LOVE AND GOLD.
“On her forehead sitteth pride,
Crown’d with scorn, and falcon-eyed,
Yet she beneath, methinks, doth twine
Silken smiles that seem divine.
Can such smiles be false and cold?
Will she only wed for gold?”—_Barry Cornwall_.
While Mrs. Vivian sat talking with her daughter in the bed-chamber of
Miss Sutherland, the latter remained in the adjoining dressing-room,
where we left her seated in the easy chair, with her hands folded upon
her lap, and her eyes closed as in gentle repose, only sometimes a
half-smothered, shuddering sigh disturbed the statue-like stillness of
her form. It was no deep sorrow, no great anxiety, that troubled this
favourite of fortune—only, being quite unused to pain of any sort,
physical or mental, she was impatient of its lightest touch. But she had
that day been summoned to the presence of her father, and by him had
been informed of Mr. Mark Sutherland’s whole plan, as he had just
learned it from the latter. The planter had told his daughter, with
distinct and dreadful detail, of all the numerous privations, toils,
hardships, and humiliations, and vaguely hinted at a countless variety
of suffering she must endure, if she should become a party to her
lover’s purpose. He had further assured her, that if she should remain
firm in opposing the plan of her lover, his resolution must finally
yield to his affection for herself. And at last he had wrung from his
daughter a promise, that she would make the total resignation of Mr.
Mark Sutherland’s plans the only condition upon which their marriage
should proceed. And so the interview between father and daughter had
closed; and Miss Sutherland had returned to her room with little
disposition to be amused by the variety and splendour of her
newly-arrived trousseau. And, by seeming lassitude and nonchalance, she
had drawn upon herself the unjust censure of Mrs. Vivian, and the
wondering compassion of the more sympathetic Rosalie.
India never for an instant doubted her power over Mark Sutherland; nay,
she never mentally even limited the _extent_ of that power. The worst
she anticipated was a controversy with her betrothed. That this
controversy could end in any other manner than in her own favour, she
never once inquired. That his fanaticism must yield to her influence,
she felt certain. But she did not like to have to exert this influence.
She admired and honoured Mark Sutherland above all men—nay, there were
times when she feared him above all things. And she loved him as those
of her clime only love. And with all her faults, this spoiled child of
fortune was too true a woman to wish to take the position and tone of a
dictator to the man she so loved. Nay, she felt indignant with all
concerned in thrusting upon her such inevitable, yet such repulsive,
“greatness.” And now she sat trying to compose her nerves and collect
her thoughts for the unavoidable interview to which she momentarily
expected to be summoned.
She had not much longer to wait. A servant soon entered, and, bowing,
informed her that Mr. Sutherland requested the favour of an interview at
her earliest convenience, and desired to know when and where she would
receive him.
“Where is Mr. Sutherland?” inquired the young lady.
“In the library, Miss.”
“Proceed thither and announce me, then.”
Arrived at the library, the man opened the door, and merely saying,
“Miss Sutherland, sir,” held it open until she had passed in, and then
closing it, retired.
And India found herself alone with Mark. He was sitting at a central
library-table, leaning with his head resting upon his hand; his face was
very pale, his countenance haggard, his dark hair slightly dishevelled,
his manner disturbed and anxious, yet withal controlled. He arose and
advanced to meet her, led her to a sofa, and placed himself beside her.
Taking her hand in his own, and pressing it gently, he looked down into
her face, regarding her with a grave, sweet, sad, almost solemn
expression of countenance; and, after a brief pause, he said, “My
dearest India, you cannot be at a loss to understand my motive for
requesting this interview?”
He paused, as expecting her assent, but she did not reply in any way.
She did not even lift her glance from the carpet. He pressed her hand
fondly, and resumed: “My love, the time has come, the opportunity is
presented for us—even for _us_, my India—to put in practice some of
those high examples of heroism, which in others have so often won our
fervent admiration. Even _we_, my India, may”—
She arrested his serious words by suddenly drawing her hand away, and
hurriedly exclaiming, “I have heard something of your purpose of
manumitting the people on your various plantations. But I would prefer
to hear your plan of benevolence, or philanthropy, whichever it may be,
from your own lips, unwarped by prejudice, and uncoloured by passion,
and _with as little preface as possible_!”
The coldness and reserve of her words and tones smote him to the heart.
Nevertheless, he replied, “My purpose is no plan of benevolence or
philanthropy, my dear India, but a simple act of justice, originating in
a simple impulse of conscientiousness.” Then gently repossessing himself
of her hand, he held it tenderly in his own, while he began, and, for
the fourth time since his return home, related all the mental and moral
experiences that had led him to determine upon the contemplated act of
emancipation. She heard him out without again interrupting him. She sat
very still, with her face pale and impassable, and her eyes cast down.
She was no match for him in argument, yet, nevertheless, seeing that he
silently awaited her answer, and preferring to convert rather than to
cast him off, she recalled and repeated all the arguments she had ever
heard in defence of slavery; she began by saying that she thought the
existence of the system of slavery to be the manifest will and
ordination of Divine Providence; and she wondered how any rational being
could doubt it. Was not their present subordinate position here
infinitely preferable to their former savage and cannibal condition on
the coast of Congo? Here at least they were Christianized.
A smile dawned upon the young man’s countenance. She saw and felt it.
Her cheek flushed, and she hastened to say—
“They must be blind indeed, Mr. Sutherland, who cannot see in the
enslavement of the African race by the Anglo-Saxons the purpose of
Divine Providence to civilize Africa.”
Mark Sutherland took her hand, and replied gently—
“My dear India, we do not deny that God continually brings good out of
evil; but is _that_ a justification of the evil? And even admitting, for
argument’s sake, that the reduction of a portion of the Ethiopian race
to slavery by the Anglo-Americans is to be the means of Christianizing
them, is it not full time, after two hundred years of bondage, that some
of this harvest sowed with tears and blood should be reaped?—that some
of these good fruits should begin to be enjoyed?”
“Besides,” said Miss Sutherland, eluding his question and evading his
eye, “there is a fitness in these relations between the European and the
African races—Europeans could not engage in agricultural labour under
the burning heat of our Southern sun”——
“But why _enslave_ the negroes—why not emancipate and hire them?”
interrupted Mark.
“O! you know,” she replied, hastily, “that the negroes will not work
effectually, unless driven to it.”
“Plantation slaves will not, I grant you; but what has reduced them to
this hopeless and inert condition?”
“I do not know why you should call their condition hopeless—I think,
upon the whole, they are at least as hopeful and as happy as poor white
people, or free blacks. And I never heard of a bad master, who was not
also a bad son, brother, husband, father, neighbour—in short, who was
not a bad Christian. And if you feel a call to reform the world, Mark
Sutherland, why not begin at the right end, and Christianize it—and all
other reform will follow early, and as a matter of course. Why not do
that?”
“Because, my dear India, unluckily the world thinks itself already
Christian. ‘And if the light that is in it be darkness, how great is
that darkness?’ Neither, my dear girl, am I the missionary to dispel it.
I am quite unworthy of, and unpretending to, the name of Christian, and
have no presumption to begin reforming the world, either at the right
end or the wrong end. I only wish to do what I consider a simple act of
justice, in a matter between me and my own conscience.”
“I do not understand why your ‘conscience’ should meddle in the matter.
The system appears to me to be perfectly right—every thing that we can
wish. There is a beautiful adaptation in the mutual relations existing
between the Anglo-Saxon master and the Ethiopian slave; for, observe,
the Anglo-Saxon is highly intellectual, strong, proud, firm,
self-willed, impelled to govern, gifted with great mental independence;
the Ethiopian, on the contrary, is very _un_intellectual, weak, lowly in
mind, imitative, affectionate, docile, easily controlled—and these
traits of character so harmonize in this connection, that it seems to
need only the spirit of Christianity to make it a beautiful and happy
correspondence.”
“I think, my dearest girl, that even in that case the ‘beautiful and
happy correspondence’ would be like Irish reciprocity—_all on one side_.
Selfishness so blinds us, India”——
I have no space to dilate on what was said on either side. Both grew
very serious, earnest, and emphatic. India became heated, fevered; she
brought forward every plea she had ever heard pressed in favour of her
own side of the controversy; but she was not his equal in logic. Baffled
and disappointed in her failure, and unnerved by the strangeness of
anxiety and contention, she suddenly burst into tears, and passionately
exclaimed—
“You do not love me! You never loved me! You prefer the fancied welfare
of these miserable negroes to my comfort and happiness!”
Mark Sutherland saw and felt only her tears and sorrow, and addressed
himself to soothe her with all a lover’s solicitude. She took advantage
of his tenderness—perhaps she even misunderstood it. She had failed to
convince his judgment by her arguments, failed to change his purpose by
opposition and reproaches, and now she resolved to try the power of
love—of persuasion. She let him draw her to his bosom; she dropped her
head upon his shoulder, with her blushing, tearful face and soft hair
against his cheek, her arm upon his neck, and half-caressing, suffered
herself to be caressed, and let him feel how sweet her love was, by the
unutterable sweetness of her shy caress; and when his heart was weak
unto death, she pleaded with him, yieldingly, submissively, tearfully,
as with one who had the right and the power of ordering her destiny—that
he would not doom her to a lot so cruel, so terrible; that she was so
unprepared for it; that he must know she was; that it would kill her in
a year.
All this was pleaded with her head upon his shoulder, with her face
against his cheek, with her hand pressed around his neck. This seductive
gentleness was very hard to resist, indeed. He answered—
“My dearest India, you are sole mistress of your own destiny, and, to a
great extent, of mine. I did hope that you would have borne me company
in my pilgrimage, and, even from the first, have shared my lot, hard as
it is sure to be. We have both read and heard how women, even the most
tenderly reared and delicate, have, for affection, for constancy, for
truth, and the great idea of duty, borne poverty, toil, hardships and
privations, even with a better grace and with more fortitude and
patience than the strongest men. But I begin to think that history and
tradition must exaggerate. How, indeed, could my own fragile lady-love
endure what _my_ strong frame must encounter and overcome? No, dear
India, ardently as I once desired that you should be, from this time
forward, the partner of my lot, I see and feel that the wish was
thoughtless, unreasonable, selfish. It was exacting far too much. No,
dearest, painful as it must be to tear myself from you, I must go forth
alone to do battle with an adverse fate. Yet why should I call it
adverse? I go forth with youth, and health, and strength; with a liberal
education, and some talent; and when I have attained fame and fortune,
then, like a true knight, I will come and lay them at my lady’s feet,
and claim—no, not claim—but _sue for_ my blessed reward.”
She said that she could not let him go; it would break her heart to part
with him. Could he leave her to break her heart? Would he not give up
his purpose for her sake, and stay with her? Her head was still upon his
shoulder, and her face against his cheek. With a slight movement, at
once shy and fond, she pressed her lips to his neck, and repeated her
question: Would he not give up his purpose for her sake, and stay with
her?
He felt his fortitude and strength fast leaving him. Amidst the fondest
caresses, he said—
“My own dear India! how have I merited such love? My India, I will not
stay so long as I said. I will not stay till I have won fame or fortune.
I cannot remain away so long. But as soon as I have won a modest
competence—in a year or two—I will be back to claim my blessing.”
Her tears fell like rain. Still she clasped, and pressed, and kissed his
neck, and said that would not do at all; he must not leave her—no, not
for a week; she could not, would not, bear it; she should die.
He kissed away her tears, fast as they fell, and then proposed again
that she should go with him, promising to do more than man ever did, or
even could do, to shield her from hardship till all hardship should be
over, as it surely would be in time.
With a few deep-drawn sighs, she lifted up her head, and answered, No,
she could not go; she was far too delicate to bear such a change; he
ought to know it, and ought not to ask it. _No, if he loved her_, he
must give up his project, and stay with her; _and if he did love her_,
he surely would do it. Any man that really loved would do that much for
his lady.
She was evidently merging from her tender, alluring mood, into an
irritable and capricious one.
Full of doubt and trouble at her words, he answered—
“My dearest India, I told you that this purposed action of mine is a
measure of conscience. You know it involves an immense sacrifice. Do you
suppose that I would make that sacrifice, except from the most righteous
principles, and do you suppose I can possibly abandon such principles?
My India, if from my great love for you I could now sacrifice my
conscience to your convenience, you would soon lose all esteem for me,
and, in losing all esteem, lose all comfort in loving me. My India, no
honourable woman can continue to love a man who has forfeited his own
and her respect. Do you not know that?”
Coldly she put away his encircling arms—coldly she withdrew herself from
him, saying—
“I see how it is, sir! You do not love me; you are faithless; you seek
an excuse to break with me, by putting our union upon conditions
impossible for me to comply with. You need not have taken such a crooked
path to a plain end, sir; you needed only to have frankly named your
wish, to have had your plighted troth restored. You are free, sir——to
unite yourself with one of the favoured race, the objects of your
manifest preference, if you please”——
This last, most insulting clause was cast at him with a glance of
insufferable scorn, as she turned to leave the room.
His brow crimsoned with the sudden smite of shame, and—
“_This from you, India!_” he exclaimed.
She was looking at him still; but the scorn and anger slowly passed from
her face, as he rose and advanced towards her, saying—
“But you are excited; I will not lay your bitter words to heart, nor
suffer you to leave me in anger. Dearest India!”
She had already regretted her sharp words; love and anger were balanced
in her bosom so evenly, that it took but a trifle to disturb the
equilibrium; and now his forbearance and his kind words completely upset
the scale, and love ascended. Turning to him once more, and throwing
herself in his open arms, she burst into tears, and said—
“Dearest Mark, only give up this mad, mad project, and I am all yours.
Oh, you know I am, any way; for even now the separation that would pain
you, would kill or madden me! But, oh! you know I cannot endure the
hardships you would prepare for me; they would be equally fatal. Give it
up, Mark! Dear Mark, give it up, for my sake, for your dear mother’s
sake, for all our sakes! Stay with us! do not divide us, and break our
hearts, by leaving us! We all love you so! you know we do! We would do
anything in the world for you, if you would stay with us! And I only
grow angry and lose my senses, and utter mad words, when you talk of
leaving us! Don’t go, Mark! Dearest Mark, don’t leave us.”
And so she pleaded, hiding her tears and blushes on his shoulder, and
clasping, and pressing, and kissing his neck and cheek. The pleadings of
young beauty to young love, most powerful, most painful to resist, yet
they were resisted, mournfully, but calmly and firmly, resisted.
She raised her head from his shoulder.
“And you persist in your purpose?” she said.
“My India, I cannot do otherwise.”
“Notwithstanding all the suffering you may cause your mother, your
relatives, and me?”
“My own India, I would I could bear all your grief in my own person.”
“But you adhere to your resolution?”
“I have no alternative.”
“And this is your final decision?”
He bowed.
“Even if you should lose me for ever?”
He started, as if suddenly struck by a bullet. He changed colour, but
did not speak. She regarded him fixedly. At last she said, slowly and
calmly—
“Will you please to answer my question?”
“India,” he said, “I will not for a moment, admit such a possibility.
God will never repay fidelity to conscience with calamity.”
“Perhaps it might not _be_ a calamity. I think it were well we should
understand each other. The question is now before you—do not evade it.”
“My India, it is not _practically_ before me. No, thank Heaven, the
intolerable alternative of resigning you or my principles is _not_ yet
before me.”
“By all our past dreams, and present hopes, of happiness, I assure you
that the alternative is now submitted to you, sir. And I adjure you, by
your conscience, and by the strength of your vaunted principles, to
decide the question, which I now repeat to you—if the adherence of your
present purpose involve the final loss of my hand and heart, do you
still persist in that purpose?”
Something in her tone caught up his glance, to rivet it upon her. Never
in all their lives had she seemed to him so beautiful, so regnant, so
irresistibly attractive. He gazed upon, he studied her face; nor did she
turn it from him, nor avert her glance. She met his searching gaze
proudly, fearlessly, imperially; she seemed to wish that he should read
her soul, and know its immutable determination. There was no pique, no
anger, no weakness, or wavering, on that high, haughty brow now; there
was nothing but calm, indomitable resolution. He gazed upon her in
wonder, and in sorrow, some time fascinated by the imperious beauty of
her young brow, and marvelling that this could be the tender, seductive
woman that lay cooing on his bosom scarce an hour ago. It would not do
to waver now. He took her hand again. He answered, solemnly—
“India, you have adjured me, by my conscience, by the sacredness of my
honour, to answer your question, and say whether, were the alternative
finally before me, I should resign my resolution, or be resigned by you.
India, I may not, must not, evade this. And I answer now, by my sacred
honour and my hopes of heaven, come what may, of trial, of suffering, or
of agony, I will never forego this purpose, to which reason and
conscience alike urge me.”
“And that is your final determination?”
He bowed.
“Now, then, hear mine; but first I give you back your plighted troth and
its less perishable symbol”—here she drew a diamond ring from her
finger, and handed it to him—“and I remove your image from my heart with
less difficulty than I disentangle this miniature one from my
chain”—here she took a locket, set with diamonds, from her chatelaine,
and handed him. He received both pledges back, and stood with a certain
mournful dignity, awaiting her further words and actions. “And now,” she
said, “let me make you thoroughly acquainted with my thought upon this
subject which so interests you, so that you may see how far, as the East
is from the West, is my thought from yours. Know, that I like the
position that I occupy, the power that I wield; our plantation is as
large as a German or Italian principality; our people are better
governed, more prosperous, and more profitable, than the subjects of
such a principality. We have more power than its prince. And I was born
to this power; I am accustomed to it; I like it. Heaven crowned me with
it; and do you think that I will discrown my brow to become—what? A
drudging peasant? NEVER! And now, hear my oath. As you are the ‘dupe’ of
a party, we separate, never to meet again until you have recovered
manhood and independence enough to abjure this pernicious influence, and
abandon the mad project to which it has forced you—so help me God!”
And, turning haughtily away, she left the room.