though they had been differently trained, and their opinions clashed on
some points? They came out of wordy controversies firmer friends than
ever. There was never-ending interest in their combats, and the lightest
jest or banter held a fascination keen as the brightest wit. He called
Madeline a narrow-minded, illiberal provincial, for holding such fierce
prejudices against the colored people, and she retorted that the negro
had become a sentiment to the North, and that if they, the Yankees,
would give some of their attention and pity to the poor white people
crowding their large cities, the South would solve its own great
problem. Sometimes they parted in anger; but it was short-lived, for
love drew them with irresistible force, and if they disagreed on a few
questions, how many hopes, thoughts, and desires they had in common!
what taste and sympathy!
Mrs. Capelle looked on, sighed, and smiled, but waited in silence for
Madeline's confidence. And one evening she came in, knelt at her
mother's feet, put her arms around her, and pressed her flushed,
tremulous, radiant face against her bosom. Mrs. Capelle flushed and
trembled herself, and gathered that proud young head closer to her
heart.
"You have promised to marry him," she said in a whisper.
"He asked me again this evening. I could not put him off," Madeline
confessed, also in a whisper.
"Coquette! Did you want to put him off?"
"N--no."
"Oh, oh! he is a Yankee."
"I love him."
"He may take you away to his hard, his cold New England."
"We are to live here with you."
"Without consulting me? Fie! what aggressive children!"
"You are glad, mama. Why are you so glad I'm to be married?"
"I am longing to see you safe, my darling," dropping her teasing tone,
and speaking with sudden agitation.
"Am I not safe with you?" lifting her head, and looking tenderly into
the delicate face above her.
"But I am not strong, sweet, and I may be called suddenly from you some
day, and it is not good for girls to be alone. It will be comforting to
leave you in such hands. He is noble, he is good, and will love you
faithfully. Ah, Madeline, he is strong and firm; he will rule my wilful
girl."
"I should not love him if I could rule him," said Madeline, proudly.
Mrs. Capelle laughed and kissed her. "Tell me all about it," she said
softly. They talked until the hand of the clock pointed to twelve, and
only the barking of a dog or two pierced the silence resting upon the
town.
"We have no secrets--no secrets from each other, have we, mama?" said
Madeline with a happy laugh.
"No secrets, sweet? No, no; there should be no secrets between mother
and child," said the elder woman; but her eyes fell; a paleness swept
over her face. It was a swift, subtle change, unnoticed by the girl in
the delicious absorption of her thoughts.
That was a winter to live in the memory of those lovers as long as they
lived. Every one of the swiftly flying days seemed to have its own
special joy, its own sweet experiences. When apart, there were long
letters written out of the fullness of their hearts; when together, long
talks, or delicious silences in which it seemed enough that they could
be together.
And there were letters from his New England home to her, one from his
mother, as sweet and gentle as her own mother could have written.
"She must be lovely, Roger," she said to him.
"She is," he replied with proud loyalty. "I am longing for you to see
her."
"I shrink from it, for if she should not be pleased with me--"
"She must; she cannot help it, dearest. Ah! you know that you'll charm
her," putting his hand under her chin, and turning her face upward to
his eyes, its palpitant color, proud, shy eyes, and lovely
tremulousness, a tacit confession of his power.
Before she could elude him--for with all her caressing ways and Southern
temperament, lending itself so naturally to demonstrativeness, she was
very chary of her favors--he drew her into his arms against his heart,
and kissed her.
Mrs. Capelle spent those winter days sewing on fine linen, cambric,
sheer muslin, and lace, stitching many loving thoughts into the dainty
garments intended for Madeline's wardrobe. Imperceptibly, as it were,
she had grown very fragile, and the least excitement caused her to
palpitate and tremble, with flushed face and hand pressed upon her
heart.
She had been a devout Catholic in her youth, and though removed from her
church, she still occasionally attended mass in Atlanta, and went to
confession. But as the winter passed, her thoughts turned longingly to
Father Vincent, her old father confessor, and one day in the early
spring she received a letter from him. He would in a short time pass
through Marietta on his way to the North. Could he stop for a day with
them? It seemed such a direct answer to her secret desire for his
counsel that she joyfully hastened to reply, telling him how she needed
his advice and his blessing.
She had rejoiced over Madeline's engagement, but as the time set for her
marriage drew near, some secret trouble seemed to wear upon her, much to
the girl's distress.
"What is it, mama?" she asked, sitting at her feet, and taking her hand
and laying it against her cheek.
"What can it be but the loss of you, sweet?" she replied quickly. "You
must allow me to be jealous and foolish."
"But you are not going to lose me, dearest mama, and are you sure--I
have fancied there must be something else troubling you."
"Indeed you must not think so; I am selfish to--"
"Selfish! You, the best and sweetest woman in the world, selfish! I'll
not believe that." Still she did not feel satisfied, and was greatly
relieved when Father Vincent came, and she saw her mother brighten and
look like her old self. It was about two weeks before the wedding that
he came, and was persuaded to stop with them two days instead of one. He
was an old man, small, slender, and ascetic looking, with clear, calm
eyes, and a sweet voice.
It was the afternoon of his arrival that Madeline went out to make some
calls, but after one visit changed her mind, and returned home. She did
not at once go to her mother, knowing that she and Father Vincent would
probably have much to say to each other, but turned into the parlor,
cool, dusky, and deserted, and went to the little alcove, where she had
left her embroidery and the last letter from her lover. It was simply a
corner of the big room, furnished with a lounge and a small table, and
shut in by soft silk curtains. How long she had been there, re-reading
that letter, dreaming over her work, she could not tell, when roused by
footsteps and voices in the room--her mother and the priest.
"You hinted at some special cause for trouble in your letter," he said,
as they sat down in close proximity to those curtains and Madeline's
retreat.
"Yes; it concerns Madeline."
"What of her? I thought her future had been settled. Is she not to be
married in a short time?"
"Yes; but, Father, she is not my child, and I am growing doubtful of the
honor of my course in regard to this marriage."
"Not your child!" exclaimed Father Vincent in surprise, for he thought
that he knew all the Capelle secrets.
"No. I would to God that she were!" she said with deep emotion, "for I
love her so well that I'd gladly give my life to know that pure, unmixed
blood flowed in her veins."
His chair creaked as he drew it a little nearer her; his voice sank to a
low key:
"You do not mean--"
"Yes; her mother was a quadroon," in a trembling whisper.
Did he hear that strange gasping sigh, as of a dumb creature struck by a
mortal blow, that he so quickly and abruptly exclaimed:
"Where is she now?"
"Out calling. I did not dare speak of this while she was in the house,
for fear the very walls would betray the secret. She must never know
it, never! It would ruin her life, kill her, my poor, proud child!"
Her voice broke in tears.
"Tell me the whole story," said the priest gently, but with authority.
"Yes, yes; that is what I am longing to do. The secret has become a
burden to me: I want to be assured that I have acted rightly about her
marriage. You remember my husband's brother, Lawrence Capelle?"
"Well, very well; a handsome young fellow, but rather wild."
"And lovable with it all. He died while my husband and I were in
France--we were there three years--and before his death he wrote to
Anthony, begging him to look after the welfare of a child, a baby, and
giving the history of his attachment to a beautiful quadroon in New
Orleans. Her mother had been a slave, but this girl had been born free,
received a very good education, and grew up superior to her class. She
had loved him with rare faith and tenderness, and died at the birth of
the child."
"They were not married, of course?"
"Married? Oh, no; but he had really been quite fond of her, and he
dwelt at length upon the beauty and intelligence of the child. We came
home very quietly, and before going to our own house, or betraying our
presence to even intimate friends, we sought her out, and the moment I
took her in my arms, looked into her eyes--Lawrence's own beautiful gray
eyes, smiling with innocent fearlessness straight into my own--my heart
went out to her in such a gush of love, pity, tenderness, I did not feel
that I could ever be parted from her. Father, she was the loveliest,
most lovable child I ever saw. We adopted her, we made her our very
own, and no one knew that she had not really been born to us abroad. Not
even to you, Father, did we confess the truth. The war came then, and
Anthony died at Vicksburg; but I could not feel utterly alone, utterly
bereft, while I had Madeline. I made plans for her; I said that she
should never know that she was not truly my own child. Her training, her
education, became the absorbing interest of my life. After the close of
the war I thought it best for her sake to leave New Orleans, to seek a
new and more obscure home, away from old friends, old ties. If we
remained there she might in some way learn the truth. We came here, you
and my lawyer alone knowing where to find us. I have brought her up
most carefully. She is refined, beautiful, accomplished, and innocent
as a young girl should be, but you can see for yourself what she is. I
instilled the strongest race prejudices into her mind. I impressed it
upon her that the negro is an inferior creature, a servant of servants,
to be treated with kindness, but never to be considered an equal; for a
morbid fear that her mother's blood would betray itself in some coarse
or degraded taste, haunted me. But I am no longer afraid for her. Have
I acted with wisdom? Have I done well to lift her up?"
"Assuredly; only"--he reflected a moment--"only your extreme course in
regard to color prejudice would make the truth a hundredfold harder to
bear should she discover it."
"But she shall not discover it. In two weeks she will be married to
this young Northerner, her life merged into his, her very name lost. Is
it right, is it cheating him?"
"If you cannot tell her, then you must not tell him, for it would only
be to raise a barrier of secrecy between them."
"Tell me there is no dishonesty, no sin in it, and my heart will be at
rest."
"According to my understanding, Agnese Capelle, there is none, but the
highest human understanding is at best but poor authority. You have
rescued this child from the common fate of her class, elevated her,
thrown around her love, protection, the honor of a good name. You save
her from the consequences of her father's sin. Be contented with your
work. For marriage will be the crowning of it, and if she is noble,
neither origin nor birth can make her less precious to her husband. I
only wish there were more women like you in this country."
She drew a long breath of relief, but humbly said:
"Do not credit me with being a humanitarian. It was simply for love of
her I did it all, and lately I have craved your blessing on it, Father
Vincent, for I have developed the heart-disease hereditary in my family,
and look any hour to be called hence."
A little longer they talked, and then went away, Mrs. Capelle to seek
some repose after the excitement of the interview, and the priest to
stroll about the grounds in prayer or meditation.
When the last sound of their footsteps and voices died away, the
curtains were drawn aside, and Madeline came out of her retreat. She
looked wan and ghastly, and groped her way across the room and up to her
own apartment as though stricken with sudden blindness.
She closed and locked the door, then flung herself prone upon the floor.
She felt like writhing and screaming aloud instead of lying there like a
senseless log, only her tongue seemed paralyzed, her body numbed. And
yet she could think--think with burning, agonizing intensity. Could it
be true, or only a hideous nightmare out of which she would presently
wake? Her mother a quadroon, her grandmother a slave! She wondered
that the very thought of it did not kill her. Her name, her pride,
everything that she had cherished, had been torn from her, and she--she
had been hurled down into a black abyss where she must grovel and suffer
until death set her free. Strange visions seemed to come before her out
of the remote past--visions of African jungles, of black, half-naked
savages borne across the seas to be bought and sold, to pine and fret in
bondage, longing for the freedom which never came to them.
They were her ancestors; their blood, degraded by generations of
slavery, flowed in her veins. Her education, her refinement, her
prejudices would only be instruments of torture now, with that secret
consciousness of shame and degradation underlying them. It was as
cruel, as complete, as if it had been planned with Machiavellian art to
this ending; and through the confused misery of her thoughts ran a
sensation of pity for her mother, that she had so unconsciously spoiled
her work. Presently the stunned feeling passed, and she rose to her
feet again, and walked about the room. On the bed and chairs were
strewed the pretty things belonging to her wedding outfit. Half
unconsciously she folded and put them away. She would not need them now.
Once she went to the mirror, and, leaning close to it, looked at
herself, seeking for traces of that race she had been taught to regard
as the lowest on earth. Did that soft fullness of lip, that crisp wave
in her hair, that velvety, opaque skin come from her mother? A
momentary savage rage thrilled her. She struck the glass so fierce a
blow with her closed hand that it cracked from bottom to top. Then her
eyes fell on her lover's picture, placed in an open velvet frame, and
she paled and shuddered. She did not touch it, though a hundred times it
had been pressed to heart and lip, but gazed at it with that intense
parting look we give the dead before they are hidden forever from us;
then she leaned over the bureau, her head bowed upon her folded arms.
The afternoon passed; twilight crept into the room. Faint sounds of
life came up from the lower part of the house; the tea-bell rang; at
last some one came slowly, heavily up the stairs, shuffled across the
hall, and knocked on her door.
"Miss Mad'line, Miss Mad'line." She opened the door, and found Aunt
Dilsey standing there, a big, coffee-colored mulatto woman, panting from
the exertion of mounting the stairs, the wrinkles in her fat neck filled
with little streams of perspiration. "Miss Agnese an' de priest man air
waitin' fo' yo' to come down to supper, honey, an' Miss Agnese say
hurry, de cakes gwine git cold," she said in a full rich voice; but
Madeline only caught her by the shoulder, and stared at her thick brown
skin, her coarse crinkled hair, her protruding lips, and broad figure.
So her grandmother might have looked. "Fo' mercy's sake, honey, what's
de matter? Air yo' sick?" cried Aunt Dilsey in a frightened, anxious
tone; but the girl only turned from her, and fell upon the bed with a
moan of despair.
She heard the old negress hurrying downstairs, and then her mother's
light swift steps, and tried to compose herself.
"My darling, what is the matter?" cried Mrs. Capelle, bending tenderly,
anxiously over her.
"It is only a--a--headache," said Madeline, glad that the twilight hid
her face from those loving, searching eyes.
"Are you sure? Dilsey frightened me so."
"Dilsey is a foolish old creature."
Mrs. Capelle felt of her hands, her face.
"You are feverish. You were in the hot sun too much this afternoon."
"Yes; that was it--the sun. Don't be anxious, mama. It is nothing. Go
back to Father Vincent, and I'll sleep, and be well to-morrow."
"But I do not like to leave you."
"You must, _cherie_. Remember your guest."
"Yes, yes; so I must. I will come up again presently."
She stooped to arrange a pillow, and to kiss her, and Madeline raised
herself up, threw her arms around her.
"My own good, sweet mama, my dear, lovely one!" she murmured. "You do
everything for my comfort and happiness. You would not hurt me for the
world, would you?"
"Hurt you, sweet?"
"I know you would not. I--I like to tease you a little. Kiss me
good-night, and go. _Poor mama!_" she murmured under her breath, as they
held each other, in a love no bond of flesh and blood could have made
stronger.
"How can I tell her that I know! How can I!" Madeline moaned when left
again alone.
But she did not have that cruel task, for sometime during that night,
while she turned wakefully on her bed, or paced softly about the room,
Agnese Capelle received the summons she had been so long expecting.
Next morning only her fragile body lay between the white sheets of her
bed, the life, the spirit gone.
Madeline was strangely calm through all the excitement and confusion
following, and went herself to select a sunny open spot in the neglected
little cemetery for her mother's grave.
"She loved sunshine," she said to Everett and Father Vincent, "and she
wished to be buried here."
She preserved the same stony quiet through the funeral and burial, and
friends commented and wondered, and Roger watched her anxiously. He
felt an indefinable change in her, but attributed it to the shock of her
mother's sudden death. Father Vincent studied him with keen eyes, but
could find no fault. He was a manly man, and a tender, considerate
lover.
It was the third evening after her mother's burial that Madeline called
Father Vincent into the little study adjoining the parlor. The New
Orleans lawyer had come up, held a private interview with her, and had
gone away again, and she had sent off her wedding trousseau to a young
girl in a distant town, and certain things belonging to her mother she
had carefully collected and put together. So much Aunt Dilsey, the
priest, and a kind old lady who proposed to stay with her a few days
knew; but she offered no explanation, and gave no clue to her plans for
the future.
"She acts for all the world like she didn't expect to get married,
herself," the old lady confided to a friend or two. "I can't understand
what she intends to do."
Father Vincent felt some curiosity too, and went into the little room
rather eagerly. She sat before her mother's desk with a lot of papers
open before her. It came upon him with the force of surprise that she
had changed greatly in a few days. Her features were sharpened, her
eyes had purplish hollows under them, and the dull black gown she wore
only brought out the intense pallor of her face.
"My child, where did you get those papers? You must let me examine them.
There are some your mother wished destroyed," said the priest, hastily.
"I know, Father, I know," she said in a dull tone.
"Have you--"
"Read them? No; but I heard all that she told you that day."
"Ah!" he exclaimed, understanding why she looked so changed, and his
eyes rested pityingly upon her. A fiery blush burned her throat and
face for a moment, leaving her paler than ever when it receded.
"Yes; I know," she said, and clasped her hands together on her lap.
"Father, will you tell Mr. Everett?"
"But--"
"I cannot do it; help me, will you?"
It was a piteous appeal, and his heart melted at the sight of her
anguished eyes.
"You think he ought to know it?"
"He must, of course," she said, and he felt satisfied that she had not,
for a moment even, been tempted to keep the truth from him. "He is in
the parlor," she continued after a slight pause; "tell him all, spare
nothing," her tensely drawn lips quivering, her hands tightly clenched.
"My child, you take it too hard," laying his hand on her head. "I am
grieved for you, but do not let it spoil your peace."
"How can I help it, Father, with the training I have had? I cannot
change my beliefs in a day. Oh, you know how my friends would shrink
from me if they knew the truth, and I--I cannot blame them. I should do
the same. There is no help, no comfort, for me anywhere."
"There is the comfort of the Church, the help of Heaven."
"Ah, yes; I forget--I forget."
"But hear your lover before you decide your future. He has a right to
it, remember."
"Tell him, Father, tell him."
He went away, and, turning the light a little lower, she waited. He
made the story short, for in a few minutes the door opened again and her
lover entered. She rose to meet him, determined to be brave and
self-possessed, but that new, bitter sense of shame again overpowered
her. She seemed to shrink and shrivel under his tender eyes, and sank
down with bowed head. But he knelt by her chair with his arms around
her, and drew that proud, averted face against him.
"Dearest, dearest," he whispered, the very tone of his voice carrying to
her his sympathy, his unshaken love.
"I thank God that I learned the truth in time," she said faintly.
"In time for what, Madeline?"
"To save you."
He raised her face, forced her to look at him.
"Do you believe my love has changed?"
"It has an element of pity now."
"But pity for your suffering, and not because I hold you less noble. I
can take care of myself and you also, my darling. Father Vincent and I
agree that it will be best for you to go North, get away from old
associations, old ideas; so we'll be married quietly, and leave here at
once." He rose, and she stood up also, facing him, looking straight
into his eyes.
"Did Father Vincent tell you _all_? Do you realize just what I am?"
"Yes; you are the woman I love--my promised wife. Can I hold you
blamable, dearest, or unlove you simply because--come, Madeline, put all
the past behind you, and we will never speak of this again."
"Impossible, Roger. You are generous, and I'm not afraid that you would
ever reproach me, but it is not worth while for us to argue the matter.
We cannot marry. In my own sight I have been humbled into the dust, and
as your wife I should always have a cringing, cowardly feeling of
unworthiness. I could not be happy myself, and my misery would only
overshadow you. Don't think me unreasonable or lacking in love. Love!
It fills all my heart, pervades every atom of my being. I loved you at
once--the first moment, I think, that my eyes rested upon you. The
prejudices which seemed so foolish, so false, are interwoven, blended
with life itself. We, here, call them instincts, holding us apart from
the lower order of man, and my education only fostered, developed them
to the utmost in me."
"If your mother had only--"
"Don't think hardly of her, my dearest. She is not to blame. She
brought me up as she believed best, and implanted the principles and
beliefs she thought would be my surest safeguards. As she grew weak and
ill the secret burdened her, and for fear that she might be wronging you
she sought Father Vincent's advice. How I thanked God that she died
without knowing that her work was all undone!" She flung herself again
into the chair, and he saw that she was too excited, too overwrought, to
be reasoned with.
She looked up at him.
"Had you known my birth, my parentage, from the first, could you have
loved me?"
"I do not know," he said candidly; "I only know that I do love you, and
that I will not give you up." His face flushed, his eyes kindled. "You
must, you shall, be my wife. But we will not talk of it any more
to-night: you need rest, and time to recover from the double shock which
has come upon you. To-morrow--every day, I shall come, until you learn
to look at this as I do. Good-night, Madeline. Think wisely,
reasonably, dear."
"I will try; and you will know my decision to-morrow, Roger."
He bent over her, kissed the bright waves of her hair; but she started
up, and clasped her arms about him, drawing his lips down to hers in an
abandonment of love she had never shown before. Tears rained from her
eyes, the stony curves of her mouth melted, and he felt that it was a
tacit surrender.
"To-morrow you will listen to me, Madeline," he said with the certainty
of conviction.
"Yes; to-morrow," she replied, and turned, weeping, from him.