alone.
Nobody cares for me. You _will_ buy me,--won't you?"
"But tell me how you came here, my poor child," he said.
She answered, "I don't know. After my father died, a great many folks
came to the house, and they sold everything. They said my father was
uncle to Mr. Jackson, and that I belonged to him. But Mrs. Jackson won't
let me call Mr. Duncan my father. She says, if she ever hears of my
calling him so again, she'll whip me. Do let me be _your_ daughter! You
_will_ buy me,--won't you?"
Overcome by her entreaties, and by the pleading expression of those
beautiful eyes, he said, "Well, little teaser, I will see whether Mr.
Jackson will sell you to me. If he will, I will send for you before
long."
"Oh, don't _send_ for me!" she exclaimed, moving her hands up and down
with nervous rapidity. "Come _yourself_, and come _soon_. They'll carry
me to New Orleans, if _you_ don't come for me."
"Well, well, child, be quiet. If I can buy you, I will come for you
myself. Meanwhile, be a good girl. I won't forget you."
He stooped down, and sealed the promise with a kiss on her forehead.
As he raised his head, he became aware that Bill, the horse-boy, was
peeping in at the door, with a broad grin upon his black face. He
understood the meaning of that grin, and it seemed like an ugly imp
driving away a troop of fairies. He was about to speak angrily, but
checked himself with the reflection, "They will all think so. Black or
white, they will all think so. But what can I do? I _must_ save this
child from the fate that awaits her." To Bill he merely said that he
wished to see Mr. Jackson on business, and had, therefore, changed his
mind about starting before breakfast.
The bargain was not soon completed; for Mr. Jackson had formed large
ideas concerning the price "Leewizzy" would bring in the market; and
Bill had told the story of what he witnessed at the crib, with sundry
jocose additions, which elicited peals of laughter from his master. But
the orphan had won the young man's heart by the childlike confidence she
had manifested toward him, and conscience would not allow him to break
the solemn promise he had given her. After a protracted conference, he
agreed to pay eight hundred dollars, and to come for Louisa the next
week.
The appearance of the sun, after a long, cold storm, never made a
greater change than the announcement of this arrangement produced in the
countenance and manners of that desolate child. The expression of fear
vanished, and listlessness gave place to a springing elasticity of
motion. Mr. Noble could ill afford to spare so large a sum for the
luxury of benevolence, and he was well aware that the office of
protector, which he had taken upon himself, must necessarily prove
expensive. But when he witnessed her radiant happiness, he could not
regret that he had obeyed the generous impulse of his heart. Now, for
the first time, she was completely identified with the vision of that
fairy child who had so captivated his fancy four years before. He never
forgot the tones of her voice, and the expression of her eyes, when she
kissed his hand at parting, and said, "I thank you, Sir, for buying me."