"Joy never feasts so high
As when the first course is of misery."
--SUCKLING.
Adelaide's marriage was fixed for Christmas eve, and Mr. Dinsmore and
Elsie decided to take their trip to Louisiana at once, that they might be
able to return in season for the wedding, at which Elsie was to be first
bridesmaid.
It was Elsie herself who broke the news of her intended journey to her
faithful old nurse, explaining why she felt it her duty to go, and kindly
leaving to Chloe's own decision whether she would accompany her or not.
The dusky face grew very sad for a moment, tears springing to the dark
eyes; but the voice was almost cheerful as she answered, "Yes, you's
right, honey darlin' you's all right to go and see 'bout dem poor souls
and let 'em see dere beau'ful young missus; and your ole mammy 'll go
'long too, for she neber could stay and let her chile run all dem risks on
de boats an' cars an' she no dar to take care ob her."
"That's right, my own dear old mammy. I shall be glad to have you along,
and hope you will find it pleasanter than you expect; but we must trust
the Lord to take care of us all; for He only can prevent the accidents you
fear."
"Yes, yes, honey, dat's de truff; an' we'll trust Him an' not be 'fraid,
'cause don't He say, 'Not a hair ob your head shall perish.'"
"'What time I am afraid I will trust in Thee,'" murmured Elsie, softly.
"Ah, the joy, the peace, of knowing that His presence and His love will
ever go with us everywhere; and that He has all power in heaven and in
earth."
A week later, Mr. Dinsmore was showing his daughter the beauties of New
Orleans, where they had arrived without accident or loss. They remained in
the city long enough to attend thoroughly to the business which had called
them there, and to see everything worth looking at.
Elsie's plantation was in the Teche country, the very loveliest part of
grand old Louisiana. In order that suitable preparations might be made for
their reception, word had been sent that they might be expected on a
certain day.
"We have allowed more time than necessary for this place," said Mr.
Dinsmore to his daughter one evening on returning to their hotel, after
seeing the last of the lions of the Crescent City; "we have two days to
spare; what shall be done in them?"
"Let us go on to Viamede at once then, papa," replied Elsie, promptly. "I
have been regretting that we sent notice of our coming. I doubt if it
would not have been wiser to take them by surprise."
"There would not be the same preparations for your comfort," replied her
father, taking a seat by her on the sofa, for they were in their own
private parlor; "you may find unaired bed-linen and an empty larder,
which, beside inconveniencing yourself, would sorely mortify and trouble
Aunt Phillis and her right-hand woman, Sarah, the cook."
"I should be sorry you should have an inhospitable reception, papa, but
fires are soon kindled and linen aired, and is not the pantry kept
supplied with canned and preserved fruits? and are there not fresh fruits,
vegetables, chickens, and eggs at hand for immediate use?"
"Yes, certainly; and we are not likely to suffer. We Will, then, leave
here to-morrow, if you wish, taking the steamer for Berwick Bay. But why
prefer to come upon them unexpectedly?"
Elsie smiled, and blushed slightly. "You know I never have any
concealments from you, papa, and I will be frank about this," she said. "I
don't think I apt to be suspicious, and yet the thought has come to me
several times within the last few days, that the overseer has had every
opportunity to abuse my poor people if he happens to be of a cruel
disposition. And if he is ill-treating them I should like to catch him at
it," she added, her eyes kindling, and the color deepening on her cheek.
"And what would you do in that case?" her lather asked, with a slight
smile, drawing her close to him and touching his lips to the blooming
cheek.
"Dismiss him, I suppose, papa; I don't know what else I could do to punish
him or prevent further cruelties. I should not like to shoot him down,"
she added, laughingly; "and I doubt if I should have strength to flog
him."
"Doubt?" laughed her father, "certainly you could not, single-handed;
unless his politeness should lead him to refrain from any effort to defend
himself; and I, it would seem, am not expected to have anything to do with
the matter."
A deeper blush than before now suffused Elsie's fair cheek. "Forgive me,
dear papa," she said, laying her head on his shoulder, and fondly stroking
his face with her pretty white hand. "Please consider yourself master
there as truly as at the Oaks, and as you have been for years; and
understand that your daughter means to take no important step without your
entire approval."
"No, I do not go there as master, but as your guest," he answered, half
playfully, half tenderly.
"My guest? That seems pleasant indeed, papa; and yet I want you to be
master too. But you will at least advise me?"
"To the best of my ability, my little girl."
"Thank you, my dear kind father. I have another reason for wishing to
start to-morrow. I'm growing anxious and impatient to see my birthplace
again: and," she added low and tenderly, "mamma's grave."
"Yes, we will visit it together for the first time; though I have stood
there alone again and again, and her baby daughter used to be taken there
frequently to scatter flowers over it and play beside it. Do you remember
that?"
"Yes, sir, as an almost forgotten dream, as I do the house and grounds and
some of the old servants who petted and humored me."
While father and daughter conversed thus together in the parlor, a dusky
figure sat at a window in the adjoining bedroom, gazing out upon the
moonlighted streets and watching the passers-by. But her thoughts, too,
were straying to Viamede; fast-coming memories of earlier days, some all
bright and joyous, others filled with the gloom and thick darkness of a
terrible anguish, made her by turns long for and dread the arrival at her
journey's end.
A light touch on her shoulder, and she turned to find her young mistress
at her side.
"My poor old mammy, I bring you news you will be sorry to hear," said
Elsie, seating herself upon the ample lap, and laying her arm across the
broad shoulders.
"What dat, honey?"
"We start to-morrow for Viamede; papa has sent John to engage our passage
on the steamer."
"Dat all, darlin'?" queried Chloe, with a sigh of relief, "if we's got to
go, might's well go quick an' hab it ober."
"Well, I'm glad you take so sensible a view of it," remarked Elsie,
relieved in her turn; "and I hope you will find much less pain and more
pleasure than you expect in going back to the old home."
The next morning, as Mr. Dinsmore and his daughter sat upon the deck of
the steamer, enjoying the sunlight, the breeze, and the dancing of the
water, having cleared their port and gotten fairly out into the gulf, a
startling incident occurred.
Chloe stood at a respectful distance, leaning over the side of the vessel,
watching the play of the wheel and the rainbow in the spray that fell in
showers at its every revolution. An old negro busied about the deck; drew
near and addressed her:
"Well, auntie, you watchin' dat ole wheel dar? Fust time you trable on dis
boat, eh?"
Chloe started at the sound of the voice, turned suddenly round and faced
the speaker, her features working with emotion: one moment of earnest
scrutiny on the part of both, and with a wild cry, "Aunt Chloe! my ole
woman," "Uncle Joe! it can't be you," they rushed into each other's arms,
and hung about each other's neck, weeping and sobbing like two children.
"Papa! what is it?" exclaimed Elsie, greatly surprised at the little
scene.
"Her husband, no doubt: he's too old to be a son."
"Oh, how glad, how glad I am!" and Elsie started to her feet, her eyes
full of tears, and her sweet face sparkling all over with sympathetic joy.
"Papa, I shall buy him! they must never be parted again till death comes
between."
A little crowd had already gathered about the excited couple, every one on
deck hurrying to the spot, eager to learn the cause of the tumult of joy
and grief into which the two seemed to have been so suddenly thrown.
Mr. Dinsmore rose, and giving his arm to Elsie, led her towards the
throng, saying in answer to her last remark, "Better act through me, then,
daughter, or you will probably be asked two or three prices."
"O papa, yes; please attend to it for me--only--only I must have him, for
dear old mammy's sake, at whatever cost."
The crowd opened to the lady and gentleman as they drew near.
"My poor old mammy, what is it? whom have you found?" asked Elsie.
But Chloe was speechless with a joy so deep that it wore the aspect of an
almost heart-breaking sorrow. She could only cling with choking sobs to
her husband's arm. "What's all this fuss, Uncle Joe?" queried the captain.
"Let go the old darkie; what's she to you?"
"My wife, sah, dat I ain't seed for twenty years, sah," replied the old
man, trying to steady his trembling tones, obeying the order, but making
no effort to shake off Chloe's clinging hold.
"Leave him for a little now, mammy dear; you shall never be parted again,"
whispered Elsie in her nurse's ear. "Come with me, and let papa talk to
the captain."
Chloe obeyed, silently following her young mistress to the other side of
the deck, but ever and anon turning her head to look back with wet eyes at
the old wrinkled black face and white beard that to her were so dear, so
charming. His eyes were following her with a look of longing, yearning
affection, and involuntarily he stretched out his arms towards her.
"Off to your work, sir," ordered the captain, "and let's have no more of
this nonsense."
Old Joe moved away with a patient sigh.
"The woman is your property, I presume, sir?" the captain remarked in a
respectful tone, addressing Mr. Dinsmore.
"Yes, my daughter's, which amounts to the same thing," that gentleman
replied in a tone of indifference; then changing the subject, made some
inquiries about the speed and safety of the boat, the length of her trips,
etc.
The captain answered pleasantly, showing pride in his vessel. Then they
spoke of other things: the country, the crops, the weather.
"Sit down, mammy," said Elsie pityingly, as they reached the settee where
she and her father had been sitting; "you are trembling so you can
scarcely stand."
"O darlin', dat's true 'nuff, I'se mos' ready to drop," she said
tremulously, coming down heavily upon a trunk that stood close at hand.
"Oh, de good Lord hab bring me face to face wid my ole Uncle Joe; oh, I
neber 'spected to see him no more in dis wicked world. But dey'll take 'im
off again an' dis ole heart'll break," she added, with a bursting sob.
"No, no, mammy, you shall have him, if money can accomplish it."
"You buy 'im, darlin'? Oh, your ole mammy can neber t'ank you 'nuff!" and
a low, happy laugh mingled with the choking sobs. "But dey'll ask heaps ob
money."
"You shall have him, let the price be what it will," was Elsie's
assurance. "See papa is bargaining with the captain now, for they look at
Uncle Joe as they talk."
Chloe regarded them with eager interest; yes, they were looking at Uncle
Joe, and evidently speaking of him.
"By the way," Mr. Dinsmore remarked carelessly, "does Uncle Joe belong to
you? or is he merely a hired hand?"
"He's my property, sir."
"Would you like to sell?"
"I am not anxious; he's a good hand, faithful and honest: quite a
religious character in fact," he concluded with a sneer; "overshoots the
mark in prayin and psalm-singing. But do you want to buy?"
"Well yes; my daughter is fond of her old mammy, and for her sake would be
willing to give a reasonable sum. What do you ask?"
"Make me an offer."
"Five hundred dollars."
"Five hundred? ridiculous! he's worth twice that."
"I think not, he is old--not far from seventy and will soon be past work
and only a burden and expense. My offer is a good one."
"Make it seven hundred and I'll take it."
Mr. Dinsmore considered a moment. "That is too high," he said at length,
"but for the sake of making two poor creatures happy, I will give it."
"Cash down?"
"Yes, a check on a New Orleans bank."
"Please walk down into the cabin then, sir, and we'll conclude the
business at once."
In a few moments Mr. Dinsmore returned to his daughter's side, and placing
the receipted bill of sale in her hands, asked, "Have I given too much?"
"Oh, no, papa, no indeed! I should have given a thousand without a
moment's hesitation, if asked it--five, ten thousand, if need be, rather
than have them parted again," she exclaimed, the bright tears shining in
her eyes. "Mammy, my poor old mammy, Uncle Joe belongs to me now, and you
can have him always with you as long as the Lord spares your lives."
"Now bress de Lord!" cried the old woman devoutly, raising her streaming
eyes and clasped hands to heaven; "de good Lord dat hears de prayers ob
His chilen's cryin' to Him when dere hearts is oberwhelmed!"
"Go break the news to Uncle Joe, mammy," said Elsie; "see, yonder he
stands looking so eager and wistful."
Chloe hurried to his side, spoke a few rapid words; there was another
long, clinging, tearful embrace, and they hastened to their master and
mistress to pour out their thanks and blessings upon them, mingled with
praises and fervent thanksgivings to the Giver of all good.
The joy and gratitude of the poor old couple were very sweet, very
delightful to Elsie, and scarcely less so to her father.
"Mammy dear, I never saw you wear so happy a face," Elsie said, as Chloe
returned to her after an hour or two spent in close conversation with her
newly recovered spouse.
"Ah, honey, your ole mammy tinks she neber so glad in all her life!" cried
the poor old creature, clasping her hands together in an ecstasy of joy
and gratitude while the big tears shone in her eyes. "I'se got ole Uncle
Joe back agin, an' he not de same, he bettah man, Christian man. He say,
'Aunt Chloe we uns trabble de same road now, honey: young Joe proud,
angry, swearing drinkin' boy, your Ole Joe he lub de Lord an' try to sarve
Him wid all he might. And de Lord good Massa. De debbil berry bad one.'"
"Dear mammy, I am very glad for you; I think nothing else could have made
you so happy."
Chloe, weeping again for joy, went on to tell her young mistress that
Uncle Joe had discovered a grandchild in New Orleans, Dinah by name,
waiting-maid in a wealthy family.
"But how is that, mammy? Papa and I thought all your children died young."
"No, darlin', when Massa Grayson buy me in New Orleans, an' de odder
gentleman buy Uncle Joe, we hab little girl four years ole, an' de ole
missus keep her," sobbed Chloe, living over again the agony of the
parting, "an' Dinah her chile."
"Mammy, if money will buy her, you shall have her, too," said Elsie
earnestly.
The remainder of the short voyage was a happy time to the whole of our
little party, Chloe, with her restored husband by her side, now looking
forward to the visit to Viamede with almost unmingled pleasure.
As they passed up the bay, entered Teche Bayou and pressed on, threading
their way through lake and lakelet, past plain and forest, plantation and
swamp, Elsie exclaimed again and again at the beauty of the scenery. Cool
shady dells carpeted with the rich growth of flowers, miles upon miles of
lawns as smoothly shaven, as velvety green and as nobly shaded by
magnificent oaks and magnolias, as any king's demesne; lordly villas
peering through groves of orange trees, tall white, sugar-houses and the
long rows of cabins of the laborers; united to form a panorama of
surpassing loveliness.
"Is Viamede as lovely as that, papa?" Elsie would ask, as they steamed
past one fine residence after another.
"Quite," he would reply with a smile, at length adding, "There is not a
more beautiful or valuable estate in the country; as you may judge for
yourself, for this is it."
"This, papa? Oh it is lovely, lovely! and everything in such perfect
order," she cried delightedly as they swept on past a large sugar-house
and an immense orange orchard, whose golden fruit and glossy leaves shone
brightly in the slanting rays of the nearly setting sun, to a lawn as
large, as thickly carpeted with smoothly shaven grass and many-hued
flowers, and as finely shaded with giant oaks, graceful magnolias, and
groves of orange trees, as any they had passed. The house--a grand old
mansion with spacious rooms, wide cool halls and corridors--was now in
full view, now half concealed by the trees and shrubbery.
The boat rounded to at a little pier opposite the dwelling, and in another
moment our friends had landed, and leaving the servants to attend to the
baggage were walking on towards the house.