The Hour and the Man Part 36

"Perhaps Genifrede is the happiest of our children, Margot. She looks anxious to-day; but in a few more days, I hope even her trembling heart will be at rest."

"It never will," said. Margot, mournfully. "I think there is some evil influence upon our poor child, to afflict her with perpetual fear. She still fears ghosts, rather than fear nothing. She enjoys nothing, except when Moyse is by her side."

"Well, Moyse will presently be by her side; and for life.--I was proud of him, Margot, last week, at Cap. I know his military talents, from the day when we used to call the boy General Moyse. I saw by his eye, when I announced him as General Moyse in Cap, that he remembered those old days on the north sh.o.r.e. Oh, yes, I was aware of his talents in that direction, from his boyhood; but I found in him power of another kind. You know what a pa.s.sionate lover he is."

"Yes, indeed. Never did I see such a lover!"

"Well, he puts this same power and devotedness into his occupation of the hour, whatever it may be."

"Do you mean that he forgets Genifrede, when he is away from her?"

"I rather hope that it is the remembrance of her that animates him in his work. I'm sure that it is so; for I said a few words to him about home, which made him very happy. If I were to see him failing, as we once feared he would--if I saw him yielding to his pa.s.sions--to the prejudices and pa.s.sions of the negro and the slave, my reproof would be, 'You forget Genifrede.' Moyse has yet much to learn--and much to overcome; yet I look upon Genifrede as perhaps the most favoured of our children. It is so great a thing to be so beloved!"

"It is indeed the greatest thing." Margot stopped, as a turn in the walk brought them in view of the house. The long ranges of verandah stood in the moonlight, checkered with the still shadows of the neighbouring trees. Every window of the large white mansion gave out a stream of yellow light, to contrast with the silvery s.h.i.+ning of the moon. "This is very unlike the hut we went to when we were married, Toussaint. Yet I was quite happy and contented. It is indeed the greatest thing to be loved."

"And have you not that greatest thing here too? Do I not love you, my Margot?"

"Oh, yes! Yes, indeed, we love each other as much as we did then--in that single room, with its earthen floor, and its cribs against the wall, and the iron pot in the fireplace, and the hen pecking before the door. But, Toussaint, look at the difference now! Look at this beautiful house, and all the gardens and cane-pieces--and think of our palace at Port-au-Prince--and think of the girls as they look at church, or in the boat to-day--and how the country is up, rejoicing, wherever you go--and how the a.s.sembly consider you--think of all that has happened since, the wedding-day of ours at Breda! It is so fine--so wonderful, that you shall not frighten me about anything that can happen. I am sure the blessing of G.o.d is upon you, my husband; and you shall not make me afraid."

"I would have none be afraid while G.o.d reigns, Margot. May you ever say that you will not fear! The blessing of G.o.d may be on us now, love; but it was never more so than when we went home to our hut at Breda. When I lay under the trees at noon, taking care of the cattle, how many things I used to think of to say to you when I came home!"

"And so did I, as I kneeled at my was.h.i.+ng by the brook-side, and you were driving Monsieur Bayou, twenty miles off, and were expected home in the evening. How much there was to say at the end of those days!"

"It was not for ourselves then, Margot, that we have been raised to what we are. We were as happy drawing water in the wood, and gathering plantains in the negro-grounds, as we have ever been in these shrubberies. We were as merry in that single room at Breda as in this mansion, or in our palace. It is not for our own sakes that we have been so raised."

"It is pleasant for our children."

"It is. And it is good for our race. It is to make us their servants.

Oh! Margot, if ever you find a thought of pride stirring at your heart, remember that if the blacks were less ignorant and more wise, it would not matter whether we lived as we used to do, or as we live now. It is because we negroes are vain and corrupted, that show and state are necessary: and the sight of our show and state should, therefore, humble us."

"I am sure you are not fond of show and state. You eat and drink, and wait upon yourself, as you did at Breda; and your uniform is the only fine dress you like to wear. I am sure you had rather have no court."

"Very true. I submit to such state as we have about us, for the sake of the negroes who need it. To me it is a sacrifice; but, Margot, we must make sacrifices--perhaps some which you may little dream of, while looking round upon our possessions, and our rank, and our children, wors.h.i.+pped as they are. We must carry the same spirit of sacrifice into all our acts; and be ready to suffer, and perhaps to fall, for the sake of the blacks. The less pride now, Margot, the less shame and sorrow then!"

"I wish not to be proud," said Margot, trembling--"I pray that I may not be proud; but it is difficult--Hark! there is a footstep! Let us turn into this alley."

"Nay," said Toussaint; "it is Monsieur Pascal. No doubt I am wanted."

"For ever wanted!" exclaimed Margot. "No peace!"

"It was not so at Breda," said Toussaint, smiling. "I was just speaking of sacrifice, you know: and this is not the last night that the moon will s.h.i.+ne.--News, Monsieur Pascal?"

"News from Cap," replied Monsieur Pascal, in a depressed tone. "Bad news! Here are dispatches. Not a moment is to be lost."

"There is light enough," said Toussaint, turning so that the moonlight fell upon the page.

While he read, Monsieur Pascal told Madame L'Ouverture that messengers had brought news of a quarrel at Cap--a quarrel between the races, unhappily, about Hedouville's proclamation again;--a quarrel in which several whites had been killed. All was presently quiet; but the whites were crying out for vengeance.

"No peace, as you say, Margot," observed Toussaint, when he had run over the letters. "See what a strong hand and watchful eye our poor people require! The curse of slavery is still upon us."

"How is Moyse? Tell me only that. What is Moyse doing?"

"I do not understand Moyse, nor what he is doing," said Toussaint gloomily. "Monsieur Pascal--"

"Your horses are coming round," said Pascal, "and I shall be there almost as soon as you."

"Right: and Laxabon. From me, ask the favour of Father Laxabon to follow without delay. Margot, take care of poor Genifrede. Farewell!"

As he pa.s.sed through the piazza, to mount his horse, Toussaint saw Genifrede standing there, like a statue. He embraced her, and found her cold as marble. He returned to his family for an instant, to beg that she might not be immediately disturbed. In an hour or two she might be able to speak to her mother or sister; and she could not now. Once more he whispered to her that he would send her early news, and was gone.

Again and again Aimee looked timidly forth, to see if she might venture to approach her sister. Once Madame L'Ouverture went to her, and once Therese; but she would say nothing but "Leave me!" From her they went to Afra, who wept incessantly, though she did not reject their consolations. The night wore on wearily and drearily. When the moon set, and the damps were felt wherever the air penetrated, Madame L'Ouverture went once more to Genifrede, determined to take her to her own chamber, and win her to open her heart. But Genifrede was not there, nor in her chamber. The mother's terror was great, till a cultivator came to say that Mademoiselle L'Ouverture had gone a journey, on horseback, with her brother Denis to take care of her. Denis's bed was indeed found empty: and two horses were gone from the stables. They had fled to Moyse, no doubt. The hope was that they might fall in with Father Laxabon on the road, who would surely bring the poor girl back.

There was another road, however: and by this road Therese declared that she would follow.

"Yes, yes--go!" exclaimed Madame L'Ouverture. "She will heed you, if any one. She thinks you understand her. She says--"

"She loves me," said Therese, sighing, "because--I hardly know--but Heaven forgive me, if it be as she says!"

"She says you hate the whites," declared Aimee. "If it be so, may indeed Heaven forgive you! Moyse hates the whites: and you see how wretched we are!"

"Aimee, do not be hard. We are made to love--my heart inclines to all who are about me:--but if there are some--if one cannot--Oh, Aimee, do not be hard!"

"It is those who hate who are hard," said Aimee, whose tears fell fast, in sympathy with Afra's. "Is it not so, Afra?"

"Well, I will go," said Therese, gently. "One kiss, Aimee, for Genifrede's sake!"

"For your own," said Aimee, tenderly embracing her. "Bring back poor Genifrede! Tell her we will devote ourselves to her."

"Bring back my child," said Margot. "Be sure you tell her that there may be good news yet. Moyse may have explanations to give;--he may do great things yet."

These words renewed Afra's weeping, in the midst of which Therese hastened away: when the remnant of the anxious family retired to their chambers, not to sleep, but to pray and wait.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

PERPLEXITY.

As it might be supposed, Monsieur Revel and his grandchild had no desire to remain in Government-house a moment longer than was necessary, as Afra was obliged to leave it. Afra's last care, before quitting Cap, was to see that her friends were properly escorted to their home.

Euphrosyne was still struggling with the grief of saying farewell to Afra, when she entered the pleasant sitting-room at home; but she smiled through her tears when she saw how cheerful it looked. There was a mild, cool light in the room, proceeding from the reflection of the evening suns.h.i.+ne from the trees of the convent garden. The blinds were open; and the perspective of one of the alleys was seen in the large mirror on the wall--the shrubs noiselessly waving, and the gay flowers nodding, in a sunlight and breeze which were not felt within.

Euphrosyne's work lay upon the table; the needle sticking in the very st.i.tch of embroidery at which she had laid it down, when she went to see if her grandfather was awake, on the morning of their alarm. Some loose music had been blown down from the stand upon the floor; and the bouquet of flowers was dead, the water dried up, and the leaves fallen to dust; but when these were removed, there were no further signs of neglect and desertion.

"How bright, how natural everything looks!" cried Euphrosyne. "I do love this room. This is the place that we thought was to be sacked and burnt! I won't believe such nonsense another time. I never will be frightened again. Grandpapa, do not you love this room?"

"It is a pretty room, my dear; and it looks very bright when you are in it."

"Oh, thank you!" she cried, dropping a sportive curtsey.

"And now, will you look; at my work--(sit down here)--and tell me--(where are your gla.s.ses?)--tell me whether you ever saw a prettier pattern. It is a handkerchief fit for a princess."