THE PLAGUE AND THE LAW.
Years passed, bringing no special change to the life of Leroy and his
wife. Shut out from the busy world, its social cares and anxieties,
Marie's life flowed peacefully on. Although removed by the protecting
care of Leroy from the condition of servitude, she still retained a deep
sympathy for the enslaved, and was ever ready to devise plans to
ameliorate their condition.
Leroy, although in the midst of slavery, did not believe in the
rightfulness of the institution. He was in favor of gradual
emancipation, which would prepare both master and slave for a moral
adaptation to the new conditions of freedom. While he was willing to
have the old rivets taken out of slavery, politicians and planters were
devising plans to put in new screws. He was desirous of having it ended
in the States; they were clamorous to have it established in the
Territories.
But so strong was the force of habit, combined with the feebleness of
his moral resistance and the nature of his environment, that instead of
being an athlete, armed for a glorious strife, he had learned to drift
where he should have steered, to float with the current instead of nobly
breasting the tide. He conducted his plantation with as much lenity as
it was possible to infuse into a system darkened with the shadow of a
million crimes.
Leroy had always been especially careful not to allow his children to
spend their vacations at home. He and Marie generally spent that time
with them at some summer resort.
"I would like," said Marie, one day, "to have our children spend their
vacations at home. Those summer resorts are pleasant, yet, after all,
there is no place like home. But," and her voice became tremulous, "our
children would now notice their social isolation and inquire the cause."
A faint sigh arose to the lips of Leroy, as she added: "Man is a social
being; I've known it to my sorrow."
There was a tone of sadness in Leroy's voice, as he replied: "Yes,
Marie, let them stay North. We seem to be entering on a period fraught
with great danger. I cannot help thinking and fearing that we are on the
eve of a civil war."
"A civil war!" exclaimed Marie, with an air of astonishment. "A civil
war about what?"
"Why, Marie, the thing looks to me so wild and foolish I hardly know how
to explain. But some of our leading men have come to the conclusion that
North and South had better separate, and instead of having one to have
two independent governments. The spirit of secession is rampant in the
land. I do not know what the result will be, and I fear it will bode no
good to the country. Between the fire-eating Southerners and the
meddling Abolitionists we are about to be plunged into a great deal of
trouble. I fear there are breakers ahead. The South is dissatisfied with
the state of public opinion in the North. We are realizing that we are
two peoples in the midst of one nation. William H. Seward has
proclaimed that the conflict between freedom and slavery is
irrepressible, and that the country cannot remain half free and half
slave."
"How will _you_ go?" asked Marie.
"My heart is with the Union. I don't believe in secession. There has
been no cause sufficient to justify a rupture. The North has met us time
and again in the spirit of concession and compromise. When we wanted the
continuance of the African slave trade the North conceded that we should
have twenty years of slave-trading for the benefit of our plantations.
When we wanted more territory she conceded to our desires and gave us
land enough to carve out four States, and there yet remains enough for
four more. When we wanted power to recapture our slaves when they fled
North for refuge, Daniel Webster told Northerners to conquer their
prejudices, and they gave us the whole Northern States as a hunting
ground for our slaves. The Presidential chair has been filled the
greater number of years by Southerners, and the majority of offices has
been shared by our men. We wanted representation in Congress on a basis
which would include our slaves, and the North, whose suffrage represents
only men, gave us a three-fifths representation for our slaves, whom we
count as property. I think the step will be suicidal. There are
extremists in both sections, but I hope, between them both, wise
counsels and measures will prevail."
Just then Alfred Lorraine was ushered into the room. Occasionally he
visited Leroy, but he always came alone. His wife was the only daughter
of an enterprising slave-trader, who had left her a large amount of
property.
Her social training was deficient, her education limited, but she was
too proud of being a pure white woman to enter the home of Leroy, with
Marie as its presiding genius. Lorraine tolerated Marie's presence as a
necessary evil, while to her he always seemed like a presentiment of
trouble. With his coming a shadow fell upon her home, hushing its music
and darkening its sunshine. A sense of dread oppressed her. There came
into her soul an intuitive feeling that somehow his coming was fraught
with danger. When not peering around she would often catch his eyes bent
on her with a baleful expression.
Leroy and his cousin immediately fell into a discussion on the condition
of the country. Lorraine was a rank Secessionist, ready to adopt the
most extreme measures of the leaders of the movement, even to the
reopening of the slave trade. Leroy thought a dissolution of the Union
would involve a fearful expenditure of blood and treasure for which,
before the eyes of the world, there could be no justification. The
debate lasted late into the night, leaving both Lorraine and Leroy just
as set in their opinions as they were before they began. Marie listened
attentively awhile, then excused herself and withdrew.
After Lorraine had gone Marie said: "There is something about your
cousin that fills me with nameless dread. I always feel when he enters
the room as if some one were walking over my grave. I do wish he would
stay at home."
"I wish so, too, since he disturbs you. But, Marie, you are growing
nervous. How cold your hands are. Don't you feel well?"
"Oh, yes; I am only a little faint. I wish he would never come. But, as
he does, I must make the best of it."
"Yes, Marie, treat him well for my sake. He is the only relative I have
who ever darkens our doors."
"I have no faith in his friendship for either myself or my children. I
feel that while he makes himself agreeable to you he hates me from the
bottom of his heart, and would do anything to get me out of the way. Oh,
I am _so_ glad I am your lawful wife, and that you married me before you
brought me back to this State! I believe that if you were gone he
wouldn't have the least scruple against trying to prove our marriage
invalid and remanding us to slavery."
Leroy looked anxiously and soberly at his wife, and said: "Marie, I do
not think so. Your life is too lonely here. Write your orders to New
Orleans, get what you need for the journey, and let us spend the summer
somewhere in the North."
Just then Marie's attention was drawn to some household matters, and it
was a short time before she returned.
"Tom," continued Leroy, "has just brought the mail, and here is a letter
from Iola."
Marie noticed that he looked quite sober as he read, and that an
expression of vexation was lingering on his lips.
"What is the matter?" asked Marie.
"Nothing much; only a tempest in a teapot. The presence of a colored
girl in Mr. Galen's school has caused a breeze of excitement. You know
Mr. Galen is quite an Abolitionist, and, being true to his principles,
he could not consistently refuse when a colored woman applied for her
daughter's admission. Of course, when he took her he was compelled to
treat her as any other pupil. In so doing he has given mortal offense to
the mother of two Southern boys. She has threatened to take them away if
the colored girl remains."
"What will he do about it?" asked Marie, thoughtfully.
"Oh, it is a bitter pill, but I think he will have to swallow it. He is
between two fires. He cannot dismiss her from the school and be true to
his Abolition principles; yet if he retains her he will lose his
Southern customers, and I know he cannot afford to do that."
"What does Iola say?"
"He has found another boarding place for her, but she is to remain in
the school. He had to throw that sop to the whale."
"Does she take sides against the girl?"
"No, I don't think she does. She says she feels sorry for her, and that
she would hate to be colored. 'It is so hard to be looked down on for
what one can't help.'"
"Poor child! I wish we could leave the country. I never would consent to
her marrying any one without first revealing to him her connection with
the negro race. This is a subject on which I am not willing to run any
risks."
"My dear Marie, when you shall have read Iola's letter you will see it
is more than a figment of my imagination that has made me so loth to
have our children know the paralyzing power of caste."
Leroy, always liberal with his wife and children, spared neither pains
nor expense to have them prepared for their summer outing. Iola was to
graduate in a few days. Harry was attending a school in the State of
Maine, and his father had written to him, apprising him of his intention
to come North that season. In a few days Leroy and his wife started
North, but before they reached Vicksburg they were met by the
intelligence that the yellow fever was spreading in the Delta, and that
pestilence was breathing its bane upon the morning air and distilling
its poison upon the midnight dews.
"Let us return home," said Marie.
"It is useless," answered Leroy. "It is nearly two days since we left
home. The fever is spreading south of us with fearful rapidity. To
return home is to walk into the jaws of death. It was my intention to
have stopped at Vicksburg, but now I will go on as soon as I can make
the connections."
Early next morning Leroy and his wife started again on their journey.
The cars were filled with terror-stricken people who were fleeing from
death, when death was everywhere. They fled from the city only to meet
the dreaded apparition in the country. As they journeyed on Leroy grew
restless and feverish. He tried to brace himself against the infection
which was creeping slowly but insidiously into his life, dulling his
brain, fevering his blood, and prostrating his strength. But vain were
all his efforts. He had no armor strong enough to repel the invasion of
death. They stopped at a small town on the way and obtained the best
medical skill and most careful nursing, but neither skill nor art
availed. On the third day death claimed Leroy as a victim, and Marie
wept in hopeless agony over the grave of her devoted husband, whose sad
lot it was to die from home and be buried among strangers.
But before he died he placed his will in Marie's hands, saying: "I have
left you well provided for. Kiss the children for me and bid them
good-bye."
He tried to say a parting word to Gracie, but his voice failed, and he
fainted into the stillness of death. A mortal paleness overspread his
countenance, on which had already gathered the shadows that never
deceive. In speechless agony Marie held his hand until it released its
pressure in death, and then she stood alone beside her dead, with all
the bright sunshine of her life fading into the shadows of the grave.
Heart-broken and full of fearful forebodings, Marie left her cherished
dead in the quiet village of H---- and returned to her death-darkened
home.
It was a lovely day in June, birds were singing their sweetest songs,
flowers were breathing their fragrance on the air, when Mam Liza,
sitting at her cabin-door, talking with some of the house servants, saw
a carriage approaching, and wondered who was coming.
"I wonder," she said, excitedly, "whose comin' to de house when de folks
is done gone."
But her surprise was soon changed to painful amazement, when she saw
Marie, robed in black, alighting from the carriage, and holding Gracie
by the hand. She caught sight of the drooping head and grief-stricken
face, and rushed to her, exclaiming:--
"Whar's Marse Eugene?"
"Dead," said Marie, falling into Mammy Liza's arms, sobbing out, "dead!
_ died_ of yellow fever."
A wild burst of sorrow came from the lips of the servants, who had
drawn near.
"Where is he?" said Mam Liza, speaking like one suddenly bewildered.
"He is buried in H----. I could not bring him home," said Marie.
"My pore baby," said Mam Liza, with broken sobs. "I'se drefful sorry. My
heart's most broke into two." Then, controlling herself, she dismissed
the servants who stood around, weeping, and led Marie to her room.
"Come, honey, lie down an' lem'me git yer a cup ob tea."
"Oh, no; I don't want anything," said Marie, wringing her hands in
bitter agony.
"Oh, honey," said Mam Liza, "yer musn't gib up. Yer knows whar to put
yer trus'. Yer can't lean on de arm of flesh in dis tryin' time."
Kneeling by the side of her mistress she breathed out a prayer full of
tenderness, hope, and trust.
Marie grew calmer. It seemed as if that earnest, trustful prayer had
breathed into her soul a feeling of resignation.
Gracie stood wonderingly by, vainly trying to comprehend the great
sorrow which was overwhelming the life of her mother.
After the first great burst of sorrow was over, Marie sat down to her
desk and wrote a letter to Iola, informing her of her father's death. By
the time she had finished it she grew dizzy and faint, and fell into a
swoon. Mammy Liza tenderly laid her on the bed, and helped restore her
to consciousness.
Lorraine, having heard of his cousin's death, came immediately to see
Marie. She was too ill to have an interview with him, but he picked up
the letter she had written and obtained Iola's address.
Lorraine made a careful investigation of the case, to ascertain whether
Marie's marriage was valid. To his delight he found there was a flaw in
the marriage and an informality in the manumission. He then determined
to invalidate Marie's claim, and divide the inheritance among Leroy's
white relations. In a short time strangers, distant relatives of her
husband, became frequent visitors at the plantation, and made themselves
offensively familiar. At length the dreadful storm burst.
Alfred Lorraine entered suit for his cousin's estate, and for the
remanding of his wife and children to slavery. In a short time he came
armed with legal authority, and said to Marie:--
"I have come to take possession of these premises."
"By what authority?" she gasped, turning deathly pale. He hesitated a
moment, as if his words were arrested by a sense of shame.
"By what authority?" she again demanded.
"By the authority of the law," answered Lorraine, "which has decided
that Leroy's legal heirs are his white blood relations, and that your
marriage is null and void."
"But," exclaimed Marie, "I have our marriage certificate. I was Leroy's
lawful wife."
"Your marriage certificate is not worth the paper it is written on."
"Oh, you must be jesting, cruelly jesting. It can't be so."
"Yes; it is so. Judge Starkins has decided that your manumission is
unlawful; your marriage a bad precedent, and inimical to the welfare of
society; and that you and your children are remanded to slavery."
Marie stood as one petrified. She seemed a statue of fear and despair.
She tried to speak, reached out her hand as if she were groping in the
dark, turned pale as death as if all the blood in her veins had receded
to her heart, and, with one heart-rending cry of bitter agony, she fell
senseless to the floor. Her servants, to whom she had been so kind in
her days of prosperity, bent pityingly over her, chafed her cold hands,
and did what they could to restore her to consciousness. For awhile she
was stricken with brain fever, and her life seemed trembling on its
frailest cord.
Gracie was like one perfectly dazed. When not watching by her mother's
bedside she wandered aimlessly about the house, growing thinner day by
day. A slow fever was consuming her life. Faithfully and carefully Mammy
Liza watched over her, and did all she could to bring smiles to her lips
and light to her fading eyes, but all in vain. Her only interest in life
was to sit where she could watch her mother as she tossed to and fro in
delirium, and to wonder what had brought the change in her once happy
home. Finally she, too, was stricken with brain fever, which intervened
as a mercy between her and the great sorrow that was overshadowing her
young life. Tears would fill the servants' eyes as they saw the dear
child drifting from them like a lovely vision, too bright for earth's
dull cares and weary, wasting pain.