A Tale of the Southern States
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William Wells Brown >> A Tale of the Southern States
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Away dashed the huntsmen, following the hounds, and all were soon
lost to the view of their colored companion. Jerome rode up and
down the field looking for a gate or bars, that he might get
through without risking his neck. Finding, however, that all hope
of again catching up with the party was out of the question, he
determined to return to the house, under a plea of sudden illness,
and back he accordingly went.
"I hope no accident has happened to your honor," said the groom, as
he met our hero at the gate.
"A slight dizziness," was the answer.
One of the servants, without being ordered, went at once for the
family physician. Ashamed to own that his return was owing to his
inability to ride, Jerome resolved to feign sickness. The doctor
came, felt his pulse, examined his tongue, and pronounced him a
sick man. He immediately ordered a tepid bath, and sent for a
couple of leeches.
Seeing things taking such a serious turn, the American began to
regret the part he was playing; for there was no fun in being
rubbed and leeched when one was in perfect health. He had gone too
far to recede, however, and so submitted quietly to the directions
of the doctor; and, after following the injunctions given by that
learned Esculapius, was put to bed.
Shortly after, the sound of the horns and the yelp of the hounds
announced that the poor fox had taken the back track, and was
repassing near the house. Even the pleasure of witnessing the
beautiful sight from the window was denied to our hero; for the
physician had ordered that he must be kept in perfect quiet.
The chase was at last over, and the huntsmen all in, sympathizing
with their lost companion. After nine days of sweating, blistering
and leeching, Jerome left his bed convalescent, but much reduced
in flesh and strength. This was his first and last attempt to
follow the fox and hounds.
During his fortnight's stay at Colonel G.'s, Jerome spent most of
his time in the magnificent library. Claude did not watch with
more interest every color of the skies, the trees, the grass, and
the water, to learn from nature, than did this son of a despised
race search books to obtain that knowledge which his early life as
a slave had denied him.
CHAPTER XXXI
THE MYSTERIOUS MEETING.
AFTER more than a fortnight spent in the highlands of Scotland,
Jerome passed hastily through London on his way to the continent.
It was toward sunset, on a warm day in October, shortly after his
arrival in France, that, after strolling some distance from the
Hotel de Leon, in the old and picturesque town of Dunkirk, he
entered a burial ground--such places being always favorite walks
with him--and wandered around among the silent dead. All nature
around was hushed in silence, and seemed to partake of the general
melancholy that hung over the quiet resting-place of the departed.
Even the birds seemed imbued with the spirit of the place, for
they were silent, either flying noiselessly over the graves, or
jumping about in the tall grass. After tracing the various
inscriptions that told the characters and conditions of the
deceased, and viewing the mounds beneath which the dust of
mortality slumbered, he arrived at a secluded spot near where an
aged weeping willow bowed its thick foliage to the ground, as
though anxious to hide from the scrutinizing gaze of curiosity the
grave beneath it. Jerome seated himself on a marble tombstone, and
commenced reading from a book which he had carried under his arm.
It was now twilight, and he had read but a few minutes when he
observed a lady, attired in deep black, and leading a boy,
apparently some five or six years old, coming up one of the
beautiful, winding paths. As the lady's veil was drawn closely
over her face, he felt somewhat at liberty to eye her more
closely. While thus engaged, the lady gave a slight scream, and
seemed suddenly to have fallen into a fainting condition. Jerome
sprang from his seat, and caught her in time to save her from
falling to the ground.
At this moment an elderly gentleman, also dressed in black, was
seen approaching with a hurried step, which seemed to indicate
that he was in some way connected with the lady. The old man came
up, and in rather a confused manner inquired what had happened,
and Jerome explained matters as well as he was able to do so.
After taking up the vinaigrette, which had fallen from her hand,
and holding the bottle a short time to her face, the lady began to
revive. During all this time, the veil had still partly covered the
face of the fair one, so that Jerome had scarcely seen it. When
she had so far recovered as to be able to look around her, she
raised herself slightly, and again screamed and swooned. The old
man now feeling satisfied that Jerome's dark complexion was the
immediate cause of the catastrophe, said in a somewhat petulant
tone,--
"I will be glad, sir, if you will leave us alone."
The little boy at this juncture set up a loud cry, and amid the
general confusion, Jerome left the ground and returned to his
hotel.
While seated at the window of his room looking out upon the crowded
street, with every now and then the strange scene in the graveyard
vividly before him, Jerome suddenly thought of the book he had
been reading, and, remembering that he had left it on the
tombstone, where he dropped it when called to the lady's
assistance, he determined to return for it at once.
After a walk of some twenty minutes, he found himself again in the
burial-ground and on the spot where he had been an hour before. The
pensive moon was already up, and its soft light was sleeping on
the little pond at the back of the grounds, while the stars seemed
smiling at their own sparkling rays gleaming up from the beautiful
sheet of water.
Jerome searched in vain for his book; it was nowhere to be found.
Nothing, save the bouquet that the lady had dropped and which lay
half-buried in the grass, from having been trodden upon, indicated
that any one had been there that evening. The stillness of death
reigned over the place; even the little birds, that had before
been twittering and flying about, had retired for the night.
Taking up the bunch of flowers, Jerome returned to his hotel.
"What can this mean?" he would ask himself; "and why should they
take my book?" These questions he put to himself again and again
during his walk. His sleep was broken more than once that night,
and he welcomed the early dawn as it made its appearance.
CHAPTER XXXII
THE HAPPY MEETING.
AFTER passing a sleepless night, and hearing the clock strike six,
Jerome took from his table a book, and thus endeavored to pass
away the hours before breakfast-time. While thus engaged, a
servant entered and handed him a note. Hastily tearing it open,
Jerome read as follows:--
"Sir,--I owe you an apology for the abrupt manner in which I
addressed you last evening, and the inconvenience to which you
were subjected by some of my household. If you will honor us with
your presence to-day at four o'clock, I shall be most happy to
give you due satisfaction. My servant will be waiting with the
carriage at half-past three.
I am, sir, yours, &c, J.DEVENANT.
JEROME FLETCHER, Esq."
Who this gentleman was, and how he had found out his name and the
hotel at which he was stopping, were alike mysteries to Jerome.
And this note seemed to his puzzled brain like a challenge.
"Satisfaction?" He had not asked for satisfaction. However, he
resolved to accept the invitation, and, if need be, meet the
worst. At any rate, this most mysterious and complicated affair
would be explained.
The clock on a neighboring church had scarcely finished striking
three when a servant announced to Jerome that a carriage had
called for him. In a few minutes, he was seated in a sumptuous
barouche, drawn by a pair of beautiful iron-grays, and rolling
over a splendid gravel road entirely shaded by trees, which
appeared to have been the accumulated growth of many centuries.
The carriage soon stopped at a low villa, which was completely
embowered in trees.
Jerome alighted, and was shown into a superb room, with the walls
finely decorated with splendid tapestry, and the ceilings
exquisitely frescoed. The walls were hung with fine specimens from
the hands of the great Italian masters, and one by a German
artist, representing a beautiful monkish legend connected with the
"Holy Catharine," an illustrious lady of Alexandria. High-backed
chairs stood around the room, rich curtains of crimson damask hung
in folds on either side of the window, and a beautiful, rich,
Turkey carpet covered the floor. In the centre of the room stood a
table covered with books, in the midst of which was a vase of
fresh flowers, loading the atmosphere with their odors. A faint
light, together with the quiet of the hour, gave beauty beyond
description to the whole scene. A half-open door showed a fine
marble floor to an adjoining room, with pictures, statues, and
antiquated sofas, and flower-pots filled with rare plants of every
kind and description.
Jerome had scarcely run his eyes over the beauties of the room when
the elderly gentleman whom he had met on the previous evening made
his appearance, followed by the little boy, and introduced himself
as Mr. Devenant. A moment more and a lady, a beautiful brunette,
dressed in black, with long black curls hanging over her
shoulders, entered the room. Her dark, bright eyes flashed as she
caught the first sight of Jerome. The gentleman immediately arose
on the entrance of the lady, and Mr. Devenant was in the act of
introducing the stranger when he observed that Jerome had sunk
back upon the sofa, in a faint voice exclaiming,--
"It is she!"
After this, all was dark and dreary. How long he remained in this
condition, it was for others to tell. The lady knelt by his side
and wept; and when he came to, he found himself stretched upon the
sofa with his boots off and his head resting upon a pillow. By his
side sat the old man, with the smelling-bottle in one hand and a
glass of water in the other, while the little boy stood at the
foot of the sofa. As soon as Jerome had so far recovered as to be
able to speak, he said,--
"Where am I, and what does all this mean?"
"Wait awhile," replied the old man, "and I will tell you all."
After the lapse of some ten minutes, Jerome arose from the sofa,
adjusted his apparel, and said,--
"I am now ready to hear anything you have to say."
"You were born in America?" said the old man.
"I was," he replied.
"And you knew a girl named Clotelle," continued the old man.
"Yes, and I loved her as I can love none other."
"The lady whom you met so mysteriously last evening was she," said
Mr. Devenant.
Jerome was silent, but the fountain of mingled grief and joy stole
out from beneath his eyelashes, and glistened like pearls upon his
ebony cheeks.
At this juncture, the lady again entered the room. With an
enthusiasm that can be better imagined than described, Jerome
sprang from the sofa, and they rushed into each other's arms, to
the great surprise of the old gentleman and little Autoine, and to
the amusement of the servants who had crept up, one by one and
were hid behind the doors or loitering in the hall. When they had
given vent to their feelings and sufficiently recovered their
presence of mind, they resumed their seats.
"How did you find out my name and address?" inquired Jerome.
"After you had left the grave-yard," replied Clotelle, "our little
boy said, 'Oh, mamma! if there ain't a book!' I opened the book,
and saw your name written in it, and also found a card of the
Hotel de Leon. Papa wished to leave the book, and said it was only
a fancy of mine that I had ever seen you before; but I was
perfectly convinced that you were my own dear Jerome."
As she uttered the last words, tears--the sweet bright tears that
love alone can bring forth--bedewed her cheeks.
"Are you married?" now inquired Clotelle, with a palpitating heart
and trembling voice.
"No, I am not, and never have been," was Jerome's reply.
"Then, thank God!" she exclaimed, in broken accents.
It was then that hope gleamed up amid the crushed and broken
flowers of her heart, and a bright flash darted forth like a
sunbeam.
"Are you single now?" asked Jerome.
"Yes, I am," was the answer.
"Then you will be mine after all?" said he with a smile.
Her dark, rich hair had partly come down, and hung still more
loosely over her shoulders than when she first appeared; and her
eyes, now full of animation and vivacity, and her sweet,
harmonious, and well-modulated voice, together with her modesty,
self-possession, and engaging manners, made Clotelle appear lovely
beyond description. Although past the age when men ought to think
of matrimony, yet the scene before Mr. Devenant brought vividly to
his mind the time when he was young and had a loving bosom
companion living, and tears were wiped from the old man's eyes. A
new world seemed to unfold itself before the eyes of the happy
lovers, and they were completely absorbed in contemplating the
future. Furnished by nature with a disposition to study, and a
memory so retentive that all who knew her were surprised at the
ease with which she acquired her education and general
information, Clotelle might now be termed a most accomplished
lady. After her marriage with young Devenant, they proceeded to
India, where the husband's regiment was stationed. Soon after their
arrival, however, a battle was fought with the natives, in which
several officers fell, among whom was Captain Devenant. The father
of the young captain being there at the time, took his
daughter-in-law and brought her back to France, where they took up
their abode at the old homestead.
Old Mr. Devenant was possessed of a large fortune, all of which he
intended for his daughter-in-law and her only child.
Although Clotelle had married young Devenant, she had not forgotten
her first love, and her father-in-law now willingly gave his
consent to her marriage with Jerome. Jerome felt that to possess
the woman of his love, even at that late hour, was compensation
enough for the years that he had been separated from her, and
Clotelle wanted no better evidence of his love for her than the
fact of his having remained so long unmarried. It was indeed a
rare instance of devotion and constancy in a man, and the young
widow gratefully appreciated it.
It was late in the evening when Jerome led his intended bride to
the window, and the magnificent moonlight illuminated the
countenance of the lovely Clotelle, while inward sunshine,
emanating from a mind at ease, and her own virtuous thoughts, gave
brightness to her eyes and made her appear a very angel. This was
the first evening that Jerome had been in her company since the
night when, to effect his escape from prison, she disguised herself
in male attire. How different the scene now. Free instead of
slaves, wealthy instead of poor, and on the eve of an event that
seemed likely to result in a life of happiness to both.
CHAPTER XXXIII
THE HAPPY DAY.
IT was a bright day in the latter part of October that Jerome and
Clotelle set out for the church, where the marriage ceremony was
to be performed. The clear, bracing air added buoyancy to every
movement, and the sun poured its brilliant rays through the
deeply-stained windows, as the happy couple entered the sanctuary,
followed by old Mr. Devenant, whose form, bowed down with age,
attracted almost as much attention from the assembly as did the
couple more particularly interested.
As the ceremonies were finished and the priest pronounced the
benediction on the newly-married pair, Clotelle whispered in the
ear of Jerome,--
"'No power in death shall tear our names apart,
As none in life could rend thee from my heart.'"
A smile beamed on every face as the wedding-party left the church
and entered their carriage. What a happy day, after ten years'
separation, when, both hearts having been blighted for a time,
they are brought together by the hand of a beneficent and kind
Providence, and united in holy wedlock.
Everything being arranged for a wedding tour extending up the
Rhine, the party set out the same day for Antwerp. There are many
rivers of greater length and width than the Rhine. Our Mississippi
would swallow up half a dozen Rhines. The Hudson is grander, the
Tiber, the Po, and the Minclo more classic; the Thames and Seine
bear upon their waters greater amounts of wealth and commerce; the
Nile and the Euphrates have a greater antiquity; but for a
combination of interesting historical incidents and natural
scenery, the Rhine surpasses them all. Nature has so ordained it
that those who travel in the valley of the Rhine shall see the
river, for there never will be a railroad upon its banks. So
mountainous is the land that it would have to be one series of
tunnels. Every three or four miles from the time you enter this
glorious river, hills, dales, castles, and crags present
themselves as the steamer glides onward.
Their first resting-place for any length of time was at Coblentz,
at the mouth of the "Blue Moselle," the most interesting place on
the river. From Coblentz they went to Brussels, where they had the
greatest attention paid them. Besides being provided with letters
of introduction, Jerome's complexion secured for him more
deference than is usually awarded to travellers.
Having letters of introduction to M. Deceptiax, the great lace
manufacturer, that gentleman received them with distinguished
honors, and gave them a splendid soiree, at which the elite of the
city were assembled. The sumptuously-furnished mansion was
lavishly decorated for the occasion, and every preparation made
that could add to the novelty or interest of the event.
Jerome, with his beautiful bride, next visited Cologne, the largest
and wealthiest city on the banks of the Rhine. The Cathedral of
Cologne is the most splendid structure of the kind in Europe, and
Jerome and Clotelle viewed with interest the beautiful arches and
columns of this stupendous building, which strikes with awe the
beholder, as he gazes at its unequalled splendor, surrounded, as
it is, by villas, cottages, and palace-like mansions, with the
enchanting Rhine winding through the vine-covered hills.
After strolling over miles and miles of classic ground. and
visiting castles, whose legends and traditions have given them an
enduring fame, our delighted travellers started for Geneva,
bidding the picturesque banks of the Rhine a regretful farewell.
Being much interested in literature, and aware that Geneva was
noted for having been the city of refuge to the victims of
religious and political persecution, Jerome arranged to stay here
for some days. He was provided with a letter of introduction to M.
de Stee, who had been a fellow-soldier of Mr. Devenant in the East
India wars, and they were invited to make his house their home
during their sojourn. On the side of a noble mountain, whose base
is kissed by the waves of Lake Geneva, and whose slopes are decked
with verdure to the utmost peak of its rocky crown, is situated
the delightful country residence of this wealthy, retired French
officer. A winding road, with frequent climbs and brakes, leads
from the valley to this enchanting spot, the air and scenery of
which cannot be surpassed in the world.
CHAPTER XXXIV
CLOTELLE MEETS HER FATHER.
THE clouds that had skirted the sky during the day broke at last,
and the rain fell in torrents, as Jerome and Clotelle retired for
the night, in the little town of Ferney, on the borders of Lake
Leman. The peals of thunder, and flashes of vivid lightening,
which seemed to leap from mountain to mountain and from crag to
crag, reverberating among the surrounding hills, foretold a heavy
storm.
"I would we were back at Geneva," said Clotelle, as she heard
groans issuing from an adjoining room. The sounds, at first faint,
grew louder and louder, plainly indicating that some person was
suffering extreme pain.
"I did not like this hotel, much, when we came in," I said Jerome,
relighting the lamp, which had been accidentally extinguished.
"Nor I," returned Clotelle.
The shrieks increased, and an occasional "She's dead!" "I killed
her!" "No, she is not dead!" and such-like expressions, would be
heard from the person, who seemed to be deranged.
The thunder grew louder, and the flashes of lightning more vivid,
while the noise from the sick-room seemed to increase.
As Jerome opened the door, to learn, if possible, the cause of the
cries and groans, he could distinguish the words, "She's dead!
yes, she's dead! but I did not kill her. She was my child! my own
daughter. I loved her, and yet I did not protect her."
"Whoever he is," said Jerome, "he's crack-brained; some robber,
probably, from the mountains."
The storm continued to rage, and the loud peals of thunder and
sharp flashes of lightening, together with the shrieks and moans
of the maniac in the adjoining room, made the night a fearful one.
The long hours wore slowly away, but neither Jerome nor his wife
could sleep, and they arose at an early hour in the morning,
ordered breakfast, and resolved to return to Geneva.
"I am sorry, sir, that you were so much disturbed by the sick man
last night," said the landlord, as he handed Jerome his bill. "I
should be glad if he would get able to go away, or die, for he's a
deal of trouble to me. Several persons have left my house on his
account."
"Where is he from?" inquired Jerome.
"He's from the United States, and has been here a week to-day, and
has been crazy ever since."
"Has he no friends with him?" asked the guest.
"No, he is alone," was the reply.
Jerome related to his wife what he had learned from the landlord,
respecting the sick man, and the intelligence impressed her so
strongly, that she requested him to make further inquiries
concerning the stranger.
He therefore consulted the book in which guests usually register
their names, and, to his great surprise, found that the American's
name was Henry Linwood, and that he was from Richmond, Va.
It was with feelings of trepidation that Clotelle heard these
particulars from the lips of her husband.
"We must see this poor man, whoever he is," said she, as Jerome
finished the sentence.
The landlord was glad to hear that his guests felt some interest in
the sick man, and promised that the invalid's room should be got
ready for their reception.
The clock in the hall was just striking ten, as Jerome passed
through and entered the sick man's chamber. Stretched upon a
mattress, with both hands tightly bound to the bedstead, the
friendless stranger was indeed a pitiful sight. His dark,
dishevelled hair prematurely gray, his long, unshaven beard, and
the wildness of the eyes which glanced upon them as they opened the
door and entered, caused the faint hope which had so suddenly
risen in Clotelle's heart, to sink, and she felt that this man
could claim no kindred with her. Certainly, he bore no
resemblance to the man whom she had called her father, and who had
fondly dandled her on his knee in those happy days of childhood.
"Help!" cried the poor man, as Jerome and his wife walked into the
room. His eyes glared, and shriek after shriek broke forth from
his parched and fevered lips.
"No, I did not kill my daughter!--I did not! she is not dead! Yes,
she is dead! but I did not kill her--poor girl Look! that is she!
No, it cannot be! she cannot come here! it cannot be my poor
Clotelle."
At the sound of her own name, coming from the maniac's lips,
Clotelle gasped for breath, and her husband saw that she had grown
deadly pale. It seemed evident to him that the man was either
guilty of some terrible act, or imagined himself to be. His
eyeballs rolled in their sockets, and his features showed that he
was undergoing "the tortures of that inward hell," which seemed to
set his whole brain on fire.
After recovering her self-possession and strength, Clotelle
approached the bedside, and laid her soft hand upon the stranger's
hot and fevered brow.
One long, loud shriek rang out on the air, and a piercing cry, "It
is she!---Yes, it is she! I see, I see! Ah! no, it is not my
daughter! She would not come to me if she could!" broke forth from
him.
"I am your daughter," said Clotelle, as she pressed her
handkerchief to her face, and sobbed aloud.
Like balls of fire, the poor man's eyes rolled and glared upon the
company, while large drops of perspiration ran down his pale and
emaciated face. Strange as the scene appeared, all present saw
that it was indeed a meeting between a father and his long-lost
daughter. Jerome now ordered all present to leave the room, except
the nurse, and every effort was at once made to quiet the
sufferer. When calm, a joyous smile would illuminate the sick man's
face, and a strange light beam in his eyes, as he seemed to
realize that she who stood before him was indeed his child.
For two long days and nights did Clotelle watch at the bedside of
her father before he could speak to her intelligently. Sometimes,
in his insane fits, he would rave in the most frightful manner,
and then, in a few moments, would be as easily governed as a
child. At last, however, after a long and apparently refreshing
sleep, he awoke suddenly to a full consciousness that it was
indeed his daughter who was watching so patiently by his side.
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