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 sunshine 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 stitch 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 glasses?)—tell me whether you ever saw a prettier pattern. It is a handkerchief fit for a princess."

"It is very prettily worked, my dear. And whom is it for? Some very elegant lady. Is it for the First Consul's lady? They say she is the most elegant lady in the world—though she is a Creole, like you, my darling. Is your pretty handkerchief for her?"

"No, grandpapa. I dare say she has all the ladies in France to work for her. I should like, if you have no objection, to send this to Madame L'Ouverture!"

"To Madame L'Ouverture. Why? Has not she daughters to work handkerchiefs for her, and plenty of money to buy them? Why should you prick your fingers in her service?"

"I should like that L'Ouverture himself should observe, some day, that she has a beautiful handkerchief; and then, if he should ask, he would find out that there is a little Creole girl who is very grateful to him for his generosity to her colour."

"Do not speak of colour, child. What expressions you pick up from Afra, and such people! It is our distinction that we have no colour—that we are white."

"That is the distinction of the nuns, I know; but I hoped it was not mine yet. I do not forget how you pinch my cheek sometimes, and talk about roses."

"What is there? What do I see?" cried the old man, whose mind seemed open to everything agreeable that met his observation, on his return home. "Are those the same little birds that you were wooing the other morning? No creature that has ever seen you, my dear, ever forgets you. Nothing that you have spoken to ever deserts you. Shy creatures, that are afraid of everybody else, haunt you."

"Oh! you are thinking of the little spotted fawn."

"Spotted fawn or squirrel—baby or humming-bird—it is always the same, child. They all come to you. I dare say these little creatures have been flitting about the balcony and these rooms, ever since we went away. Now they have found you."

"They do not seem to care much about me, now we have met," said Euphrosyne. She followed them softly to the balcony, and along it, as far as the window of Monsieur Revel's room. There she found, stuck in the bars of the balcony, a rather fresh branch of orange-blossoms. While she was examining this, in some surprise, old Raphael spoke to her from below. He said he had made bold to climb up by his ladder, twice a day, with something to entice the birds to that window; as he supposed that, was what she wished, if she had been at home. The abbess had given him leave to take this liberty.

"There!" said Monsieur Revel, when she, flew to tell him, "there is another follower to add to your fawns and kittens. Old Raphael is considered a crusty fellow everywhere; and you see how different he is with you!"

"I am very glad," declared Euphrosyne. "It is a pretty sight to amuse you with, every morning when you wake. It is kind of Raphael; and of the abbess too."

"I am pleased that the abbess and you should be good friends, Euphrosyne, because—Ah! that is the way," he said, in a mortified tone, and throwing himself back in his chair, as he followed with his eyes the flittings of the girl about the room, after her birds. "You have got your own way with everybody, and we have spoiled you; and there is no speaking to you upon a subject that you do not like. You will not hear, though it is a thing that lies heavy at the heart of a dying old man."

"I will hear you, if you talk to me all my life," said Euphrosyne, with brimming eyes, seating herself on a low stool at the old man's knees.

"And if you hear me, you will not give me a grave, steady answer."

"Try me," said she, brushing away the gathering tears. "I am not crying about anything you are going to say; but only because—Oh, grandpapa! how could you think I would not listen to you?"

"Well, well, my love! I see that you are willing now. You remember your promise to enter the convent, if I desired it."

"Yes."

"You talk of nothing being changed by our alarm, two days ago, because this table stands in the middle of the room, and the ants and beetles have not carried off your pretty work. Hey!"

"May I speak, grandpapa?"

"Speak."

"I said so because nobody's house is burnt, or even robbed; and nobody has been killed, or even hurt."

"But, nevertheless, there is a great change. Our friends, my old friends, all whom I feel I could rely upon in case of need, are gone to France with Hedouville."

"Oh, grandpapa! very few whites are gone—they were chiefly mulattoes who went with Hedouville; and so many whites remain! And though they are not, except, perhaps, Monsieur Critois, exactly our friends, yet we can easily make acquaintance with them."

"No, no, child. If they were not upstarts, as some of them are, and others returned emigrants, of whom I know nothing, it is too late now for me to make now friends. My old companions are gone, and the place is a desert to me."

His hands hung listlessly, as he rested on the arms of his chair. Euphrosyne looked up in his face, while she said, as well as she could for tears, "If you feel it so now, what will it be when I am shut up in the convent, and you will hardly ever see me?"

"That is no affair of yours, child. I choose that you should go."

"Whose affair is it, if it is not mine? I am your grandchild—your only one; and it is my business, and the greatest pleasure I have in the world, to be with you, and wait upon you. If I leave you, I shall hear my poor mother reproaching me all day long. Every morning at my lessons, every night at my prayers, I shall hear her saying, 'Where is your grandfather? How dare you desert him when he has only you left?' Grandpapa, I shall be afraid to sleep alone. I shall learn to be afraid of my blessed mother."

"It is time you were sent somewhere to learn your duty, I think. We are at a bad pass enough; but there must be some one in the colony who can tell you that it is your duty to obey your grandfather—that it is your duty to perform what you promised him."

"I can preach that myself, grandpapa, when there is nobody else who can do it better. It is just what I have been teaching little Babet, this month past. I have no more to learn about that; but I will tell you what I do want to learn—whether you are most afraid of my growing up ignorant, or—(do just let me finish, and then we shall agree charmingly, I dare say)—whether you are most afraid of my growing up ignorant, or unsteady, or ill-mannered, or wicked, or what? As for being unsafe, I do not believe a word of that."

"Everything—all these things, child. I am afraid of them all."

"What, all! What a dreadfully unpromising creature I must be!"

"You know you must be very ignorant. You have had no one to teach you anything."

"Then I will go to the convent to study for four, six, eight, twelve hours a day. I shall soon have learned everything in the world at that rate: and yet I can go on singing to you in the evenings, and bringing your coffee in the mornings. Twelve hours' study a day may perhaps make me steady, too. That was the next thing, was it not?"

"Now have done. Say only one thing more—that you will perform your promise."

"That is a thing of course; so I may just ask one other thing. Who is to wait upon you in my place? Ah! I see you have not fixed upon any one yet; and, let me tell you, it will be no easy matter to find one who makes coffee as I do. Then, you have been waited upon by a slave all your life. Yes, you have; and you have a slave now sitting at your knee. People do not like being slaves now-a-days—nobody but me. Now I like it of all things. So, what a pity to change!"

"I know," said the old man, sighing, "that I am apt to be peremptory. I know it is difficult to please me sometimes. It is very late in life—I am very old to set about improving: but I will try not to hurt any one who will wait upon me, as I am afraid I have often hurt you, my dear. I will make any effort, if I can only feel that you are safe. Some one has been telling you stories of old times, I see. Perhaps you can ask any servant that we may engage—you may make it your request that she will bear with me."

"Oh, grandpapa! Stop, grandpapa! I cannot bear it," cried the sobbing girl. "I never will joke again, if you do not see that it is because I love you so, that I will venture anything rather than leave you. We all love you dearly. Pierre would not for the world live with anybody else. You know he would not. And that is just what I feel. But I will do everything you wish. I will never refuse again—I will never jest, or try, even for your own sake, to prevent your having all your own way. Only be so kind, grandpapa, as never to say anything against yourself again. Nobody else would dare to do such a thing to me, and I cannot bear it."

"Well, well, love! I see now that no one has been babbling to you. We will never quarrel any more. You will do as I wish, and we will have no more disputing. Are they bringing our coffee?"

When Euphrosyne came out from placing her grandfather's pillows, and bidding him good-night, she found Pierre lingering about, as if wanting to speak to her.

"Have you anything to say to me. Pierre?"

"Only just to take the liberty of asking, Mademoiselle, whether you could not possibly gratify my master in the thing he has set his heart upon. If you could, Mademoiselle, you may rely on it, I would take every care of him in your absence."

"I have no doubt, Pierre, of your doing your part."

"Your part and mine are not the same, I know, Mademoiselle. But he is so persuaded of there being danger for you here, that everything you do for him goes to his heart."

"Have you that idea, Pierre?"

"Indeed, Mademoiselle, I know nothing about it—more than that it takes a long time for people in a town, or an island, to live comfortably together, on equal terms, after having all their lives looked upon one another as tyrants and low revengeful servants."

"I do not think any one looks on me as a tyrant, or would think of hurting poor grandpapa or me. How you shake your head, Pierre! We have lived seven years in peace and quiet—sometimes being afraid, but never having found cause for fear. However, if grandpapa really is uneasy—"

"That is the point, Mademoiselle. He is so."

"Do you suppose I could see the abbess, if I were to go to the convent to consult her? It is not late."

"If the Dumonts were but here still!" said Pierre—"only next door but one! It was a comfort to have them at hand on any difficulty."

"If they were here, I should not consult them. They were so prejudiced against all the mulattoes, and put so little trust in L'Ouverture himself—as indeed their going off in such a hurry with Hedouville proves—that I should not have cared for their opinion to-night. Suppose you step to the convent, Pierre, and ask whether the lady abbess could see me for half-an-hour on business. If I am to leave grandpapa, I should like to tell him in the morning that it is all settled."

Pierre went with alacrity, and was back in three minutes, when he found Euphrosyne shawled and veiled for the visit. The lady awaited her.

"What can I do for you, my child?" said the abbess, kindly seating Euphrosyne beside her, in her parlour.

"You will tell me what you think it is my duty to do, when I have told you my story. I know I have laughed and joked too much about this very matter; and that partly because I had a will of my own about it. But it is all serious enough now; and I really do wish to find out my duty upon it."

"In order to do your duty, whatever it may cost you?"

"Certainly."

She then told her story. The lady at length smiled, and observed—

"You have no very strong inclination to join us, I perceive."

"Not any," frankly replied Euphrosyne. "I have no doubt the sisters are very happy. They choose their way of life for themselves. I only feel it is one that I should never choose. Nor would grandpapa for me, for more than a short time. I hope, madam, you understand that we neither of us think of my ever becoming a nun."

"I see that there is no present sign of its being your vocation."

"And there never will be," cried Euphrosyne, very earnestly. "I assure you, I cannot bear the idea of it."

"So I perceive, my dear. I am quite convinced, I assure you. Have you as great a dislike to being educated?"

"Almost, I am afraid. But I could get over that. I like reading very well, and learning things at my own time, and in my own way; but I feel rather old to begin to be under orders as to what I shall learn, and when and how; and yet rather young to be so grave and regular as the sisters are. I am fifteen, you know."

"You are not aware, I see, how much we laugh when we are by ourselves, nor how we like to see girls of fifteen happy and gay. I think, too, that I may answer for the sisters not quarrelling with you about what you ought to learn. You will comply with the rules of the house as to hours; and your preceptresses will allow you, as far as possible, to follow your bent."

"You are very kind, as you always are. But I think far less of all this than of what grandpapa is to do without me. Consider what long, weary days he will have! He has scarcely any acquaintance left in Cap; and he has been accustomed to do nothing without me. He will sit and cry all day—I know he will."

And Euphrosyne's tears began to overflow at the thought.

"It is a great honour, my child, to have been made such a blessing to an old man."

"It was almost the only one he had left. Up to that terrible ninety-one—"

The abbess shuddered.

"You knew my mother and sisters?"

"Very little. I was then a humble sister, and had little, intercourse with any ladies who might occasionally visit us. But I remember her coming, one day, with her children—three! girls—one who ran about the garden, and two modest, blushing girls, who accepted some of our flowers."

"I must have been the little one who ran about, and the others were my poor sisters. Well, all these, besides my papa, were always about grandpapa; and he never wanted amusement or waiting on. Since that dreadful time, he has had only me; and now, in his old age, when he has no strength, and nothing to do, he is going to be all alone! Oh, madam, I think it is wicked to leave him! Had anybody ever a clearer duty than I have—to stay with him?"

"You would be quite right if it was anybody but himself that desired you to leave him. Your first duty, my dear, is to obey his wishes."

"I shall never be able to learn my lessons, for thinking of him, sitting alone there—or perhaps lying in bed, because there is nothing to get up for."

"Now you are presumptuous. You are counting upon what may never happen, and fearing to leave your parent in the hand of Him who gave you to him. Suppose you were to die to-night, I fear you could not trust him in the hands of Him who wraps us round with old age, before taking us home to Himself."

"Oh, yes, I could so trust him to-night, if I myself had watched him to sleep. But a month hence, if I were to die, I should dread to meet my parents. They would ask me, 'How is our father?' and I should have to answer, 'I do not know—I have left him—I have done nothing for him of late.' The whole time that I am here, madam, I shall be afraid to die and meet my mother."

"We must lead you to doubt your own notions, and to trust more in God," said the lady, gently. "We know not what a day may bring forth; and as you grow older, you will find how, in cases of hard and doubtful duty, our way becomes suddenly clear, so as to make us ashamed of our late anguish. Father Gabriel will tell you that one night he lost his way among the marshes in the plain. The clouds hung thick and low overhead, and there was not a ray of light. He plunged on the one hand into the marsh; and on the other, the reeds grew higher than his head. Behind him was a wood that he had hardly managed to struggle through; and he knew not what might be before him. He groped about for a firm place to stand on, and had no idea which way to move. At last, without his having felt a breath of wind, he found that the clouds had parted to the right, making a chink through which he saw the Cibao peaks standing up against a starlight sky; and, to the left, there was, on the horizon, a dim white line which he could not understand, till the crescent moon dropped down from behind the cloudy canopy, across a bar of clear sky, and into the sea. This made him look whether the church of Saint Hilaire was not close by. He made out its dim mass through the darkness, and in a few minutes stood in the porch. So, my child, is our way (even yours, young as you are) sometimes made too dark for our feeble eyes; and thus, from one quarter or another, is a ray permitted to fall that we may not be lost."

"Thank you," said Euphrosyne, softly. "May I come to-morrow?"

"At any hour you shall be welcome, my dear."

"If you will appoint me something to do every morning in the garden, madam, grandpapa might sit in the balcony, to see me, and talk to me. That will be a reason for his getting up. That, will prevent his lying too long, for want of something to do."

"A very good plan. If you love your grandfather so, Euphrosyne, how would you have loved your mother, if she had lived?"

"Had you a mother, when you were my age?"

"Yes, my dear. But do not let us speak of that. Do you remember your mamma, my dear?"

"Yes—a little. I remember her sitting in a wood—on the ground—with her head bent down upon her knees, and a great many black people about."

"Well—tell me no more. I ought not to have asked you. I was not thinking of that horrid time."

"But I do not mind telling you. I like to speak of it; and I never can to grandpapa—it makes him so ill. Mamma shook so, that I remember putting my arms about her to keep her warm, till I found how burning hot her hands were. My sisters were crying; and they told me not to ask any more why papa did not come to us; for he was dead. I remember being wakened by a noise when I was very sleepy, and seeing some soldiers. One of them lifted me up, and I was frightened, till I saw that, they were carrying mamma too. They put us both into a cart. I did not see my sisters; and I believe they were both dead then, of grief and hardship. And mamma never spoke again. She looked as pale as her gown, as she lay in the cart, with her eyes shut. She was breathing, however, and I thought she was asleep. I felt very sleepy and odd. The soldiers said I was half-starved, and they gave me a plantain that they pulled by the road-side. I wanted them to give some to mamma too; but they made me no answer. I put mine into her hand, but she let it fall; and I cried because she would not take any notice. Then one of the soldiers bade me eat my plantain; and I thought I must do as I was bid. I forget where we went next."

"You remember more than I had supposed. Your mother was brought on board the ship where we were; and there she presently died."

"You were on board ship, madam?"

"Yes—all the sisters—for the town was not considered safe, even for us."

"And where was—" Euphrosyne stopped abruptly.

"You were going to ask where my mother was," said the lady. "I feel that I was wrong in stopping you as I did just, now—for you might fancy that my mother was in some way to blame. She was a good mother to me— full of kindness; but I did not make her happy."

"You did not?"

"Indeed I did not. I crossed her in the thing she desired most of all— that we should live together. I believed it my duty to become a nun, and I left her. She returned to France, being a widow, and having no other child; and there she died, among distant relations."

"Was she angry with you?"

"She never said or showed that she was. But I know that she was grieved to the very soul, and for life. This, my dear, has been the greatest affliction I have ever known. I did not feel it so at the time, having no doubt of my vocation; but what I have suffered since from the thought that an only child and only parent, who ought to have made each other happy, were both miserable, God only knows."

"Yet you did what you thought was your duty to God. I wonder whether you were right?"

"If you knew how many times—but," said the lady, interrupting herself, "we shall know all when our hearts are laid open; and may minister to my mother yet. If I erred, and there be further punishment yet for my error, I am ready to bear it. You see, my child, how much you have to be thankful for, that your difficulty is not from having failed in duty to your parent. For the future, fear not but that your duty will be made clear to you. I am sure this is all you desire."

"Shall we have any more such conversations as this when I come to live here? If we can—"

"We shall see," replied the lady, smiling. "Father Gabriel says there may easily be too much talk, even about our duties; but occasions may arise."

"I hope so," said Euphrosyne, rising, as she perceived that the lady thought it was time for her to go. "I dare say Pierre is here."

Pierre had been waiting some time.

The abbess sat alone after Euphrosyne was gone, contemplating, not the lamp, though her eyes were fixed upon it, but the force of the filial principle in this lonely girl—a force which had constrained her to open the aching wound in her own heart to a mere child. She sat, till called by the hour to prayer, pondering the question how it is that relations designed for duty and peace become the occasions of the bitterest sin and suffering. The mystery was in no degree cleared up when she was called to prayer—which, however, has the blessed power of solving all painful mysteries for the hour.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

PERPLEXITY SOLVED.

"What is the matter, child? What makes you look so merry?" asked Monsieur Revel, when his eyes opened upon Euphrosyne the next morning.

"Nothing has happened, grandpapa. The only thing is, that I like to do what you wish; and I always will, as long as you live. I will go to the convent to-day. You can send for me at any time when you want me, you know. I am sure the abbess will let me come whenever you send Pierre for me."

"Well, well—do not be in such a hurry. I do not want you to go to-day. Why should you be in such a hurry?"

When the breeze had come to refresh him, and he had had his coffee, Monsieur Revel felt more complaisant, and explained what he meant by there being no hurry. Euphrosyne should not leave him till to-morrow; and this day should be spent as she pleased. Whatever she liked to ask to-day should be granted. This indulgence was promised under a tolerable certainty that she would ask nothing unreasonable: that she would not propose a dinner-party of dark-complexioned guests, for instance. There might also be an expectation of what it would be that she would choose. M. Revel was conscious that he did not visit his estate of Le Bosquet, in the plain of Limbe, so often as Euphrosyne would have liked, or as he himself knew to be good for his agent, the cultivators, and his heiress. He was aware that if he could have shown any satisfaction in the present order of affairs, any good-will towards the working of the new system, there might have been a chance of old stories dying away—of old grievances being forgotten by the cultivators, in his present acquiescence in their freedom. He could not order the carriage, and say he was going to Le Bosquet; but he had just courage enough to set Euphrosyne free to ask to go. It turned out exactly as he expected.

"We will do what you will, my child, to-day. I feel strong enough to be your humble servant."

"It is a splendid day, grandpapa. It must be charming at Le Bosquet. If I order the carriage now, we can get there before the heat; and we need not come home till the cool of the evening. We will fill the carriage with fruit and flowers for the abbess. May I order the carriage?"

Le Bosquet was only twelve miles off. They arrived when the cultivators were settling to their work after breakfast. It was now, as on every former occasion, a perplexity, an embarrassment to Euphrosyne, that the negroes lost all their gaiety, and most of their civility, in the presence of her grandfather. She could hardly wonder, when she witnessed this, at his intolerance of the very mention of the blacks, at his ridicule of all that she ever told him about them, from her own observation. When she was in any other company, she saw them merry, active, and lavish of their kindness and politeness; and whenever this occurred, she persuaded herself that she must have been mistaken the last time she and Monsieur Revel were at Le Bosquet, and that they ought to go again soon. The next time they went, there was the same gloom, listlessness, and avoidance on the part of the negroes; the same care on her grandfather's that she should not stir a step without the escort of Pierre or the agent. He would not even let her go with Portia, the dairy-woman, to gather eggs; nor with little Sully, to see his baby-brother. She made up her mind that this was all wrong—that all parties would have been more amiable and happy, if there had been the same freedom and confidence that she saw on other estates. Poor girl! she little knew what was in all minds but her own—what recollections of the lash and the stocks, and hunger and imprisonment on the one hand, and of the horrors of that August night on the other. She little knew how generally it was supposed that she owed it to the grandfather whom she loved so much that she was the solitary orphan whom every one pitied.

It was, as Euphrosyne had said, a splendid day; and all went well. Monsieur Revel would not go out much; but as he sat in the shaded room, looking forth upon the lawn, the agent satisfied him with accounts of the prosperity of the estate, the fine promise of the cacao walks, and the health and regular conduct of the negroes. Euphrosyne showed herself from time to time, now in the midst of a crowd of children, now with a lapful of eggs, and then with a basket of fruit. In honour of the master and young mistress, the dinner was very superb, and far too long; so that the day had slipped away before Euphrosyne felt at all disposed to return. She was glad that the agent was engaged in a deep discussion with his employer when the carriage came round; so that she was able to make one more short circuit in the twilight while they were settling their point.

The gentlemen were talking over the two late proclamations— L'Ouverture's and Hedouville's. The agent wished that Hedouville had never come, rather than that he should have set afloat the elements of mischief contained in his proclamation. Monsieur Revel could not believe that a Commissary, sent out for the very purpose of regulating such matters, could have got very far wrong upon them; and besides, the proclamation had never been issued. Never formally issued, the agent said; but it had been circulated from hand to hand of those who were interested in its provisions. Some were, at that moment, preparing to act upon it; and he feared that mischief might come of it yet. It was certain that L'Ouverture knew more about claims to deserted estates, and about the proper regulations as to tillage, than any novice from France could know; and it was no less certain that he was ever more eager to gratify the whites than the blacks. It would have been by far the wisest plan to leave that class of affairs in the hands of the person who understood them best; and, if he was not much mistaken, the Government at home would yet rue Hedouville's rashness in acting without so much as consulting L'Ouverture. Monsieur Revel was so amazed at finding that L'Ouverture was not only worshipped by romantic young ladies and freed negroes, but approved and confided in by such practical and interested whites as his own agent, that he could only say again what he said every day—that the world was turned upside down, and that he expected to be stripped, before he died, of Le Bosquet, and of everything else that he had; so that his poor child would be left dependent on the charity of France. To this the agent replied, as usual, that the property had never before been so secure, nor the estate so prosperous; and that all would go well, if only the Government at home would employ competent people to write its proclamations.

"Where is this child?" cried Monsieur Revel at last. "I am always kept waiting by everybody. It is dark already, and the carriage has been standing this hour. Where is she?"

"Mademoiselle is in the carriage," said Pierre, from the hall. "I made Prince light the lamps, though he thinks we shall not want them."

"Come, come! let us lose no more time," said Monsieur Revel, as if every one had not been waiting for him.

Euphrosyne jumped from the carriage, where she had been packing her basket of eggs, her fruit, and her flowers, so that they might be out of her grandfather's way. He could not admire any of them, and found them all in his way. While the road lay under the dark shadow of the groves on the estate, he cast anxious glances among the tall stems on which the carriage lamps cast a passing gleam. He muttered a surly good-night to the negroes who held open the gates; but, when the last of these swung-to, when the carriage issued upon the high road, and the plain lay, though dim in the starlight, yet free and lovely to the eye, while the line of grey sea was visible to the left, the old man's spirits seemed to rise. It was seldom that he quitted the town; and when he did, and could throw off his cares, he was surprised to find how reviving were the influences of the country.

"It is a lovely night, really," said he. "If you ever go to Paris, my dear, you will miss this starlight. There the stars seem to have shrunk away from you, a myriad of miles. Let those flowers be, child. Why may not I have the pleasure of smelling them? There! Let them lie. Who would believe that that sea, which looks so quiet now, will be rolling and dashing upon the beach in November, as if it meant to swallow up the plain? How it seems to sleep in the starlight! You found little Sully grown, my dear, I dare say."

"Oh, yes! but more glad to see us than ever. He had to show me how he could read, and how he had been allowed to put a new leg to the master's desk at the school. Sully will make a good carpenter, I think. He is going to make a box for me; and he declares the ants shall never get through it, at the hinge, or lid, or anywhere. How the people are singing all about! I love to hear them. Prince drives so fast, that we shall be home too soon. I shall be quite sorry to be in the streets again."

It seemed as if Prince had heard her, for, in another moment, he was certainly checking his horses, and their speed gradually relaxed.

"He must have driven us fast, indeed," said Monsieur Revel. "Look at the lights of the town—how near they are! Are those the lights of the town?"

"I should have looked for them more to the left." Euphrosyne replied. "Let us ask Pierre. We cannot possibly have lost our way."

Pierre rode up to the carriage window, at the moment that Prince came to a full stop.

"We do not know," said Louis, the black footman, who was beside Prince—"We do not know what those lights can mean. They seem to be moving, and towards this way."

"I think it is a body of people," said Pierre. "I fear so, sir."

"We had better go back," said Euphrosyne. "Let us go back to Le Bosquet."

"Forward! Forward!" cried Monsieur Revel, like one frantic. "Why do you stand still, you rascal? I will drive myself if you do not push on. Drive on—drive like the devil—like what you all are," he added, in a lower tone.

"Surely we had better go back to Le Bosquet."

"No, no, you little fool," cried the agonised old man, grasping hold of her, and dragging her towards himself.

Louis shouted from the box, as Prince lashed his horses onwards, "We shall be in the midst of them, sir, this way."

"Drive on," was still the command. "Drive through everything to get home!" As he clasped his arms round Euphrosyne, and pressed her so closely that she could scarcely breathe, heaping his cloak upon her head, she heard and felt him murmuring to himself—

"To Le Bosquet! No, indeed! anywhere but there! Once at home—she once safe—and then—"

Euphrosyne would have been glad to see a little of what appeared—to know something of what to expect. Once or twice she struggled to raise her head; but this only made the convulsive clasp closer than before. All she knew was, that Pierre or the men on the box seemed to speak, from time to time; for the passionate "Drive on!"

"Forward!" was repeated. She also fancied that they must at last be in the midst of a crowd; for the motion of the carriage seemed to be interrupted by a sort of hustling on either side. Her heart beat so tumultuously, however, and the sense of suffocation was so strong, that she was sure of nothing but that she felt as if dying. Once more she struggled for air. At the same moment, her grandfather started—almost bounded from his seat, and relaxed his hold of her. She thought she had heard firearms. She raised her head; but all was confusion. There was smoke—there was the glare of torches—there was a multitude of shining black faces, and her grandfather lying back, as if asleep, in the corner of the carriage.

"Drive on!" she heard Pierre cry. The whip cracked, the horses plunged and scrambled, and in another moment broke through the crowd. The yelling, the lights, the smoke, were left behind; the air blew fresh; and there was only calm starlight without, as before.

The old man's hand fell when lifted. He did not move when she stroked his cheek. He did not answer when she spoke. She put her hand to his forehead, and it was wet.

"Pierre! Pierre!" she cried, "he is shot! he is dead!"

"I feared so, Mademoiselle. Drive on, Prince!"

In an inconceivably short time, they were at their own door. Pierre looked into the carriage, felt his master's wrist and heart, spoke softly to Prince, and they drove on again—only past the corner—only to the gate of the convent.

When it was opened, Pierre appeared at the carriage door. "Now, Mademoiselle," he said. He half pulled, half lifted her over the crushed fruit and flowers that were in her way—glanced in her face, to see whether she had observed that the body fell behind her—carried her in, and gave her, passive and stupified, into the arms of two nuns. Seeing the abbess standing behind, he took off his hat, and would have said something; but his lips quivered, and he could not.

"I will," said the lady's gentle voice, answering to his thought. "My young daughter shall be cherished here."



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

A LOVER'S LOVE.

This new violence had for its object the few whites who were rash and weak enough to insist on the terms of Hedouville's intended proclamation, instead of abiding by that of L'Ouverture. The cultivators on the estates of these whites left work, rather than be reduced to a condition of virtual slavery. Wandering from plantation to plantation, idle and discontented, they drew to themselves others who, from any cause, were also idle and discontented. They exasperated each other with tales, old and new, of the tyranny of the whites. Still, further mischief might have been prevented by due vigilance and firmness on the part of him in whose charge the town and district of Cap Francais now lay. Stories, however, passed from mouth to mouth respecting General Moyse—anecdotes of the words he had dropped in dislike of the whites—of the prophecies he had uttered of more violence before the old masters would be taught their new place—rumours like these spread, till the gathering mob at length turned their faces towards the town, as if to try how far they might go. They went as far as the gates, having murdered some few of the obnoxious masters, either in their own houses, or, as in the case of Monsieur Revel, where they happened to meet them.

On the Haut-du-Cap they encountered General Moyse coming out against them with soldiery. At first he looked fierce; and the insurgents began to think each of getting away as he best might. But in a few moments, no one seemed to know how or why, the aspect of affairs changed. There was an air of irresolution about the Commander. It was plain that he was not really disposed to be severe—that he had no deadly intentions towards those he came to meet. His black troops caught his mood. Some of the inhabitants of the town, who wore on the watch with glasses from the gates, from the churches, and from the roofs of houses, afterwards testified to there having been a shaking of hands, and other amicable gestures. They testified that the insurgents crowded round General Moyse, and gave, at one time cheers, at another time groans, evidently on a signal from him. No prisoners were made—there was not a shot fired. The General and his soldiers returned into the town, and even into their quarters, protesting that no further mischief would happen, but the insurgents remained on the heights till daylight; and the inhabitants, feeling themselves wholly unprotected, sent off expresses to the Commander-in-Chief, and watched, with arms loaded, till he, or one of his more trustworthy Generals, should arrive. These expresses were stopped and turned back, by order of General Moyse, who ridiculed the idea of further danger, and required the inhabitants to be satisfied with his assurances of protection. Fortunately, however, one or two messengers who had been sent off a few hours before, on the first alarm, had reached their destination, while General Moyse was yet on the Haut-du-Cap.

The first relief to the anxious watchers was on seeing the heights gradually cleared at sunrise. The next was the news that L'Ouverture was entering the town, followed by the ringleaders from Limbe, whom he was bringing in as prisoners. He had proceeded directly to the scene of insurrection, where the leaders of the mob were delivered up to him at his first bidding. It now remained to be seen what he would do with those, within the town, high or low in office, who were regarded by the inhabitants as accessories.

This kind of speculation was not abated by the sight of L'Ouverture, as he passed through the streets. Grave as his countenance usually was, and at times melancholy, never had it been seen so mournful as to-day. Years seemed to have sunk down upon him since he was last seen—so lately that the youngest prattler in the Cap had not ceased to talk of the day. As he walked his horse through the streets, many citizens approached, some humbly to ask, others eagerly to offer information. With all these last he made appointments, and rode on. His way lay past Monsieur Revel's door; and it happened to be at the very time that the funeral (an affair of hurry in that climate) was about to take place. At the sight, L'Ouverture stopped, opposite the door. When the coffin was brought out, he took off his hat, and remained uncovered till it moved on, when he turned his horse, and followed the train to the corner of the street. There were many present who saw his face, and by whom its expression of deep sorrow was never afterwards forgotten. When he again turned in the direction of Government-house, he proceeded at a rapid pace, as if his purposes had been quickened by the sight.

His aides, who had been dispersed on different errands, entered the town by its various avenues; and some of them joined him in the Jesuits' Walk. At the gate of Government-house he was received by General Moyse, who had been almost the last person in Cap to hear of his arrival. L'Ouverture acknowledged his military greeting; and then, turning to his aides, said in a calm tone, which yet was heard half-way down the Walk, and thence propagated through the town, as if by echoes—

"General Moyse is under arrest."

As Moyse was moving off towards the apartment in which he was to be guarded, he requested an interview with the Commander-in-Chief.

"After your business with the court-martial is concluded," was the reply. "On no account before."

General Moyse bowed, and proceeded to his apartment.

For some hours after, there was every indication of the rapid transaction of business in Government-house. Messengers were sent to Fort Dauphin, to the commanding officer at Limbe, and to every military station within thirty miles. Orders were issued for the garrison of Cap to be kept close within their quarters. Not a man was to be allowed, on any pretence whatever, to pass the barrack-gates, which were well-guarded by the Commander-in-Chief's own guards, till troops for the service of the town could arrive from Fort Dauphin. As L'Ouverture was closeted with his secretary, message after message was reported; letter upon letter was delivered by his usher. Among these messages came, at length, one which made him start.

"Mademoiselle L'Ouverture begs to be permitted to see General Moyse."

Before he could reply, a note by another messenger was put into his hands.

"I implore you to let me see Moyse. I do not ask to see you. I do not wish it. I will disturb no one. Only give me an order to see Moyse—for his sake, and that of your unhappy

"Genifrede."

Toussaint left the room, and was but too well directed by the countenances of his servants to the room where Genifrede was lying, with her face hidden, upon a sofa. Denis was standing silent at a window which overlooked the Walk. Both were covered with dust from their journey.

Genifrede looked up, on hearing some one enter. When she saw that it was her father, she again buried her face in the cushions, saving only—

"Oh, why did you come?"

"Stay, my child, why did you come? How—why—"

"I always know," said she, "when misery is near; and where misery is, there am I. Do not be angry with Denis, father. I made him come."

"I am angry with no one, Genifrede. I am too much grieved to be angry. I am come to take you to Moyse. I cannot see him myself, at present; but I will take you to the door of the salon where he is."

"The salon!" said Genifrede, as if relieved. She had probably imagined him chained in a cell. This one word appeared to alter the course of her ideas. She glanced at her travel-soiled dress, and hesitated. Her father said—

"I will send a servant to you. Refresh yourself; and in half-an-hour I will come again."

When he rejoined her, she was still haggard and agitated, but appeared far less wretched than before.

"Genifrede!" cried Moyse, as she entered and leaned against the wall, unable to go farther. "Genifrede! And was not that your father who admitted you? Oh, call him, Genifrede! Call him back! I must see him. If you ask him, he will come. Call him back, Genifrede!"

"If you are engaged, Moyse," said she in a sickening voice, "if I am in your way, I will go."

"No, no, my love. But I must see your father. Everything may depend upon it."

"I will go—as soon as I can," said the poor girl, beginning to sink to the floor.

"You shall not go, my love—my Genifrede," cried Moyse, supporting her to a sofa. "I did not know—I little thought—Are you all here?"

"No; I came to see you, Moyse. I told you how it would be if we parted."

"And how will it be, love?"

"Oh, how can you make me say it? How can you make me think it?"

"Why, Genifrede, you cannot suppose anything very serious will happen. What frightens you so? Once more I ask you the old question that we must both be weary of—what frightens you so?"

"What frightens me!" she repeated, with a bewildered look in her face. "Were we not to have been married as soon as you were relieved from your command here? And are you not a prisoner, waiting for trial—and that trial for—for—for your life?"

"Never believe so, Genifrede! Have they not told you that the poor blacks behaved perfectly well from the moment they met me? They did not do a single act of violence after I went to them. Not a hand was raised when they had once seen me; and after I had put them into good-humour, they all went to their homes."

"Oh, is it so? Is it really so? But you said just now that everything depended on your seeing my father."

"To a soldier, his honour, his professional standing, are everything—"

Seeing a painful expression in Genifrede's face, he explained that even his private happiness—the prosperity of his love, depended on his professional honour and standing. She must be as well aware as himself that he was now wholly at her father's mercy, as regarded all his prospects in life; and that this would justify any eagerness to see him.

"At his mercy," repeated Genifrede; "and he is merciful. He does acts of mercy every day."

"True—true. You see now you were too much alarmed."

"But, Moyse, how came you to need his mercy? But two days ago how proud he was of you! and now—Oh! Moyse, when you knew what depended on these few days, how could you fail?"

"How was it that, he put me into an office that I was not fit for? He should have seen—"

"Then let us leave him, and all these affairs which make us so miserable. Let us go to your father. He will let us live at Saint Domingo in peace."

Moyse shook his head, saying that there were more whites at Saint Domingo than in any other part of the island; and the plain truth was, he could not live where there were whites.

"How was it then that you pleased my father so much when Hedouville went away? He whispered to me, in the piazza at Pongaudin, that, next to himself, you saved the town—that many whites owed their lives and their fortunes to you."

"I repent," cried Moyse, bitterly, "I repent of my deeds of that day. I repent that any white ever owed me gratitude. I thank God, I have shaken them off, like the dust from my feet! Thank God, the whites are all cursing me now!"

"What do you mean? How was it all?" cried Genifrede, fearfully.

"When Hedouville went away, my first desire was to distinguish myself, that I might gain you, as your father promised. This prospect, so near and so bright, dazzled me so that I could not see black faces from white. For the hour, one passion put the other out."

"And when—how soon did you begin to forget me?" asked Genifrede, sorrowfully.

"I have never forgotten you, love—not for an hour, in the church among the priests—in the square among the soldiers, any more than here as a prisoner. But I thought my point was gained when your father stooped from his horse, as he rode away, and told me there would be joy at home on hearing of my charge. I doubted no more that all was safe. Then I heard of the insufferable insolence of some of the whites out at Limbe— acting as if Hedouville was still here to countenance them. I saw exultation on account of this in all the white faces I met in Cap. The poor old wretch Revel, when my officers and I met his carriage, stared at me through his spectacles, and laughed in my face as if—"

"Was his grandchild with him? She was? Then he was laughing at some of her prattle. Nothing else made him even smile."

"It looked as if he was ridiculing me and my function. I was growing more angry every hour, when tidings came of the rising out at Limbe. I knew it was forced on by the whites. I knew the mischief was begun by Hedouville, and kept up by his countrymen; and was it to be expected that I should draw the sword for them against our own people? Could I have done so, Genifrede?"

"Would not my father have restored peace without drawing the sword at all?"

"That was what I did. I went out to meet the insurgents; and the moment they saw that the whites were not to have their own way, they returned to quietness, and to their homes. Not another blow was struck."

"And the murderers—what did you do with them?"

Moyse was silent for a moment, and then replied—

"Those may deal with them who desire to live side-by-side with whites. As for me, I quarrel with none who avenge our centuries of wrong."

"Would to God my father had known that this was in your heart! You would not then have been a wretched prisoner here. Moyse, the moment you are free, let us fly to the mornes. I told you how it would be, if we parted. You will do as I wish henceforward; you will take me to the Mornes?"

"My love, where and how should we live there? In a cave of the rocks, or roosting in trees?"

"People do live there—not now, perhaps, under my father's government: but in the old days, runaways did live there."

"So you would institute a new race of banditti, under your father's reign. How well it will sound in the First Consul's council-chamber, that the eldest daughter of the ambitious Commander-in-Chief is the first bandit's wife in the mornes!"

"Let them say what they will: we must have peace, Moyse. We have been wretched too long. Oh, if we could once be up there, hidden among the rocks, or sitting among the ferns in the highest of those valleys, with the very clouds between us and this weary world below—never to see a white face more! Then, at last, we could be at peace. Everywhere else we are beset with this enemy. They are in the streets, in the churches, on the plain. We meet them in the shade of the woods, and have to pass them basking on the sea-shore. There is no peace but high up in the mornes—too high for the wild beast, and the reptile, and the white man."

"The white man mounts as high as the eagle's nest, Genifrede. You will not be safe, even there, from the traveller or the philosopher, climbing to measure the mountain or observe the stars.—But while we are talking of the free and breezy heights—"

"You are a prisoner," said Genifrede, mournfully. "But soon, very soon, we can go. Why do you look so? You said there was no fear—that nothing serious could happen—nothing more than disgrace; and, for each other's sake, we can defy disgrace. Can we not, Moyse? Why do not you speak?"

"Disgrace, or death, or anything. Even death, Genifrede. Yes—I said what was not true. They will not let me out but to my death. Do not shudder so, my love: they shall not part us. They shall not rob me of everything. You did well to come, love. If they had detained you, and I had had to die with such a last thought as that you remained to be comforted, sooner or later, by another—to be made to forget me by a more prosperous lover—O God! I should have been mad!"

"You are mad, Moyse," cried Genifrede, shrinking from him in terror. "I do not believe a word you say. I love another!—they kill you! It is all false! I will not hear another word—I will go."

To go was, however, beyond her power. As she sank down again, trembling, Moyse said in the imperious tone which she both loved and feared—

"I am speaking the truth now. I shall be tried to-night before a court-martial, which will embody your father's opinion and will. They will find me a traitor, and doom me to death upon the Place. I must die—but not on the Place—and you shall die with me. In one moment, we shall be beyond their power. You hear me, Genifrede? I know you hear me, though you do not speak. I can direct you to one, near at hand, who prepares the red water, and knows me well. I will give you an order for red water enough for us both. You will come—your father will not refuse our joint request—you will come to me as soon as the trial is over; and then, love, we will never be parted more."

Genifrede sat long with her face hidden on her lover's shoulder, speechless. After repeated entreaties that she would say one word, Moyse raised her up, and, looking in her face, said authoritatively—

"You will do as I say, Genifrede?"

"Moyse, I dare not. No, no, I dare not! If, when we are dead, you should be dead to me too! And how do we know? If, the very next moment, I should see only your dead body with my own—if you should be snatched away somewhere, and I should be alone in some wide place—if I should be doomed to wander in some dreadful region, calling upon you for ever, and no answer! Oh, Moyse! we do not know what fearful things are beyond. I dare not; no, no, I dare not! Do not be angry with me, Moyse!"

"I thought you had been ready to live and die with me."

"And so I am—ready to live anywhere, anyhow—ready to die, if only we could be sure—Oh! if you could only tell me there is nothing beyond—"

"I have little doubt," said Moyse, "that death is really what it is to our eyes—an end of everything."

"Do you think so? If you could only assure me of that—But, if you were really quite certain of that, would you wish me to die too?"

"Wish it! You must—you shall," cried he, passionately. "You are mine—mine for ever; and I will not let you go. Do not you see—do not you feel," he said, moderating his tone, "that you will die a slow death of anguish, pining away, from the moment that cursed firing in the Place strikes upon your ear? You cannot live without love—you know you cannot—and you shall not live by any other love than mine. This little sign," said he, producing a small carved ivory ring from his pocket-book, "This little sign will save you from the anguish of a thousand sleepless nights, from the wretchedness of a thousand days of despair. Take it. If shown at Number 9, in the Rue Espagnole, in my name, you will receive what will suffice for us both. Take it, Genifrede."

She took the ring, but it presently dropped from her powerless hands.

"You do not care for me," said Moyse, bitterly. "You are like all women. You love in fair weather, and would have us give up everything for you; and when the hurricane comes, you will fly to shelter, and shut out your lover into the storm."

Genifrede was too wretched to remind her lover what was the character of his love. It did not, indeed, occur to her. She spoke, however:—

"If you had remembered, Moyse, what a coward I am, you would have done differently, and not have made me so wretched as I now am. Why did you not bid me bring the red water, without saying what it was, and what for? If you had put it to my lips—if you had not given me a moment to fancy what is to come afterwards, I would have drunk it—oh, so thankfully! But now—I dare not."

"You are not afraid to live without me."

"Yes, I am. I am afraid of living, of dying—of everything."

"You once asked me about—"

"I remember—about your spirit coming."

"Suppose it should come, angry at your failing me in my last desire?"

"Why did you not kill me? You know I should have been thankful. I wish the roof would fall and bury us now."

She started and shrieked when she heard some one at the door. It was her father's servant, who told her that Madame Dessalines had arrived, and that L'Ouverture wished her to come and receive her friend. The servant held the door open, so that there was opportunity only for another word.

"Remember," said Moyse, "they are not to seduce or force you back to Pongaudin to-day. Remember, you are not fit to travel. Remember," he again said, holding up the ivory ring, and then thrusting it into her bosom, "you come to me as soon as the trial is over. I depend upon you."

He led her, passive and silent, to the door, where he kissed her hand, saying, for the ear of any one who might be without, "For once, I cannot accompany you further. Tell Madame Dessalines that I hope to pay my respects to her soon." He added, to the servant—

"See that Julien is at Mademoiselle L'Ouverture's orders, till I need his services myself."

The man bowed, pleased, as most persons are, to have a commission to discharge for a prisoner. Before he had closed the door, Genifrede was in the arms of Therese.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

PANGS OF OFFICE.

That night. Madame Dessalines was alone in a dimly-lighted apartment of Government-house—dimly-lighted except by the moon, shining in full at the range of windows which overlooked the gardens, so as to make the one lamp upon the table appear like a yellow taper. For most of the long hours that she had sat there, Therese had been alone. Denis had entered, before his departure homewards, to ask what tidings he was to carry to Pongaudin from her. Father Laxabon had twice appeared, to know if he could not yet see Genifrede, to offer her consolation; and had withdrawn, when he found that Genifrede was not yet awake. Madame Dessalines' maid had put her head in so often as to give her mistress the idea that she was afraid to remain anywhere else; though it did not quite suit her to be where she must speak as little as possible, and that little only in whispers. So Therese had been, for the most part, alone since sunset. Her work was on the table, and she occasionally took up her needle for a few minutes; but it was laid down at the slightest noise without; and again and again she rose, either to listen at the chamber-door which opened into the apartment, or softly to pace the floor, or to step out upon the balcony, to refresh herself with looking down upon the calm lights and still shadows of the gardens.

In the centre of one division of these gardens was a fountain, whose waters, after springing in the air, fell into a wide and deep reservoir, from whence were supplied the trenches which kept the alleys green and fresh in all but the very hottest weeks of the year. Pour straight walks met at this fountain—walks hedged in with fences of citron, geraniums, and lilac jessamine. These walks were now deserted. Every one in the house and in the town was occupied with something far different from moonlight strolls, for pleasure or for meditation. The chequered lights and shadows lay undisturbed by the foot of any intruder. The waters gleamed as they rose, and sparkled as they fell; and no human voice, in discourse or in laughter, mingled with the murmur and the splash. Here Therese permitted herself the indulgence of the tears which she had made an effort to conceal within.

"These young creatures!" thought she. "What a lot! They are to be parted—wrenched asunder by death—by the same cause, for indulgence of the same passion, which brought Jacques and me together. If the same priest were to receive their confession and ours, how would he reconcile the ways of God to them and to us? The thought of my child burns at my heart, and its last struggle—my bosom is quivering with it still. For this Jacques took me to his heart, and I have ever since had—alas! not forgetfulness of my child—but a home, and the good fame that a woman cannot live without, and the love of a brave and tender heart—tender to me, however hard to those we hate. Jacques lives in honour, and in a station of command, though he hates the whites with a passion which would startle Moyse himself—hates them so that he does not even strive, as I do, to remember that they are human—to be ready to give them the cup of cold water when they thirst, and the word of sympathy when they grieve. He would rather dash the cup from their parched lips, and laugh at their woes. Yet Jacques lives in peace and honour at his palace at Saint Marc, or is, in war, at the head of troops that would die for him: while this poor young man, a mere novice in the passion, is too likely to be cast out, as unworthy to live among us—among us who, God knows, are in this regard more guilty than he! The time may come, when Genifrede's first passion is over, when I may tell her this. Hark! that trumpet! The court-martial has broken up. Oh, I wish I could silence that trumpet! It will waken her. It is further off—and further. God grant she may not have heard it!"

She stepped in, and to the chamber-door, and listened. There was no stir, and she said to herself that her medicine had wrought well. From the window, which opened on one of the courtyards, she heard the shuffling of feet, and the passing by of many persons. She dared not look out; but she felt certain that the trial was over, that the officers were proceeding to their quarters, and the prisoner to his solitude. Her heart beat so that she was glad to return to her seat, and cover her eyes from the light. She was startled by the opening of the door from the corridor. It was L'Ouverture; and she rose, as every one habitually did, at his approach.

"Genifrede?" he said, anxiously, as he approached.

Therese pointed to the chamber, saying softly—

"She is there. I do not know what you will think of the means I have taken to procure her sleep. But she was so shaken—she so dreaded this night!"

"You have given her medicine. Is she asleep?"

"I gave her henbane, and she is asleep."

"Is there a chance of her sleeping till noon?"

"If she be not disturbed. I have carefully darkened the room. What, has been done?" she inquired, looking in his face. Struck with its expression, she exclaimed, "How you have suffered!"

"Yes. Life is bitter to those whom God has chosen. If Moyse did but know it, I almost envy him his rest."

"Is it over, then? is he dead?"

"He dies at sunrise. You think Genifrede may sleep till noon?"

Therese could not reply, and he proceeded—

"He is found guilty, and sentenced. There was no escape. His guilt is clear as noonday."

"No escape from the sentence," said Therese, eagerly. "But there is room for mercy yet. You hold the power of life and death over all the colony—a power like that of God, and put into your hand by Him."

"A power put into my hand by Him, and therefore to be justly used. Moyse's crime is great, and mercy to him would be a crime in me. I have fault enough already to answer for in this business, and I dare not sin yet further."

"You yourself have sinned?" said Therese, with a gleam of hope in her countenance and tone.

"Yes. I ought to have discerned the weakness of this young man. I ought to have detected the passions that were working in him. I was misled by one great and prolonged effort of self-control in him. I appointed an unworthy officer to the care of the lives and safety of the whites. Many of them have gone to lay their deaths to my charge in heaven. All I can now do is, by one more death (would to God it were my own!) to save and to reassure those who are left. It is my retribution that Moyse must die. As for Paul, as for Genifrede—the sin of the brother is visited upon the brother—the sin of the father upon the child."

"But," said Therese, "you speak as if you had caused the innocent to be destroyed. Some few harmless ones may have died; but the greater number—those who were sought by the sword's point—were factious tyrants—enemies of your Government, and of your race—men who rashly brought their deaths upon themselves. They were passionate—they were stubborn—they were cruel."

"True—and therefore were they peculiarly under my charge. I have guaranteed the safety of the whites; and none need my protection so much as those who do not, by justice, obedience, and gentleness, by gaining the good-will of their neighbours, protect themselves."

"But Moyse did not murder any. He was not even present at any death."

"It has just been proved that, while he knew that slaughter was going on, he took no measures to stop it. The ground of his guilt is plain and clear. The law of the revolution of Saint Domingo, as conducted by me, is No retaliation. Every breach of this law by an officer of mine is treason; and every traitor to the whites must die."

"Alas! why so harsh now—only now? You have spared the guilty before, by tons, by hundreds. Why, now, cause all this misery for this one young life?"

"Those whom I have spared were my personal foes; and I spared them not so much for the sake of their separate lives, as for the sake of the great principles for which I live and govern—reconciliation and peace. For this end I pardoned them. For this end I condemn Moyse."

"You make one tremble," said Therese, shuddering, "for one's very self. What if I were to tell you that it is not Moyse and Genifrede alone that—" She stopped.

"That hate the whites? I know it," replied Toussaint. "I know that if God were to smite all among us who hate His children of another race, there would be mourning in some of the brightest dwellings of our land. I thank God that no commission to smite such is given to me."

Therese was silent.

"My office is," said Toussaint, "to honour those (and they are to be found in cottages all through the island) who forgive their former oppressors, and forget their own wrongs. Here, as elsewhere, we may take our highest lesson from the lowliest men. My office is to honour such. As for the powerful, and those who think themselves wise—their secret feelings towards all men are between themselves and God."

"But if I could prove to you, at this moment, that Moyse's enmity towards the whites is mild and harmless—his passions moderation, compared with the tempest in the breasts of some whom you employ and cherish—would not this soften you—would it not hold your hand from inflicting that which no priest can deny is injustice in God?"

"I leave it to no priest, Therese, but to God Himself, to vindicate His own justice, by working as He will in the secret hearts, or before the eyes of men. He may have, for those who hate their enemies, punishments too great for me, or any ruler, to wield; punishments to which the prison and the bullet are nothing. You speak of the tempest within the breast: I know at this moment, if you do not, that years of imprisonment, or a hundred death-strokes, are mercy compared to it. But no more of this! I only say, Therese, that while Jacques—"

"Say me too!"

"While Jacques and you secretly hate, I have no concern with it, except in my secret heart. But if that hatred, be it more or less than that of this young man, should interfere with my duty to friend or foe, you see, from his fate, that I have no mercy to grant. Jacques is my friend: Moyse was to have been my son."

Neither could immediately speak. At length, Toussaint signed once more to the chamber-door, and once more said—

"Genifrede?"

"I have something to tell you—something to show you," replied Therese. "Her sleep or stupor came upon her suddenly: but she kept a strong grasp upon the bosom of her dress. When I laid her on the bed, she kept her hands clasped one upon the other there. As she slept more heavily, the fingers relaxed; her hands fell, and I saw one end of this."

She produced a phial.

"Ha! the red water!" exclaimed Toussaint.

"I thought it was," said Therese.

"Who taught her this? Who has been tampering with her, and with her life?"

"Perhaps this may tell," said Therese, showing the ivory ring.

Toussaint closely examined the ring, and then drew his hand across his brows.

"How strange," said he, "are old thoughts, long forgotten! This bit of ivory makes me again a young man, and a slave. Do you remember that I once had the care of the sick at Breda, and administered medicines?"

Therese shuddered. She remembered that when her infant was taken ill, Papalier had sent for Toussaint, because, though Toussaint was no longer surgeon to the quarter at Breda, he was thought to have great knowledge and skill. Toussaint remembered nothing of this particular incident, and was not aware how he had touched her feelings. He went on:

"I began that study as all of my race have begun it, till of late, in superstition. With what awe did I handle charms like this! Can it be possible that my poor child has been wrought upon by such jugglery? What do you know about it?"

"No more than that the charm and the poison were hidden in her bosom."

"It is hard to trouble a dying man," said Toussaint, "but the survivor must be cared for. If Moyse has poisoned her mind, as I much fear, he would have poisoned her body—But no—it is an atrocious thought. If I wrong him—if his love for her is faithful, he will be glad to tell me what he knows, that her sick mind may be well tended. Father Laxabon is coming presently, to go to Moyse, and leave him no more. I will go with him."

"How you suffer! How you must suffer!" said Therese, again speaking her thoughts, as she looked in his face.

"It is worse than going to my death," replied he; "but for my child's sake—for my poor brother's sake, too—it must be done."

He could say no more. Till Father Laxabon came, he paced the room—he listened at the chamber-door—he went out upon the balcony, to hide, as Therese well understood, his tears of agony. He again entered, listened again at the chamber-door, and, hastily approaching the table, took up the phial, saying—

"Are you certain that this is all? Are you certain that she only sleeps, and is not dying—or dead?"

"Indeed, I am not certain," exclaimed Therese, starting up, and softly entering the chamber. Toussaint followed with the lamp, shading it carefully with his hand.

"Here is no pain," whispered Therese. "She breathes quietly. There is no pain. Satisfy yourself."

She took the light from his hand, and saw him stoop above his sleeping child, extending his hands over her, as if in the act of prayer or blessing.

"No pain, thank God!" he repeated, as they returned to the salon, where they found Father Laxabon.

"Are you prepared, father, to deal with a spirit as perturbed as that of the dead who cannot rest?"

"Christ will strengthen me for my office, my son."

"And the other sufferers?"

"My brethren are engaged with them. Every man of the black troops will be shriven this night."

"Are there more doomed?" asked Therese, faintly.

"There are. There are many guilty; and of some I must make an example. They know that they are guilty; but they know not yet which and how many are to be spared. The discipline of this night will, I trust, impress upon them that principle of our revolution which they have hitherto failed to learn, or have been tempted to forget. This night, father, will establish your precept and mine, and that of our Master—no retaliation. If not, may God direct us, by whatever suffering, to some other method of teaching it; for, at whatever cost, it must be learned! Let us begone."

"One moment," exclaimed Therese, in agitation. "You have not told me when—where—"

"He dies on the Place, at sunrise—a military, not an ignominious death. Father Laxabon and I shall both be near at hand when Genifrede wakes. Your task shall be shared, though we must leave you now."

Moyse had been permitted to remain in the same apartment which had been assigned to him after his arrest. When he heard the key turn in the lock, he sprang from his seat to the door, exclaiming—

"You have come at last! Oh, Genifrede! to have kept me waiting this last night—"

He turned, and walked back to his seat, when he saw his uncle and the priest.

"You expected Genifrede?" asked Toussaint.

"I did—naturally."

"She is asleep, and she must not be awakened. You would be the last to wish it, Moyse."

"Must not be awakened," repeated Moyse to himself, with something of doubt in his tone—something of triumph in his countenance.

"Perhaps you think," said Toussaint, fixing his eyes on the young man's face, "that she cannot be awakened. Perhaps you think that she may have drunk the red water?"

"She has told, then. A curse upon woman's cowardice and woman's treachery! Who would not have sworn that if ever a woman loved, Genifrede loved me? And now, when put to the test—"

"Now, when put to the test," interrupted Toussaint, "my poor child was prepared to die with you, though you had perplexed her mind with superstition—terrified her with spells and charms—"

"You do not know her, uncle. She herself told me that she dared not die with me, though it was the only—"

"And you wished it—you required it! You have striven to destroy her, body and soul, because you yourself were lost—and now you curse a woman's cowardice and treachery! I leave you with Father Laxabon. Hasten to confess and cleanse your soul, Moyse; for never soul needed it more. I leave you my pity and my forgiveness, and I engage for Genifrede's."

"Stop!" cried Moyse, "I have something to ask. Who has dared to keep Genifrede from me? She is mine."

"Think of her no more, except to implore Heaven's pardon for your intent towards her." And Toussaint produced the ivory ring and phial.

"Yes," exclaimed Moyse, "with that ring we obtained that water, which we were to have drunk together."

"Here, then, I break the bond by which she was yours." And Toussaint crushed the ring to dust with the heel of his boot, and dashed the phial against the ceiling, from whence the poisonous water sprinkled the floor.

"You spoke of treachery just now," said Moyse. "How do you propose to answer to my father for the charge he left you in me?"

"Be silent, my poor son," said Father Laxabon. "Do not spend your remaining moments in aggravating your crimes."

"A few minutes' patience, father. I never before ventured to speak freely to my uncle. Not on account of any severity of his—he never was severe to me—but on account of a certain awe I felt of him—an awe which the events of this day have had a wonderful power to dispel."

"It is well," said Toussaint. "There should be no awe of the creature when but a moment's darkness separates one from the Creator. Speak freely and fearlessly, Moyse."

"I ask," said Moyse, in a somewhat softened tone, "how you will answer to my father for the charge he left you in me?"

"Not by revealing to him the vices of the spirit he gave me to guide. If your father's heart must be broken for you, it shall be for having thus lost a noble and gallant son, and not for—But it is no time for reproach from me. Let me go now, my poor boy."

"Not yet, uncle. It is far from sunrise yet. How do you mean to report of me to Genifrede? Will you make her detest me? Will you work upon her fears—her fears of my ghost—to make her seek refuge with another? Will you trample on the memory of the dead, to drive her into the arms of some living lover, that you may no longer be reminded of the poor wretch that you first fostered, and then murdered?"

"Leave us!" said Laxabon to Toussaint. "He is desperate. Leave him to me, that he may not plunge deeper into sin with every word he speaks."

"Presently, father.—Moyse, what Genifrede hears of you will be according to what Father Laxabon has to report of your last hours. Be assured that I shall not interpose between you and her. It rests with yourself to justify her love, and engage her affections to your memory. She has been laid to sleep this night, not out of enmity to you, but to save her brain. As Providence has decreed, it has also saved her life. When she awakes, she will regard you as a martyr to a professional necessity. A woman's love is sanctified and made immortal when baptised in the blood of martyrdom. Hers may be so, if your last moments are full of holy contrition, and purged from passion. Of Father Laxabon, and not of me, will Genifrede inquire concerning you."

"This is kind—this is generous," said Moyse, looking wistfully in his uncle's face.

"And now," said Toussaint, "I have to ask you to be generous to me. I need and implore your pardon, Moyse. While you were yet weak and wayward, I neglected the necessary watch over you. Too prone to ease and satisfaction, for my child's sake and my own, I too soon concluded you a man, and imposed upon you the duties of a man. Your failure is my condemnation. I have cut short your discipline, and enabled you to throw away your life. All this, and much more, am I answerable for. Whether or not God may have mercy, can you yield me your pardon? I implore it, Moyse."

Moyse gazed at him in astonishment, and then cast himself at his uncle's feet, clinging to his knees, and crying—

"Save me! uncle, save me! You can—you will—"

"No, Moyse, I will not—I cannot," declared Toussaint, in a voice which silenced even that most piercing of all sounds—the cry for life.

"Not one word!" continued L'Ouverture. "Keep your entreaties for Him who alone can help you. Kneel to Him alone. Rise, Moyse, and only say, if you can say it, that your last prayer for me shall be for pardon."

The awe of man was not destroyed in Moyse. He looked humbly upon the ground, as he again stood before his uncle, and said—

"My destruction is my own work; and I have felt this throughout. But if you have ever done me wrong, may it be forgotten before God, as it is by me! I know of no such wrong."

"Thank God!" cried Toussaint, pressing him to his breast. "This is the temper which will win mercy."

"Leave us now," said Father Laxabon, once more; and this time he was obeyed.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

ALL EAR.

Therese was struck with awe as she stood, from time to time, beside the bed on which lay Genifrede. The room was so darkened that nothing was to be seen; but there she lay, breathing calmly, motionless, unconscious, while the blessings and hopes of her young life were falling fast into ruins around her. It seemed treacherous, cruel, thus to beguile her of that tremendous night—to let those last hours of the only life she prized pass away unused—to deprive her of the last glances of those eyes which were presently to be dim in death—of the latest tones of that voice which soon would never speak more. It seemed an irreparable injury to rob her of these hours of intense life, and to substitute for them a blank and barren sleep. But it was done. It was done to save her intellect; it had probably saved her life; and she could not now be wakened to any purpose. With sickening heart, Therese saw the moonlight disturbed by grey light from the east. In a few minutes, the sun would leap up from the sea, to quench not only the gleams of moon and star, but the more sacred lamp of human life. Brief as was always the twilight there, never had the gushing in of light appeared so hasty, so peremptory as now. By the rousing up of the birds, by the stir of the breezes, by the quick unfolding of the flowers, it seemed as if Nature herself had turned against her wretched children, and was impatient till their doom was fulfilled. Therese resolved to return no more to the chamber till all should be over, lest light and sound should enter with her, and the sufferer be roused too soon.

As the yellow rays shone in fuller and fuller, the watcher's nerves were so stretched, that though she wrapped her head in her shawl as she sat, she felt as if the rustle of every leaf, the buzz of every insect-wing in the gardens, reached her ear. She heard at intervals the tap of a distant drum, and, she was certain, a discharge of firearms—not in a volley from the Place d'Armes, as she had expected, but further off, and mere dropping shot. This occurred so often, that she was satisfied it was not the execution; and, while she drew a deep breath, hardly knew whether to feel relieved or not. The door from the corridor presently opened and closed again, before she could throw back the shawl from her face. She flew to the door, to see if any one was there who could give her news. Monsieur Pascal was walking away toward the further end. When she issued forth, he turned and apologised for having interrupted her, believing that the salon would be unoccupied at this early hour.

"Tell me—only tell me," said she, "whether it is over."

"Not the principal execution—it is about going forward now. I came away—I saw what melted my soul; and I could endure no more."

"You saw L'Ouverture?" said Madame Dessalines, anxiously.

Monsieur Pascal went back with her into the salon, as glad to relieve his mind as she was eager to hear.

"I saw," said he, "what I never could have conceived of, and would never have believed upon report. I have seen man as a god among his fellow-men."

A gleam of satisfaction lighted up Madame Dessalines' face, through its agony.

"It was too touching, too mournful to be endured," resumed Monsieur Pascal. "The countenances of those poor creatures will haunt me to my dying hour. Never was man idolised like L'Ouverture. For him, men go willingly to their deaths—not in the excitement of a common danger; not for glory or for a bright future—but solitary, in ignominy, in the light of a calm sunrise, with the eyes of a condemning multitude upon them. Without protest, without supplication—as it appears, without objection—they stoop to death at his word."

"I do not know—I do not understand what has been done," said Therese. "But does not every black know that L'Ouverture has no private interests—nothing at heart but the good of us all?"

"That is the spell," replied Pascal. "This sacrifice of his nephew will confirm it with my countrymen, as well as with yours, for ever. These thirteen others—for he has sacrificed thirteen of the soldiers, for dereliction of duty in the late rising—these thirteen are from the garrison of Cap, chiefly, though it is said two or three are from Limbe. All the soldiery from these two places, and from Port Dauphin, are upon the Place. L'Ouverture stood in the midst and addressed them. He told them that it was needless to explain to them what they had been learning from his whole course of conduct, since he was chosen by the blacks to lead and govern them. It was needless to insist on the protection due to every inhabitant of the colony, and especially the whites; and on the primary duty of a liberated race—that of keeping the peace. They knew their duty as well as he did; and those who had violated it should suffer the long-declared and inevitable punishment of death. All knew that everything was prepared on the rampart, near at hand. L'Ouverture walked slowly along each line of the soldiery; and I declare to you, Madame, that though all knew that he was selecting victims for instant death, there was passionate love in every face."