BY AN OATH.
Père Jerome, pausing on a street-corner in the last hour of sunlight,
had wiped his brow and taken his cane down from under his arm to start
again, when somebody, coming noiselessly from he knew not where, asked,
so suddenly as to startle him:
"_Miché, commin yé pellé la rie ici_?--how do they call this street
here?"
It was by the bonnet and dress, disordered though they were, rather than
by the haggard face which looked distractedly around, that he recognized
the woman to whom he replied in her own _patois_:
"It is the Rue Burgundy. Where are you going, Madame Delphine?"
She almost leaped from the ground.
"Oh, Père Jerome! _mo pas conné_,--I dunno. You know w'ere's dad 'ouse
of Miché Jean Tomkin? _Mo courri 'ci, mo courri là,--mo pas capabe li
trouvé_. I go (run) here--there--I cannot find it," she gesticulated.
"I am going there myself," said he; "but why do you want to see Jean
Thompson, Madame Delphine?"
"I _'blige'_ to see 'im!" she replied, jerking herself half around away,
one foot planted forward with an air of excited pre-occupation; "I godd
some' to tell 'im wad I _'blige'_ to tell 'im!"
"Madame Delphine"--
"Oh! Père Jerome, fo' de love of de good God, show me dad way to de
'ouse of Jean Tomkin!"
Her distressed smile implored pardon for her rudeness.
"What are you going to tell him?" asked the priest.
"Oh, Père Jerome,"--in the Creole _patois_ again,--"I am going to put an
end to all this trouble--only I pray you do not ask me about it now;
every minute is precious!"
He could not withstand her look of entreaty.
"Come," he said, and they went.
* * * * *
Jean Thompson and Doctor Varrillat lived opposite each other on the
Bayou road, a little way beyond the town limits as then prescribed. Each
had his large, white-columned, four-sided house among the magnolias,
--his huge live-oak overshadowing either corner of the darkly shaded
garden, his broad, brick walk leading down to the tall, brick-pillared
gate, his square of bright, red pavement on the turf-covered sidewalk,
and his railed platform spanning the draining-ditch, with a pair of
green benches, one on each edge, facing each other crosswise of the
gutter. There, any sunset hour, you were sure to find the householder
sitting beside his cool-robed matron, two or three slave nurses in white
turbans standing at hand, and an excited throng of fair children, nearly
all of a size.
Sometimes, at a beckon or call, the parents on one side of the way would
join those on the other, and the children and nurses of both families
would be given the liberty of the opposite platform and an ice-cream
fund! Generally the parents chose the Thompson platform, its outlook
being more toward the sunset.
Such happened to be the arrangement this afternoon. The two husbands sat
on one bench and their wives on the other, both pairs very quiet,
waiting respectfully for the day to die, and exchanging only occasional
comments on matters of light moment as they passed through the memory.
During one term of silence Madame Varrillat, a pale, thin-faced, but
cheerful-looking lady, touched Madame Thompson, a person of two and a
half times her weight, on her extensive and snowy bare elbow, directing
her attention obliquely up and across the road.
About a hundred yards distant, in the direction of the river, was a
long, pleasantly shaded green strip of turf, destined in time for a
sidewalk. It had a deep ditch on the nearer side, and a fence of rough
cypress palisades on the farther, and these were overhung, on the one
hand, by a row of bitter-orange-trees inside the enclosure, and, on the
other, by a line of slanting china-trees along the outer edge of the
ditch. Down this cool avenue two figures were approaching side by side.
They had first attracted Madame Varrillat's notice by the bright play of
sunbeams which, as they walked, fell upon them in soft, golden flashes
through the chinks between the palisades.
Madame Thompson elevated a pair of glasses which were no detraction from
her very good looks, and remarked, with the serenity of a reconnoitring
general.
"_Père Jerome et cette milatraise_."
All eyes were bent toward them.
"She walks like a man," said Madame Varrillat, in the language with
which the conversation had opened.
"No," said the physician, "like a woman in a state of high nervous
excitement."
Jean Thompson kept his eyes on the woman, and said:
"She must not forget to walk like a woman in the State of
Louisiana,"--as near as the pun can be translated. The company laughed.
Jean Thompson looked at his wife, whose applause he prized, and she
answered by an asseverative toss of the head, leaning back and
contriving, with some effort, to get her arms folded. Her laugh was
musical and low, but enough to make the folded arms shake gently up and
down.
"Père Jerome is talking to her," said one. The priest was at that moment
endeavoring, in the interest of peace, to say a good word for the four
people who sat watching his approach. It was in the old strain:
"Blame them one part, Madame Delphine, and their fathers, mothers,
brothers, and fellow-citizens the other ninety-nine."
But to every thing she had the one amiable answer which Père Jerome
ignored:
"I am going to arrange it to satisfy everybody, all together. _Tout à
fait_."
"They are coming here," said Madame Varrillat, half articulately.
"Well, of course," murmured another; and the four rose up, smiling
courteously, the doctor and attorney advancing and shaking hands with
the priest.
No--Père Jerome thanked them--he could not sit down.
"This, I believe you know, Jean, is Madame Delphine"--
The quadroone courtesied.
"A friend of mine," he added, smiling kindly upon her, and turning, with
something imperative in his eye, to the group. "She says she has an
important private matter to communicate."
"To me?" asked Jean Thompson.
"To all of you; so I will--Good-evening." He responded nothing to the
expressions of regret, but turned to Madame Delphine. She murmured
something.
"Ah! yes, certainly." He addressed the company "She wishes me to speak
for her veracity; it is unimpeachable. Well, good-evening." He shook
hands and departed.
The four resumed their seats, and turned their eyes upon the standing
figure.
"Have you something to say to us?" asked Jean Thompson, frowning at her
law-defying bonnet.
"Oui," replied the woman, shrinking to one side, and laying hold of one
of the benches, "_mo oulé di' tou' ç'ose_"--I want to tell every thing.
"_Miché Vignevielle la plis bon homme di moune_"--the best man in the
world; "_mo pas capabe li fé tracas_"--I cannot give him trouble. "_Mo
pas capable, non; m'olé di' tous ç'ose_." She attempted to fan herself,
her face turned away from the attorney, and her eyes rested on the
ground.
"Take a seat," said Doctor Varrillat, with some suddenness, starting
from his place and gently guiding her sinking form into the corner of
the bench. The ladies rose up; somebody had to stand; the two races
could not both sit down at once--at least not in that public manner.
"Your salts," said the physician to his wife. She handed the vial.
Madame Delphine stood up again.
"We will all go inside," said Madame Thompson, and they passed through
the gate and up the walk, mounted the steps, and entered the deep, cool
drawing-room.
Madame Thompson herself bade the quadroone be seated.
"Well?" said Jean Thompson, as the rest took chairs.
"_C'est drole_"--it's funny--said Madame Delphine, with a piteous effort
to smile, "that nobody thought of it. It is so plain. You have only to
look and see. I mean about Olive." She loosed a button in the front of
her dress and passed her hand into her bosom. "And yet, Olive herself
never thought of it. She does not know a word."
The hand came out holding a miniature. Madame Varrillat passed it to
Jean Thompson.
"_Ouala so popa_," said Madame Delphine. "That is her father."
It went from one to another, exciting admiration and murmured praise.
"She is the image of him," said Madame Thompson, in an austere
undertone, returning it to her husband.
Doctor Varrillat was watching Madame Delphine. She was very pale. She
had passed a trembling hand into a pocket of her skirt, and now drew out
another picture, in a case the counterpart of the first. He reached out
for it, and she handed it to him. He looked at it a moment, when his
eyes suddenly lighted up and he passed it to the attorney.
"_Et là_"--Madame Delphine's utterance failed--"_et là ouala sa moman_.
That is her mother."
The three others instantly gathered around Jean Thompson's chair. They
were much impressed.
"It is true beyond a doubt!" muttered Madame Thompson.
Madame Varrillat looked at her with astonishment.
"The proof is right there in the faces," said Madame Thompson.
"Yes! yes!" said Madame Delphine, excitedly; "the proof is there! You do
not want any better! I am willing to swear to it! But you want no better
proof! That is all anybody could want! My God! you cannot help but see
it!"
Her manner was wild.
Jean Thompson looked at her sternly.
"Nevertheless you say you are willing to take your solemn oath to this."
"Certainly"--
"You will have to do it."
"Certainly, Miché Thompson, _of course_ I shall; you will make out the
paper and I will swear before God that it is true! Only"--turning to the
ladies--"do not tell Olive; she will never believe it. It will break her
heart! It"--
A servant came and spoke privately to Madame Thompson, who rose quickly
and went to the hall Madame Delphine continued, rising unconsciously:
"You see, I have had her with me from a baby. She knows no better. He
brought her to me only two months old. Her mother had died in the ship,
coming out here. He did not come straight from home here. His people
never knew he was married!"
The speaker looked around suddenly with a startled glance. There was a
noise of excited speaking in the hall.
"It is not true, Madame Thompson!" cried a girl's voice.
Madame Delphine's look became one of wildest distress and alarm, and she
opened her lips in a vain attempt to utter some request, when Olive
appeared a moment in the door, and then flew into her arms.
"My mother! my mother! my mother!"
Madame Thompson, with tears in her eyes, tenderly drew them apart and
let Madame Delphine down into her chair, while Olive threw herself upon
her knees, continuing to cry:
"Oh, my mother! Say you are my mother!"
Madame Delphine looked an instant into the upturned face, and then
turned her own away, with a long, low cry of pain, looked again, and
laying both hands upon the suppliant's head, said:
"_Oh, chère piti à moin, to pa' ma fie_!"--Oh, my darling little one,
you are not my daughter!--Her eyes closed, and her head sank back; the
two gentlemen sprang to her assistance, and laid her upon a sofa
unconscious.
When they brought her to herself, Olive was kneeling at her head
silently weeping.
"_Maman, chère maman_!" said the girl softly, kissing her lips.
"_Ma courri c'ez moin_"--I will go home--said the mother, drearily.
"You will go home with me," said Madame Varrillat, with great kindness
of manner--"just across the street here; I will take care of you till
you feel better. And Olive will stay here with Madame Thompson. You will
be only the width of the street apart."
But Madame Delphine would go nowhere but to her home. Olive she would
not allow to go with her. Then they wanted to send a servant or two to
sleep in the house with her for aid and protection; but all she would
accept was the transient service of a messenger to invite two of her
kinspeople--man and wife--to come and make their dwelling with her.
In course of time these two--a poor, timid, helpless pair--fell heir to
the premises. Their children had it after them; but, whether in those
hands or these, the house had its habits and continued in them; and to
this day the neighbors, as has already been said, rightly explain its
close-sealed, uninhabited look by the all-sufficient statement that the
inmates "is quadroons."