girl much of the popularity which she had never analyzed or questioned.
She _could_ talk, and in several languages, familiarly, and when the
invitation arrived, she did--upward, with respect, to her elders (she
had learned that both in New Orleans and in Boston); downward to her
inferiors--with gentle directness, unmixed with over-condescension; to
right and to left among her companions, quite as a free-hearted girl,
with spirit and _camaraderie_.
A quality, this, presaging social success certainly, and, it must be
admitted, it is a quality which sometimes adorns natures wanting in
depth of affection. That this was not true of Agnes Le Duc, however,
seems to be clearly shown in an incident of this trip.
As she stood with her companions this evening, while one and another
commented upon this or that feature of the shore, they came suddenly
upon a congregation of negroes encircling an inlet between two curves in
the levee, and, as the low sun shone clearly into the crowd, it became
immediately plain that a baptism was in progress.
A line of women, robed in white, stood on one side; several men,
likewise in white, on the other, while the minister, knee-deep in the
water, was immersing a subject who shouted wildly as he went under and
came up struggling as one in a fit, while two able-bodied men with
difficulty bore him ashore.
The scene was scarcely one to inspire reverence to a casual observer,
and there was naturally some merriment at its expense. One playful
comment led to another until a slashing bit of ridicule brought the
entire ceremony into derision, and, as it happened, the remark with its
accompanying mimicry was addressed to Agnes.
"Oh, please!" she pleaded, coloring deeply. "I quite understand how it
may affect you; but--oh, it is too serious for here--too personal and
too sacred--"
While she hesitated, the culprit, ready to crawl at her feet,--innocent,
indeed, of the indelicacy of which he had become technically
guilty,--begged to be forgiven. He had quite truly "meant no harm."
"Oh, I am quite sure of it," the girl smiled; "but now that I have
spoken,--and really I could not help it; I could not wish to let it
pass, understand,--but now that I have spoken--oh, what shall I say!
"Perhaps you will understand me when I tell you that I should not be
with you here to-day but for the devoted care of two old Christian
people who dated their joy in the spiritual life from precisely such a
ceremony as this. They are in Heaven now.
"My dear old Mammy often said that she 'went under the water groaning in
sin, and came up shouting, a saved soul!' I seem to hear her again as I
repeat the words, on this same river, in sight of her people and within
the sound of their voices. I was small when she died, and I do not
clearly remember many of her words; but this I do well recall, for we
lived for some years on the river-bank, only a few miles from the spot
where in her youth she had been immersed. She taught me to love the
river, and perhaps I am a little sentimental over it. I hope always to
be so. My father remembers many of her words. She was his nurse, too.
She told him as a boy that she had insisted on being baptized in flowing
water, so that her sins might be carried away to the sea. It was all
very sacred to her."
Of course the romantic story of Agnes's youth was known to every one
present, and this unexpected allusion awakened immediate interest.
"Oh, yes," she replied to a question; "I suppose I do remember a good
deal, considering how very young I was, and yet I often wonder that I do
not remember more, as it was all so unusual;" and then she added,
laughing: "I seem to forget that no event could surprise a child _in her
first experiences of life_. Yet I remember trivial things, as, for
instance, the losing of a hat. I clearly recall our watching my hat on
one occasion when it blew into the river, _and was never recovered_!
Think of the tragedy of it! I can see it now, tossing like a little
boat, as it floated away.
"And the funny little cabin I remember--I know I do, for there were
things which papa never saw, on the inside, in what he calls my
'boudoir,' the white cabin, which I shall never forget. When anything is
kept ever in mind by constant description, it is hard to know how much
one really remembers. You know, papa spent only one night there and his
thoughts were turned backward, so that he naturally kept only vague
impressions of the place.
"Yes, he has made a sketch of it from memory, and I am sorry. Why? Oh,
because I was sure at first that it was not correct, and now it has come
to stand to me in place of the true picture, which has faded. It is a
way with pictures if we let them over-ride us. Why, my grandmother in
Boston has a friend who had his wife's portrait painted after she was
lost at sea. He spent all the money he had to have it done by a 'best
artist who had made a hasty sketch of her in life,' and when it came
home he did not recognize it--really thought a mistake had been made.
Then, seeing that it _was she_ as authoritatively pictured, and that he
had paid his all to get it, he bethought him to study it, hoping some
day to find her in it. And so he did, gradually.
"He had it hung over his smoking-table, and every evening he scrutinized
it until its insistence conquered. For a whole year he lived in the
companionship of an absent wife as seen in an artist's mood (this last
sentence is a direct quotation from my Boston grandmama, who is fond of
the story). And--well, 'what happened?' Why, _this_: One day the woman
came home. People 'lost at sea' occasionally do, you know. And would you
believe it? Her widower--I mean to say her husband--refused to receive
her. _He did not know her!_ He simply pointed to the painting and shook
his head. And if she hadn't been a person of resolution and
resource,--descended from the _Mayflower_,--why, she would have had to
go away. But she had her trunk brought in and quietly paid the
expressman and took off her bonnet--_and stayed_. But it was an absurdly
long time before her husband was wholly convinced that he was not the
victim of an adventuress. And she says that even now he sometimes looks
at her in a way she does not like.
"So, you see, we cannot always believe our own eyes, which are so easily
tricked.
"Still, even knowing all this, we consent to be duped. Now I like the
picture of the cabin, even while I regret it, and, _although I know
better_, I accept it.
"What is truth, anyway? That is what you hear said so often in Boston,
where we are said to try to make pivots of it for the wheels of all our
little hobbies.
"'Do I like Boston?' _Like Boston? No. I adore it!_ Oh, yes! But yet,
when I am there, I am a little rebel. And at each place I am quite
honest, I assure you. You see, I have a grandmother at both places--here
and there. Such dears, they are--adorable, both, and _so different_!
"Yes, that is true. Papa's portrait, the one Mammy had in the
cabin,--yes, we have it,--twice recovered from the river. My father
offered a reward, and a man brought it out of the mud, a little way down
the levee, and not seriously hurt. It is a funny little picture of papa
at six, in a Highland costume, with his arm over a strange dog which
belonged to the artist. He looks in the picture as if he were
stuffed--the dog does; but papa denies that. I believe this same dog
appeared in most of the portraits done by this man, in all of those of
boys, at least. For the girls he supplied a cat, or occasionally a
parrot. The bird _was_ stuffed, I believe. He did my stepmother at
five, and she holds the cat. The portraits hang side by side now. If we
could find him, and the parrot, he should paint me, and we would start a
menagerie.
"Oh, yes; going back to the subject, there are many little things which
I remember, without a doubt, for I could never imagine them. For
instance, I remember at least one of my baptisms--the last, I suppose. I
know I was frightened because the minister shouted, and Mammy kept
whispering to me that he wouldn't harm me; and then he suddenly threw
water all over me and I bawled. No, I have no idea who he was; but it
was out of doors, and there was a rooster in it someway. I suppose it
was on the levee and the rooster came to see what was happening.
"There is a picture which always reminds me of the time we lived behind
the woodpiles, that called 'The Soldier's Dream,' in which a poor
fellow, asleep on the battle-field, sees dimly, as in the sky, a meeting
between himself and his family.
"I am sure that while we sat on the levee and Mammy talked to me of
papa's coming, I used to picture it all against the sunset sky. Just
look at it now. Was anything ever more gorgeous and at the same time so
tender? One could easily imagine almost any miracle's happening over
there in the west.
"Yes, I know the skies of Italy, and they're no better. They are bluer
and pinker, perhaps, in a more paintable way; but when the sun sets
across the Mississippi, especially when we have their dreamy cloud
effects, it goes down with variation and splendor unmatched anywhere, I
do believe. But," she added with a Frenchy shrug, "you know I am only a
river child, and everything belonging to the old muddy stream is dear to
me.
"I beg your pardon--what did you ask?" This to a very young man who
colored after he had spoken. "Did we ever recover--? Oh, no. Their
bodies went with the waters they loved--and it was better so. Certainly,
papa used every effort. I hope the current carried them to the sea. She
would have liked to have it so, I am sure, dear, dear Mammy Hannah!
"Oh, yes. The little monument on Brake Island is only 'in memory,' as
its inscription says."
* * * * *
This was rather thoughtful talk for a girl scarcely eighteen, but Agnes
had ever been thoughtful, and by common inheritance--from her mother and
her father.
As the scene shifted, and conversation passed to lighter things, and her
laughter rippled again as a child's, its range was sometimes startling.
It was as brilliant as a waterfall seen in the sun, and often while her
fond father watched her, as now, he wondered if, perchance, her laughter
might not be prophetic of a great career for which eyes less devoted
than his perceived her eminently fitted.
* * * * *
It is beyond the province of this tale of the river to follow Agnes Le
Duc through life. Some day, possibly, her story may be fully told; but
perhaps a foreshadowing of her future, in one phase of it at least, may
be discerned in an intimation let fall by one of the passengers who sat
with his companions at a card-table in the fore cabin. At least, they
had spent the day there, stopping not even for dinner, and now they were
moving away. As they found seats out on the guards, he was saying:
"'_Rich!_' Well, I would say so! He own all doze plantation around de
town of Waterproof, and de strange part is _he paid twice for some of
dem_! Of co'se he could not do such a so-foolish t'ing except he made
dat _in_vention. W'en you _be_gin to collec' so much on every one of
anyt'ing dat fill a want, _you get rich, sure_!
"No matter if it jus' _one picayune_--w'en dey sell enough. Dey say you
can make sugar so quick by dat _mach_ine he _in_vent--it is like
conjuring--a sort of hoodoo!"
"Yes," said his companion, an American, "so I understand; and there is
no man I would rather see rich than Harold Le Duc. His marriage, so soon
after the recovery of his child, surprised some of us, but no doubt it
was a good thing."
"A good t'ing! It was _magnificent_! If he is one of de finest men in
Louisiana, she is equal to him. Dat remark dat he married only for a
mudder for his child--dat's all in my heye! I am sure he was in love to
her one year, maybe two, _be_fo' dat--_mais_, I am not sure he would
have asked any woman to marry him. He had not de courage. For him love
was past--and he was afraid of it. _Mais_ de chil' she wake him up
again! Oh, it is a good t'ing, _sure_! An' de strange part, she t'ought
she wou'n' never love again, jus' de same as him--until--"
"Until what?"
"Well, _until he spoke_! Until w'at you t'ink?"
"Not'ing. I t'ought _maybe_ it was somet'ing unusual."
"Well, an' is dat not somet'ing unusual--w'en a widow is _sure_ she will
not love again? Dey often _t'ink_ so, _mais_ she was _absolutely sure_!
You see, her first husband he was one hero; he fell on de same
battle-field wid gallant 'Jeb' Stuart--from a stray shot w'en de
fighting was over, carrying dat poor _imbecile_, Philippe Delmaire, off
de fiel', biccause he was yelling so, wid dat one li'l' toe he los'! A
good fellow, yas, _mais no account_! Yas, he drank himself to deat', all
on account for de loss of dat toe, so he say. Excuses dey are cheap,
yas. If it was not his toe it would have been somet'ing else. You know,
his figure, it was really perfection, no _mis_take, an' to lose
perfection, even in so small a matter as one toe--it prey on his mind.
Tell de trut', I used to feel sorry for him, an'--an'--w'en he always
would touch his glass an' drink dat favorite toast, 'To my big toe!'
well, dere was somet'ing pitiful in it. I used to drink it wid him. It
was no harm, an' he had always good wine, poor fellow. _Mais to t'ink of
Paul de La Rose dying for him!_ It make me mad, yet w'en I t'ink so, I
am almos' sorry to reflect I have drunk to his toe! Bah--a valu'ble
man--to die like dat! Wat you say? Yas, da's true. It makes not _how_ de
soldier fall--de glory is de same. Well, any'ow, if he could have picked
out a successor, he could not have done better dan yo'ng Le Duc--sure!
W'at you say? '_'Ow_ is he bought doze plantation twice?' Well, dis way:
W'en he had to take dem on mortgage, an' dey were sold at de door of de
court-house--bidding against him, understand--no rainy-day sale--he paid
_double_--I mean to say he paid so much as de mortagage _again_. Not in
every case, _mais_ in many--to widows. I know two cousin of mine, he
paid dem so. I ricollec' dey tol' me dat he was de mos' remembering man
to look out for dem, an' de mos' forgetting to sen' de bills.
"Oh, yas. An' his daughter, dey say she is in love to her
stepmother--an' she is jus' so foolish about de chil'--an' wid good
reason. She had never children--an' she is proud for dat daughter, an'
jealous, too, of dose Yankee _ril_lation. Still, she _in_vite dem to
come every year, so the chil' can stay--an' now, would you believe it?
Dey are come to be great friends, _mais_, of co'se, her father sends her
every year at Boston to her grandmother. Dey all want her, an' no
wonder. If she was one mud fence, I suppose it would be all de same,
_mais_ you know, she is _one great beauty_! I say one gr-r-r-reat
beauty! Wh! An'w'en I whistle so 'wh!' I mean w'at I say. You see me so,
I am one ol' man, now--pas' forty--an' rich in children, an' not
bad-looking children, neither; _mais_ I would walk, me, all de way from
de barracks up to Bouligny, _an' back_, just to see her pass in de
street an' smile on me. You take my word, _if_ she is not snapped up by
some school-boy, she can marry _anyt'ing_--_a coronet_! An' I know
somet'ing about women--not to brag."
"If you are so anxious to see dat young lady, Felix," said another, "you
don't need to walk so far. She is, at dis moment, wid her father an' her
stepmudder, on dis trip."
"_W'at_! w'at you say? Well, wait. I di'n' inten', me, to dress
for de ladies' cabin to-night, _mais_ w'en I have my supper I will
put on my Sunday t'ings--jus' to go an' sit down in de cabin
w'ere--I--can--look--at _innocent_--_beauty_! It pleasure me, yas, to
see some t'ing like dat. May_be_ I am not all good, _mais_ I am not all
given over for bad so long I can enjoy a rose-vine all in pink, or a
fair yo'ng girl more beautiful yet.
"I tell you, my friends, I was sitting, week before las', at my 'ouse on
Esplanade Street, on de back gallerie, w'ere de vines is t'ick, an' dey
were, as you might say, honey-suckling de bees--an' de perfume from my
night-bloomin' jasmine filled my nose. It was in de evening, an' de moon
on de blue sky was like a map of de city, jus' a silver crescent, an'
close by, one li'l' star, shining, as de children say, 'like a diamond
in de sky,' an' I tell you--I tell you--
"Well, I tell you, _I wished I had been a good man all my life_!"
His friends laughed gaily at this.
"You don' say!" laughed one. "Well, you fooled us, any'ow! I was holding
my breat'. I t'ought somet'ing was getting ready to happen!"
"Well--an' ain't dat somet'ing?--w'en a hard ol' sinner like me can see
in nature a t'ing sweet an' good an'--_an' resolute himself_!"
"Sure, dat is a great happening; _mais_ for such a _be_ginning, so
dramatic, we expected to see Hamlet--or maybe his father's ghost--or
_somet'ing_!"
"I am thinking more of this exceptional beauty"--it was the American who
interrupted now--"I am more interested in her than in the confessions of
old sinners like ourselves. I am rather practical, and beauty is only
skin-deep--sometimes at least. I should like to take a peep at this rare
product of our State. Louisiana's record up to date is hard to beat, in
this respect."
"Well," slowly remarked the man known throughout as Felix, "I am not
telling! If I _knew_, I could not _tell_, and, of co'se, it is all
guess-work, _mais_ you may believe me or not--" he lowered his voice,
suggesting mystery. "I say you can _rif_fuse to believe me or not, I
was--well, I was not long ago, one day, sitting at de table down at
Leon's,--eating an oyster wid a friend of mine, and, looking out of de
window, I happened to see, sitting in a tree, _one li'l' bird_--jus' one
small li'l' bird, no bigger dan yo' t'umb.
"I was not t'inking about de bird, mind you. We were jus' talking about
anyt'ing in partic'lar--I mean to say not'ing in general. _W'at_ is de
matter wid me to-day? I cannot talk straight--my tongue is all twis'. I
say we were speaking of partic'lar t'ings in general, an' he remarked to
me, '_Who you t'ink will be de Queen of de Carnival dis coming Mardi
Gras?_'
"I was pouring a glass of Chateau Yquem at de time,--to look after de
oysters,--an' I di'n' pay so much attention to w'at he was saying--I can
never pour a glass an' speak at de same time. I spill my words or de
wine, sure. So it happened dat w'en I put me de bottle down, my eye
passed out de window. Oh, hush! No, not my eye, of co'se--I mean my
sight. Well, dat li'l' bird it was still waiting in the same place, in
de magnolia-tree, an' w'en I looked, it give me one glance, sideways,
like a finger on de nose, an' it opened wide its bill, an' just so plain
as I am speaking now, _it spoke a name_." This in still lower voice.
"But I said nothing, immediately. A little wine, for a few glasses, it
make me prudent--_up to a certain point_, of co'se. _Mais_, direc'ly, I
looked at my friend, an' wid w'at you might call an air of
_nonchalance_, I repeat to him de name _ex_ac'ly as it was tol' to me by
de li'l' bird in de magnolia-tree. An' wa't you t'ink he said?"
"Oh, go on. W'at he say?"
"You want to know w'at he said? Well, dat I can tell you. He was greatly
astonish', an' he whispered to me, '_Who tol' you? You are not in de
Pickwick?_'"
"Oh, a little bird tol' me!" I answered him. "_No, I am not in de
club._"
"_But the name? Do tell us!_"
"Oh, no. I cannot. If I _told_, dat would be _telling_, eh?"
"Sure! It is not necessary," said another. "Well, I am pleased, me."
"_An'_ me!"
"I like always to listen w'en you tell somet'ing, Felix. Your story is
all right--an' _I believe you_. I always believe any man in de Pickwick
Club--_on some subjects_! _Mais_, ol' man, de nex' time you make a story
at Leon's restaurant, suppose you move off dat magnolia-tree. A bird
could stand on de window-sill across de street jus' as well--a real
window-sill."
"T'ank you. I am sure a _real_ somet'ing-to-stand-on would be better for
_a real bird_. _Mais_, for dis particular bird, I t'ink my magnolia is
more suitable. Don't forget de story of de Mongoose!"
"Nobody can get ahead of you, Felix. Well, it is a good t'ing. It is
true, her fodder was de King at las' year's Carnival--an' it is
lightning striking twice in de same place; an' yet--"
"And yet," the American interrupted, "and yet it will sometimes strike
twice in the same place--if the attraction is sufficient. I have a
friend who has a summer home in the Tennessee mountains which was twice
struck--three times, nearly. That is the house next door got it the
third time. And then they began to investigate, and they found the
mountain full of iron--iron convertible into gold."
"Well, and our man of iron, let us hope he may prove always an
attraction--for bolts of good fortune!"
"A wish that may come true; if reports be correct, he is rapidly turning
into gold," said the American. "I am told that he has found salt in
immense deposits on his island--and that he has resumed the work begun
just before the war--that of opening up the place."
"Oh, yas. 'Tis true. Over a hundred t'ousand dollars he has already put
in--an' as much more ready to drop. _Mais_ it is _fairyland_! An' me,
_I_ was t'inking too--sometimes I t'ink a little myself--I was t'inking
dat if--I say _if_ sometime his daughter would be de Comus Queen, not
insinuating anything, you know--no allusion to de bird--w'at a fine
house-party dey could have _now_, eh? Dey could invite de royal party,
maids of honor, and so fort'--whoever is rich enough to lose so much
time--
"T'ink of sailing up de new canal on de barge--"
"An' under de bridge--"
"No, not de bridge. He will never touch dat. He has made a new plan,
entering another way. Dat span of de bridge he commenced--it is standing
beside de beautiful w'ite marble tomb--to hold his family. His wife she
is dere, an' de ol' negroes w'at care for his chil'--dey are laying in
one corner, wid also a small monument."
"Are you _sure_ dey are dere?"
"I have seen de monument, I tell you."
"Well, Harold he was always sentimental, if you will. I suppose dat
broken bridge is, as he says--it is history, and he needs to keep it
before him, not to be too rash. Maybe so. Who can tell? Two boys in de
war, it was enough--if he had stopped to t'ink."
"Yas--_mais_ de barge, de Cleopatra; dey say she is be'-u-tiful!"
"Cleopatra! For w'at he di'n' name her somet'ing sensible?"
"Dat is not only sensible--it is diplomatic. You know, w'en a man has
only a daughter and a step-wife--_w'at_ is de matter wid me to-night?
You understand me. I say, in--well, in some cases, to _dis_criminate,
it is enough to drive a man to--"
"Oh, don't say dat, Felix."
"Let me _finish_, will you? I say it is one of dose _in_delicate
situations dat drive a man to _dodge_! An' w'en he can dodge into
history and romance at once, so much de better! An' _Cleopatra_, it
sound well for a barge. An' so, really, _if_ de beautiful daughter
_should_ be de queen an' dey could arrange one house-party--"
"Suppose, Felix, ol' man, you would bring out yo' magnolia-tree once
more, you don't t'ink de li'l' bird would come again an' stan' on one
limb an' may_be_--"
"Ah, no. I am sure not. If dey had a grain of salt in dat story, I would
try. I would put it on his tail. _Mais_, how can you catch a bird widout
salt?"
* * * * *
So idly, playfully, the talk rippled on, ever insensibly flavored with
rich romance of life, even as the fitful breeze skirting the shores
held, in shy suspension, an occasional hint of orange-blossoms or of
the Cuban fruits which, heaping the luggers in the slanting sun, laid
their gay bouquets of color against the river's breast.
It is many years since the maid Agnes Le Duc, on her way to coronation
at the carnival, stood while the sun went down in all her vestal beauty
on deck of the _Laurel Hill_, and smiled through tears of tenderness at
life as half revealed to her.
Many things are changed since then, and yet the great river flows on,
all unheeding.
Laden to their guards, so that their weighty cargoes of cotton and
sugar, traveling to mill and to market, are wet with the spray of
playful condescension, panting ships of commerce, some flying foreign
colors, still salute each other in passing, with ever a word of
solicitude as to milady's health.
Old Lady Mississippi, is she high or low in spirits? And will her hand
of benediction turn to smite and to despoil?
But, whether she be obdurate or kindly, hysterical or melancholy, or so
serene as to invite the heavens, life and love and song are hers.
Uniting while she seems to divide, bringing together whom she appears to
separate, a raft of logs contributed by her grace affording free passage
the length of her realm to whoever will take it, paying no toll, she
invites Romance to set sail under the stars in primal simplicity,
eschewing the "bridal chambers" of white and gold which lie in the
hearts of all the busy steamers, no matter how otherwise prosaic their
personalities.