Clotelle; or The Colored Heroine
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William Wells Brown >> Clotelle; or The Colored Heroine
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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
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.', 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 will 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, rick, 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 Antoine,
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. Soomn 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 Mincio
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
at which the 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," 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 lightening 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.
The presence of his long absent child had a soothing effect
upon Mr. Linwood, and he now recovered rapidly from the sad
and almost hopeless condition in which she had found him.
When able to converse, without danger of a relapse, he told Clotelle
of his fruitless efforts to obtain a clew to her whereabouts
after old Mrs. Miller had sold her to the slave-trader. In
answer to his daughter's inquiries about his family affairs
up to the time that he left America, he said,--
"I blamed my wife for your being sold and sent away,
for I thought she and her mother were acting in collusion;
But I afterwards found that I had blamed her wrongfully.
Poor woman! she knew that I loved your mother, and feeling
herself forsaken, she grew melancholy and died in a decline
three years ago."
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