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 Hédouville.”
“Oh, grandpapa! very few whites are gone—they were chiefly mulattoes who went with Hédouville; 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 Hédouville 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.