TOBY TELLS THE STORY OF THE MURDERED FRANCILIA.
On an elevated terrace, fifty feet above the margin of a lake, was
situated the summer pavilion occupied by the once wealthy planter,
Gerald Leslie.
Thick shrubberies of magnolia and arbutus, intersected by winding
pathways, and varied by rockeries, lay between the terrace and the
limpid waters below. Tall palms spread their feathery branches
above the roof of the pavilion, and exotic flowers bloomed beneath
the colonnade of bamboo work which surrounded the light edifice. A
flight of marble steps led from the glass door of the pavilion, and a
balustrade of the same pure white material stretched the whole length
of the terrace, at each end of which were sculptured marble vases,
filled with the rarest blossoms. A flower garden, in exquisite order,
surrounded the pavilion, while exactly opposite the veranda a rustic
table and some garden chairs were placed beneath the luxuriant shade of
a banana tree.
Seated on the steps leading from the pavilion, faithful as a dog who
listens for the footsteps of his beloved master, the slave Toby might
have been seen on the day following that on which Cora had paid her
unwelcome visit at the house of Augustus Horton.
Gerald Leslie was at his office in New Orleans, where business often
detained him when the best wishes of his heart would have kept him by
his daughter's side.
The summer afternoon was hot and sultry, and all the windows were open.
The slave seemed to be listening eagerly for some sound within.
"All is silent," he said, sorrowfully; "that pretty bird sings no more.
What has happened? Something. I know. I saw by her sad face when she
returned from New Orleans yesterday, that all was not well with the
sweet young mistress. The sorrows of those he loves cannot escape the
eyes of poor Toby."
At this moment a light footstep sounded behind him, and Cora Leslie
emerged from the pavilion.
The young girl was dressed in the thinnest white muslin, which floated
round her graceful figure, aerial as some vapory cloud in the summer
sky. She was pale and a mournful shadow dimmed the orient splendor of
her large black eyes. She descended the marble steps slowly without
perceiving the faithful slave who had risen at her approach, and who
stood aside regarding her earnestly.
"Miss Cora is sad," he said presently; "will she forgive the poor slave
if he presumes to ask why?"
She started at the sound of the mulatto's voice, and turning toward him
held out her hand silently.
Toby took the little hand in his and raised it to his lips.
"Miss Cora does not deny that she is sad," he repeated.
"Not so much sad, Toby, as bewildered," replied the young girl. "My
reception at the house of my old school-fellow has filled my mind with
perplexity. What could be the meaning of Adelaide Horton's conduct?"
"Forgive me, Miss Cora, if I remind you that your father particularly
requested you not to leave the house during his absence."
"I know, Toby, I know. But why that request? Why am I a prisoner here?
Why is my father's manner more indicative of sorrow than joy at my
return to Louisiana? Why, on my first visit to the friend of my youth,
do I find the door shut in my face?"
"But the English gentleman who conducted you home explained the reason
of that, Miss Cora?"
"No, Toby; Mr. Margrave endeavored to explain, but in doing so he only
revealed his embarrassment. There is some secret in all this. Some
mystery that--Hark!"
The sound which arrested Cora's attention was the trampling of a
horse's hoots upon the carriage drive below the terrace.
"Hulloa!" cried a voice from the same direction. "Hulloa, there! Is
there any one to hold my horse?"
"A visitor!" exclaimed Cora.
"It is Mr. Augustus Horton," said Toby, looking over the balustrade.
"Adelaide's brother! Then I will see him."
"But in your father's absence, Miss Cora?" murmured the slave,
anxiously.
"I will see him," repeated Cora; "he may come to offer an
explanation--Heaven knows it is needed."
"Hulloa! every one asleep here?" cried the voice below.
"Coming, massa," answered Toby, running down the terrace steps.
Three minutes afterward Augustus Horton made his appearance in the
flower garden, where Cora awaited him. He bowed carelessly to the young
girl without raising his hat, but fixing upon her lovely face a gaze of
ardent admiration.
He carried a light riding-whip in his hand, and was smoking a cigar,
which he did not remove from his mouth.
"Miss Cora Leslie, I presume?" he said.
Cora bowed.
"Mr. Leslie is not at home, I understand?"
"I am expecting his return, at any moment, Mr. Horton," answered Cora.
Something in the planter's familiar manner, and in his ardent gaze
filled the young girl with indignant surprise, and she looked at him
with a glance of astonishment as he flung a sealed packet upon the
table, and seated himself, without invitation, in one of the rustic
chairs.
"I have some papers to restore to your father," he said; "but that
is not the whole object of my visit. My sister told me that you were
lovely, Miss Leslie, but I now perceive that in such a case a woman
never tells more than half the truth."
Cora had remained standing during this speech. She now seated herself
in the chair opposite to that taken by the young planter, and said,
calmly--
"Pardon me, Mr. Horton; but I imagined that the object of your visit
here--"
"Was to reply to the letter addressed by you to my sister, Adelaide?
Yes, Miss Leslie, that letter proved to us that Mr. Margrave had not
properly acquitted himself of the commission which he undertook."
"How so, sir?"
"My sister much regretted not being able to receive you, yesterday, and
I should have shared those regrets, had she not chosen me to bring you
her excuses."
"It is not an excuse which I require, Mr. Horton, but an explanation,"
replied Cora, with dignity.
Augustus shrugged his shoulders.
"What further explanations can you require, Miss Leslie," he said; "the
preparations of her approaching marriage? A little touch of headache,
perhaps? Is not this sufficient to explain all?"
"No, sir, it is not. Because I would rather hear the truth, bitter
as that truth may be, than these courteous mockeries which put me to
the rack. Mr. Percy's opposition to my return to America; my father's
emotion on beholding me; the strange isolation in which I am kept; and,
lastly, your sister's extraordinary conduct of yesterday--all these
prove to me that some terrible fatality overshadows me; a fatality of
which I am ignorant, but which I am determined to discover."
"Nay, Miss Leslie, what is that you would seek to know? Why not be
content to reign by your grace and beauty? For the fatality of which
you speak can cast no cloud upon your loveliness; and even the jealousy
of our wives and sisters cannot rob you of your sovereignty."
"I do not understand you, sir."
"And yet I endeavored to make myself understood. Ah, Miss Leslie! we
are but strangers, newly met, within this hour; but we Creoles are the
children of a southern clime, and our passions are gigantic as the
palms which wave above your head--rapid in growth as the lilies on the
breast of yonder lake. Love, with us, is a flame; suppressed, it is
true, yet needing but one spark from the torch of beauty to cause a
conflagration."
"Sir!" cried Cora, indignantly.
The young girl felt that the Creole's burning, passionate words veiled
a meaning which was an insult to her.
"Nay, hear me, hear me, Cora," continued Augustus Horton; "there is,
perhaps, a secret; there is, it may be, a fatality which overshadows
your young life. Be mine, and none shall ever taunt you with that fatal
secret; be mine, and you shall be the proudest beauty in Louisiana, the
queen of New Orleans, the idol of your lover's devoted heart; be mine,
and the debt owed me by your father shall be cancelled; be mine, and
I will tear into a hundred fragments the bill which I hold for fifty
thousand dollars, and which it will half ruin Gerald Leslie to pay."
Her eyes flashing, her bosom heaving with offended modesty, Cora Leslie
rose from her chair.
"Toby," she called, without even replying by so much as a look to the
planter's appeal.
"Cora Leslie, what would you do?" exclaimed the Creole, rising.
"Toby!" repeated Cora.
"Beware, young lady!"
The mulatto appeared in answer to the summons of his young mistress.
"Toby, you will conduct this gentleman to the gates of my father's
grounds, and remember that if he ever again dares to present himself
here, it will be your duty to refuse him admittance. You hear?"
"Yes, mistress."
"Go, sir," said Cora, looking at Augustus for the first time since she
had risen from her seat; "I am but a stranger in New Orleans, and you
have done much to enlighten me as to the character of its inhabitants.
You have done well to choose the hour of a father's absence to insult
his only daughter. Go!"
"I obey you, Miss Leslie," answered Augustus, white with rage, and
trembling in every limb with suppressed passion. "Believe me, I shall
not forget our interview of to-day, and shall take an opportunity to
remind you of it on some future occasion. For the present I am your
debtor; but trust me, the hour of settlement will come between us,
when you shall pay dearly for this insolence. In the meantime," he
added, turning to the mulatto, "in order to teach your young mistress
her proper position, be good enough to relate to her the story of
Francilia."
With one savage glance at the indignant girl, he hurried down the
terrace steps, sprang into the saddle, put spurs to his horse, and rode
off at a gallop.
"Francilia," exclaimed Cora; "Francilia! what could he mean? Speak,
Toby, tell me, who was this Francilia?"
The mulatto hung his head, and was silent.
"Speak, I say," repeated Cora.
"Francilia--was--a slave, belonging to Mr. Leslie, Miss Cora."
"Well, then, what could she have in common with me? Why did that man
cast her name in my face as an insult?"
Toby made no reply.
"You do not answer me. Good Heavens! A terrible light flashes upon me.
Speak, speak!" cried the excited girl, grasping the arm of the slave in
her slender hand, "Toby, speak!"
The mulatto fell on his knees at the feet of his young mistress, and
cried imploringly:
"Miss Cora, in the name of mercy, do not look at me thus."
"Toby, tell me," murmured Cora, in a voice hoarse with emotion; "who
was my mother?"
"Mistress, dear mistress, for pity's sake do not ask me. I have
promised not to reveal--"
"You said just now that you loved me," answered Cora; "if you spoke the
truth, prove your affection; tell me who was my mother."
"Your mother--" faltered the slave; "no, no, I cannot, I dare not."
"But I command you--nay, I implore."
"Your mother--was called--Francilia."
"Oh, merciful Heaven, have pity upon me!" cried Cora, hiding her face
in her hands; then, after a long pause--she said sorrowfully--
"And I did not even know the name of my mother. Francilia! A slave!
This, then, is the secret of my life. Alas! She is dead: is she not?"
"She is."
"Dead, far from her child, who was not even permitted to weep for her."
"Thank Heaven that you do not curse her memory," murmured Toby, rising.
"Curse her!" exclaimed Cora; "Would that I could embrace her, as I do
you," she added, throwing her arms about the old man's neck.
"Me, Miss Cora! Me, a mulatto!" remonstrated Toby, gently repulsing her.
"What of that? Does not the same blood flow in our veins? Are we not of
the same down-trodden race? Ah, speak, speak, Toby, you knew my mother;
tell me of her; you see I am calm, I can listen."
She drew the mulatto to one of the garden chairs, and, forcing him to
sit down, placed herself at his feet; her hand in his; her eyes raised
to his face.
"Francilia was but fifteen years of age," Toby began, "when a slave
merchant brought her to Mr. Leslie; she was a quadroon, beautiful as
you are, though her skin was not so white. She had long black hair,
and large dark eyes, whose sweet and gentle glance I can see again
in yours. She was at first employed in the service of Mrs. Leslie.
Oh, Heaven! Poor child, how happy and light-hearted she was then; her
joyous voice warbling the soft melodies of her nation; her merry laugh
ringing through the corridors of the house. I saw her, and I dared to
love her! That time was the happiest of my life, for she too loved me.
Fools that we were. What right has the slave to love? The slave who
belongs to another. One day, Francilia left for Saint Louis, with her
master and mistress. They were to be absent some weeks. I was to remain
behind. In bidding me farewell she left me this silver ring, which I
wear on my finger. I would give it you, dear mistress, but I have sworn
to keep it till my death. When Francilia--returned--she--"
The slave paused, overcome by emotion.
"Speak, speak, Toby!" said Cora.
"Oh, for pity's sake, do not accuse her! You know not what it is to be
a slave, bound to obey, body and soul, the commands of a master. Is
not even resistance a crime? When Francilia returned she had become
your father's mistress. She confessed all to me, with tears, and
heart-rending grief! A terrible rage possessed me! I was like a drunken
man! If, in that moment, Mr. Leslie had appeared before me, I know that
I should have become a murderer. But the habit of suffering teaches
resignation to the slave. This first fury past, I felt my energy
abandon me, and I could only weep with Francilia over our vanished
happiness. Alas, poor child, she no longer laughed, she no longer sang!"
"Poor girl! Poor girl!"
"It was only when you came into the world," continued Toby, "that she
seemed to re-attach herself to life, and I, bestowing on you all the
deep devotion that I had felt for her--forgive me, Miss Cora, I loved
you as if you had been my own child."
"Dear Toby."
"But she--oh, how she loved you. With more than a mother's love; with
the love of the slave, who knows that even her child is not her own,
but is a slave like herself--and who dares not to slumber beside the
cradle of her infant, for they take away the children while the mother
sleeps, and she awakes, perhaps, to find the cradle empty."
"Oh, cruel, cruel!"
"But this was not the fate with which you were threatened. Mr. Leslie
had married a vain and capricious woman. They had no children, and his
life was not a happy one. His love for you was intense--all the more
intense, as he was compelled to conceal from all an affection which
would have been considered a weakness. Your father's love for you had
reassured Francilia, when one day (you were then four years old), he
announced his determination of taking you to England. Francilia did
not utter a word; the silent tears filled her mournful eyes. But when
they tore you from her arms, she burst into a tempest of sobs, and fell
insensible to the ground."
"Yes, yes, I remember."
"But all that is nothing!" cried the slave, his eyes flashing with
vengeful fury; "nothing to--. Yet, no, no! I have no more to tell."
"But I insist on knowing all," exclaimed Cora vehemently. "What became
of my unhappy mother? How did she die?"
"On his return from Europe, Mr. Leslie found her tranquil, and
apparently resigned; but the glance of those mournful black eyes became
an eternal reproach, which irritated and tormented him. He sent her
to work on the plantation; but for some reason or other, go where
he would, he was always meeting her, always encountering the same
melancholy look, which seemed to ask him for her child. At last he
could endure it no longer. He sold her."
"Oh, Heaven!" exclaimed Cora.
"He sold her to a man of the name of Craig--a bad man--who, under the
mask of a sanctimonious life, concealed the base heart of a profligate
and a villain. He thought, on purchasing the slave, that he would
succeed her late master in her good graces; but finding that he could
obtain nothing by persuasion, he would have had recourse to violence,
when Francilia seized a knife and buried its blade in her heart."
"Oh, my mother, my murdered mother!"
"A negro belonging to this Craig stole the knife, which he gave to me.
I have it still."
Cora sank on her knees, the tears streaming from her eyes, her clasped
hands uplifted to Heaven.
"Alas, beloved mother!" she cried, "martyr to the base and cruel laws
of this accursed land, it is after fifteen years that your daughter
learns your unhappy fate; after fifteen years that she weeps for your
memory!"