Valentine was an exquisitely beautiful boy; he was like his Mestizza mother, in the clear, dark-brown skin, and regular aquiline features; but, instead of her straight black locks, he had soft, shining, bluish-black hair, that fell in numerous spiral ringlets all around his neck, and when he stooped veiled his cheeks. In startling, yes, in absolutely frightful contrast to that dark skin and raven black hair and eyebrows, were his clear, light-blue, Saxon eyes! One who understands scientifically, or feels intuitively, the nature of such a fearful combination of antagonistic and never-to-be-harmonized elements of character, fated without the saving grace of God, to become the elements of insanity and crime, cannot look upon its external outward signs without shuddering.
Think of it; and wonder, if you can, at anything in his after life! Think of a boy combining in his own nature the ardent passions and impulsive temperament of the African negro, the tameless love of freedom of the North American Indian, and the intellectual power and domineering pride of the Anglo-Saxon. Place him in the condition of a pet slave; leave him without moral and Christian instruction; alternately praise and pamper or condemn him—not as his merit, but as your caprice decides; let him grow up in that manner, and, as it seems to me, the result is so sure that it might be demonstrated in advance.
Both the boys were great favorites with the visitors who frequented the house. Oswald, as the son of the host, and also for his bright, joyous, frolicsome nature; and Valentine, for his beauty, wit, and piquant sauciness. Willingly would Phædra have kept the lad away from the "white folks," but Oswald would not suffer his playmate to be separated from himself. Nor when the visitors had once discovered Valentine's value as an entertainer, would they have spared him.
The lads did not seem in the least to understand their relations as young master and servant, but behaved in all respects toward each other as peers—the quicker and more impulsive nature taking the lead as a matter of course. And that nature happened to belong to the Mestizza's son.
Valentine had the keenest appreciation of pleasure, and the quickest intelligence in discovering the way to it. In all their boyish amusements, Valentine was the purveyor; in all their adventures, he was the leader—Oswald entering into all his plans, and following all his suggestions, with the heartiest good-will. And, in all their childish misdemeanors, he was the tempter, and always, also, the willing scapegoat—that is to say, when in a fit of generosity to shield Oswald, he voluntarily assumed all the blame, he was perfectly willing to take all the punishment; but, on the contrary, if both were discovered in flagrante delicto, and he only punished, then at such injustice, he would fly into the most ungovernable fury, that would sometimes end in frenzy and congestion of the brain. It was these maniacal fits of passion that procured for him the sobriquet of Little Demon, conferred upon him by the negroes of the plantation, in opposition to that of Little Prince, given him by the visitors at the house.
Often, too, the boy gave evidence of reflection and of feeling, beyond his years; as, for instance, once, when he was but nine years old, a lady, who delighted in his childish beauty, grace, and wit, allowed him frequently to ride in the carriage with her, and accompany her, when making visits, or on going to places of amusement. One day, when she was gently stroking his silky curls, he suddenly dropped his head into his hands, and burst into tears.
"Why, Valley! what is the matter?" she asked, again caressing his beautiful head. But, at the gentle caress and the gentle tone, he wept more passionately than ever. "Why, Valley! what is the matter? Have I hurt your feelings? Have any of us hurt your feelings?" she asked, knowing his sensitive nature, and imagining that some thoughtlessness on her part, or on some one else's, might have wounded it. "Have any of us hurt your feelings, Valley?"
"Yes, you have! all of you have! and you do all the time!"
The lady laughed, for it struck her as very droll to hear such a charge from the spoiled and petted boy. But the boy went on to speak with warmth and vehemence:
"You all treat me like a little poodle dog, or like a monkey; for you feed me, and you dress me up, and pet me, and laugh at me, and by and by you will drive me out."