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 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 
 
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 J 
 
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 MAR 16 
 
 L161 — 0-1096 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2017 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign Alternates 
 
 https://archive.org/details/storyofslaverealOOunse 
 
A realistic revelation of a social relation of slave timer * 
 hitherto unwritten— from the pen of one who 
 has fell both the lash and the caress 
 oj c mistress . 
 
 Fubusheb for thh Tsm 
 
 \ 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 Preface S 
 
 I. Your Master Wants a House-Boy 11 
 
 II. A House-Boy’s Temptation 19 
 
 III. The Young Mistress Returns 3$ 
 
 IY. An Unexpected Command 43 
 
 V. The Lash of the Mistress 52 
 
 VI. The Accident 66 
 
 VII. Awakening Sensibilities 77 
 
 VIII. A Sympathetic Auditor 87 
 
 IX. The Moth Lingers 98 
 
 X. Sunshine and Shadow 112 
 
 XI. The Aftermath of Anguish 121 
 
 XII. Welcome Visitors 130 
 
 XIII. Love Reigns Supreme 140 
 
 XIV. Disquieting Fears 159 
 
 XV. The Bitterness of Death 161 
 
 XVI. “Is a Woman’s Heart a Sponge?” 171 
 
 XVII. The Chastening Rod 181 
 
 Retrospection . 191 
 
 3 
 
Love scorns degrees ; the low he lifteth high, 
 
 The high he draweth down to that fair plane 
 Whereon, in his divine equality, 
 
 Two loving hearts may meet, nor meet in vain. 
 
 — Paul Hamilton Hayes. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 Had it been possible in the discussion of the Negro 
 Question in the ante-bellum days as well as since to 
 have removed its agitation from the political arena into 
 the more penetrating light of the Forum of Reason, in 
 which the vital questions of civilization alone find just 
 and final settlement, what bloodshed might have been 
 averted and what acrimony and sectional hatred might 
 never have been aroused to disturb the peace, the pros- 
 perity and tranquillity of our country? We are told 
 that the Civil War was inevitable. Yet in this hour 
 of dispassionate philosophy, it is clear to the unbiased 
 student of Sociology that had the Negro Question — the 
 institution of slavery — been more fully understood in 
 its social as well as political bearing, the settlement of 
 the question— one infinitely more just to all concerned 
 and promotive of an infinitely higher political and so- 
 cial status, might have resulted from a peaceful aban- 
 donment of an institution wholly foreign to the Ameri- 
 can atmosphere and equally inimical to American prog- 
 ress — social and industrial. But it was not understood, 
 and in failing to have been, lay the gravest conse- 
 quences to the peace of the Nation. 
 
 It is but just, however, that many of the distorted 
 and in many instances wholly inaccurate and perverted 
 views of slave life— painted in the moments of heated 
 and acrimonious partisan debate — be corrected or whol- 
 ly obliterated. To accomplish this, it is necessary to 
 lift the dust-laden veil which has obscured the truer 
 pictures, and thereby give the reader who would look 
 upon a faithful portrayal, a glimpse into a social condi- 
 tion possible only in the Old South under slavery, 
 
 5 
 
6 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 of which comparatively little has been told and less 
 has been written. 
 
 We say glimpse, because in the narrative which fol- 
 lows the autobiographer confines himself to a faithful 
 accounting of the events which marked his own life in 
 bondage, analyzing the problems which slavery pre- 
 sented, only in their relevancy to his own condition. 
 Much that is not said, and more which cannot be writ- 
 ten, is plainly to be read between the lines. 
 
 As a penetralia of the old Southern home, it dis- 
 closes to profane eyes the anomalous relation which 
 the slave held in the household — a relation which hard- 
 ly justifies retaining some of the pictures which have 
 been burned into the imaginations of the people and 
 the very pages of history by the inflamed partisan and 
 misinformed philanthropist — pictures which invoked 
 such righteous indignation for the “ horrors ” of the 
 institution of slavery. Had the truer picture been 
 taken at the time — the abolition of the system would 
 have been demanded no less speedily — but its aban- 
 donment might have been accomplished at infinitely 
 less cost to the Nation, the people of the South, and 
 to the Negro himself.* 
 
 But every transgression of nature ’s laws carries with 
 it a swift and sure punishment, and who after com- 
 prehending the paradoxical position in w T hich the mas- 
 ter placed his bondman, but will regard the price paid 
 by the former as in the very nature of retributive jus- 
 tice. What excuse can be offered for such a blind dis- 
 regard of the very strongest law of nature? 
 
 That the slaveholder regarded the Negro as a human 
 
 *It is not the purpose of the prefacer to show wherein 
 Emancipation failed to solve the Negro Question — save so far 
 as any other party or political expedient could have done — 
 suffice it to point out the indisputable fact that the Negro 
 Question confronts us today and particularly the people of the 
 South with mein grave and portentous. Let the statesman 
 and the student examine the labor situation of the South and 
 then deny. 
 
THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 7 
 
 species of a lower type than his own — from which 
 status, despite, too, the oft-time preponderance of Cau- 
 casian blood, he . was morally and physically unable 
 to arise, much less aspire — was clearly shown in the 
 vast liberties allowed the slaves in the household. That 
 the bondman did on more than one occasion rise far 
 above the status described by the master, should not be 
 cause for wonder at this day, when both the political 
 and social equalities of the races are better understood, 
 if not generally conceded. And granting that a major- 
 ity of the slaves were incapable of attaining to an in- 
 tellectual equality with the masters, what excuse can 
 be offered for having imposed upon the bondman a con- 
 dition which was the very essence of refined cruelty 
 and torture? Did the slaveholder — the aristocratic 
 master — pay the penalty for his egregious blunder? 
 The traditions of the freedman will sufficiently 
 answer. 
 
 To those who have a correct knowledge of the fam- 
 iliarity which the Negro, now a freedman, enjoys today 
 in the Southern household , 4 ‘ The Story of a Slave ’ ’ will 
 not come wholly as a revelation. Much as the slave- 
 holder of former times and the present employer of 
 Negro labor in the South, regard themselves immeas- 
 urably above the black man, they held and still hold 
 the latter as an indispensable fixture in the household, 
 in the field, and in the factory. The Negro having been 
 accorded so useful and permanent a position in the 
 domestic and industrial fabric of the South, is it any 
 wonder that the social fabric should show upon its 
 woof of white the unmistakable evidences of its ever- 
 present warp — a cross of — black? To have expected 
 otherwise would have been to ignore the most impera- 
 tive, the most irresistible law of nature. 
 
 In the North, where freedom, and particularly Negro 
 freedom, has ever been preached as a gospel — where 
 emancipation was considered essential to the preserva- 
 tion of the Union— the Negro himself has ever been 
 held at arms-length socially, and freedman, though he 
 
8 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 has ever been, his social status has been one of the pre- 
 scribed limits, enforced by convention if not upheld by 
 law. Therefore, to a majority of the people of the 
 North the position of the slave in the old Southern 
 household will appear all the more anomalous, the ig- 
 norance of facts having resulted wholly from an inade- 
 quate and at best wholly superficial study of the 
 race and labor question of the South. 
 
 For this reason, coming even at this late day, “The 
 Story of a Slave, ” will carry with it ample food for 
 the serious reflections of the students of Sociology and 
 open up an avenue of discussion which has been ob- 
 structed by political exigency and through which alone 
 can come a pacific settlement of the social problem of 
 the South. 
 
 Dismissing entirely the importance of the philosoph- 
 ical deductions, which can be made from the pages 
 which follow, and looking at the “Story of a Slave ” 
 purely as the memoirs of one whose youth and early 
 manhood were spent in the despised station of a bond- 
 man, first, on the plantation, and later in the household 
 of his master in Alabama, the morals to be drawn, if 
 such there be, must depend largely upon their authen- 
 ticity as an autobiography. It is for this reason that 
 it is desired to fully impress the reader as to their 
 genuineness —without desiring or attempting to impose 
 upon his credulity in the smallest measure. The thread 
 of romance which runs throughout the narrative was 
 not spun from the distaff of Fiction, but from that 
 distaff of Fate, from which runs the ever-varying, 
 never-ending thread of destiny, holding in its slender 
 bond, joys for some and sorrows for us all. Is there 
 need to explain why the identity of the autobiographer 
 is withheld? Were the “Story of a Slave’ ’ an inven- 
 tion, or did it pursue less closely the events which in 
 almost startling sequence rounded up his life in bond- 
 age, or laid less bare the lives of those intimately re- 
 lated thereto, a pseudonym might have taken the place 
 of the real name of the author. But why attempt to 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 9 
 
 mislead investigation in one direction or invite specu- 
 lation in another by such an apparent subterfuge ? Could 
 the real name be given, it would startle the reader hard- 
 ly less sensibly than will the story. The eminence which 
 he has since attained, the well-earned successes which 
 have come to him in his life as a freedman, devoted 
 to labors which would adorn the proudest manhood, 
 would possibly be the strongest proofs which could be 
 advanced to convince the most skeptical as to the 
 truthfulness of the story, disclosing, as they would, a 
 character and personality which would reconcile even 
 the most intolerant “ nigger-hater ’ ’ to the startling, 
 yet not unnatural denounement of the story. 
 
 It is upon this one point, no doubt, that the veracity 
 ©f the autobiographer will be assailed, but to those who 
 may thrust aside as absurd or abhorrent the possibility 
 of such a relation between mistress and slave (the com- 
 mon relation between master and his black bondwomen 
 inquiring no proof or defence here) to them we will 
 say that hundreds of indisputable proofs can be quick- 
 ly advanced to show that such relations were not only 
 sustained in other instances, but that in many, nay, in 
 a majority, they did not as in this, emanate from, or 
 were they hallowed by, a mutual love, however justi- 
 fied they may have been by the wretchedly perverted 
 social condition of which they were an inevitable con- 
 sequence. 
 
 While in the annals of slavery there is scarcely a 
 mention of this condition, while in the volumes, written 
 and spoken in antagonism of the then existing system 
 of slavery never a syllable was uttered, while the press 
 itself with rare exceptions and with a consideration 
 strangely in contrast with journalistic enterprise of 
 this period, passed over the most flagrant instances, 
 without comment, often dismissing with “A Taste of 
 Hell for a Ravisher,” what should have been called 
 “Another Burnt Offering” on the altar of the Furies 
 of Slavery, it was and should have been one of the 
 strongest and most appealing reasons for the speedy 
 
10 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 abolition of the iniquitous system. And only one whtt 
 has given this subject the serious consideration it de- 
 serves, and acquainted himself with the real facts and 
 the social conditions which were inseparable from that 
 institution, can appreciate the truth and motive of the 
 “ Story of a Slave. ” 
 
 The Publishers. 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 YOUR MASTER WANTS A HOUSE-BOY. 
 
 I was born a slave on one of the river plantations 
 of my mother’s master, General Jules Choteaux, an 
 ©Id soldier of the Empire, who, after the disastrous 
 wreck of Waterloo, had sought safety to neck and for- 
 tune in the wilderness of Alabama. 
 
 It was no unmeaning boast of my mother that she 
 was no common negress. There was no Guinea blood 
 in her veins, no ashy Congo, but pure, proud Sene- 
 gambia. And more than that, she was of royal blood, 
 daughter of a prince and. granddaughter of a king. 
 Her father, “daddy T’sa” and mother, “mammy 
 Zozu, ” were brother and sister, eldest and twin chil- 
 dren of the King of Uamassa. Heirs to the throne, they 
 were married while children, and would have succeeded 
 to the kingdom had they not been captured by an in- 
 vading host and sold into slavery before they were 
 yet full grown. Happily, they were not separated 
 during the long voyage across the seas, and more for- 
 tunate still, they were both bought, with a gang of 
 ©thers, by the old General and placed upon the same 
 plantation, where, in due course of time, my mother 
 was born. 
 
 Inheriting something of her parent’s princely dig- 
 nity of character and pride of caste, my mother grew 
 up feeling an innate superiority to her black yoke- 
 mates in slavery. Her parents had told her of her 
 royal descent — for negroes are as tenacious of caste as 
 
 11 
 
12 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 other races — and taught her to despise the common 
 negro, the plebian herd. Thus despising, she could 
 not, when grown into lissom womanhood, consort with 
 one of their number, and so, looking higher, she gave 
 me for a father her young master. Jules, the eldest 
 son of General Choteaux — for negress as she was, and 
 black as the purest-blooded negro could be black, she 
 was a remarkably attractive woman, whose good looks, 
 graceful figure, voluptuous bust, cleanliness of dress, 
 and queenly air, caught the vagrant fancy of the young 
 master, not very dainty at best; and so, without 
 thought for the issue, 1 was begot— conceived and 
 born. 
 
 I am thus particular, at the risk of being tedious, 
 in giving the particulars of my lineage and birth, that 
 the reader in judging my presumption, my longings, 
 my desperate and seemingly sacrilegious love, may the 
 more fully understand all its controlling influences. I 
 wish them to see me as I was, to put themselves in my 
 place, to stand as I stood, a mulatto slave, but still 
 a man — a strong, robust man— with the blood of a 
 savage race of kings mingling in my veins with the 
 passionate blood of a high-spirited southerner, to feel 
 as I felt, .with the heart, the brain, the sensibilities and 
 the passions of a man. 
 
 My father never saw me ; he would not have ac- 
 knowledged or even noticed me if he had. The day 
 upon which I was born, he was killed in a duel at 
 Bladenhurg, a few miles beyond Washington. That 
 same year, the old master, General Choteaux, was 
 gathered to his fathers, and the vast plantations, with 
 the hundreds of negroes, passed into the possession of 
 his only surviving heir, Gustave Choteaux, at once my 
 uncle and my master. 
 
 I remember, very pleasantly, my boyhood’s days on 
 the plantation. Slavish though they were, they were 
 not hard. There were more negroes, stout, able-bodied 
 men and women, than could be profitably employed at 
 work, and .^ve. at certain seasons, to herd the cattle 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 13 
 
 in the canebrake, we youngsters had nothing to do but 
 to eat, to drink, to trap birds, to fish, and to roam the 
 woods for berries and nuts. The business of the old 
 plantation consisted as much in raising negroes as it 
 did in cotton or sugar, and like a lot of thoroughbred 
 colts fattening for market the young negroes were al- 
 lowed to frisk at will. 
 
 My aristocratic mother took care to impress me with 
 a due sense of my own superior birth. She told me of 
 my royal descent through her, and of my father’s 
 claims to distinguished ancestry. My grandfather, her 
 master, she told me, had been an officer under the 
 Grande Napoleon, and his father was a peer of 
 France. 
 
 “Through me,” she said, over and over again, “you 
 have the blood of kings in your veins, and through 
 your father you have the best blood of freemen. Now 
 you must remember this, and let me catch you fool- 
 ing with one of these corn-field niggers.” 
 
 Thus inspired and admonished, I fell into my moth- 
 er’s ways and grew up feeling in my own superior- 
 ity a pitying contempt for the more ignorant and stot- 
 ish of my fellow slaves. And then, a little later on, 
 as I grew more intelligent, my mind began to reach 
 out with a wondering yearning for knowledge. The 
 wish to learn how to read and write as I saw the over- 
 seer’s children learning, took posession of me. 
 
 I was handy with my knife and had fashioned me 
 a pretty bow and set of arrows, with which to shoot 
 birds, lizards and frogs. This toy excited the cupidity 
 of Yfillie Gans, the son of the overseer, a lad of about 
 my own age, and he proposed to buy it. I agreed to 
 let him have it for one of his old spelling books, pro- 
 vided he would teach me as far as “baker,” and the 
 lessons were started then and there. This was one Fri- 
 day afternoon, and by supper I had mastered the in- 
 tricate mysteries of the alphabet and by Sunday even- 
 ing I knew every little syllable and word to “baker.” 
 
 “And now, Willie,” I supplemented, “I will give 
 
14 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 you my pet squirrel and a poke full of goobers if you 
 .will teach me all through the book.” 
 
 “I will do it,” he said, and in a month’s time, en- 
 couraged by the plaudits of my mother, and by unflag- 
 ging interest and close application I was as perfect 
 in orthography as it was possible for that good old 
 spelling book to make me. 
 
 This, the most difficult step surmounted, I found no 
 further trouble in climbing into the temple of knowl- 
 edge the only drawback being the lack of books. 
 
 My mother helped me over this trouble by placing 
 a well-filled gourd of picayunes and dimes, the ac- 
 cumulated savings of her patient life, at my disposal, 
 and through the friendly offices of Willie, I managed 
 to get together quite a little shelf of simple but use- 
 ful books, stretching in their range from Mother 
 Goose’s Melodies to a battered copy of Pope’s Trans- 
 lation of Homer’s Iliad. 
 
 But time wore on and when I was about eighteen 
 years old, I, with a gang of other young fellows like 
 myself, was put in the field to work. The task was 
 light, however, and I did not mind it, I was young, 
 well grown to my age, in fact, a man in stature, active, 
 lithe and strong and happily had a ready knack and 
 disposition for work. I could easily lead all others in 
 anything we had to do. As I look back now after all 
 the changes that have come, and review my life and 
 my work on that river plantation, cut off almost from 
 all intercourse with the outside world, I do not find 
 in it so much to condemn or deplore. We worked, it 
 is true, but not tiringly or unwillingly. We were hale, 
 healthy and hearty. We had a sufficiency of palatable 
 and wholesome food, good clothes to wear, shelter 
 from the storm and fire from the frost, and so far as 
 the article of living, the matter of animal existence 
 was concerned, we were as well to do as kings, and a 
 deal more contented. 
 
 I have since made the history of labor and the sub- 
 
THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 15 
 
 jects of political and social economy a study, and slave 
 though I once was, and with all the prejudices against 
 the system, I do not hesitate to say, that in all my 
 researches in books or travels, I have never been able 
 to find a more contented, thrifty, prosperous, and 
 happy community of laborers than that which flour- 
 ished on the Cossetot plantation of Col. Gustave Chot- 
 eaux, in Alabama. 
 
 But this in digressive. Four years I worked in the 
 fields on the plantation, growing in the meanwhile into 
 stalwart manhood, when there came another great 
 change in my life. 
 
 It was in August when Colonel Choteaux, our mas- 
 ter, with his wife, our mistress, came on a visit of in- 
 spection to the plantation. It was the first in many 
 years that the master had come and was the first 
 within my memory that the mistress had ever been 
 seen. Their coming was greeted something like the 
 visit of a king with his consort to an outlying prov- 
 ince would have been, with loyal grins of welcome, 
 awkward bows of homage, and gaping wonder and, 
 withal, much gladness. 
 
 I remember my own sensations — comparatively well 
 read as I then was — I stood in open-eyed wonder and 
 speechless admiration of the splendor of the equipage ; 
 the elegance of the mistress’ toilet, the fragrance of 
 her presence, and the glitter and flash of her jewel- 
 ry. It was a marvel and a revelation to me. 
 Even Hance, the coachman, with his smooth hat, his 
 fleckless coat, long buff gauntlets and shiny boots, was 
 a surprise and a pleasure. 
 
 For two days they stopped, lodging at the overseer’s 
 house, and the morning they were ready to start away 
 a score of us young men, the likeliest of the lot, were 
 ordered to dress ourselves in our best and march up 
 to the yard for inspection. 
 
 “Your master wants a house-boy, and you must all 
 look your best and brightest,” explained Mr. Gans, 
 when he summoned us to go. 
 
16 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 Like recruits to be mustered in we were aligned in 
 one rank before the piazza, and with hats off and eyes 
 to the front we stood ready for inspection, each in 
 tremulous suspense for the issue; for, be it known, 
 that to be a house-boy, to live in the “big house/' to 
 wait upon the master and the mistress, was the acme 
 of a negro's ambition. It was to him an office more 
 exalted in dignity and honor than the office of queen's 
 chamberlain. No wonder we stood in breathless ex- 
 pectancy, while the master carelessly flashed his glance 
 up and down the line. 
 
 Thanks to my mother's tidy and cleanly habit, my 
 Sunday suit was in the neatest trim, and it was with 
 something nearly akin to pride that I took my place 
 in line next to the head. I felt proud of my strength, 
 proud of my stature, proud of my supple limbs, my well 
 turned wrists and shapely hands. I was proud too — I 
 may be pardoned for the vanity — of my head and face, 
 with gestures regular, clear cut and almost classic. 
 Baring the swarthy complexion and the too crispy 
 curling hair, there was but little of the negro that 
 showed in my physique. Could I have bleached my 
 skin and straightened the crisp locks, I could have 
 passed not only for a white man, but a strikingly hand- 
 some one at that. But alas ! as if in grim mockery 
 of my father's features, nature had given me my moth- 
 er's ebony skin, only softening it enough to let the 
 warm blood.show through when called up into my face 
 in a tide of passion or of anger. 
 
 I watched my master — who, be it remembered, was 
 my uncle also — and was struck with his pleasing ap- 
 pearance, handsome, good natured, easy, dainty. There 
 was nothing in form or features to suggest the remot- 
 est suspicion of kinship between us — my mother al- 
 ways declaring that my father was the handsomer man 
 of the two, and that they were antipodal in looks as 
 well as in disposition, my master fair and effeminate, 
 my father dark, rugged and manly. 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 17 
 
 All this I recalled as I watched his glance and then 
 I held my breath to catch his words as he spoke: 4 ‘That 
 fellow there in the middle! You, sir; what is your 
 name?” he asked, pointing to a full blown, lazy-eyed 
 negro who stood some distance below me. 
 
 “Name’s Handibal, sah.” 
 
 4 4 Hannibal is it ? How old are you ? ’ ’ 
 
 4 4 Do ’an know, sah. I’ze grown, I s’pects.” 
 
 4 4 Very well, I think you will do. What about him, 
 Gans ? ’ ’ 
 
 4 4 He is good enough for a house nigger, only lazy. 
 The strap though will keep him awake.” 
 
 4 4 Very well, that will give employment to Joe and 
 help to keep him awake. I will take Hannibal. What 
 say you, Pauline?” 
 
 “I don’t like him. There,” pointing to me, 4 4 is a 
 much likelier boy. What is your name?” 
 
 With a little triumph I placed my hands upon by 
 breast and bowed as gracefully as I could. 
 
 4 4 My name is Paul.” 
 
 44 A very good name! And how old are you?” 
 
 4 4 1 am twenty-two years old. ’ ’ 
 
 4 4 Ah! and do you think you could wait upon me, 
 rock my chair, swing my hammock, fan me to sleep, 
 fetch my slippers and such things?” 
 
 “I should be glad to serve you any way, as long as 
 I live,” I said a little impulsively, for I was carried 
 away by the prospect. 
 
 4 4 Ah! that is nice. And what of him, Mr. Gans?” 
 
 4 4 Oh ! he is an improvement on Ham. A little starchy 
 and slightly stuck up, but a good larruping occasion- 
 ally will keep him down ; only to do him justice I must 
 say that I never had to strike him a lick in my life. 
 He is one of - the best niggers on the place. It will be 
 a pity to spoil such a good field hand by making a 
 house-boy of him.” 
 
 4 4 Is he a good field hand? Then he will make a bet- 
 ter house servant, Gustave, we will take Paul.” 
 
 And thus it was decided that without any volition 
 
18 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 of my own, I was to be lifted out of the even tenor 
 of my old life, and transplanted from the field to the 
 garden, from the old cabin under the gnarled chest- 
 nut to the proud mansion among the elms. 
 
 I looked at my mistress and thanked her with my 
 most humble obeisance. She was a lovely lady, and 
 though the mother of grown-up children, was yet fresh 
 and fair with the traces of a once radiant beauty cling- 
 ing lovingly to her still. I felt that it would be no 
 drudgery to serve her, but a happiness, instead. 
 
 “You need not to trouble about clothes,” she said 
 as she waived me away. “We will have new clothes 
 made for you at home. Take nothing from here that 
 you would not wish to have burned. You will have to 
 strip when you get there and have your old clothes 
 burned. We can not allow the smell of the plantation 
 to invade the house.” 
 
 And with this I was dismissed to follow them on as 
 soon as I could catch and saddle my mule. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 A HOUSE-BOY’S TEMPTATION. 
 
 I had read in the rambling course of my studies of 
 the beautiful homes of the rich; pictures of suburban 
 villas and historic mansions had given me an idea of 
 architectural beauty and splendor, but I had never con- 
 ceived anything so really beautiful and grand as the 
 home mansion of my master. It was large, roomy and 
 elegant. A broad portico, columned with marble, run- 
 ning the entire length, shaded the front. To the right 
 of the spacious entrance hall was the parlor; opening 
 into this was the music room, and into this the pic- 
 ture gallery. To the left were the library, the gentle- 
 men’s smoking room and the billiard room. In an L 
 running back from, this was the cozy dining room. In 
 a corresponding wing on the right was the family sit- 
 ting room, opening into the master’s office and through 
 it into the mistress’ boudoir and bed room. The up- 
 per floors of this wing, reached by a broad stair-way 
 from the hall, was appropriated to the ladies’ rooms, 
 as the second story of the opposite wing was assigned 
 to the gentlemen, a court in the center separating the 
 two divisions. Still back of the dining room were the 
 kitchen and pantries, over which were the servant’s 
 rooms. Altogether it was a magnificent place, palatial 
 in the splendor of its appointments. 
 
 It was sun-down when I arrived and reported to my 
 master. 
 
 “Oh, yes, you are the new boy! Here Joe.” Joe 
 was the steward, or rather factotum of the household. 
 “Here, Joe, is a boy I have brought from the plantation 
 to take the place of Tom. He will wait upon the 
 
 19 
 
20 
 
 THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 mistress and attend to the women. You had better 
 stall him in the little cuddy upstairs at the end of the 
 ladies' hall. He looks like a stout young buck and the 
 girls will feel safer when they have such a burly young 
 fellow to keep off the boogers. Take him around to 
 the kitchen and give him his supper, and then shake 
 him down in his cell until morning when your mistress 
 will take him in hand. 7 7 
 
 “Yes, sah. Yere, yo 7 nigger, dis way, f oiler me / 7 
 said Joe, leading the way to the kitchen where a warm 
 supper was ready for me. 
 
 After supper and the interchange of courtesies with 
 my new mates, Joe conducted me around to the east 
 wing, up the stairway and through the ladies 7 hall to 
 my little cell of a room, a box as it were against the 
 outer wall at the end of the hall and overhanging the 
 rear veranda below. It opened into the hall and seemed 
 built for a sentry box from which to watch and guard 
 the sanctity of the ladies 7 rooms which occupied the 
 entire wing, opening on either side from the long, 
 broad hall. The room was bare of furniture but a roll 
 of carpeting spread upon the floor made an excellent 
 bed on which, bewildered by my strange and surpris- 
 ing surroundings, I vainly tried to sleep. 
 
 Early in the morning, Joe came for me, the more I 
 soon found, to show his authority than for anything 
 else. 
 
 “De fust thing yo 7 hab ter do ob a mornin 7 is ter 
 trot down ter de wash-hole an' jump years ober head 
 an 7 scrub yerself , 77 he explained, leading the way, with 
 the household gang, to the wash-house. After break- 
 fast he conducted me back into the master 7 s office for 
 instructions. 
 
 “Oh, here you are again; well, Joe, take him to his 
 mistress. He is her dog. She will tell you what to do 
 with him/' pointing by a nod of the head to the 
 mistress’s room. 
 
 Without the ceremony of knocking* Joe pushed me f 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 21 
 
 before him into the chamber of the mistress, where 
 much to my confusion we found her sitting in the 
 airiest kind of a morning dress, whiie her maid was 
 combing her hair. 
 
 And right here, as this is a history of the inner life, 
 the penetralia of the old southern home, it may not 
 be amiss to refer to one of its most peculiar, puzzling 
 and paradoxical features. I mean the shameless, or 
 not shameless, but rather unconscious, though immod- 
 est familiarity of the southern mistress with slave, 
 male or female, boy or man. 
 
 I know that they were modest, these southern mist- 
 resses. The slightest approach to a wilful indecency 
 would cause their cheeks to burn scarlet and call down 
 a swift and sure reprimand upon the indiscreet slave 
 that exhibited it. But in their intercourse with their 
 negro slaves they seemed to have no thought of pro- 
 priety, no sense of shame, no idea of immorality. I 
 remember the surprise, even shock it gave me that 
 morning when I stood in her chamber and looked upon 
 that proud lady, more loosely draped than I had ever 
 seen my own mother. But abashing as was the sight, 
 my first experience, it was nothing, hardly a sugges- 
 tion of imprudence, to what I was afterwards to see 
 and at last learn to look upon with indifferent famil- 
 iarity. It may seem incredible to those who do not 
 know, but I have been called into her bath-room to ad- 
 just the faucet or to temper the bath while she stood 
 by as innocent of drapery, and I may say as uncon- 
 scious of impropriety, as Mother Eve when she first 
 stood before the wondering eye of Adam. 
 
 And yet Madam Choteaux was not a lickerish, or 
 even immodest woman. She would have screamed in 
 confusion and blushed crimson had it been her own 
 husband instead of me, the negro slave, who stood 
 gaping upon her. 
 
 The slaveholders, masters and mistresses had been 
 educated to regard their negroes as they regarded the 
 
23 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 furniture, or their cats and dogs, a species of domes- 
 tic fixture, having eyes to see not, and ears to hear 
 not, senses to feel, and yet to feel not. My God ! when 
 I look back upon those times, and knowing the warm, 
 passionate, almost bestial propensities of my race, and 
 the terrible temptations which the then prevailing, un- 
 conscious indiscretions of the southern mistresses in 
 the exposure of their charms, daily put before their 
 slaves, I shudder even now at the danger and can only 
 wonder that there were not more outrages, with the in- 
 evitable hanging or burning, or emasculation follow- 
 ing swiftly after.* 
 
 It is for this, the removal of such a terrible tempta- 
 tion from the weakness of my helpless fellow slaves, 
 more than any, emoluments freedom has brought them, 
 that I thank my God for the abolition of a system that 
 made such a social condition possible. 
 
 Nor was this imprudent exposure of charms that 
 should have been hidden, confined to the matron or 
 mistress alone. The girls and young ladies were taught 
 from babyhood to regard the negro boy or man as a 
 stick or stone, a species of animated dummy, with only 
 feeling and sense enough to fetch and carry. 
 
 The eunuchs in the eastern harem had no more lib- 
 erty of associates with the inmates of the seraglio than 
 the southern negro slave had with the ladies of his 
 master’s house. 
 
 Take my own case, for instance. I was a young 
 man, healthy, strong and robust and full of animal 
 
 *The legal tribunals were not troubled with such offenses, 
 but conventional usage, more swift and more inexorable, had 
 prescribed the punishment according to the degree of the 
 offense. Of these degrees there were three, rape, assault and 
 fornication. The penalty for the first was burning at the 
 stake, for the second hanging, and the third castration and 
 sale to the “specualtor,” or negro trader, the master being both 
 judge and executioner. Sometimes the value of the negro and 
 the cupidity of the master, influenced the judgment, and not 
 infrequently castration and sale took the place of death. 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 23 
 
 spirits, a stranger in the house, and yet, I was to bfe 
 invested with the keys and midnight surveillance of 
 every lady’s chamber in the house. It was to be my 
 duty, not absolutely, to disrobe and put them to bed, 
 but to stand by if I wished and look on while the more 
 deft-fingered maid performed the delicate service. And 
 then, when all were tucked snugly away and ready 
 for dreamland, it remained for me to see that the 
 windows were secured, the fire well banked and all 
 safe before I could go. And then, the first in the morn- 
 ing I had to go in and kindle the fire, to arrange the 
 bath and to polish the dainty boots. This much I write, 
 to further explain the bewildering, entrancing, treach- 
 erous, smoothness of the stream upon which, helpless 
 as a cork drifting down Niagara, my destiny had been 
 launched. 
 
 ^ ^ ^ ^ 
 
 “Well, what is it, Joe?” asked my mistress with- 
 out troubling herself to close the openi placquet 
 through which two still plump and pinky breasts un- 
 winkingly peered. 
 
 “Yere’s dis nigger wot yo’ fotched from the corn- 
 field. Marster tole me to fotch ’im ter yer an’ ax yo’ 
 wot ter do wid ’m.” 
 
 “Oh, yes, the new boy, Peter, I had forgotten.” 
 
 “Not ‘Peter,’ but ‘Paul,’ if you please, ma’am,” I 
 respectfully corrected. 
 
 “Oh, yes, so it is; well, Joe, the first thing is to 
 have him properly dressed. Take him to the tailor and 
 have an outfit at once, everything from his shoes 
 to his hat. You seem to look neat; have you taste 
 enough to know what is becoming to you or shall I 
 write Mr. Murdough to select for you?” she asked, 
 turning to me. 
 
 “I should like best to please you and not myself,” 
 I answered. 
 
 “Very well; Joe, tell Mr. Murdough to fit him up 
 nicely, and have two other suits made for him. And, 
 
24 
 
 THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 mind, when you come back, take him down to the 
 wash-house and have him scrubbed. Make him scrub 
 himself from the crown of his head to the sole of his 
 feet. Burn up your old clothes, and then when you 
 are properly dressed you can come to me and let me 
 see if I can make anything out of you/’ and with a 
 wave of her hand she dismissed us. 
 
 At the gate Joe put on the air of a master. 
 
 “ Yo ’ go down ter de lot dar, an’ tell Dick ter 
 eotch my mare foh me, an’ yo’ cotch a mule foh yo ’it- 
 self, an’ lemme tel yo’ boy yo’s got ter step along 
 a heap moah libely or fuss thing yo’ knows I’ll hab 
 ter take a cowhide ter yo’. Yo’ moves too slow ter 
 suit me; mine, now, wot I tells yo’; niggers has got 
 ter stir der stumps when dey roosts ’bout me, I do ’an 
 like a nigger no how.” 
 
 I felt strongly tempted to resent this gratuitous in- 
 solence, but was not certain of the fellow’s authority 
 and power, and so hurried awpy to execute his order 
 without cavil. 
 
 The horses were soon ready and mounting we rode 
 away in a trot, Joe asserting his dignity by springing 
 a few paces ahead, while I a little doggedly jogged on 
 behind. 
 
 As soon, however, as we were well out of sight from 
 the house the fellow’s garrulous curiosity got the bet- 
 ter of his dignity, and nodding back for me to come 
 up he commenced : 
 
 “Now, Buck, I wants ter know who yo’ is, an’ whar 
 yo’ comes from; wot’s yer marmmy’s name, an’ all 
 ’bout yer?” 
 
 I thought it well enough to conciliate his friendli- 
 ness and answered with due respect that my name was 
 “Paul,” and that I came from the plantation 
 
 “Wot one ob de plantations, yo’ signify?” he in- 
 terrupted. 
 
 “Oh v the master’s plantation, of course.” 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 25 
 
 “But wot one, yo’ fool yo’; do ’an yo’ knows dat 
 we uns hab three plantations?” 
 
 “No, I did not know it.” 
 
 “Well den, we has. Dar’s de Muskerdine planta- 
 tion, an’ dar’s de Magnowly place, an’ dar’s de Cos- 
 sertot, wid ober a hundred niggers on each place, wid 
 mules accordin’. Now, wot one am it yo’ was fetched 
 up on?” 
 
 “I do not know the name, but suppose it must be 
 the Cossetot, as that is the name of the stream that 
 runs through it.” 
 
 “Who’s der boss oberseer?” 
 
 “Mr. Gans.” 
 
 “Yuh, dat’s de Cossertot. An’ wot de debbil yo’ 
 specs ole mistus wants wid yo, ; dar’s ten boys a ’ready 
 in de house, an’ dat’s moah dan I kin keep strate.” 
 
 I could not enlighten him on that point, and he 
 went on. 
 
 “An’ how yo’ ’spects yo’ll like it? Yo’ll fine Miss 
 Pauline a monstrous good mistus, ’cept w T ’en yo’ makes 
 her mad, an’ den, phew, we’n yer jist git her dander 
 up she’s a pufect singe cat. I tell yo,’ nigger, yo’ll 
 hab ter walk a chalked line we’n yo’ steps ’bout her.” 
 
 I assured him it would be my greatest care to al- 
 ways please her, and then, still uneasily perplexed at 
 our unceremonious intrusion upon the privacy of her 
 chamber, I asked: 
 
 “Don’t you think it was too saucy in us to go into 
 her room as we did this morning and catch her un- 
 dressed. I am sorry we did it.” 
 
 “Shoo, boy, dats nuffin’, yo’ll soon get usen ter all 
 dem kine o’ tricks. De mistus do ’an no moah kere 
 f er yo ’ den she do for de ole pussy cat. But mine, now, 
 nigger, lem me tell yer, yo’ mussen mine needer. Yo’ 
 haster keep yer fool eyes shet an’ do ’an yer see nuf- 
 fin’, an’ zif yer do peep one eye on it, sorter sly like, 
 des keep yer mouf shet an’ hole yer tongue. Dem i? 
 things as mussent be talked ’bout, or fust thing yt' 
 
26 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 knows, yer’ll des know nuffin’. Dat war des de mat- 
 ter wid Tom.” 
 
 “With Tom?” I asked. 
 
 “Yuh; de nigger wot waited on de wimmin fokses 
 afore. Tom got too biggity like, an’ went sniggerin’ 
 one day we’en de mistus slipped up on a bannaner 
 peelin’ on de porch an’ happen ter hab er little axcer- 
 dent.” 
 
 “Accident?” I repeated. 
 
 “Yuh, axcerdents will sometimes happen ter de qual- 
 ity folks as well’s ter de buckra, an’ so mistus’ heels 
 flewed up an’ Tom seed sumfin’, an’ den stid o’ shettin’ 
 his eyes like a nigger orter, de blame fool went ter 
 sniggerin’ like a baboon, an’ de nex’ day he war 
 marched off ter town an’ sole ter a specerlater, an’ 
 dats de lass we’s seed ob him. White fokses is mity 
 kurus fokses enyhow, an’ dey won’t stan’ fer a nig- 
 ger ter notis nuffin’, leas ’wise zif dey do dey mussen’t 
 go ter grinnin’ at ’em. White lady’s tricks wosn’t 
 made for niggers ter grin at. So now I puts yer on 
 yer excusements soze yer kin mine wot’s wot.” 
 
 “Yes, you are very kind and I shall remember,” I 
 answered, wondering if the fellow really meant it for 
 a caution or was only playing on my natural credul- 
 ity. 
 
 “So yer do, an’ f udder on arterawhile we most in 
 general sometimes hab a monstrous heap ob company, 
 young ladies an’ young gemmens, all de quality nabers 
 cornin’ ter take Chrismus, an’ den yer’ll see der sites 
 as ’ll make yer mouf water. Fine young ladies, des 
 as fine as fiddles, an’ as plump as pa’tridges, an’ as 
 purty as hollyhocks, sly pussies, all of ’em ; an ’ though 
 dey’d be shamed like ter talk ’bout a kitten’s whiskers 
 afore de beaux, yo’ des wait twill dey gits in dey 
 rooms an’ fix foh bed zif yo’ wants ter see tomboy 
 capers — r a si in’, turnin’ summersets, skinnin’ cats an’ 
 all udder kines ob projickin’. Yo’ll hab ter wait on 
 dey rooms, make fires, fasten winders, tote water an’ 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 27 
 
 black dey shoes, an’ yo’ keep from seem’ ’em, fer dey 
 won’t mine yo’ no moah dan dey ’ill mine de fire-dogs. 
 It’s purty bahd on a pooh devil ob a nigger like yo’ 
 but yer ’ll des hab ter stan’ it, speshally twill yer gits 
 usened ter it.” 
 
 I thanked him for his friendly advice and we can- 
 tered along. 
 
 It was some four miles to the village, a straggling 
 country town, but our rapid pace soon brought us to 
 it, Joe resuming his dignity and reasserting his prece- 
 dence as we came in sight. 
 
 Going directly to the tailor’s shop, Joe presented 
 me. 
 
 “Yere’s a coon Mistus Choteaux cotched in de Cos- 
 sertot swamp, an’ she tole me to fotch ’im ter yo’ an’ 
 let yer see if he is wuff skinnin’.” 
 
 Mr. Murdough was a jolly Scotchman, half tipsy. 
 
 “Ah, yes, a fine looking coon. Haul off your coat 
 and turn around and let me see. By Hercules, what a 
 splendid physique. You would do for a model. Hand 
 me my tape, Randall; let me measure. Eh, mon, I 
 will have to make you a coat, there is none in the shop 
 broad enough in the shoulders for you,” applying the 
 measure as I turned for his inspection. “What all is 
 it he wants, Joe?” 
 
 “He wants eberything, from sorks to a hat; Mistus 
 Choteaux ses ter rig ’im out an’ out from tip to toe. 
 She wants three suits as soon as yo’ kin fix ’em.” 
 
 “Then he will have to come back to-morrow even- 
 ing. I will have a suit by then; there is nothing in 
 the shop to fit him now.” And after ^complete meas- 
 urement, I was dismissed and we rode back home. 
 
 “Here he are, Mistus,” said Joe, ushering me into 
 the mistress’ little drawing-room. 
 
 “But where are his clothes?” 
 
 “Mr. Murder haster make ’em— dar wan’t none big 
 ©nuff fer him. He ses send ’im back termorrer ebenin’ 
 an’ git ’em.” 
 
28 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 “Very well. Send him out to the stables and let 
 him stay there until he gets them. I will have Sealy 
 to make his shirts. Send Sealy to me.” 
 
 Sealy was the house-seamstress or superintendent of 
 "the sewing room, in which a half dozen smart negro 
 girls were kept constantly busy with the family sew- 
 ing. 
 
 “You stand here until she comes,” added my 
 mistress, as I turned to follow Joe. “She will want to 
 measure your collar.” 
 
 In a moment Sealy appeared, tape and scissors in 
 hand. 
 
 “Measure this boy for a dozen linen shirts, and have 
 them made right away. Let me see ; turn around. A 
 Byron collar, with a little pink ribbon for a tie will 
 suit him best. And, now, Buck, I want you to under- 
 stand that you are to keep clean. The least fleck of 
 dirt on your coat, shirt or collar, will be whipped off 
 with the cowhide. I can’t stand dirt around my house. 
 You must strip and scrub yourself thoroughly, every 
 morning, the first thing you do, and change your under- 
 wear every day. You will have a dozen changes, and 
 Winnie will see that they are properly laundried. Do 
 you understand?” 
 
 “Yes, ma’am, and will be glad to do it.” 
 
 “Very well; now you can go to the stables and stay 
 there until your clothing is ready. When you have 
 scrubbed and dressed you can come, and I will tell 
 you what you have to do,” and with this she dis- 
 missed me. 
 
 Now this may sound trivial, but I give it to illustrate 
 the dainty fastidiousness, so far as cleanliness was con- 
 cerned, of the old aristocratic mistresses. Nothing like 
 dirt could be tolerated in the house or about the per- 
 son. There was a large bath house down by the spring 
 in which every negro on the place had a tub, or more 
 properly, a vat, into which, rain or shine, hot or cold, 
 he was required to plunge, head and ears,, every morn- 
 ing of his life. Some of them would shrink from the 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 29 
 
 plunge and especially on an icy, winter morning, and 
 Joe had to occasionally use his whip to enforce the 
 duty; but to me it was a luxury, healthy, sweet and 
 exhilarating. 
 
 I went to the stable where I remained immured with 
 the hostler, in a species of punitive probation, until 
 the following afternoon, when Joe came to tell me to 
 mount my mule and tote into town after my clothes. 
 
 Mr. Murdough had worked diligently, and I found 
 a suit ready, a handsome suit of blue, light summer 
 cassimere, fitting to a nicety and setting off my natur- 
 ally good figure to the best advantage. I was vain 
 enough to be proud of and flattered by it. 
 
 Many of the house negroes in the south were at- 
 tired in livery, but not so ours. The good taste of 
 the mistress had seen that our different physiques and 
 colors required different styles of costume, and while 
 our clothing was of the best, and even finest materials, 
 each was required to wear that which best became 
 him. 
 
 With my outfit carefully wrapped I hurried back to 
 report to Joe. Sealy had been equally expeditious 
 and had an outfit of linen ready. 
 
 Armed with a pan of soft soap and a bundle of corn 
 cobs, which by the way make excellent flesh brushes, 
 I was ordered to follow Joe to the bath-house, where 
 a vat was assigned me, as my own exclusive property, 
 and in a few moments I was stripped and covered from 
 head to heels with a stringing, lathery foam, Joe, whip 
 in hand, standing by to see that the “scrubbing’ ’ was 
 thoroughly done. 
 
 Having completed my purification to Joe’s critical 
 satisfaction, and rubbing myself dry I was invested 
 in my new attire. The old plantation clothes were 
 gingerly bundled up and cast into the wash furnace 
 to be burned, and with them I put away the old planta- 
 tion life and like the butterfly, emerging from its shell, 
 I became a new man. Even my old shoes were cast 
 aside with my hat, of which I had once been so proud, 
 
30 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 and light congress gaiters, and a nobby Kossuth hat 
 replaced them. 
 
 I had a natural taste for the elegant in dress, and 
 deftly arranging my cuffs and collar, with its dainty 
 little tie of pink ribbon, I stepped out, quite a dandy 
 in my glory. 
 
 “Yes, yo’ll do fust-rate, an’ ef yo’ doan’t mine, yo’ll 
 hab all de gals takin’ arter yo’ foh a sweetheart. Yo’ 
 must be keerful though, how yo’ project wid dem or 
 yo’ll hab yo’ mistus sendin’ yo’ an’ dem off ter de 
 plantation. Yo’ has ter be mity sly, I tells y o’, she 
 watches dem gals like a hawk.” 
 
 “She needn’t have any fear for me,” I answered 
 a little stiffly. “I wouldn’t wipe my foot on any negro 
 girl that ever lived.” 
 
 “Huh, whose yo’, I’d like ter know. But nevah 
 mine, yo’ des wait till Miss Jinny comes back home 
 wid Sally an’ den we’ll see.” 
 
 “And who is Miss Jenny?” I asked, curious to know 
 something more about the family. 
 
 “Why, yo’ fool nigger, doan’t yo’ know she’s de 
 young mistus, ob cose, wots off ter school, away up 
 norf whar she’s ben foh moh’an a yeah.” 
 
 “And who is Sally?” 
 
 “Sally is de yailer gal, wot waits on her. She’s 
 most white an’ des as purty as new shoes. Yo’ des 
 wait till Miss Jinny fotches her back home an’ den 
 we’ll see wot yo’s got ter say ’bout wipin’ yo foot 
 on a nigger. I’ll ’low Mastah Victor will broke yo’ 
 fool head ’bout her yet; yo’ mine if he doan.” 
 
 “And who is Master Victor?” 
 
 “Dar yo’ is again. I ’clare yo’s de biggest fool nig- 
 ger I eber seen. Why, doan yo’ know Mastah Victor 
 is de young mastah? He’s off ter school, too; up at 
 de univarsity?” 
 
 “And how many young masters are there?” 
 
 “Wot, doan yo’ knows?” 
 
 “No, I know nothing of the family.” 
 
THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 31 
 
 4 1 Well, well, wot a moke yo' iz, not ter know yo' 
 own mastahs. Well dar's two ob 'em, Mars Louis 
 wot is married an' libs in de city, an' Mastah Vic- 
 tor." 
 
 “And how many young mistresses have we?" 
 
 “Only one, Miss Jinny, an' she's a young lady most 
 growed. She’ll be home nex' yeah, an' 'ill fotch Sally." 
 
 “But what has the young Master Victor got to do 
 with Sally that he should break my head about her?" 
 
 “Humph! Well yo' des w T ait an' see. But yondah 
 is y o' mistus on de portico now, an' I'll fotch yo' to 
 her." A moment later, “Heah, mam, heah's dis nig- 
 ger. I made him scour hisse'f as clean as a picked 
 chicken, an' his close is all right," presenting me to 
 the lady, who surveyed me from head to foot with a 
 critical but approving eye, as I stood, hat in hand, be- 
 fore her. 
 
 “Yes, you will do; a very fine looking fellow. You 
 can go now, Joe. And you, 4 Paul, ' you say is your 
 name?" 
 
 “Yes, madam, ‘Paul.' " 
 
 “Very well, Paul, I like the name; but now I will 
 tell you what you have to do. This side of the house 
 is mine, that is, it is set apart to ladies. The parlor 
 there, the music room and my drawing room, my 
 boudoir and bed-chamber, these you will have to look 
 after — air them in the day, and close the windows at 
 night. Up stairs, on this side, is also appropriated ex- 
 clusively to ladies, visiting firends, or the family. My 
 daughter’s room is up there, immediately over mine. 
 These you will also have to look atfer — airing them 
 in the summer and making fires in the winter. You will 
 sleep up there in the little chamber where you slept 
 the other night. That is your room and you must 
 keep it neat and clean. Dora will show you a bed- 
 stead and bedding, which you will move in there to 
 make yourself comfortable. She will also give you a 
 wash-stand and a bureau with towels and drawers. 
 You will have a comb and a brush and you must a!- 
 
32 
 
 THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 ways keep yourself in a presentable condition. You 
 will also have to wait upon me and your master. Wheel 
 my chair for me, look after my bath, fan me if neces- 
 sary, and rub my back when it aches. You will eat 
 in the kitchen with the other negroes. And now you 
 can go. I shall give you a day or two to get ac- 
 customed to your new surroundings and shall not re- 
 quire any service of you until then. Look about you 
 in the meantime and learn all you can, and day after 
 to-morrow come to me again for orders.” 
 
 With a very clear idea of what was to be expected 
 of me and an honest desire to please my gracious 
 impress in all things I bowed myself off. 
 
: ; 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE YOUNG MISTRESS RETURNS. 
 
 I have ever had the happy faculty of readily adapt- 
 ing myself to my surroundings. It was no task then 
 for me to fall into the ways of my new life, and with 
 the still happier disposition to make myself agreeable 
 and useful to all with whom I came in contact, I soon 
 won my way into the confidence of my master and 
 mistress, and to the good-will of my fellow servants. 
 
 My duties were light, in truth, they were hardly to 
 be called duties at all, so pleasant were the services. 
 Not a fourth of my time was required in the per- 
 formance of my daily routine of work, leaving me free 
 to devote the remainder to eager, zealous study. 
 
 My master cared little for books, but for all that 
 f \ he had a valuable and extensive library, more for os- 
 | tentation, perhaps, than for practical use. This, al- 
 h j beit surreptitiously, I invaded and placed under con- 
 fef tribution, and drew upon its resources without stint. 
 
 \ Ah, how I gloated upon its treasures, grappling even 
 Ti with its most erudite mysteries and compelling their 
 H K secrets. 
 
 As may be supposed, many of the works were in 
 \ French, but with the aid of a French and English lexi- 
 j con as a key, I soon unlocked their treasures, and ere 
 i j ; the long, idle wintry nights were passed, and the spring 
 1 1 had come again I could read them with almost as 
 | much ease and intelligent understanding as I could 
 read my own mother tongue. Having no definite plan 
 |» in view, I cared little for the abstruse sciences, but 
 1 works in lighter vein, poetry, fiction, history, biog- 
 I |, raphy and travels were sources of unfailing delight. 
 
 1 S3 
 
34 
 
 THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 No one knew of my studies. I do not know that 
 they would have interfered if they had. Still, I 
 thought it well to keep them in the dark. And it 
 was not until June had come and master and mistress 
 had gone north to witness the graduating honors of 
 their daughter, and to bring her home, leaving the 
 library in my absolute charge, that I threw off all re- 
 serve and boldly pursued my studies in the broad open 
 day, as well as in the secrecy of the night. 
 
 The young mistress, Miss Virginia, was at the Pat- 
 apsco institute at or near Baltimore, and after the 
 ©losing of the commencement exercises they expected 
 to spend the summer north, alternating between the 
 breezes and surf of Cape May and the mountain 
 springs of Virginia. 
 
 It was early in June when they went away and not 
 until the first of October did they return, thus giving 
 me quite four months of cumberless, uninterrupted 
 study, I do not write of it boastingly, but I very much 
 doubt if ever another student has made such use of his / 
 time or mastered so much that was useful to the under- | 
 standing, as I did in that, the golden summer of my it 
 life. My powers of assimilation were unusually large !• 
 and combined with a retentive faculty which in later 
 life aided me in rapidly making up the lost ground 
 of my youth and early manhood, my store of knowl- ; 
 edge — practical information — was vastly augmented, 
 more greatly than I, myself, could appreciate at that 
 time. 
 
 But the home-coming put a stop to all this. "We had [ 
 been expecting them for more than a week, and every 
 day, during the while Hance, the carriage driver, had j 
 driven to the landing at the river to meet them. It 
 was a bright October afternoon when they came, in |j 
 the soft aftermath of summer. Far down the long, elm- 
 shaded avenue we saw the carriage, and knew by the j 
 flutter of scarlet ribbons by Hance from his seat on M, 
 the box, that they were coming, and in glad expectancy 
 
THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 35 
 
 the household ran to the “big gate” to meet and wel- 
 come them. 
 
 Soon the carriage drew up and hardly waiting for it 
 to stop, Sally, the maid, a pert mulatto girl, bounced 
 down from her perch on the driver’s box and opened 
 the chorus of boisterous “how-dy’s.” Then Joe, with 
 the gravity of his importance, opened the carriage door 
 and let down the steps and the mitsress, all smiles and 
 gladness, stepped out. I felt a positive joy in seeing 
 her kindly, smiling face again. 
 
 And then, like a sudden burst of morning light, with 
 the beautiful face of a Hebe, the form of a Venus and 
 the grace of Diana, the young mistress appeared, the 
 loveliest, fairest and sweetest vision that ever dazzled 
 the sight and brain of mortal man. 
 
 I have seen many beautiful women since that day. 
 I love to look upon them because they are ahvays a 
 joy to behold. I have seen pictures, too, of lovely 
 women, the famed beauties of royal courts ; but never 
 anywhere in the flesh, radiant with health and life, 
 or glowing in life-like semblance on canvas of the mas- 
 ters, have I seen a woman so perfectly lovely, so rav- 
 ishingly beautiful, so bewitchingly sweet and fair to 
 look upon as she who had so unexpectedly burst at 
 once upon my life and vision. 
 
 For a moment she stood, stooping in the carriage 
 door and then, as if disdaining the puerile superfluity 
 of the steps, she lightly sprang out tripping forward 
 \ as lissom as a fawn and as blithe as a bird. 
 
 And then came the affectionate greetings of the 
 negroes. First her old nurse, Mammy Julia, gathered 
 her in her arms as she sobbed her blessings ; then her 
 old duenna, Aunty Dilsey, then Sealy and the cook, and 
 \ then younger girls, each kissing her hand and each 
 '.receiving a smile and pleasant word of recognition 
 "n return. And then, after the women, the men with 
 months grinning from ear to ear pressed forward to 
 /claim their smile and to shake the pretty hand. I 
 j alone stood back; it would have been a sacrilege for 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 me to have grasped that dainty hand as those others 
 grasped it, and feigning some neglected duty in the 
 house I hurried away to avoid her notice. 
 
 4 i She’s des as purty as ebber, an’ de sweetes’ young 
 mistus dat ebber war. I wants ter tote her, ’caze she ’s 
 des too sweet ter walk upon de ground” blubbered 
 Aunt Dilsey, as she brushed by me on her way back 
 to her dairy, over which she queened it with a regal 
 swa y. 
 
 It was easy to see that they all adored their lovely 
 young mistress as much for her gentle sweetness as for 
 her glorious beauty. 
 
 The radiance of her presence affected me strangely, 
 inexplicably, at that time. In the glamour which she 
 cast upon me then she seemed an angel from heaven. 
 
 Its spell has never fallen from me; it rests upon me 
 now. Death may not deprive me of its ineffable in- / 
 fluence. Yet I had deserted that presence almost in / 
 fear. An undefinable dread seemed to oppress me. Un~ : 
 consciously I went upstairs and shut myself in my little 
 room. I tried to think. Out of a tangle of thoughts 
 came a knowledge that I was standing on the eve of 
 the greatest change in my life. I felt a premonition 
 of its nearness — a shadow, as it were, , of the yet to 
 come cast before. For days the shadow lay uneasily 
 upon me. 
 
 But bye and bye, it grew bright again, and my spirit, 
 naturally buoyant and light, was able to throw the dis- 
 quieting shadow aside and I went about my work as 
 blithely as ever. I saw the young mistress every day 
 and though it lost nothing of its radiance I learned to 
 look upon her surprising beauty with something like 
 rational composure. In a blind, unmeaning way I wor- 
 shiped her as one worships the angels. I could have 
 kissed the very ground she walked upon, but wouk 
 no more have dared the wish to touch her hand, or eve - 
 the hem of her garments, than I would have thought 
 to violate the sanctity of a vestal shrine. 
 
THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 e i 
 
 As yet she had not noticed me, not even with a lock 
 of inquiry, and not until a week had passed, when her 
 mother called me into her presence to commend me to 
 her service, did I catch the glance of her eye. 
 
 “Virginia, my darling, ” said the mistress, “this is 
 Paul, the new negro we brought from the plantation to 
 take the place of Tom. Tow grew to be quite impudent 
 and we had to send him away. I don’t think we wil< 
 have any such trouble with Paul, whom I have found 
 to be quite a smart and handy fellow, not at all im- 
 pudent or saucy. He waits upon me and will wait upon 
 you. And you, Paul, this is your Miss Virginia. She 
 complains that her fires are neglected. Come, you 
 must not let that occur again. It is quite cool enough 
 for fires now and you must see to it that a bright, 
 warm one is always in her room. Do you mind?” 
 “Yes; Ma’am.” 
 
 “And besides the fire, you must see to her windows. 
 Every night when she goes to bed you must see that the 
 windows are secure and the fire well banked. You must 
 wait upon her just as you do me. Paul sleeps in the 
 little cuddy at the end of the hall, Tom’s old den, so 
 if you want anything in the night make Sally call 
 him.” 
 
 I tried to stammer my profession of a grateful serv- 
 ice, but was somehow too confused to make myself 
 understood, and the young mistress, evidently amused 
 at my bashfulness, smilingly spoke : 
 
 “Oh, yes, I am sure that you did not mean to neglect 
 me, and now that you know your business I think we 
 can get on nicely together.” 
 
 “You have a latch key to her room, so there will be 
 no need of you disturbing her when you go in,” con- 
 tinued her mother. “And now she wants you to move 
 the piano from the window across to the wall, and you 
 had as well make a fire in there now. Virginia maj 
 wish to play this evening.” 
 
 Glad of the happy privilege of serving her, I salamrd 
 
38 
 
 THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 myself out-cutting, I fear, a somewhat awkward figure 
 
 and went to move the piano and to kindie a glow g 
 
 fire upon the broad open hearth. 
 
 That evening while the family were at supper I soft- 
 ly stole to her room to kindle the fire .here. IJ elt 
 reverential -awe as I stepped across the threshold and 
 stood in that sacred chamber, that seemed redolen. of 
 virgin sweetness and maiden purity. With a positive 
 dread of being caught I piled on the wood and kindled, 
 it and slunk out as stealthily as I had entered. After 
 supper the family repaired to the music room. Pre- 
 tending to inquire if the piano had been' properly 
 Placed hut really to listen to the sweet gush of : bird- 
 like song that trilled from the silvery throat of the 
 
 qin^er X vsu cured to the door* ^ 
 
 “What is it you want?” asked the mistress, surprised 
 
 *it my presumptuous intrusion. _ n , 
 
 “If you please, ma’am, I came to see if I had placed 
 
 +Vip niano ri°ht ” I meekly stammered. 
 
 “ Yes, it is right, just where I wanted it,” interposed 
 the young mistress very graciously. It is very well, 
 
 ^With* 1 ^choking sense of my slavish degradation and 
 the still more wretched taint of race, I crept away. 
 Such music was not intended for such ears as mine. 
 
 The next morning after I had made the fires m the 
 rooms below, I again went up to make hers. With a 
 trepidation as nervous as before, I softly opened the 
 door and tiptoed in. She was sweetly sleeping, and o 
 the little trundle bed at the foot of ner own, Sally, her 
 
 maid, lay sprawled out in somnolent ob avion. - 
 
 As softly as I could, I put down my burden of wood 
 and opened the slumbering embers to kind. e them into 
 a blase. I hardly dared to look around, but while wait- 
 ing for the flames to ignite, I stole a glance over the 
 room. It was- not actually littered, hut was recklessly 
 tumbled with a confusion of mysterious and unmen- 
 tionable feminine 'apparel. A skirt here, a corset there, 
 and a little circular nest of snowy crinoline yonder. 
 
THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 li 
 
 such a confusion as can only be accounted for by the 
 supposition that the sleepy-eyed maid had gone to bed 
 first, leaving the easy-natured young mistress to disrobe 
 herself. On the rug, close to where I knelt, was her 
 dainty little boot. It was bold, almost madness, but 
 I could not resist the wild impulse to take it to my 
 breast and then to kiss the unconscious sole. Then 1 
 softly, tenderly put it down and giving the fire one 
 more assuring poke, I arose and turned to creep from 
 the room. My eyes unconsciously sought her couch and 
 I had to pause a moment, holding my breath in a pos- 
 itive awe as I looked upon the slumbering beauty. One 
 fair arm had escaped from the coverlet and was lying 
 in a graceful sweep by her side; the other was resting 
 across her breast. Her hair, unloosed from its coil, lay 
 like a ripple of sunshine over her pillow ; her rich, ripe 
 lips were parted just enough to reveal the pearly teeth 
 within, while in gentle, but strong and healthy respira- 
 tion, her snowy bosom rose and fell. 
 
 I have seen her often since ; in fancy I see her still, 
 and every night of my solitary life she comes to me in 
 my dreams, always beautiful, always lovely, but never 
 so beautiful, never so sweet and inexpressibly fair as 
 she appeared just as she lay before me that morning in 
 the perfection of maidenly beauty and maidenly purity. 
 Whispering a blessing upon her sweet life I tiptoed 
 out again and softly closing the door, went down to my 
 ungrateful work. 
 
 All day long I thought of that beautiful picture, and 
 with the thought would come an uneasy consciousness 
 of unfaith, of treachery and meanness. I had no right 
 to look upon such innocent loveliness, albeit, the glance 
 I stole was one of reverential, almost holy adoration. 
 There was no guilt in the look, no unholy desire, and I 
 would hate cut my throat rather than to have wronged 
 her with an impure thought. But I would not look 
 again. No, no, though heaven itself should open to my 
 vision I must close my eyes to its beauties. Negro 
 slave, pariah that I was, such loveliness was not for 
 
40 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 me, and firm in this resolve I dropped my eyes the next 
 morning as I went in to make the fire, and hurriedly 
 striking the kindling I quickly stole from the room 
 without a glance either to the right or to the left. 
 
 But my overcaution confounded me, for in my haste 
 to get away from the enchanting presence I did not suf- 
 ficiently kindle the fire and instead of blazing up in 
 grateful warmth it set up such an asthmatic sputtering 
 as to call for a remedy, and I had scarcely finished the 
 work of polishing my master’s boots when Sally came 
 with a lazy irritation to berate me for my dereliction. 
 
 “Say, yo’ niggah yo„ Miss Jinny ses fer yo’ ter come 
 back an’ fix her fire. Wot sort ob a moke is yo’ enny- 
 how, ter run off like dat an’ ’spect de fire ter kindle 
 itse’f ?” 
 
 In dire dismay I ran to the wood-shed and gathering 
 an armful of resinous splinters, I hurried back to make 
 amends for my laches. Thinking that she was now up 
 and dressed or at least awake I gave a warning knock 
 at the door. 
 
 ‘ 4 Come in, ’ ’ was the response. 
 
 Boldly I entered when, heavens, what a sight ! Diana 
 stepping from her bath was never more glorious, as 
 with her discarded night-robe at her feet she stood bare 
 armed and bare kneed, with only the loosely falling 
 folds of her chemise to drape her queenly form. Abashed 
 at the unexpected sight I drew back with a start and a 
 gasp, when with the naive innocence of a child, she 
 said : 
 
 “Ah, it is you! you have come to kindle the fire, but 
 you see it has concluded to burn of itself. You really 
 needed not to come. However, a few splinters will not 
 hurt it.” 
 
 “I am very sorry,” I stammered as best I could as I 
 stooped and applied the fuel, and then with averted 
 eyes I turned to go. 
 
 “Stay a moment. You have forgotten my boots, I 
 shall expect you to keep them clean for me,” she or- 
 dered, pointing with her foot to the boots. 
 
* 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 41 
 
 With a desperate dive I gathered them up and hur- 
 ried out thoroughly shocked, but more angry with my- 
 self for my intrusion than with her for the naivete with 
 which she received me. 
 
 In order to give her maid sufficient time to complete 
 her toilet I loitered over my work and then waited at 
 her door a little while before knocking again. 
 
 “Wot yer keep dat knockin’ foh, why doan yo’ come 
 in, ’ ’ said Sally in disgust at my timidity, as she opened 
 the door. “Yo’ needn’t be skeert, nobody’s gwine ter 
 feite yer.” 
 
 Thus assured I stepped in to receive a still more em- 
 barrassing shock, for there on a low ottoman near the 
 hearth, directly facing me, with a little cloud of fleecy 
 drapery in her lap, the young mistress sat drawing on 
 her stockings. 
 
 Without lowering her skirts or drooping her knees 
 she looked me innocently in the face and with a smile of 
 kindness she said, reaching out her hand for the boots : 
 
 “Yes, you have brought my boots, they are really 
 nice. I think I must pay you for them. Sally, look in 
 my drawer and give him a dollar.” 
 
 “Oh, no, please not; I do not wish pay,” I protested, 
 drawing back. 
 
 “Yes, take it, heah ’tis,” said Sally, holding out the 
 coin. 
 
 “Yes, you can have it; take it,” insisted the young 
 mistress. 
 
 4 4 1 — I had rather not, ’ ’ I stammered. 4 4 1 do not need 
 it. I had rather always serve you for nothing. I do 
 not ask pay.” 
 
 4 4 Den I’ll hab if,” said Sally, closing her fingers 
 upon it. 
 
 4 4 If the young mistress is willing,” I said, unwilling 
 to accept the humiliating gratuity. 
 
 4 4 Thankee, sir, ’ ’ cut in Sally, anxious to close the of- 
 fer. 
 
 4 4 Ah, I see; sweethearts already,” laughed the 
 lady. 4 4 That is charging. But you must be on your 
 
42 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 guard against Sally. She’s a great flirt and will jilt 
 you sure. There is no telling the conquests she has 
 made or the hearts she has broken, ’ ’ and fastening the 
 jewelled clasp of her garter she gave the lapful of laces 
 and flounces a deft little shake that tumbled them 
 above her feet as she straightened down her knees. 
 4 i Here, Sally, put them on for me, and you,” nodding 
 to me, “may go.” Mentally thanking her for not re- 
 quiring me to draw on and lace her boots for her, I 
 backed out too sadly upset to think of closing the door 
 after me. 
 
 I went to my little cell and sat for a while, pondering 
 in a sad perplexity. I wondered what to do, whether to 
 try to blind my eyes to all that was beautiful and rav- 
 ishing to see, to steel my senses against all that was in- 
 toxicating and sweet, or go at once honestly to my 
 master and implore him for the love of Christ to send 
 me away, either back to the old life on the plantation, 
 or else to sell me to the vilest “nigger-trader” in the 
 land and let him ship me off to the swamps of the 
 Mississippi. I could not decide and so went drifting 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 AN UNEXPECTED COMMAND. 
 
 Drifting on; ah, helpless as a cockle-shell on the 
 broad bosom of the Atlantic, I was drifting I knew 
 not where. All that I could do was to shut my eyes, 
 in a dumb endurance, and let the future take care of it- 
 self. I knew then as I know now, what it was that had 
 come over me, what the shadow meant that had so mys- 
 teriously gathered around me. I loved Virginia Cho- 
 teaux, my own cousin by blood, my queenly mistress by 
 fate. Loved her madly, blindly, despairingly, but not 
 sinfully, nor selfishly. I had never seen the moment 
 since I first knew her that I would not have willingly 
 died to save her. Ah, what folly, what a wild infatua- 
 tion ! But oh, how sweet, how thrilling, how exalting 
 and ennobling ! 
 
 As electricity is said to be the soul of all nature, so is 
 love the soul of human existence ; and he who has not 
 felt its vivifying power, its wild throbbings of hope and 
 its despairing doubts, knows nothing of life, nothing 
 of the essence, the spirit, the heavenly joy of living; 
 and wretched as I then was, miserable, degraded, I 
 yet had my flashes of joy, and my bitterest hell was 
 at the same time my sweetest heaven. 
 
 I went out from her presence that morning humbled 
 and degraded, feeling the despised reality of my posi- 
 tion as I had never felt it before. I was not only a 
 negro slave, but a stot, less than a man, and hardly a 
 beast. I knew very well in my secret conscience, that 
 it was not for a lack of maidenly modesty she so un- 
 blushingly exposed her person to my unforbidden 
 sight. I well understood that it was no coquettish 
 
 43 
 
44 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 trick of froward maidenhood to reveal the hidden 
 charms a Venus might well have been pardoned for 
 wishing to display, that it was not to fire my blood 
 and madden my brain she stood so naively before me 
 with nothing but a gauzy tissue of lace to cover the 
 snowy breasts which no man of mortal flesh and blood 
 could have looked unmoved upon. I knew that it was 
 not to tantalize a despairing desire she sat upon that 
 low ottoman, unconsciously caressing with her jewelled 
 fingers the pinky dimples in a knee that would have 
 been a heaven to kiss. No, no, not for any of these, but 
 for the want of a decent respect for me. Had she re- 
 garded me as anything better than a soulless brute, 
 had she esteemed me as a man, endowed with the sense 
 and feelings of a man, she would have screamed with 
 affright and driven me with furious wrath from the 
 room. 
 
 But I was not a man, only an animated machine, a 
 bloodless, soulless automaton to fetch and carry, with 
 eyes to see not and nerves to feel not. This was my 
 despised status— despicable, degraded, emasculated — 
 and wretchedly did I realize it. 
 
 And thus appreciating my utter insignificance I 
 thought seriously of going to my master, and to beg him 
 to send me away. I had actually started, when there 
 came over my soul a dark and desolate lonesomeness 
 that, sick with my burden of gloomy despair, I had to 
 stop. I could not conceive the possibility of living away 
 from her, the light of my life, the sun of my soul. No, 
 no, I could not go, I would stay; like the poor, silly 
 moth fluttering around the candle. I could not tear 
 myself away. And what need of going, thus blindly, I 
 reasoned. Why not stay and back in the sunlight as 
 long as I could, only taking care to keep myself at a 
 distance. I should avoid her presence as much as pos- 
 sible and never again permit myself to see aught of 
 her charms that a man, a white man, her equal in caste, 
 might not with chaste propriety look upon. And thus 
 ^solved and feeling strengthened by the honest resolu- 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 45 
 
 tion, I went about my daily work avoiding her presence 
 and her room as much as I could do without a derelic- 
 tion of duty, taking care that no more lapses in kindling 
 her fire and polishing her boots might occur again. To 
 this end I made her fire the first in the morning while 
 she was still asleep, heaping high the wood and always 
 seeing that it was thoroughly ignited before leaving 
 it; and in the matter of boots, I arranged with Sally 
 to leave them without at the door, compensating her 
 for her trouble by keeping her own broad-bottomed, 
 flat-toed balmorals cleansed and polished. 
 
 And so the weeks sped on, silently slipping away and 
 at length Christmas, with its rollicking holidays, came, 
 bringing with it a gay throng of visitors, young ladies 
 and gentlemen, aristocratic friends and neighbors, until 
 the house, large as it was, was full. 
 
 Their coming brought additional work for me, and in 
 keeping the dozen fires burning, polishing their boots 
 and doing odd little services, I found nearly all my 
 time occupied. 
 
 It was a gay season and a vivacious party, and most 
 enthusiastically did they enjoy it, abandoning them- 
 selves to the fullest and finest measure of social pleas- 
 ure — croquet, tennis, riding, walking and rambling 
 through the woods in sunny weather and dancing, bil- 
 liards, w T hist, readings, recitations and tableaux-vivants 
 in-doors. It was one continued round of hilarious fun 
 and frolick. But none of it was for me. The other 
 slaves enjoyed it, something like the hounds enjoy the 
 excitement of the chase, grinning in jolly delight at 
 the universal hilarity. But I felt too keenly the degra- 
 dation of my place and like a human machine, deaf 
 and dumb and blind, I had to move through it all. 
 
 There were fifteen young ladies, beautiful as so many 
 houris, all under my care and sight. The privacy of 
 their chambers had no secrets from me. They would 
 dress and undress before me with naive impunity, stand- 
 ing in charming dishabille, or reclining in voluptuous 
 ease, blabbing of their sweethearts, telling their piquant 
 
46 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 little stories and shrugging their pretty shoulders at the 
 lubricious witticisms that would sometimes slip out 
 from the more hoiden and unguarded lips while I would 
 move about, in and out, as free to see and to hear as 
 the sniggering maids who unloosed their zones and 
 laced their boots for them. 
 
 There was one chamber, however, that I always en- 
 tered with reverential tread and eyes drooped, one fair 
 presence sacred from my profane gaze, but as for the 
 others, n’importe, I cared almost as little for them as 
 they cared for me, and would scarcely pause to look 
 twice upon a charm which would have held the breath 
 of almost any other man. The great absorbing devo- 
 tion that filled my soul left no room for anything else. 
 Not an inconstant, nor incontinent thought ever came. 
 
 Among the gayest of the young men was my young 
 master, Victor, home from the university to spend 
 the Christmas holidays. Hs was a tall, handsome young 
 fellow with the old Choteaux form and features. Had 
 I not been so black or had anyone, even his father, sus- 
 pected the consanguinity, the resemblance between us 
 would have been noticed, but as it was, the despised 
 negro was nothing, while he, the young master, was 
 a prince. I remember once for a moment, gritting 
 my teeth over the seeming injustice, but it was only 
 for a moment. My better sense could not locate the 
 blame, and he, the young man, was really too good 
 natured, too frank and buoyant for me to harbor an 
 envious resentment against. As his rooms were in 
 the opposite wing of the house and my duties never 
 carried me there, we saw but little of each other, only 
 once or twice he noticed me, and then it was with 
 such a kindly smile that I could not choose but warm 
 to him. He was a general favorite with the gentlemen, 
 and, of course, immensely popular with the young 
 ladies. It was a little amusing to watch the pretty 
 eyes they made at him. The pretty eyes, however, 
 were harmless, or, at least, immaterial, for accord- 
 ing to the old French custom, his parents had already 
 
THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 47 
 
 arranged for a marriage with his pretty cousin, Isaura 
 Noltrieb, and they only waited the completion of his 
 studies to settle down to domestic felicity. 
 
 There was one thing I noticed, not without a soup- 
 con of disgust, and that was the jealous spitefulness 
 of the mulatto girl, Sally, toward his betrothed. Then 
 I recalled the warning Joe had given me the year be- 
 fore, and I laughed to think how little the warning 
 was needed. No, no, let him, the proud young master, 
 the man of sensibility and refinement, the social prince, 
 condescend to a liason with such a creature if he 
 choosed, but for me, negro, stot though I be, I held 
 myself high above such a debauching connection. 
 
 But time on pleasure wings flits by, far more rapid- 
 ly than the sober-paced, sorrow-laden moments, and 
 soon the holidays were over and gone. In little par- 
 ties, like swallows taking their flight, the guests de- 
 parted, and now the household sank back into its nor- 
 mal state of placid content. A month went by without 
 any change in the old routine of humdrum life, ex- 
 cept to my disgust, I found Sally trying her libidinous 
 wiles upon me. As for the young mistress, she was 
 the same — artless, gentle, kind — with always a smile 
 for all who came anear. If she had ever noticed my 
 studious avoidance of her presence in her chamber, 
 she did not evince the fact by any change of manner. 
 I could sometimes fancy, however, that she did feel 
 it, whether consciously or not, as she never gave me 
 the slightest cause to criticise her modesty. I was a 
 little surprised, though, one morning in the early 
 spring, as I was turning from the hearth after having 
 kindled the fire, to hear her call: 
 
 “Stay a minute, Paul, I wish to talk to you,” she 
 - said in a tone, of command. 
 
 I turned an inquiring look, but the drapery of the 
 bed was drawn well under her chin, and there was 
 no impropriety in her position, although she looked 
 very fair and very sweet as she lay with her head 
 slightly raised on her pillow. 
 
48 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 “Yes, miss/’ I answered, respectfully, dropping my 
 glance to my feet. 
 
 “I wish to speak to you about Sally.” 
 
 “ About Sally?” I interrupted, wonderingly. 
 
 “Yes, I will tell you — you must not interrupt me 
 when I am speaking. Sally, you know, belongs to me, 
 and papa I am sure, will give you to me, too. Now, 
 I think it best when girls get as Sally is, that they 
 marry. I do not believe in this loose way you negroes 
 have of living. I have noticed you, and think Sally 
 and you would make a good match. She has told me 
 of her trouble, and by marrying at once the trouble 
 can be cured. She, like a good girl, is anxious to 
 marry you, and will, I am sure, be true to you, at 
 least, so far as any negro is concerned. Sally is really 
 a good girl and not bad looking. You two will make 
 a fine-looking couple, and as long as I live I shall see 
 that neither you nor your children, shall ever be sold 
 away from one another. Nov/ what say you?” 
 
 I was too dumb with indignant contempt and disgust 
 to answer and stood scowling. 
 
 ‘ 4 Do you understand me?” she commanded with im- 
 perious emphasis. 
 
 “Yes, Miss Virginia, X understand you only too well, 
 and am sorry that I can not obey your wishes,” I 
 answered, controlling my voice as well as I could. 
 
 “X will make it a command,” she interrupted a little 
 hotly. 
 
 “X hope not; oh, please do not.” 
 
 “Why?” 
 
 “Because, glad, willing as I am to serve you always 
 and to obey you in all things, I should have to refuse 
 in this. I cannot marry this woman.” 
 
 “Why not?” flushing with anger at my presump- 
 tion. 
 
 “Because, slave though I be, I am not of her kind. 
 X hold myself high above her and such as she.” 
 
 “Humph! you should have thought of that before. 
 You owe it to her now to marry her, and undo the 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 49 
 
 wrong you have done her, so far as marrying can undo 
 such a naughty wrong/ ’ 
 
 “I have done her no wrong. Before that God who 
 made us both, and who will judge us both, I have never 
 touched nor even thought of stooping to that woman,” 
 I said with a solemnity of voice and manner that 
 touched her. 
 
 “Go, send her to me, and when I have dressed you 
 come, too. I must have you face to face/’ 
 
 “I am ready to face high heaven itself,” I boldly 
 declared, as I hurried out to find the girl. 
 
 I had but little ways to go, but found her in the 
 hall a poor, abject creature, shame-faced and guilty. 
 
 “Your mistress wants you. You know what for. 
 Make haste to dress her and then let me know; I will 
 be here,” I sternly ordered, taking my stand at the 
 head of the stairs. 
 
 In a surprisingly short time the door was opened and 
 Sally called me to come. 
 
 Drawing myself up to my proudest height, I went 
 in. The young mistress was dressed and sitting in her 
 rocker with the gravity and dignity of a queen. Sally 
 was standing, with head bowed down, behind her. 
 
 “Now, Sally, stand here before me, and look me 
 straight in the face, while you tell me the truth, ’ ’ com- 
 manded the queen. 
 
 The girl moved forward, but sinking on her knees 
 and piteously holding up her hands, she cried: 
 
 “Oh, Miss Jinny, please do — doan be too hahd on 
 me and sell me away, kase I didn’t go ter do it. I 
 ’elare ter gracious I couldn’t help it. It warn’t my 
 fault an’ I couldn’t help myse’f/’ 
 
 “You say it was this fellow’s doing?” sternly in- 
 terrupted the young mistress. 
 
 “Yes ’em, I did so, but — but it warn’t. I — I’ll tell 
 yer de trp.fi: now, Miss Jinny, it warn’t Paul; least- 
 wise I didn’t know it zif it war, but it war Marse — 
 Marse Vice — Vic — Victor as made me,” stammered 
 the poor girl. 
 
50 
 
 THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 “Victor! my brother?” with the crimson glow suf- 
 fusing her cheek. 
 
 “Yes, yes ’em. Long time ago when we war chil- 
 luns togedder an’ den when he corned back home dis 
 las’ time, an’ I’ll nevah do de like any moah. I’se 
 willin’ ter marry Paul heah, an’ ole mistus will nevah 
 know. ’ ’ 
 
 “No, hush' up! Leave the room before I strike 
 you.” 
 
 The girl almost crawled from the room. 
 
 “And you, Paul, I am very sorry that I accused 
 you so wrongfully. I must ask your pardon. I did 
 not think it was such a really bad thing for you to 
 do, but I am sorry that I wronged you at all. Here, 
 you may kiss my hand, and then you can go.” 
 
 There is an inate gallantry in an honest adoration, 
 and with all the chivalry of a knight, I dropped on 
 my knees and respectfully raised the precious hand 
 to my lips. 
 
 “I don’t think,” she called after me, as I opened 
 the door, “that I need to tell you to say nothing of 
 this affair.” 
 
 “Oh, no, miss; I could not think of such an indis- 
 cretion, ’ ’ I answered. 
 
 “I am sorry for the poor girl. If you see her, tell 
 her to come back. It is not for me to judge, nor to 
 punish, ’ ’ she said, and I thought it a sweet humility as 
 I went away to send the girl back. 
 
 That afternoon I was summoned to the family sitting 
 room. With a slight trepidation I presented myself. 
 
 “What do you know about horses? Did you ever 
 handle one?” asked the master. 
 
 “Oh, yes, sir. I used to break all the colts on the 
 plantation,” I answered a little proudly. 
 
 “Very well; do you think I could trust you to at- 
 tend your young mistress on her rides, to groom her 
 horse and see to her safety.” 
 
 “I hope so, sir.” 
 
 “Very good ; we will try you. Her old groom, Louis, 
 
THE STOEY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 51 
 
 is getting too fond of his toddy— the rascal is tipsy 
 half his time — and it is no longer safe to trust your 
 Miss Virginia with him. You will have to look after 
 her bridles and girths. She rides a spirited mare and 
 you must never let her mount without seeing that 
 everything is secure and properly adjusted. If you 
 were to let her get hurt, I should hang you. Do you 
 understand me?” 
 
 “Yes, sir, and will take care that no harm shall 
 come to her.” 
 
 “Yes; I think I can trust you. What say you, 
 Pauline ? ” . 
 
 “Oh, yes, certainly; she will be safe with Paul. I 
 wanted to give him to her before Christmas, but she 
 begged so hard for Louis that I let her keep him. It 
 is the rascal’s own fault, however, that he loses his 
 place, and Virginia wants Paul,” answered the mistress, 
 and thus taking the matter altogether in her own 
 hands, as she invariably did, she turned to me. 
 
 “You, Paul, will be relieved from making the fires 
 in the evening. All your afternoons will be devoted 
 to your Miss Virginia. You will take Louis’ horse 
 and will have to look after it and Dido. You must 
 hold yourself always ready and absolutely at her serv- 
 ice. So go, now, and tell Joe to give you Louis’ horse 
 and you go to Mr. Barclay’s and fit yourself with a 
 pair of top boots. That is all we wanted with you. 
 Go!” 
 
 And thus one more leaf in the book of my destiny 
 was turned. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE LASH OP THE MISTRESS. 
 
 The next day I entered upon my new service, that 
 of groom to my young mistress. Perhaps, it was the 
 genial balm of the bright afternoon that tempted her 
 to ride, or mayhap it was to test the capacity of her 
 new groom. Be which it may, immediately after din- 
 ner I was ordered to fetch out the horses. 
 
 Declining, with a silent shake of the head and a 
 repellant wave of the hand, my awkward offer to help 
 she lightly sprang to the saddle and dashed away, 
 leaving me to mount in haste and gallop on after. She 
 rode a splendid animal, a thoroughbred mare, high 
 strung and spirited, too spirited for an ordinary 
 woman; but she was a magnificent rider, and with a 
 cool head and steady nerve, always keeping her reins 
 well in hand, she managed, without any great trouble, 
 to control her. My own mount was a lumbering cob, 
 better fitted for the plow than the saddle, but, by 
 lifting his head with my bridle arm and a vigorous 
 exercise of my heels, I contrived to keep in a helping 
 distance of my charge. 
 
 For more than a mile, through a stretch of sunny 
 lane, she led the way, without so much as a glance 
 back to me, and then, as if in sudden thought for 
 the laborious work of my floundering hack, she drew 
 rein and allowed me to approach in regulation dis- 
 tance. 
 
 In order to catch the sunshine, she turned her way 
 through the winding lanes, until she had traversed the 
 entire plantation and then coming to a halt, she ordered 
 me to dismount and let down the fence, making » 
 
 52 
 
 t 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 53 
 
 •way for a canter through the open fields back home. 
 
 It was a spirited ride, fully ten miles, in and out, 
 before we reached the door, just as the sun was going 
 
 down. 
 
 “Oh, I have had a delightful ride!” she cried to 
 her mother, as she lightly sprang to the ground. 
 
 “And how will Paul do for a groom?” asked the 
 mistress. 
 
 “Well enough, only he must have a better mount. 
 T4iat old hack cannot begin to keep up, and I had to 
 hold Dido back all the way to keep from losing him.” 
 
 “Then let him try Selim. If he can manage to sit 
 him, he will give Dido as much fun as she will want,” 
 said the master, and turning to me, he added: 
 
 “Do you hear, Paul, the next time you ride tell Joe 
 to let you have Selim. The pampered dog needs hand- 
 ling anyhow. He is getting positively vicious. Do 
 you think you can ride him?” 
 
 “I will be glad to try, sir.” 
 
 “Very well, you had as well begin with him in 
 the morning. Take him out and try him. He is a 
 perfect devil and will need breaking before you ven- 
 ture with your young mistress.” 
 
 Selim was a powerful young stallion, almost un- 
 broken, and not only high spirited, but really vicious. 
 It required a firm hand and a strong arm to conquer 
 him, and I had to work hard all the forenoon before 
 I could overmaster him. 
 
 The afternoon was inviting again and the horses 
 were ordered out. The master, in order to see Selim’s 
 performance, would ride with his daughter. 
 
 Selim was still spiteful, and I had to have a little 
 fight with him at the stable before he would submit 
 to the saddle, and then, when the master and young 
 mistress had mounted and turned to go, he revolted 
 again and refused to let me mount. I saw that it was 
 a case of human determination against brute obstinacy, 
 and determined to conquer him thoroughly, at once. 
 
 I 
 
 / 
 
54 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 First, I was to let him know that I was not afraid 
 of him, and next, I was to make him afraid of me. 
 
 This is the secret of horse taming. He was a power- 
 ful animal and desperate, and it was a fierce struggle 
 between us. At length, by sheer force of my herculean 
 strength, I succeeded in throwing him by a dextrous 
 trip of his fore leg, and kneeling with my heavy weight 
 upon his head held him down and gave his jaws a 
 pounding with my fist, as to completely subdue him. 
 With a piteous whinny, as if calling for quarter, he 
 ceased his struggle and lay passive as a dog. Then 
 I released my heavy weight from his head, and rising 
 without touching the bridle, I bid him in a gentle tone 
 to rise. As meekly as a lamb, he obeyed, and from 
 that moment on I had not the slightest trouble with 
 him. 
 
 4 ‘Bravo! You did that well,” said the master, as 
 I mounted and gave him the spur. 
 
 “Yes, that was really brave and grand,” enthusi- 
 astically said the young mistress. “What a magnifi- 
 cent strength the fellow must have.” 
 
 “Yes. I don’t believe there is another negro on the 
 place that could have thrown him as you did,” sup- 
 plemented the master. 
 
 “Perhaps not,” I answered a little ungraciously. 
 
 “But is it quite safe, do you think to ride him? I 
 am almost afraid to let you risk it,” said the young 
 lady. 
 
 “There is no more danger,” I replied, and thus as- 
 sured, they rode on, I following at a respectful dis- 
 tance. 
 
 And thus our rides began. The next day it rained 
 and she could not venture out, but the following after- 
 noon it was bright and sunny, and she started early 
 in order to make an extended excursion around the 
 plantation and out into the woods beyond. 
 
 On we swept, fully five miles away, she galloping 
 ahead, I following at the same speed a few paces be- 
 hind — sunshine and shadow — she every now and the®. 
 
 t 
 
THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 55 
 
 breaking out into little snatches of song, I grimly sil- 
 ent, not a word being spoken between us. The fields 
 were passed and we came to the woods, when she 
 suddenly drew up, casting a questioning glance around 
 as if in search of her bearings. 
 
 “I believe it is over the next hill, a little way to 
 the right, ” she said, more to herself than to me. 
 
 “What is it you seek?” I ventured to ask. 
 
 “The Ball Cave — quite a curiosity. Have you 
 seen it?” 
 
 “Oh, no, I have seen but little of the outdoors here,” 
 I answered. 
 
 “Yes. Well, I am quite sure that it is over there,” 
 and urging her mare onward, with a little touch of 
 the whip, she rode by a dim bridle path through the 
 woods, over a little hill, until she found the place. 
 
 It was, indeed, in a miniature way, quite a curiosity 
 of nature. It was a deep, broad and sandy bottomed 
 gully or cave, wmshed out of the foot of the hill by 
 the winter torrents, or, in plantation parlance, wet, 
 weather branch. 
 
 From a small beginning, a little break, at first, a 
 few years before it had by constant caving in of the 
 sides and washing out of the bottom, widened and 
 lengthened and deepened, until now it was a yawn- 
 ing chasm, some fifteen or twenty feet deep, and as 
 many feet wide at the neck. 
 
 For a few moments the young mistress sat and 
 looked it over, and then half in soliloquy, she said: 
 “How rapidly it widens. I used to make Dido jump 
 it before I went away to school. I vmnder if you 
 can jump it now, Dido? I believe I will let you 
 try.” 
 
 I hardly thought her in earnest, but respectfully 
 raising my hat, I ventured a protest. 
 
 “That would be dangerous,” I said. 
 
 “And so much more exciting. Yes, Dido, you must 
 carry me over,” she said, fixing herself firmly in the 
 saddle and drawing the mare back for a start. 
 
56 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 ‘ 1 Surely, you are not in earnest/’ I cried, involun- 
 tarily starting forward. 
 
 “Do you think I am an idle boaster?” she said 
 sharply, resenting my presumptuous interference. 
 
 “No, no.; but please do not attempt this. You over- 
 estimate the strength of your mare, as you underesti- 
 mate the width of the chasm. Your mare could not 
 possibly make the leap. It would be as much as I 
 could do to make it myself.” 
 
 “You,” with a pretty scorn, “you make it~on Selim 
 and Dido* can’t?” 
 
 “No, Selim could not make it. It would be as much 
 as his neck is worth to try it. I meant on my own 
 feet.” 
 
 “Well, I will see. I shall make Dido jump first 
 and then you shall follow. Get down and hitch your 
 horse and prepare to jump. I will teach you how to 
 interfere with my pleasure. You forget your place., 
 sir . 9 9 
 
 In dismay at the foolish caprice, I dismounted and 
 hitched Selim; but not to humor her whim. 
 
 “Please, Miss Virginia, do not try it. It will be cer- 
 tain hurt, more probably death, for you to attempt it,” 
 I implored, standing before her mare. 
 
 “Stand out of my way,” she cried, angered at my 
 determined opposition. 
 
 “But you must not. It would be death to you, and 
 I would be a murderer to permit it,” I replied, reach- 
 ing out my hand and grasping the bridle. 
 
 “Let go my reins,” she ordered, with crimson cheek 
 and flashing eyes. 
 
 I could not reply, but kep# a firm hold on the 
 snaffle. 
 
 “I will ride you down,” she almost hissed in her 
 passion, and giving her mare a cut with her whip, she 
 urged her on me. 
 
 The excited creature made a lunge forward, but 
 with less length than it took to conquer Selim, I threw 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 57 
 
 her back on her haunches and held her with an iron 
 grip. 
 
 “Wretch ! slave ! dog of a negro ! how dare yon, dare 
 you, dare you!” she fairly screamed, fiercely lashing 
 me in the face with her whip, fairly raining the sting- 
 ing blows upon me with each repeated vehement ut- 
 terance. 
 
 The cuts were severe, one even bringing the blood 
 from my temple, but I felt not the sting, neither did 
 I heed her wrathful words of contumely and scorn. 
 Only closing my eyes to protect them from the lash, 
 as each blow fell in lightning succession, I stood un- 
 moved and immovable. I knew in her frantic rage that 
 it would be a waste of words to speak, and so like 
 a statute of bronze, with muscles flexed, silent and al- 
 most motionless, I stood holding the mare back with 
 vise-like grip. 
 
 “I shall report this outrage to my father, and have 
 Joe to flay you alive for this insolence,” she said, as 
 for lack of strength she suspended her blows. 
 
 “Your father, when he knows, will not blame me for 
 saving you from your folly. Oh, my mistress, do 
 please, please stop one moment and think. It is not 
 to displease you, to offend or to vex, that I do this, 
 but it is for your own sake. It would be worse than 
 folly, it would be madness for you to drive your mare 
 to this leap. You would both go down to the bot- 
 tom and be crushed. I cannot, I shall not allow you 
 to do it,” I answered, taking a reassertive grip on the 
 bridle. 
 
 “You still defy me?” 
 
 “No, Miss Virginia, I do not defy you. In all things 
 else I will obey you, even to making the jump myself, 
 even to die myself and for you; but you, you must 
 not be hurt. It is not to insolently brave you that I 
 interfere, but you shall not attempt this danger. You 
 may lash me as much as you please, and have Joe 
 to whip me like a dog, but unless my arm withers, I 
 shall stand here until dark and hold you back.” 
 
58 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 It may have been the firmness of my tone, that sub- 
 dued her wilful caprice, or it may have been the natu- 
 ral subsidence of a woman’s sudden wrath that sob- 
 ered her; one, or both, perhaps, but I felt a giving 
 away of the strained hold on the reins and in a second 
 more she was crying. 
 
 I knew then that the danger was over, and gently 
 patting the nose of her mare to quiet her restive ex- 
 citement, I released my hold and stood back. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Oh, did I do that ? I am so sorry ! ’ ’ she cried, and 
 there was genuine contrition in her voice as she 
 noticed the blood which in a little rill from my temple 
 was trickling down my cheek and staining the white- 
 ness of my collar and shirt front. “Oh, I have hurt 
 you, please, please forgive me.” 
 
 I had not noticed it myself until then, as I had felt 
 no smart of pain. 
 
 “It is nothing,” I assuringly answered, drawing my 
 bandana to wipe it away. 
 
 “But I am very, very sorry. Here, stand nearer and 
 let me wipe it away, please,” she cried, as impulsive in 
 her pity as she had been frantic in wrath ; and before 
 I could draw back she was leaning forward and softly 
 wiping my^cheek with her snowy and daintily per- 
 fumed handkerchief. The soft, zephyr-like cambric 
 greedily absorbed the little tide, and in an instant its 
 snowy whiteness was changed to scarlet. 
 
 “Oh, this is cruel, so unkind, so unlady-like. I am 
 so sorry, truly, truly sorry. You must please, please 
 forgive me,” she continued, and there were tears of 
 pity in her eyes as she spoke. 
 
 “Oh, this is nothing. It 'does not hurt, nor does 
 it matter. Only see you have soiled your handker- 
 chief,” I answered, drawing away and using my own. 
 
 “It was so wrong in me to strike you. You must 
 please forgive me. I — I hardly knew what I was do- 
 ing. ’ ’ 
 
 “Certainly, I can excuse you. It was a desperate 
 boldness in me to stand against your wishes; only I 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 59 
 
 was sure that you did not understand the danger, and 
 I had to do it to save you.” 
 
 “Yes, I see now, and I ought not to have lost my 
 temper. But I did not think it dangerous, and then 
 the danger fascinated me — it always does. I still be- 
 lieve that I can make the leap on Dido. ’ ’ 
 
 “But I pray you never to try it,” I interrupted with 
 a vehemence which fairly startled her. 
 
 “No, since you — you have — have — I mean, since you 
 so unselfishly oppose it,” she stammered. “No, I shall 
 never again attempt it. But I see I shall have to avoid 
 the place or I may be tempted again.” 
 
 “It is dangerous, and ought to be either filled in 
 with timbers or else fenced around,” I ventured, 
 anxious to keep her mind from coming back to the 
 matter of my hurt. “May I mount, now, and will 
 you go?” 
 
 “Yes, mount and we will go; only I must again ask 
 you to forgive me, and thank you for so bravely doing 
 what you thought to be your duty.” 
 
 “That I thought it my duty was why I did it. You 
 know I would not willingly oppose or vex you,” I 
 answered rather fervidly. 
 
 “Oh, yes, I see now, and am very sorry; only some- 
 how, I could not help it. I am so fond of the excite- 
 ment of a ‘dare.’ It would have been such a pretty 
 boast to have made my friends what a gallant leap 
 I had made. And you — you said you could jump it ! 
 Do you really mean it?” 
 
 “I did not say it boastingly,” I answered. 
 
 “I cannot believe it,” with a dubious shake of the 
 head. 
 
 And wishing to divert her mind from her own fiasco, 
 as well as to display an agility and strength of which 
 I was really proud, I instantly resolved to do it. 
 
 “I will show you; only, first you must promise that 
 you will not try to make Dido follow?” 
 
 “I have already said it, and you — I must not let 
 
60 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 you attempt it. There is the same danger to you,” she 
 said. 
 
 “No, not nearly so much. Were I to miss the bank 
 I should light safely on my feet at the bottom. If you 
 will permit the discourtesy, I will lay off my coat,” I 
 answered as obstinately determined as she herself had 
 been. 
 
 “Of course; nobody cares for your coat,” with a 
 soupcon of disdain. -“But I really ought not to allow 
 you to undertake the leap.” 
 
 But before she could further protest, I had thrown 
 off my coat, and girding my loins with my handker- 
 chief I stepped back a few paces for a running start. 
 
 With a spring, bold and strong as a panther’s, I 
 vaulted up and forward, landing with all ease upon 
 the farther bank. But I had hot reckoned on the 
 treacherous nature of the soil, and had I, it would 
 possibly have availed me little. The winter torrents 
 and early spring freshets had underwashed the bank 
 to an extent undiscernible from the other side, and 
 under the sudden impact of my weight a mass of earth 
 gave way. But for the tegument of sod, which, cling- 
 ing for a second, afforded me a momentary founda- 
 tion, I should have been precipitated ingloriously with 
 the rushing sand to the depths below; and it was only 
 by an almost superhuman effort that I gathered my- 
 self sufficiently to make a second spring, gaining an 
 absolutely firm footing beyond the treacherous brink. 
 
 I fancied I heard a little startled cry of affright as 
 the earth gave way, quickly followed by a joyous clap- 
 ping of hands and little shouts of excitement as I re- 
 gained my footing in safety. 
 
 It was indeed a gallant leap, full twenty feet: but 
 I knew my strength, imbued by that inspiring pres- 
 ence, and I did not fear to make it, and doubly as- 
 sured by her applause I took another running start, 
 and with a stronger bound landed safely back again. 
 
 “Ah, that was bravely done,” she cried, as I un- 
 loosed my girth and hastily donned my coat. “Bat 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 61 
 
 it was fearful, really dangerous. I could not cenceive 
 the danger until I saw you in the air and measured 
 the distance by your flight, and then when the earth 
 gave way. I — I — I see now that Dido could never 
 have carried me over, and I — I have to thank you for 
 saving me from a great peril/ ’ and much to my sur- 
 prise I looked up to find her crying again. 
 
 I felt a nameless and unconscious thrill of delight 
 as I saw the tears, but to soothe her I answered, 
 softly : 
 
 “You must not exaggerate the service. I hardly 
 think that you could have urged your mare to make 
 the trial / 9 and then mounting and respectfully touch- 
 ing my hat, I added, “And now, if you please, I am 
 ready. ? ’ 
 
 “Well, come on; only you need not keep your place 
 so far behind. You can come nearer. I wish to talk.” 
 
 It was not the gracious permission so much as the 
 rosy flush of her cheek and the shy, half-shamed droop- 
 ing of her expressive eyes that so exalted my soul as 
 I answered: 
 
 “You are very kind. May I thank you for your 
 grace ? ” 
 
 “Oh, no need of thanks. It is for my own pleasure,” 
 she said, reining her mare to the right to make room 
 for me on her left. 
 
 With a proper deference I accepted the place, only 
 drawing back enough to give her a due percedence. 
 
 “I noticed your magnificent strength the other day 
 in your contest with Selim, and your wonderful ac- 
 tivity today. Both feats were worthy an athlete. Are 
 they not remarkable or are they both common to your 
 race?” she asked. 
 
 “I do not know,” I answered modestly, and then 
 to belie the humility I added, boastingly, “I have 
 never yet found a man whom I could not easily 
 handle.” 
 
 “I can welhbelieve that. You should be proud of 
 such-such a — a glory.” 
 
62 
 
 THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 “As I have nothing else to be proud of I am in- 
 deed proud of my strength, ’ ’ I answered a little scorn- 
 fully. 
 
 “Oh! you mean because you are a negro slave?” 
 she asked quickly. 
 
 “Not because I am a slave, but because I am a 
 negro. Do you think,” I added almost fiercely, “that 
 were it not for this, the accursed blood of Ham that 
 taints my manhood and darkens my life, I would re- 
 main a slave a day, that all the chains ever forged 
 could hold me in bondage ?” 
 
 “What?” with an imperious erection of the head. 
 “What, would you defy the authority of your master, 
 of my father?” 
 
 “I should defy the authority and the power of all 
 hell itself,” I answered. 
 
 “Then, sir, you must fall behind to your proper 
 place, I can not trust such an insolence nearer,” wav- 
 ing me back as she slightly touched up her mare. 
 
 I could have bitten off my tongue for its bold and 
 defiant words. 
 
 “Oh, my mistress, please forgive me; forgive my 
 madness, my impertinent heat, but I did not intend it 
 for insolence. I would not offend or frighten you, you 
 of all the world. Please let me apologize or at least 
 explain,” I cried in such penitent eagerness that she 
 was mollified, if not touched. 
 
 “How can you justify the threat you have made,” 
 she asked. 
 
 “But it was no threat. It was only a proposition 
 — a violent one, I grant — but it was qualified by an 
 impossible condition. I said ‘if I were not a negro.’ 
 But, alas, I am a negro, and that conviction subdues 
 me. Being a negro, I am perhaps unfitted for free- 
 dom. I am a slave simply because I am a negro, and 
 not a negro because I am a slave. It is the race and 
 not the condition I despise. If I were a white man, I 
 should be free, even though I had to conquer my free- 
 dom at the point of a dagger. But I am a negro, and 
 
THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 63 
 
 being one, I do not so much as care to be free; cer- 
 tainly, I should not be willing to exchange my servi- 
 tude here with a mistress so gracious and a master so 
 kind, for a barbarian kingdom in Africa.” 
 
 “Very well, I excuse you. You need not fall back. 
 But somehow you strangely puzzle and almost frighten 
 me. There is something, a kind of magnetic master- 
 ship about you that I almost fear. You do not seem 
 like a negro to me, nor do you talk like one. You speak 
 and reason as if you were educated. You have excited 
 my curiosity and you must tell me something of your- 
 self. Can you read? Do you know anything about 
 books?” she asked, dropping the imperious tone of 
 the mistress and speaking almost as an equal, as she 
 draw back her mare instead of waiting for me to spur 
 my own horse up to her side. 
 
 I could not help the little triumph of pride with 
 which I answered. 
 
 “Oh, yes, I can read ” 
 
 “And write?” 
 
 “Yes, quite legibly,” I answered. 
 
 “Ah, and who taught you?” 
 
 “The young son of the overseer on the plantation 
 taught me my letters, and to spell. What else I have 
 learned I taught myself.” 
 
 “Indeed, and how much have you learned?” 
 
 “As much as with hard study, with my limited op- 
 portunities, I could acquire.” 
 
 “That hardly answers my question. What branches 
 have you studied, and how far have you. advanced ? ’ ’ 
 
 “I have a little smattering of everything— that is 
 to say of the sciences; but I am more proficient in 
 literature — that is, in history, biography, travels, poet- 
 ry, with a slight acquaintance with the classics.” 
 
 “You surprise me; and when did you find time for 
 all this, and where did you get the books?” 
 
 “I employed all my idle moments on the plantation, 
 and all last year here. I picked up a scant supply of 
 books on the plantation, and when I came here I ven- 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 64 
 
 tured to steal from the library. I considered it no 
 wrong and since you have asked me, I will confess 
 that I have read almost every volume in my mas- 
 ter’s library. ” 
 
 “Mo, it was no wrong; only many of the works are 
 in French, our mother tongue, you could not read 
 them?” 
 
 “Yes, miss, pardon the seeming egotism, but I mas- 
 tered the language, too, and can read French as under- 
 standingly as I can English.” 
 
 “This is a revelation,” she murmured half to her- 
 self, and then she went on with her interrogations. 
 
 “You say you like poetry? Now, tell me your favor- 
 ite author. I wish to know your taste.” 
 
 “You are very kind. My taste may not stand ap- 
 proved, I hardly think it would in some instances, but 
 still as you wish to know I will tell you. I think of 
 all the poets who have written the truest and the 
 grandest is Shakespeare.” 
 
 “That is good — he is incomparable; and which of 
 his works is best?” 
 
 “I can hardly say, but I like his historical plays 
 best; his stories of the English kings, his Henrys and 
 Richards, the wars of the Plantagenets and the Tu- 
 dors.” 
 
 “That is good again. Your taste is not so barbar- 
 ous as you think, but what of Othello, I should think a 
 fellow feeling would inline you to that — the exploits 
 of the Moor.” 
 
 “That is too unnatural, too gloomy and sad.” 
 
 “Ah ! how?” 
 
 “The injustice of fate-— the retribution that followed 
 the gentle Desclemona's unnatural love for the black 
 hero seemed out of all proportion to the supposed of- 
 fense. It was as unnaturally cruel as her misplaced 
 love was unnaturally sweet. Such tender devotion de- 
 served a far different fate. I do not like Othello.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Still you must admit — I credit you with more than 
 ordinary intelligence — that it was a wretched perver- 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 65 
 
 SH«n of maidenly affection and maidenly virtue for 
 *ueh a girl, the daughter of a senator, to fall so madly 
 and blindly in love with such a man — a Moor, a 
 
 negro.” 
 
 “In truth it was,” I answered soberly, and then we 
 rode on in silence, leaving us both to cogitate upon 
 the vagaries, the possibilities and fortunes of the 
 human heart. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE ACCIDENT. 
 
 While this little episode served to make us the bet- 
 ter acquainted, it also served to put us farther apart. 
 The old familiarity of mistress and slave had mysteri- 
 ously vanished, and instead of treating me, as hereto- 
 fore, with innocent indifference, she unconsciously 
 drew herself back in a little shell of maidenly reserve, 
 not absolutely cold, but infinitely more becoming to 
 her womanly sweetness, and so much more just to me. 
 
 This change I noticed the next morning, when, as 
 usual, I went into her room to make her fire ; for the 
 early spring mornings were yet chilly. I found the 
 curtains of her bed closely drawn, and not a thread 
 of lace, not a suspicion of hosiery, nor a frill nor a 
 furbelow could be seen to suggest the mystery of a 
 lady’s chamber. And when I went out and stooped 
 at the door to find her boots they were not there. 
 Thinking that the careless Sally had neglected to set 
 them out, I gently knocked, when the young mistress, 
 herself, answered. 
 
 “What is it you want?” 
 
 “If you please, I came for your boots. Sally has 
 forgotten to put them out,” I explained. 
 
 “Never mind about my boots. I shall not trouble 
 you to polish them any more. Stumpy Jake has nothing 
 else to do, and hereafter he will attend to my boots.” 
 
 I turned away a little sadly, feeling, somehow, that 
 something bright had been taken from me. 
 
 That afternoon she rode again, but when she went 
 to mount, instead of hoidenly springing into her saddle 
 in innocent disregard of the exposure of tantalizing 
 
 66 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 67 
 
 embroidery and immaculate skirts as she had hereto- 
 fore done, she demurely nodded for me to come. 
 
 “Hereafter, I shall have to place a little of your 
 magnificent strength under contribution. Yqu must 
 help' me to mount. ’ 9 
 
 “All of my strength is at your service ,’ ’ I answered, 
 but instead of crouching on my hands and knees with 
 my back for a step, as Louis had done, I chivalrous- 
 ly stooped, offering my hand for her foot. She drew 
 back her skirts and placed it in my broad palm, and 
 with one hand grasping her reins and the other rest- 
 ing on my shoulder, I lifted her up to her seat as 
 easily as if she had been a laughing little child. 
 
 I am sure that she must have felt something of the 
 magnetism of my strength, for I thought I felt a little 
 fluttering of her fingers on my shoulder as I raised her 
 in the air. "With a slight flush, she smilingly thanked 
 me for the service, and calling me to follow, she gal- 
 loped away. 
 
 She chose that afternoon a new route. Instead of 
 the lanes which ran to the south, she turned to the 
 wooded hills north. She galloped a matter of a mile 
 or more before she drew rein and nodded for me to 
 come up. 
 
 “I wish you to show me how badly I hurt you yes- 
 terday. Is it very painful?” she asked with contrite 
 tenderness in her voice. 
 
 “It is nothing, hardly a scratch. It was only a little 
 cut that happened to strike a vein. It is quite well 
 now, you can see,” I assuringly answered, raising my 
 hat and turning my temple towards her. 
 
 “And you will promise me again that you forgive 
 me. You cannot know how truly sorry I have been. 
 I thought of it over and over again, all the livelong 
 night — and of you — and I had to cry with shame and 
 sorrow for my cruel and unjust anger, when it was all 
 for me, for my safety, you did it. Oh, you must tell 
 me again that you forgive me.” 
 
 “That it made you think kindly of me, more than 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 pays for the little hurt. I should be willing to bear 
 anything from you if — if — ” 
 
 “If what?” she asked, as my tongue stammering- 
 ly refused to speak. 
 
 “I must not say. It would be a presumption in me 
 to speak it,” I answered. 
 
 “But you may speak almost anything without of- 
 fense to me. After doing all that you did for me, 
 despite, too, of my wicked anger, I feel that I owe you 
 something more than an apology. What is it then that 
 you would ask?'” 
 
 “I can ask nothing, my lady, that would be sweeter 
 or dearer to me than to have you think always, always 
 kindly of me.” 
 
 “Then I shall always think kindly of you,” she 
 answered sweetly, “and I may tell you more, how much 
 I like you ; how very pleased I am with your manly, I 
 may say, gentlemanly, deportment, and” adding with 
 considerable empressement, “how much I admire your 
 magnificent strength. Do you know that I think physi- 
 cal prowess one of the noblest attributes of man — 
 that in a superb physique, in courage and strength he 
 approaches nearest to the gods?” 
 
 I am sure that the hot blood in my cheeks must 
 have told what a riot of thoughts and passionate hopes 
 her words had kindled in my heart, for her own face 
 flushed red as a rose in June as I thanked her with 
 my eyes. 
 
 Steadying my voice, as well as I could, I answered 
 by qualifying her extravagant proposition. ‘ ‘ The gods 
 of mythology, you mean? Yes, their physical prowess 
 seems to have been their chief glory ! 7 7 and then, with 
 a pardonable vanity, I added, “Yes, I am proud of 
 my strength, proud of my stature, proud of my man- 
 hood; and I thank my God that in giving me my life 
 of shame and degradation, my father had, perforce, 
 to give with it something of his own herculean strength 
 and athletic form . 7 9 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 69 
 
 ‘ < Do you know your father ? Pew like you do. ’ ’ She 
 said. 
 
 “I never saw my father,’ ’ I answered, evasively, 
 but unthoughtfully added, "he was killed the day on 
 which I was born/’ 
 
 "Killed? how sad. But, who was your father?” she 
 asked, half curiously, half kindly. 
 
 "It can do no possible good for any one to ever 
 know. Had he lived he would have scorned to own 
 me. Being dead, I shall not reproach his shade by 
 claiming him. I am proud of the strength he gave 
 me and can forgive him for the laches of a name.” 
 
 "I am very sorry,” she softly said, "It seems that 
 a great wrong has been done.” 
 
 "I hardly know. It is a puzzling question. I have 
 studied much about the matter, the mystery of being, 
 ©f birth, of life and of death, and I am no wiser yet. 
 We will say a wrong has been done me in my creation. 
 Now, which of my parents am I to reproach for the 
 wrong? My father gave me my physique, my manly 
 mould, my strength and a certain refinement of thought 
 and feeling that no one else, perhaps, could have giv- 
 en; but in the laws of the land, in the decree of so- 
 ciety, he denied me a name. My mother gave me 
 life. It was through her I breathed and had my be- 
 ing, without her I had never been. But in giving 
 me life, she gave with it the curse of her race, the 
 taint of her blood, the negro skin of her father. 
 She could not help that because it was hers from the 
 beginning of creation. If it be good for me that I am 
 alive — that I exist and have a being — I cannot blame 
 my mother for bringing me into life; and surely, I 
 cannot blame my father for giving me all that makes 
 life worth living.” 
 
 "You perplex me,” she said with a gentle wonder 
 in her eyes. 
 
 "I hope I do not offend,.” I answered humbly. 
 
 "Oh, no. It is the mystery that puzzles me, the 
 
70 
 
 .. THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 •mystery of life, ’ ’ after a moment ’s meditation, ‘ ‘ of your 
 life,” she replied with a smile. 
 
 “Yes, it is a riddle, my life, a dark and grewsome 
 riddle, as profound and mayhap as sad as that one of 
 (Edipus. But I do not care to solve it. I can only 
 suppose that there is some inscrutable purpose in my 
 being, that there is something in this world for me to 
 do — some niche to fill, some destiny pre-ordained, per- 
 haps— and so believing, I leave the issue with the same 
 power that so ordained it.” 
 
 “And you say your father was killed? I hope not 
 murdered,” she asked after a little silence. 
 
 “No, hardly murdered — that is, the w r orld did not 
 call it murder. My father w T as a gentleman — even if 
 he were my father — and was killed in a duel.” 
 
 “A duel? That was sad; and do you know that I 
 had an uncle — my father’s only brother— killed in a 
 duel?” 
 
 “I have been told so.” 
 
 “Yes, it was many years ago, ever so long before 
 I was born, but I have hard my father talk so much 
 about it that I can fancy I had almost seen it.” And 
 as if saddened by the remembrance, she lapsed into 
 silence, while I dropped back to my proper place. 
 
 But little more was said during the ride. When w r e 
 returned I dismounted and offered my assistance to 
 her. Again disdaining the toad-like hump, I stood 
 proudly before her in my upright strength. She light- 
 ly rested her hands on my shoulders and reaching up 
 my hands I clasped her waist and lifted her down. Ah, 
 what a tremor choked me as I held her almost in my 
 arms, feeling her warm breath upon my cheeks, inhal- 
 ing with greedy inspiration its virgin fragrance. 
 
 “Thanks,” she smilingly said and lightly tripped 
 away. 
 
 The spring, in this sunny southland of ours, was 
 now coming, and, like the gardens and fields and woods 
 without, the house had to be put in summer dress. 
 The warm billowy Turkish carpets had to be taken 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 71 
 
 up and cool summer oils and mattings were put down. 
 The heay damask curtains of the windows gave place 
 to airy cloud-like lace. It was my place to see to all 
 this, and in the task I found employment for every 
 moment of the morning and forenoon. I remember 
 what a pleasure each morning’s work was, inspired 
 by the happy anticipation of the afternoon’s ride. 
 
 I was thus busy one morniiig after breakfast, when 
 I was summoned by the shrill call of my master’s 
 whistle to the office. I may mention that whistle. It 
 was an unique object, massive and of solid gold, and 
 as an heirloom for generations in the family it had 
 its legend. It was the double throated, sounding two 
 distinct notes, the one shrill and keen he used for his 
 dogs, the other more musicially sonorous he used for 
 calling his negroes. 
 
 Responding to the call, I found him with the ladies 
 in his office. 
 
 4 4 Paul,” he said, “get Jake and Bony and Bob to 
 help you. I want my iron safe moved to the other 
 comer,” pointing to an old-fashioned money chest 
 that stood in the farther corner of the room. It was 
 an awkward affair, made of thick plates of iron, heavy 
 and unwieldy, with two massive iron rings at the sides 
 through which hand spikes had to be thrust to lift it. 
 
 I glanced at it to measure its weight and then rather 
 boldly ventured to try it with my hands. 
 
 “Oh, you need not try. It takes the united strength 
 of four men to move it. There never lived but two 
 men who could lift it, my father and my brother 
 Jules. Go call the boys to help you,” again ordered 
 the master. 
 
 “If you please, sir, I should like to try,” I said, and 
 without waiting further permission I caught the rings 
 and bracing every muscle to its utmost work, stooped 
 and lifted it to a level with my knees. 
 
 “Where will you have it?” I asked, standing firm 
 as a statue. 
 
 “In the corner there. But, put it down; do not try 
 
72 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 to tote it,” he ordered. But unheeding the. command, 
 I carried it with a steady step and without quaver- 
 ing a muscle, to its place across the room. 
 
 “My God, fellow! what a giant you must be. Pauline, 
 did you see that? What would father say, think you, 
 if he could have seen it?” cried the master in aston- 
 ishment. 
 
 “He would have envied the negro his strength. You 
 know how jealous he was of this feat, and how proud 
 it made him when Jules lifted it. It was their boast 
 that no one else could do it,” answered the mistress. 
 
 “Yes, but neither of them could fairly straighten 
 with it, much less carry it across the room. Paul, we 
 shall have to yield you the belt. I am glad though, 
 that it doesn’t have to go out of the family. I shall 
 have you a silver mounted belt made. You deserve 
 it. But now you can go back to your work.” 
 
 All this was very flattering to my manhood, and I 
 was honestly proud of his praise, but not half so grate- 
 ful for it as I was for the admiring, almost tender 
 glance my queenly young mistress gave me, as I turned 
 away. 
 
 It was an hour or two later, and I had just fin- 
 ished hanging the curtains of the drawing room, when 
 I heard a startled cry, a confused rushing of feet 
 across the hall and a terrified chorus of screams. Hur- 
 rying out to ascertain the cause, I saw the negroes all 
 rushing toward the yard in the rear of the house 
 where I heard the mistress screaming : 
 
 “Oh, my darling! my child, my child! She is deaxl, 
 she is dead!” 
 
 In an instant I was there, I hardly knew how I went, 
 and had no consciousness of going, where I found the 
 mistress kneeling beside her daughter, with her head 
 , resting in her lap, pale, senseless and seemingly dead. 
 
 Without thought of anyone else in the world I 
 stooped and gathered her in my arms, clasping her 
 close to my heart, her beautiful head on my shoulder 
 and her lily-white face resting against my swarthy 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 73 
 
 cheek. I turned and without question or order dashed 
 into the house, down the hall and was turning to dash 
 mp' the steps to her room, when her mother, following 
 almost as distractedly close after me, cried out: 
 
 “No, no, carry her to my room — to my bed.” 
 
 Her voice sobered me, and for the first time my 
 senses returned. A wild, frantic impulse had moved 
 me before, but now I was cool and self-possessed as 
 ever, and releasing .the mad, almost crushing clasp 
 with which I had strained her to my heart, I tenderly 
 tore her to the room and as softly placed her on the 
 bed. 
 
 “Oh, my darling, my beautiful darling — dead, 
 dead,” again screamed the mother, sinking on her 
 knees and covering the pulseless hands with kisses. 
 
 “No, no, mistress, please God, she may not be dead,” 
 I answered, encouragingly. “She may have fainted — 
 please unloosen her clothing and let her breathe,” 
 
 “Then why don’t you do it? Quick; cut them, tear 
 them open. You know the others haven’t the sense 
 to do anything, ” she ordered, almost angrily at my 
 stupid hesitancy. 
 
 It needed no further order. My own judgment told 
 me what ought to be done, and done quickly. 
 
 With the imperious authority of a master I ordered 
 the screaming mob to clear the room,- and then as 
 reverently as if she had been dead indeed, I unloosed 
 her zone, opened her bodice and unlaced her stays. 
 
 “Oh! she is dead, my child, my child,” again 
 moaned the mother, and then aroused to a sudden 
 hope, she cried: “See if she breathes and put your 
 hand on her heart and feel if it beats. ’ ’ 
 
 I put my face close to her lips, but there was no 
 breath, and then lifting its gauzy veil I put my hand, 
 my swarthy, broad, strong hand upon the snowy 
 breast, when, oh joy, as if electrified into life by the 
 magnetism of the touch, the precious heart gave a 
 flutter, at first as faint and tremulous as the flutter 
 
'74 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 of a bird, but growing stronger and faster with each 
 tremor until the warm tide of life was put to flowing 
 again. 
 
 I softly withdrew my hand and as softly drew the 
 loose covering over the quivering bosom, and uncon- 
 sciously, as if to help her .breathing, I inhaled a great 
 draught of air as I watched the twitching of her lips, 
 the little gasps and then the baby-like catching of 
 breath. 
 
 “Oh, my mistress, ” I cried, turning to the distracted 
 and still kneeling mother, “let us thank God* for she is 
 alive. She still lives, and w 7 ill live. ’ 9 
 
 “Yes, let us thank God. Oh, my God, I do thank 
 Thee, and will bless Thee so long as I live for giving 
 my darling back to me/’ she cried, with eyes stream- 
 ing with grateful tears, and then putting away her 
 weak fears she arose and stooping over to kiss the still 
 quivering lips, she said: “Bring me the brandy, Win- 
 nie, and you, Sally, tell Joe to ride for Doctor Blue 
 and to send for your master/’ 
 
 The brandy was brought and a spoonful forced unto 
 the unconscious lips and mechanically gurgled down 
 and then she turned to me. 
 
 “Paul, I can trust your tender hand and steady 
 nerve. You must see now, before she recovers sensibil- 
 ity to pain how badly she is hurt — if there be any 
 broken bones.” 
 
 My mistress had sufficient reason for her confidence 
 in the tender touch of my hand, for she had often 
 required me to rub her spine and to chafe her ankles 
 and her knees, when suffering with her periodical at- 
 tacks of rheumatism. 
 
 Too deeply concerned for the safety of my lov£, I 
 did not hesitate now, and commenced at once an ex- 
 amination of the unconscious sufferer. A little con- 
 tusion on the fair forehead, now black and swollen 
 into a little knot, spoke for itself. This, though trifling, 
 was really the cause of her fainting. I then pressed 
 my hands down her arms, giving each wrist a severe 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 75 
 
 pull, but no injuries developed there. Next I gently 
 straightened out the still passive limbs and gave her 
 right foot a sharp little wrench, but no responsive 
 sign of injury, but when I attempted to take hold of 
 her left foot, with an instinctive flinch it was jerked 
 back and a little moan escaped her lips. 
 
 “Her left foot or leg seems to be hurt. Will you 
 see?” I asked, drawing back for the mother to make 
 the more delicate examination. 
 
 “No, you see. You need not mind it. I could not 
 bear the sight of my darling’s hurt,” she answered. 
 
 I unlaced and as gently as I could drew off her boot, 
 that precious little boot which I had so often pol- 
 ished and as often kissed, but in drawing it off I un- 
 avoidably twisted the ankle again, when this time the 
 little flinch became a spasmodic drawing up of the 
 leg and as the little moan became a cry of conscious 
 pain. 
 
 “Ah, here is the trouble. She has sprained or broken 
 the ankle,” I cried, with a load of fear lifted from my 
 mind. 
 
 I knew by the strength with which she drew it away 
 that the leg could not be broken and the injury ex- 
 tended no higher than the ankle. 
 
 “Thank God, it is no worse,” cried the mistress ven- 
 turing to withdraw her hands from the eyes she had 
 blinded against the possibility of witnessing pain. 
 
 “Draw off her stocking and see,” she said, as I again 
 drew back of her. 
 
 I hesitated a moment. The beautiful girl that lay 
 so fair before me was no longer an inanimate form, 
 insensible to sight or touch, but a living, breathing 
 body with the warm blood pulsing as strong as ever. 
 
 Impatient at my indecision, the mistress again or- 
 dered: “Pull off her stocking, I say, why do you hesi- 
 tate? It should be done before the ankle is swollen.” 
 
 As daintily as I could I unclasped the garter and 
 commenced drawing off the stocking, but the swell- 
 
76 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 ing had already commenced and a sharp cry of pain 
 compelled me to stop. 
 
 “Get me the scissors, I will have to rip the stock- 
 ing. The foot is too badly swollen,” I cried. 
 
 “Yes, yes — here they are. Cut it into shreds. Never 
 mind the stocking.” 
 
 I seized the scissors and dextrously ripped the silken 
 meshes apart and the poor wounded ankle lay bare 
 before me, purple with bruises and swollen with in- 
 flammation. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 AWAKENING SENSIBILITIES. 
 
 I had a very fair knowledge of the human anatomy. 
 Of all the sciences upon which I had touched in the 
 course of my discursive readings that of physiology 
 with its concomitant subjects had most interested me. 
 I had even, in my restless discontent with my degraded 
 condition and the vague longing to be something bet- 
 ter than a chattel, thought upon the possibilities it 
 possessed for usefulness, if not for distinction, and 
 somehow had seized upon it as the one possible hope of 
 deliverance. If I could master it with the materia 
 medica, I could make myself more useful than a drudge 
 and rise to the status of a useful manhood, if not of 
 freedom. Thus dreaming, I had given the science more 
 study than I had given all others put together. I trust 
 then that I may be acquitted of the charge of egotism 
 when I say that I had fully as clear an idea of the 
 subject and its practical application, as half the 
 diploma-fledged young doctors the colleges of our 
 country annually turn loose upon suffering humanity 
 today. 
 
 Happily this knowledge served me now. Without 
 torturing the sufferer with a painful exploration, I was 
 able to diagnose with a touch the nature and extent 
 of the hurt. 
 
 "There is no fracture — only a slight dislocation,” I 
 reported to the anxious mother. ‘ ‘ Shall I reset it or 
 wait until the doctor comes ? ’ ’ 
 
 "Can you? Are you sure?” She anxiously added. 
 
 "It is simple, and I am quite sure. If you can trust 
 me, I can easily do it. And if you please, mistress, 
 
 77 
 
78 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 it had better be done so soon as possible, as the longer 
 it be delayed the more painful it will become.” 
 
 ^ 4 Then do it. I can trust you. ’ ’ 
 
 With a firm hand, although it was like tugging at 
 my own heartstrings, I caught her foot and grasping 
 her limb firmly with my other hand, I gave the neces- 
 sary pull and with a little pop the joint slipped back 
 into its place. 
 
 With a cry of pain the young lady started up, wak- 
 ing back to consciousness. 
 
 “ There, darling, it is all over now,” soothingly said 
 her mother, putting her back on the pillow and grate- 
 fully kissing her. 
 
 “But what is it? Where am I — and what has hap- 
 pened?” she asked in puzzled confusion. “Ah, yes; 
 I remember now. The ground did really fly up and 
 hit me,” she added, as a gleam of remembrance flashed 
 through her brain, 
 
 “Yes, you fell from your swing and were hurt. But 
 you are better now; tell me darling, that you are bet- 
 ter,” assuringly coaxed her mother. 
 
 “Oh, yes, that was how it came. How silly I was, 
 and how like a dream. I was swinging when the rope 
 broke and I was dashed to the ground.” 
 
 And this was indeed what had happened. The long 
 sweeping swing suspended from the high branch of 
 the oak had broken. In swinging its full length, as 
 was her almost daily amusement, one of the ropes 
 had worn in two and breaking, threw her as we had 
 found her. 
 
 “But darling, tell me how you feel. Where are you 
 hurt? Can you move? Try, sit up. Clap your hands 
 and kick; try your legs,” said the practical mother, 
 still doubtful. 
 
 Unconscious of her dishabille, she raised up, and 
 Raphael himself would have despaired to paint the 
 blush on her cheek as she realized the situation and 
 with a little cry she hugged up her arms to hide her 
 breast with her hands. 
 
THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 79 
 
 To relieve her blushes I turned to the window. 
 
 “Does anything more hurt you? Tell me all,” again 
 asked the mother, alarmed at the little cry. 
 
 “Oh. no ; only what have you done to my dress? How 
 came it in this plight?” 
 
 “We had to open your basque and corset to give 
 you breath. But, never mind your dress; see if you 
 can kick.” 
 
 “I am hurt nowhere except my ankle. Tell Sally to 
 come and dress me.” 
 
 “But you cannot stand; you must lie still. Paul 
 says your ankle is broken and you must not try to 
 walk,” protested the mother. 
 
 “If you please, Miss Virginia, J will send Sally, but 
 first will you let me bandage your ankle. It should 
 be kept tightly bandaged to subdue the swelling, and 
 a constant application of cold water must be kept 
 up to subdue the inflammation,” I suggested, some- 
 what empirically, I grant. 
 
 “Yes, certainly you must. There — here are the ban- 
 dages,” tearing a piece of muslin into broad bands. 
 “Virginia, you must let him do it.” 
 
 “Very well — only why can’t you call Mammy Dilsey 
 and let her do it. I am afraid of Paul’s strong hand.” 
 
 “Paul’s hand can be tender as well as strong; he 
 can do it much better than Dilsey. There, you lie still 
 and he will not hurt you,” answered the mistress, and 
 sinking back upon her pillow the young lady submitted 
 without a moan, while as softly as I could I tightly 
 bandaged the ankle. 
 
 “There, that is better already — stronger and better. 
 I am greatly obliged to you, Paul,” she said after I 
 had finished. 
 
 “It is a great happiness for me to serve you,” I an- 
 swered. “And now if you please, I will send Sally to 
 attend you,” and to relieve any further sense of em- 
 barrassment, I went out to call her maid. 
 
 It was more than an hour before the doctor came, and 
 I was called in to explain to him what I had done. 
 
THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 With as much respect for my own judgment as I had 
 for his, I told him in as few and simple words as pos- 
 sible, avoiding even the explanatory technicalities of 
 the subject. 
 
 “Aha, eh-he — yes, well; that was all right; very 
 good. I could not have done better myself. I am glad 
 to find no bones broken, only Miss Choteaux you will 
 net be able to walk for some time to come. You must 
 not attempt it, although it is hardly necessary for m« 
 to interdict it, as the pain itself, I am sorry to say, will 
 keep you quiet. I see, too, that it gave you a little 
 bruise on the forehead — a little beauty spot, or rather 
 knot, he-he! I will leave you emollient for that, and 
 by keeping your ankle tightly bandaged, like it is, until 
 the swelling is all gone and continuing the application 
 of cold water you will, in the course of a few weeks, be 
 able to hop around on crutches. I know that it is hard 
 on such a gay spring bird as you to be caged up in 
 bed when there is much that is pleasant outdoors, but 
 there is no help for it . 7 7 And making out the prescrip- 
 tion for the lotion he took his fee and with it his leave. 
 
 “Oh, I don’t believe it is half so bad as all that, or 
 that I shall have to lie abed so long. I am sure I shall 
 b@ able to walk in a day or two. I believe I can walk 
 nc\V. And my rides — oh, I cannot give up my rides ! 77 
 cried the young lady as the door closed behind the 
 doctor. 
 
 “Well, we shall see about the rides, but you must 
 not attempt to walk. You must be perfectly quiet. 
 Paul will fetch a bed in for me, and we will make it as 
 pleasant for you here as it can be , 77 assuringly an- 
 swered her mother. 
 
 * ‘ Oh, no — not here, mamma ; I must go up to my own 
 room since I must perforce be caged. I must have the 
 bars so I can see the glad world outside. I can see all 
 ever the garden, and the field beyond, from my own 
 windows, but here I had as well be in a prison cell — 
 no sunshine, nor anything except the bare garden 
 wall.” 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 81 
 
 4 ‘ Very well, anywhere that you wish. Paul can carry 
 y*u.” 
 
 “Oh, no. Can’t I lean on Sally’s shoulder and 
 walk ? ’ ’ 
 
 “Just try to move your foot and see.” 
 
 The experiment was tried and a cry of pained dis- 
 appointment was the result. 
 
 “Now, you see the folly of trying to walk. Sally, 
 run ahead and fix her bed. Paul, you must carry her. 
 You need not be afraid, darling; he toted you in from 
 the yard as easily as if you had been a baby.” 
 
 She had not been dressed, — only a dainty night robe 
 of snowy whiteness and soft, clinging fabric, by half 
 concealing only made her exquisite loveliness the more 
 ravishing, and I hesitated a moment in positive dread 
 of the contact before I could steel my senses against 
 it. I saw, though, that my hesitancy was beginning 
 to confuse her and dreading that my mistress might 
 suspect something of my feelings, I respectfully ad- 
 vanced. 
 
 “Will you please hold to my shoulders,” I asked, 
 calmly as I could, as I stooped forward to lift her in my 
 arms ; and with her fair arms clasply firmly around my 
 neck, her beautiful head resting on my shoulder, and 
 the sweet heart fluttering like a bird against my own, I 
 lifted and bore her to her room — out into and down 
 the long hall and up, up that high flight of stairs, each 
 step of which seemed to lift me that much nearer to 
 a heaven that would have burst my heart with very joy 
 to have entered. 
 
 “Thanks. You are so good to me,” she whispered, 
 so softly, so sweetly, and so close to my cheek that it 
 seemed almost a caress. 
 
 A convulsive tightening of my arms, and a wild 
 throbbing of the heart was all the ^answer I could 
 give, as I gently placed her on her bed. And that was 
 enough, for it called a crimson flush to her neck, her 
 cheek and her forehead, as with a little drooping of the 
 
82 
 
 THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 eyes — shy, timorous — she settled her head on its pil- 
 low. 
 
 The mistress, with Winnie, her own personal maid, 
 followed in and began at once to make the room bright. 
 
 “May I go now?” I asked of her. 
 
 “Yes, but you must stay near. Remember you have 
 nothing else to do but to wait on your young mistress. 
 I relieve you from all service down stairs and you will 
 devote your whole duty to her. 7 ’ 
 
 “I shall always be within call,” I answered, as I 
 bowed myself out. 
 
 On the stairs I met the master, who had been in the 
 woods gunning, and had just returned to meet the ex- 
 aggerated reports of his daughter’s injuries. The 
 anxious, almost haggard look of suspense and dread 
 I read on his countenance, told how much that beloved 
 daughter was to him, and I instinctively shuddered as 
 I thought of the vengeance that would inevitably fall 
 upon the head of the wretch who would dare to harm 
 her. 
 
 “How is she, your Miss Virginia?” he asked, without 
 pausing for an answer. 
 
 “There is nothing serious — only a sprained ankle.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Thank God ! They told me she was dying , 7 7 and in 
 he rushed. 
 
 I loitered aimlessly and uneasily for a while in the 
 hall below, and then catching the scent of early spring 
 roses in the garden I thought that their beauty and 
 fragrance would add a charm to her room. I hurried 
 out with a flower basket to cull a bouquet for her table. 
 
 “I have brought some flowers for the young mis- 
 tress,” I said in unconscious apology for the presump- 
 tion, as I offered the basket to the mistress. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Certainly, that was right. Put some fresh water in 
 the vases, and let Sally arrange them. And, now, dar- 
 ling, we must go to dinner. How lonesome it will be 
 without you — but never mind, it won’t be long. What 
 is it nice I must send you?” 
 
 “Oh, anything will do, I am not a bit hungry.” 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 83 
 
 “Then come, Sally, and fetch her dinner/ ’ and kiss- 
 ing her daughter, the gentle mother went out with the 
 master, followed by Sally, and leaving me alove with 
 her, who was all the world to me. 
 
 “Ah, you brought me the flowers. How good of 
 you and how thoughtful. Let me see — ah, pretty roses, 
 and so sweet; here, give me one — this one — this Mare- 
 chal Niel,” selecting with a dainty taste a snowy bud. 
 “Now, will you arrange them in the vases for me? I 
 cannot trust awkward Sally. ’ ’ 
 
 With no mean taste for floral effects, I made the bou- 
 quet, and ■wheeling a little table by the bed side, I 
 placed them on it. 
 
 “Ah, that is very pretty, and it was kind and gallant 
 in you to think of bringing them for me. You must 
 have known how dearly I love them?” 
 
 “I only hoped that they might please you.” 
 
 “Yes, they do please me, and I thank you for them. 
 And Paul, mamma has told me how good you were to 
 me— so very, very good — and I — I am so grateful, ” and 
 the tears, precious, priceless tears, trembled on the 
 long silken lashes. 
 
 I could not trust myself to speak and had to turn 
 away to hide my own perceptible show of feeling. 
 
 4 ‘ And now, ’ ’ she went on more brightly, after a sec- 
 ond, “you must not think me a baby, only I — I do, do 
 thank you, ’ ? breaking off with a little laugh, more akin 
 to a sob. 
 
 The entrance of Mammy Dilsey, followed by Winnie 
 and Sally, all three loaded with dainties for her dinner, 
 relieved me from a reply, and I hurried out to fetch a 
 little round dining table for her. 
 
 Her mother, still anxious, hurried her own dinner to 
 come back. 
 
 “How is your dinner, sweet?” she asked, fondly pat- 
 ting the beautiful head. 
 
 “It is very nice, and I was more hungry than I 
 thought. I have made a voracious meal of it. ? * 
 
84 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 ‘ ‘ I am glad that you did ; and, now, what next do you 
 want. We must try to amuse you. ’ 9 
 
 “I hardly know. I shall miss my ride. Oh, you 
 don’t know how pleasant my rides are getting to be !” 
 
 “ Yes, I can imagine how pleasant it must be this de- 
 lightful weather. But you mustn’t fret, but get well as 
 soon as you can, that you may ride again,” encourag- 
 ingly smiled the mother. “We must devise some other 
 divertisement for you. What shall it be, darling?” 
 
 “I cannot imagine anything half so pleasant as rid- 
 ing,” a little dolefully, and then brightening up, “un- 
 less it be, as, let me see — oh, yes, I will tell you, mamma 
 — it be reading.” 
 
 “Ah, yes, that will be nice. I will send tomorrow for 
 Miss Fouche to read for you. She will be very glad to 
 come. I had a note from her yesterday asking for some 
 kind of employment. They are very poor, you know, 
 and I should like very much to help them. ’ ’ 
 
 “Yes, do help them, mamma. Send her the salary, 
 but do not let her come— at least, just now. Somehow I 
 do not like Miss Fouche.” 
 
 “Very well, then, I shall not have her. But, dar- 
 ling, whom shall I get ? ’ ’ 
 
 “I will tell you, mamma; it is a secret that I have 
 found out. Paul, there, says he can read. Will you 
 have him to try, and maybe he can read for me?” 
 
 “Oh, yes, of course; make him do anything you like. 
 How is it, Paul?” aswecj. the mistress, picking up a little 
 book of poems from the writing table, and turning t© 
 3*1 e. “Here, let me hear you try to read.” 
 
 I reached for the book. It was a volume of Bryant’s 
 poems, his latest, and by chance I opened it at that 
 spirited piece, “The African Chief,” and with all the 
 energy and grace of inflection and tone of which I was 
 master, I read it. 
 
 “That is well enough,” said the mistress, as finish- 
 ing, I closed the book and awaited her judgment. “You 
 read surprisingly well, but I do not think your master 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 would approve, or even allow such — such, well I ma y 
 say such incendiary matter.” 
 
 “Oh, I think it is very sad,” gently protested the 
 young mistress. 
 
 “It was a chance selection altogether. I had never 
 seen the poem before,” I apologized. 
 
 “Perhaps not, but it is unsuitable for you. The poem 
 may do very well for those who can appreciate its 
 maudlin sentimentality and understand its falsity, but 
 it is not such matter as a negro should read. Let me 
 see — who is it you read from ? ’ ’ 
 
 “From William Cullen Bryant,” I answered, hand- 
 ing her the book. 
 
 “No,” drawing back from the book, “I do not care 
 to see it. Put it on the hearth there and burn it up. 
 Virginia, I must interdict the reading of Bryant. You 
 must have no more of him. There, that is right, Paul, ’ 9 
 as obeying her order I struck a match and applying it 
 to the crisp leaves of the book, placed it on the hearth, 
 where it soon crackled into ashes. 
 
 “I do not object to the English poets,” continued 
 the censor, “or to our own Southern poets, Poe, or 
 Pinckney, or Eequir, or Flash, or Meek, but I cannot 
 permit those wretched abolitionists to inject their fa- 
 natic poison in my household.” 
 
 “But, mamma, you needed not to burn the book. I 
 as sure that Paul has the good sense to discriminate 
 between the poison and the honey,” again protested 
 the daughter. 
 
 “But when there is honey without the poison, one 
 had better always take it.” 
 
 “If you please, mistress,” I said, “I understand that 
 poem, its animus and its object. It is, as you say, 
 poison, not intended to excite the negro, but to preju- 
 dice the minds of a class of whites as ignorant them- 
 selves as the negro. I know enough about the history 
 of my race to know that such a story as this is impos- 
 sible. I know, too, that the most abject slave in the 
 South is infinitely better off than the most powerful 
 
86 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 barbarian chief in Africa. It is a boast of my mother’s 
 —not of mine — that my own grandfather was a chief, 
 the son of a king, and I trust you will believe me sin- 
 cere when I say that so far as my own life is concerned, 
 so far as it be good for me to live at all, I am thankful 
 to the Providence, or fate, or destiny, whichever you 
 may call it, that made me a slave, and gave me such 
 a mistress. I had rather be the slave I am than to be 
 the king of the Zululand, itself. ’ ’ 
 
 4 ‘ That is right. I should have known you had better 
 sense than to be moved by the heroics of a crazy poet. 
 I am glad that you do understand and will leave Vir- 
 ginia free to have you read what she thinks will best 
 amuse her. You can go, now, and get your dinner and 
 then come back to Virginia ,’ 5 and with a gracious wave 
 ©f the hand, I was dismissed. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A SYMPATHETIC AUDITOR. 
 
 “What is it I shall read?” I asked as I reported af- 
 ter dinner for orders. 
 
 “Yon said you liked Shakespeare best of all. You 
 may read Shakespeare, ’ 9 wa« the gracious command. 
 
 I hurried down to the library for the book and was 
 soon back ready for service. 
 
 “You may sit, if you wish. I do not mind,” she 
 kindly said as I took my stand by the window near 
 the head of her bed. 
 
 “It is best that I stand,” I answered, not yet bold 
 enough to venture such a liberty. “What story may I 
 read?” 
 
 “We were discussing ‘ Othello’ the other day; read 
 ‘Othello’.” 
 
 In my happiest vein I read the story, not pausing 
 once to watch its effect upon my sweet auditor, and 
 after I had finished I stood silent a moment before she 
 spoke. 
 
 “That was all very sad. Poor Desdemona, I know 
 not whether most to blame or pity her. What a mad- 
 dening thing love must surely be, ’ 9 she softly said. 
 
 The ground, the crumbling brink, upon which I was 
 standing was too dangerous for me to offer to speak 
 and closing the book I turned to the window to hide the 
 expression of my countenance that it would have been 
 imprudent for her to see. 
 
 “You are tired standing still so long and wish to 
 walk. You may go now. I must thank you, though. I 
 enjoyed your reading as well as I could have enjoyed 
 a ride. After supper you must come back to me. I 
 
 87 
 
88 
 
 THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 want to hear you read again, and to talk. It is the 
 evenings I dread more than anything else, and without 
 my music to divert me I do not see how I can endure 
 them. Somehow they are bringing so many strange 
 and disquieting fancies — silly thoughts and almost 
 wicked. You must help me to drive them away.’ ’ 
 
 “I shall be very glad if I can amuse you,” I an- 
 swered. 
 
 “Yes, you can. So come directly after you have had 
 your supper. I do not wish to worry my sweet mamma, 
 and papa will want to smoke until bedtime — so I will 
 have to rely upon you to keep away the blues,” and 
 with a kindly smike, she nodded for me to go. 
 
 In order to divert her thoughts from the sorrowing 
 and puzzling sympathy with the sad fate of the gentle 
 Desdemona, I thought to find something if not less 
 heroic, at least less saddening in its afterthoughts, and 
 to that end selected some early English translations of 
 the “Stories Miletus,” for the evening’s reading. 
 
 I said heroic, for somehow, in a kind of blind, in- 
 tuitive selfishness, common in fact to us all, I wished to 
 feed her imagination upon fancies and stories of heroic 
 achievements, of manly daring and fortitude, of 
 strength and God-like powers — for in all these physical 
 attributes of heroism, I felt myself a man. It was all 
 I had to commend me, my tremendous strength, my 
 powerful physique, my agile, gainly motion, and strong, 
 shapely limbs. 
 
 Slight wonder is it then, that I in a natural, albeit 
 selfish, wish to appear to my best before her whom I 
 loved with all the strength of my being, I should select 
 for my themes stories in which I myself, negro, slave 
 that I was, could have figured as the hero, and stories, 
 too, that would leave no sombre aftermath of reflections 
 to darken the brightness of their suggestions. 
 
 My selection for this evening was a happy one, and * 
 when after an hour’s pleasant reading I left her to sleep 
 and to dream, she was smiling over the cunning roguery 
 ©f Sisyphus instead of crying over his unending task. 
 
THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 80 
 
 Her injuries were not, in truth, so severe as the doctor 
 had said, and the next morning by leaning on Sally’s 
 broad shoulder, she was able to move about her room 
 and in the afternoon, when her crutches came she 
 could explore the entire length of the upper hall. 
 
 And then the morning after, she insisted upon dress- 
 ing and venturing down to breakfast, and I was called 
 to lift her down the stairs, her mother utterly refusing 
 to allow her to make the venture on the steps. 
 
 As lightly as before and with less trepidation, I lifted 
 her in my arms and carried her softly down. 
 
 “Oh, that is so pleasant/’ she smiled as I steadied 
 her a second to adjust her crutches. 
 
 After breakfast she fluttered about the house for a 
 while like a wounded bird and then I was called to 
 carry her back to her room again. 
 
 Again it was like mounting the golden stairs as I 
 strained her yielding form to my breast and fancied 
 that I could feel a responsive clasp clinging lingeringly 
 to my neck as I put her down. 
 
 “Now read me something pleasant, something in 
 lighter vein. I am feeling too buoyant for tragedy this 
 morning/’ she said, her cheeks glowing with the color 
 of roses. 
 
 “How will the ‘ Comedy of Errors’ do, or the ‘ Taming 
 of the Shrew/ — which shall it be?” I asked opening 
 the volume. 
 
 “Oh, the two Dromeos, I like them best of all. ‘The 
 Shrew’ is too tame. Do you know I think Kate a 
 travesty upon womanly spirit. No man could subdue 
 me with such a loonish petulence of temper. I should 
 require something more manly, a masterful strength 
 of arm as well as of will. Katharina was a chit and 
 Petruchio a brawling fop. Let us have the ‘ Comedy of 
 Errors’,” she said. 
 
 With as much spirit as I could throw into the sub- 
 ject I read the charming farce, receiving for the service 
 a little fusilade of vivas, which I acknowledged with 
 a gallant obeisance. 
 
90 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 Dinner-time I again carried her down, bodily in my 
 arms and my poor heart leaped into my throat almost 
 choking me with its wild delirium of passion as I felt 
 the warm soft bloom of her cheek nestling against my 
 own. It was a torture to keep from turning my face 
 and dashing burning kisses upon the melting lips so 
 dangerously near, but with a nerve of steely I choked 
 back my heart and without daring to once look in 
 her eyes I gently steadied her on her feet and turned 
 quickly away. 
 
 After bolting my dinner in my eagerness to again 
 serve my divinity, I stationed myself near the stairs 
 in the hall in eager anticipation of the happiness of 
 holding her once more in my arms. 
 
 But she did not come. Perhaps she too had felt some- 
 thing of the danger and wiser than I had drawn back. 
 I waited with something, like angry impatience for 
 more than an hour, and then with a presumption that 
 would have appalled me the day* before, I turned for 
 the first time to seek her — for the first time to intrude 
 myself unbidden upon her presence. 
 
 I found her on the front portico. A low, easy couch 
 had been wheeled out into the genial sunlight for her 
 comfort, and she was sitting with her wounded foot 
 resting on a little mound of downy pillows. 
 
 “What is it you want?” she asked with a little touch 
 @f hauteur in her tone, as I stood before her. 
 
 “If you please, I came to see if I could serve you,” I 
 answered with an apologetic bow. 
 
 “No — when I want you I will have you called. You 
 ean go back to your work. You must not forget your 
 place and presume too much upon my condescension. 
 You can go.” 
 
 I was more astounded than hurt at this sudden 
 change in a manner always generous and kind, and sad- 
 ly puzzled what to make of it I turned away. 
 
 She did not go up to her room that afternoon, nor 
 evening until she was ready to retire, and then she 
 had Joe called to carry her up. It was with a grim, 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 91 
 
 spiteful delight that I stood on the dark porch without 
 and peered through the sidelights of tlm hall door to 
 watch the awkward, staggering steps the fellow made 
 as he tottered under the weight of his heavy load. Toil- 
 ing, panting, up, up, up, pausing at each step to gather 
 strength for the next until exhausted an unlucky trip at 
 the top plunged him with his helpless charge downward 
 — tumbling bump, bump, over and over like harlequins 
 in a pantomime, until they reached the landing below. 
 
 The cries of the young mistress, the grunts of Joe 
 and the screaming of Sally who had been following up 
 close after them, and was now perched astride the ban- 
 ister, whither she had scrambled to clear the way for the 
 down-tumbling avalanche, brought the startled house- 
 hold out in a wild alarm. 
 
 My own heart fluttered in pained suspense, as I too 
 rushed forward to the young mistress’ help. My hand 
 was the first to reach her, and gathering Joe, who had 
 fallen prone across the young lady’s breast and was 
 smothering the breath out of her, by the nape of his 
 neck and the belt of his trousers I gave him a piteh 
 that landed him like . a chunk half way across the hall, 
 and then I lifted her to a seat on the steps and looked to 
 my master for further orders. 
 
 Happily she was not hurt, for Joe, to give him credit, 
 with a frantic energy had softened each bump so far 
 as possible, and now that the fright was over the lu- 
 dicrousness of the situation came flashing over her 
 mind ; and hushing her cries, she burst out into merry 
 peals of laughter. 
 
 The laugh was a glad relief to all ; but the master was 
 not so merry. 
 
 “I am glad that you are not hurt, but it is nothing 
 to laugh at. I have a great mind to give Joe a thrash- 
 ing for his awkwardness,” he said sternly. 
 
 “Oh, no, papa,” sobered by the angry threat. “It 
 was not his fault, he really is not strong enough. I 
 ought to have supported myself when I felt his strength 
 giving way, but I — I didn’t think that I was so heavy. 
 
92 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 Please don’t blame Joe, papa, he could not help it and 
 I am not hurt a bit, and oh, it was so ridiculous — and 
 Sally, there scrambling over the banister to get out of 
 our way . 5 ’ 
 
 “ You had no business to trust yourself to Joe. Paul 
 should have carried you. Paul, I have a great mind t* 
 buck you down and give you fifty lashes for not at- 
 tending to your business, you lazy scoundrel, you , 9 9 said 
 the master turning fiercely to me. 
 
 “I am sorry — ” I commenced when he imperiously 
 stopped me. 
 
 “Hush your mouth, none of your impudence, or I 
 shall knock you down. Lift her up now and carry her 
 to her room and let us see how badly she is hurt. Joe, 
 you had better send Dick for Dr. Blue.” 
 
 “Oh, no, papa; you are mistaken. I am really not 
 hurt at all. See here,” thrusting out her foot, “I can 
 twist my ankle without the least bit of trouble or pain. 
 Please do not be angry, papa; it was ail so funny.” 
 
 “Yes, dear. Never mind it now; there is no harm 
 done. Take her up, Paul,” interrupted the mistress, 
 after assuring herself by a loving pat of the wounded 
 foot that it was indeed not hurt. 
 
 I stooped and lifted her up, not claspingly as before, 
 but slipping my hands under her as she sat and making 
 a kind of chair of my arms I raised her up and holding 
 my face aside I carried her safely up to her room. 
 
 “Ah, this is so much better,” she said as I sat her on 
 her lounge. “I ought to have known that poor Joe 
 could not carry me, and do you know,” she added 
 brightly, “ that I was thinking of old Sisyphus and his 
 stone all the time that Joe was tugging me up the steps 
 — and then to cap the climax, just as he reached the top 
 he had to slip back and here we went tumbling down 
 again just for all the world like old Sisyphus and his 
 stone. Poor Joe, he was hurt much worse than I. It 
 was mean in you to pitch him so hard across the floor.” 
 
 “Yes, miss, I am sorry I touched him. Have you 
 any further use for me, now?” 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 93 
 
 “No, you may go — only, Paul,” softly, as I turned to 
 go, “it was foolish in me to be angry with you today — 
 you must not mind it. Now, you may go.” 
 
 The next morning the mistress called me. “Paul, go 
 up and see if your Miss Virginia will come down to 
 breakfast, and if she will, you must fetch her. I want 
 no more nonsense with Joe.” 
 
 I found her ready for breakfast. She was charming- 
 ly dressed in some dainty summer fabric, and never 
 before had she looked so bewitchingly lovely. 
 
 “If you please, miss, my mistress has sent me to see if 
 you will go down for breakfast,” I said. 
 
 “Yes, I was waiting for someone to come to help 
 me.” 
 
 “Mistress is afraid to trust you again with Joe and 
 she sent me.” 
 
 “And it was you I wanted. You should have come 
 without waiting to be told.” 
 
 “Then I— I must beg your pardon, but you told me 
 yesterday never to come unless called. ’ 9 
 
 “Yes, yes — so I did; but I was silly yesterday — upset 
 and out of humor. I must ask you to forgive me, ” and, 
 as if in penitential assurance, she reached up her arms 
 for me to take her. 
 
 I stooped with a respectful courtesy and lifting her, 
 carried her safely down, Sally going ahead with the 
 crutches. 
 
 “I must thank you — your strength is so — so exhil- 
 arating. Come to the library after you have had break- 
 fast and we will read there,” she said with a kindly 
 smile, as she turned into the dining hall. 
 
 When I went into the library I found her waiting. 
 
 “We must have something light today, some simple 
 love story,” she said, as I halted for a suggestion. 
 
 Quite by chance I took down the first book I touched. 
 
 “Ah, here is something if you have never read it,” 
 I ventured, “the West India story, ‘Paul and Vir- 
 ginia ’ 
 
 “Yes, I have heard mamma tell it. 
 
 Read it. It 
 
94 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 be nice I am sure,” and thus enjoined I took my place 
 at the window and began. 
 
 Those who have been charmed with the simple story 
 of the castaways can understand how it was that dinner 
 was announced before we had thought of the lapse of 
 the moments. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Oh, is it that late, and I have kept you standing all 
 this long time. That is really too bad. You shall sit 
 the next time — I shall command it,” she said as the 
 announcement of dinner recalled her to the hour. 
 
 "As soon as you have dined come back and finish it 
 for me, I could not sleep without hearing the last of 
 it, ’ ’ she called as she went out. 
 
 It took but a short while after dinner to finish the 
 story. 
 
 “I am sorry it turns out so sadly. What a pity ! Why 
 is it that such— such unequal or misplaced love always 
 turns out so sadly?” she asked. 
 
 “I do not know, I am sure, unless it be that sorrow 
 and suffering are the price that must be paid for ~all 
 that is best and sweetest in life,” I answered. 
 
 "It is all a perplexity,” she said soberly, and then 
 reaching, for her crutch (she had discarded one and was 
 beginning to take little steps with only one), she 
 added, "Let us go into the gallery, I wish to see the 
 pictures.” 
 
 The gallery was quite an extensive one, and besides 
 the family portraits contained a number of rare and 
 valuable paintings. 
 
 After looking idly over these for awhile, she turned 
 to the portraits, where gazing with puzzled wonder for 
 a moment upon one, she suddenly turned to me with a 
 scrutinizing glance in my face. 
 
 "Ah, I think I have found it at least,” she cried ex- 
 citedly. "I have been so strangely puzzled to know 
 what it was about you that seemed so — so — so familiar, 
 — that made you more to me than any other man — or 
 negro man I mean. Here, look at this picture. It is 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 95 
 
 the portrait of my Uncle Jules, painted the year he 
 died. Is it not wondrously like you?” 
 
 . 4 4 There is a resemblance,” I answered evasively. 
 
 4 4 But isn't it strange. You — you surely comprehend 
 it.” 
 
 4 4 The resemblance or the cause?” I asked. 
 
 4 4 The resemblance, of course — there can be no cause 
 for it , 9 9 she answered quickly. 
 
 4 4 Perhaps not.” 
 
 4 4 What do you mean?” 
 
 44 I mean that there is no accounting for the strange 
 coincidences that are sometimes found in nature.” 
 
 4 4 Is this only a coincidence?” she asked a little sober- 
 
 iy- 
 
 44 I may not presume to say.” 
 
 4 4 But that is no answer. You should not be im- 
 pertinent. Tell me, what do you argue from this 
 strange resemblance?” she demanded with a little 
 
 scorn. 
 
 4 4 Since you so imperiously demand it, I will tell you. 
 That is the portrait of my father, ’ 9 I said unconsciously 
 answering her scorn. 
 
 4 4 Oh, no, no !” she cried in indignant protest against 
 the assumption, 4 4 that cannot be. You are bold — you 
 are insolent — to think so. You are impudent to say 
 so.” 
 
 4 4 My features must speak for themselves,” I an- 
 swered a little proudly as catching the attitude and ex- 
 pression of the portrait, I thrust one hand in the bosom 
 of my coat and looked her quietly in the face. 
 
 4 4 Yes, yes, I know, the favor is there,* but I do not 
 believe it.” 
 
 4 4 Nor should you believe it. I *am sorry that you 
 should ever suspect it, ” I answered. 
 
 4 4 And you tell me this — and you have known it all 
 the while? How, how do you know it?” 
 
 4 4 By the truth I have always found in my mother.” 
 
 4 4 Your mother! the negro strumpet. And she has 
 the shameless audacity to boast of this?” she fiercely 
 
96 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 interrupted with flashing eyes and cheeks red with 
 anger. 
 
 4 'No, Miss Virginia, she never boasted. She thought, 
 perhaps, that it was at least my right to know, and she 
 told me — told me and no one else. I do not believe 
 there is another living soul that knows. I am sorry 
 that this chance has revealed it to you.# There was 
 nothing to boast of, no name, no honor, no fortune, 
 nothing save the strength of which he himself was so 
 proud, and which is all my own without boasting. Since 
 some one had to be my father, I mean since it w r as de- 
 creed that I was to have a being, I am glad that it was 
 through the loins of such a man I came, not because of 
 the individual man— not because he was a Choteaux — 
 but because of his race, because he was a Caucasian, and 
 being one, made me at least a degree above a negro . 77 
 
 "A mongrel / 7 she scornfully interjected. 
 
 "Yes, mongrel, if you please, with a chance to inherit 
 something of the virtues of my father, even though 
 tainted with the dark blood of my mother. But I re- 
 peat I am sorry that you have discovered my secret. 
 Will you let me beg you never to let any one else 
 know ? 7 7 
 
 "I shall not be likely to speak of such a thing, even 
 though I were satisfied of its truth , 77 she said haugh- 
 tily — and then as suddenly softening she asked, "but 
 your mother : who is your mother ? 7 7 
 
 "Not a common strumpet, Miss Virginia, as you 
 charge, although the concubine of her master, but a 
 woman who so jealously guards the royal blood she in- 
 herits from her father and mother that she scorned to 
 let it once mingle with that of negro . 77 
 
 "Royal blood? That 7 s a little grandiloquent . 77 
 
 "It is true, nevertheless; but if it displeases you to 
 hear I had better be silent . 77 
 
 "No, tell me. Since your insolence persists in estabr 
 lishing our kinship, I am curious to know all about 
 you. It may be a compensation to know that I am first 
 cousin to a prince of the royal blood . 77 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 s n 
 
 “The kinship is not of my making, nor seeking,” I 
 answered, stung to the bitter by her sarcasm. 
 
 “Never mind the kinship. I was only jesting.” 
 
 “Very well. It is proper matter for jesting. I shall 
 certainly never presume upon it, even in jest.” 
 
 “Of course not. You had better never dare such a 
 presumption. But what of your mother’s royal blood ! ’ ’ 
 
 ‘ ‘ It was rightfully hers. Her father and her mother 
 were the children of a king, not a chief, but the king of 
 chiefs. It may shock you to know also that they were 
 brother and sister.” 
 
 “Oh, horror!” 
 
 “No, not horror; incestuous as it is by civilized law, 
 it is still the law in Africa, as it once was in the East, 
 and even in the days of the Patriarchs. Abraham mar- 
 ried his sister Sarah; Cleopatra, the famous queen of 
 Egypt, was not only the daughter of such a marriage, 
 but she was herself married to her brother; and as it 
 was then with princes of the East, so it is still with 
 the heirs to the kingdoms of Africa. To preserve the 
 purity of the dynasty the children of the king must 
 intermarry. My mother’s father was the heir to his 
 father’s throne. He married his sister and of them my 
 mother was born. ’ ’ 
 
 “Ah, quite a romance you have woven around the 
 geological tree, and I suppose it is from this long line 
 of pure, thoroughbred African kings that you inherit 
 your magnificent strength?” she asked saucily. 
 
 “No, I inherit their skin, the accursed mark of Ham. 
 My strength comes from my father and his father, the 
 Choteaux. ’ ’ 
 
 She gave a little shrug of her shoulders and casting 
 a quick glance up at the portrait, which, had it been 
 in crayon instead of colors, would have passed for my 
 own, she turned away. 
 
 That evening she did not ask my help up the stairs, 
 but leaning on the shoulder of Sally, she made her own 
 way. I was almost glad that she did. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE MOTH LINGERS. 
 
 She had discarded her crutch and was standing, a 
 little tremulously, on her foot, the next morning when 
 I went in to take her down to breakfast. 
 
 “Ah, a prince of the royal house of Gooragoora- 
 boora,” she said with a mock courtesy, very charming 
 notwithstanding its insulting irony. “And what is it 
 your royal highness will condescend to have ? ’ ’ 
 
 “I was so unfortunate as to incur your displeasure 
 yesterday morning, by not coming in time to carry you 
 down the steps. I hope I have not offended again/ * I 
 answered a little stiffly. 
 
 “Oh! but you were not a prince, then. I cannot ex- 
 pect such a service now. Fortunately, I do not longer 
 need help, or I should have to find someone else. You 
 need not trouble yourself to come any more.” And 
 dropping the tone of irony, she imperiously waved me 
 back with her hand. “You may go. ’ ’ 
 
 Hardly knowing whether to be glad or sorry I went 
 away to give the matter more rational thought, and re- 
 solved at last to put an end to this maddening folly by 
 asking my master to send me back to the plantation. I 
 had seen enough of the family management to learn 
 that my mistress was really the master, and that her 
 will in the matter would be the law. As soon, then as 
 her breakfast was finished, I sought her in her room. 
 The master had gone out, but the young mistress was 
 with her. 
 
 “Well, Paul, what is it you want?” she asked, as I 
 bow r ed before her, hat in hand. 
 
 98 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 99 
 
 “Mistress,” I answered, in my most appealing tone, 
 “I come to beg a great kindness of you.” 
 
 “Well, haven’t I always been kind to you, Paul?” 
 
 “Yes, madam, always the kindest mistress in all the 
 world, and I shall never forget your goodness — and it 
 is that that emboldens me to come.” 
 
 “Well, what is it you want?” 
 
 “If you please, I want you to send me back to the 
 plantation?” 
 
 “Back to the plantation?” she repeated, in astonish- 
 ment. “What an idea! You are the first negro I ever 
 saw who wanted to give up the good things of the white 
 house for the plantation. Surely, boy, you must be 
 crazy. ’ ’ 
 
 “Oh, no, mistress, not crazy, but in my best senses. I 
 pray you to let me go.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Why ? Have you a wench there that you are think- 
 ing of? Tut, tut, boy- — you must get over that. There 
 are girls plenty here that will suit you much better. 
 Here is Winnie, there,” smilingly pointing to the sim- 
 pering maid, “a buxom, bouncing heifer who is itching 
 for just such a fellow. You may have her. Or may 
 be,” and a little frown took the place of the smile, 
 “you’ve been nest-finding already and want to get 
 away before it is found out. Is that it ? ” 
 
 “No, madam ; there is no heifer in the case, nor wench 
 either, if you please. I only think that as a negro I am 
 better suited for the plantation than the service I have 
 to perform here,” I started when she interrupted. 
 
 “Tut, tut, this is all nonsense. I can’t spare you, 
 Paul. Who will I ever get to rub my back and my feet 
 and knees lifie you? There is no one else can do it. 
 And who would wait upon your Miss Virginia? Sup- 
 pose you had not been here, who could have lifted her 
 about as you did? And then there is your master, I 
 am sure he could not do without you. I heard him say 
 only last night that he wouldn’t take two thousand 
 dollars for you, and do you suppose he would let a two 
 thousand-dollar negro run to seed on a plantation, when 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 a common moke would do as well ? No, Paul, you must 
 not think any more of such an impossible thing. You 
 cannot go. You couldn’t give him up yourself, could 
 you, darling?” turning to her daughter. 
 
 Naturally I glanced in the face of the young mistress 
 to catch her answer, but was unable to read the 
 troubled expression of her countenance. 
 
 “I do not* know, mamma,” at last she spoke. “Paul 
 has been very kind to me, and very useful, and al- 
 though I sometimes have to get very angry with him, 
 I — I do not believe that — that — oh, I cannot decide, 
 mamma. ’ 9 
 
 “Angry with him? Paul, how is this! Do you ever 
 dare to vex your mistress?” turning frowningly to me. 
 
 ‘ 4 Oil, no, mamma. It was all my fault, and he was 
 right. But I must tell you. I wanted to make Dido 
 jump the Ball Cave and he wouldn’t let me. He 
 caught my bridle and held me back, and I lashed him 
 in the face with my whip to make him leave off, but 
 he would not and I had to cry with anger. But it was 
 well that he did not let me have my wa y, for Dido 
 could not have made the leap and we both might have 
 been killed. I saw it all afterwards and was very 
 sorry for my cruel injustice, but I was furiously an- 
 gry then. It is only because he is so strong and master- 
 ful and won’t always let me do as I please.” 
 
 “You are a silly child and I fear a little spoiled by 
 over-indulgence. And I am glad that Paul has the 
 good sense not to mind your tantrums. You need just 
 such a groom to keep you out of danger. No, Paul, you 
 can’t go. You must stay for your mistress’ sake, if 
 for nothing else. So you may put all thoughts of going 
 from your mind. If it be true, as I really susp ect, some 
 little love scrape with one of the girls here, we will 
 try and overlook it. Of course I don’t like such ugly 
 things about the house — bnt then negroes will be ne- 
 groes, and little slips will have to happen. So tell me 
 your trouble and I will promise to overlook it,” said 
 the mistress, with the patronizing grace of a queen. 
 
THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 101 
 
 “ There is no such trouble as you imagine/ * I an- 
 swered, a little stiffly. 4 ‘ Your negro girls might as well 
 be marble statues of vestal saints for all the use I could 
 make of them. They would be no more safe from me. 
 I am very sorry that you will not let me go back to my 
 old work in the fields. I am sure I can better serve you 
 there than here, and, oh, it would be so much better 
 for me.” 
 
 “Ah, well, the loss of the work will be mine and you 
 need not to care. It is none of your business where I 
 put you, so you get enough to eat and wear. I know 
 you can best please me here and there is an end to 
 the matter. So go, now, about your business. Vir- 
 ginia, is there anything you want him to do?” 
 
 “Yes, I wish him to move the piano back on its 
 summer side, by the window. Come on, Paul, I will 
 show you.” 
 
 Her ankle was yet tender and it gave her gait a little 
 halt that made it charmingly pretty as she chipped 
 along .before me to the music room. 
 
 “Paul,” she said, lightly touching my arm, after I 
 had wheeled the piano to its place and was turning to 
 go. “Paul, is it for me that you want to go away?” 
 
 “No, Miss Virginia, it is because of myself.” 
 
 “I feared that it was because you thought I was an- 
 gry with you for what you told me yesterday,” she 
 said softly. 
 
 “And I should not have blamed you had you been,” 
 I answered. 
 
 “But I was not angry, that is, angry with you. But I 
 was vexed at my own self for not being angry. Of 
 course, I was shocked at first. It seemed so — so shame- 
 ful and humiliating to think that I was so closely akin 
 to a negro. It wms horrible, but after I had gone to bed, 
 and shutting my eyes thought it all over and over again, 
 almost the livelong night, and knowing that it was not 
 your fault, nor any fault of mine, and it being you— you 
 yourself, Paul— you, who are so strong, so manly, so 
 grand, so handsome and so much superior to all other 
 
102 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 negroes and to— to all other me— me — men, that I did 
 not mind it so much. Had it not been you, Paul,” using 
 the softest and most confiding tones and with a gentle 
 uplifting of her glorious eyes, 4 4 had it, been any 
 other man in all the world, I would have had him 
 driven av/ay and sold as far from here as a speculator 
 could carry him. But it was you, you who have been 
 so kind and good to me, so thoughtful and strong and 
 brave, and then the more I thought of you the less 
 repulsive became the thought, until at last — you— you 
 must not think me bold, Paul, — I — I was really glad 
 of it. And it was this, this — my own humiliating weak- 
 ness— that made me so angry with myself when you 
 came this morning, and for meanness I had to take my 
 spite out on you. X must ask you to forgive me, Paul!” 
 
 4 4 It is not your scorn, Miss Virginia, that X minded, 
 nor your anger, although X would not willingly offend 
 you, and it would hurt me to even give you cause to be 
 angry. It is because that I am no fit com — no, X shall 
 not say companion — but servant for you. The very 
 manhood which commends me to your favor makes it 
 the more unhappy for me.” 
 
 4 4 Unhappy, how V ’ 
 
 “Because of its nearness to a heaven it would be a 
 profanity for me even to dream of,” X answered softly, 
 
 but earnestly. 
 
 She understood me, I am sure, for v the blood mounted 
 to her face and ears and she shrank back with on con- 
 vulsive start. But in a moment she smiled, oh, so sweet- 
 ly, as she answered : 
 
 4 4 A,h, there can be no harm in dreaming. If it be so 
 sweet I give you leave to dream. X, too, have my dreams 
 and they are pleasant, too pleasant to ever speak,” and 
 then as if abashed at the confession she flushed crimson 
 again and turning awa y her face she said : 4 4 Open the 
 piano and X will sing some.” 
 
 Glad of the diversion, I opened the piano and adjust- 
 ed her stool for her, w r hen seating herself she began a 
 little prelude. 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 103 
 
 ‘ 4 Must I go now?” I asked. 
 
 “Not if yon would like to hear me sing,” and then, 
 with a sudden animation she looked up and added, 
 ‘ ‘ Oh, by the way, Paul, I have often heard you singing 
 to yourself at night when you thought me asleep. And 
 last night you were singing one of my favorite songs. 
 You have picked it up, no doubt, but it kept me awake 
 so long.” 
 
 “Oh, I am so sorry to have offended,” I said earnest- 
 ly. “X am sure X will not give you cause to complain 
 again. 7 7 
 
 ‘ ‘ But X was not offended, 7 7 she answered. 6 c One loves 
 to hear one 7 s favorites sung by others. And I thought 
 some of the fugitive notes X caught were really good. 
 Do you know anything about music? 77 
 
 “Only what X caught from the birds, 77 1 answered. 
 
 “But you can sing, X am sure. There is another air I 
 have heard you humming, 4 When the Swallows Home- 
 ward Fly, 7 look in my portfolio and find if, X think we 
 can sing it. 77 
 
 It is one of the few compensative gifts nature has 
 made to my unlucky race, the rare gift of song, and I 
 had a good voice, a deep resonant baritone, and happily 
 for my credit the chance selection my young mistress 
 made was well adapted to its scope, and with fair suc- 
 cess X sang, my deep bass harmonizing well with the 
 flute-like sweetness of her soprano. 
 
 * ‘ That is charming ; we must sing for papa this even- 
 ing. X know it will astonish him as it has surprised 
 me,” she said in genuine delight. “What other songs 
 do you sing? 77 
 
 “None, except— except a few of your songs which I 
 caught, 77 I said with some hesitancy, “and the wild 
 plantation airs. And there is the Marseillaise — X learn- 
 ed that X think correctly when a boy, from Major 
 Chalon, an old French soldier who had lived a recluse 
 in the Cossetot swamp. If you please, X will try that? 75 
 
 “ Yes, that is grand ; X will play the accompaniment, 7 7 
 she said, striking up the prelude at once. 
 
104 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 With all the fire of a full-blooded Frenchman I sang 
 it, and when I had finished she gave a little 44 vive” 
 with her hands, while her eyes sparkled more than 
 thanks. 
 
 4 4 Oh, that will charm papa — I am so glad that I have 
 found you out,” and then rising from the piano she 
 turned to go. 
 
 44 1 believe you may get out Dido after dinner, I am 
 so longing for the woods once more. Do you think I 
 can ride?” 
 
 4 4 1 do not think it prudent for you to undertake it 
 for yet awhile. It was your stirrup foot, you know, 
 that was hurt, and you might hurt it again. The slight- 
 est strain now would upset it again,” I ventured to 
 cauption. 
 
 4 4 Ah, well, if you think so I shall not. Only you must 
 fix my swing for me and let me swing. I am anxious 
 to try that refractory swing again. You can mend it, 
 can't you?” 
 
 Yes, I could mend it and I did, as securely as if 
 my own immortal soul depended upon its strength for 
 safety, and after dinner I lifted the young mistress in 
 it and she spent a golden afternon in its exhilarating 
 oscillations. 
 
 In the evening after supper I was called to the music 
 room. 
 
 4 4 Papa,” explained my young mistress, 44 I have found 
 a new use for Paul.” 
 
 4 4 Yes, Paul is a fellow of infinite capacity, as uni- 
 versal as a quack nostrum. What is it you have dis- 
 covered?” 
 
 4 4 That he can sing.” 
 
 4 4 Oh, all negroes can sing.” 
 
 44 YesJ but none like Paul. I wish you to hear him. 
 Come, Paul,” and without prelude she dashed into 
 the song. 
 
 4 4 That is very good,” said the master. 
 
 4 4 It is really charming,” said the mistress. 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 105 
 
 “But you should hear him in solo — the Marseilles 
 hymn. Sing, Paul,” said the young mistress. 
 
 The words are as peculiarly French as the air, no 
 translation can do the sentiment justice, and to make 
 the performance as effective as possible I sang it in the 
 original French. 
 
 It was a study to watch the countenance of my master 
 as I sang. At the first note of the grand anthem, he 
 lifted up his head as an artillery horse raises his ears at 
 the bugle call. Then his lips parted and his eyes kin- 
 dled and before I had finished his face was fairly ablaze 
 with enthusiasm. 
 
 “Ah, Pauline— -that is grand, that is brave, and oh, 
 how much like the old days when we were young. Ah, 
 don’t you remember?” 
 
 It may be stated just here that my master and mis- 
 tress were cousins, her mother being the sister of old 
 General Choteaux. 
 
 “Oh, yes,” acquiesced the lady, recalling with evi- 
 dent animation those early days, “and Paul’s voice, 
 does it not haunt you as a memory?” 
 
 ‘ 4 That it does. It is as much the voice of my brother 
 Jules as Jules’ was of my father — that same brave roll 
 that always shook my soul to hear. Paul, where in the 
 world did you learn that song?” 
 
 “The good old Major Chalon taught me when a boy,” 
 I answered. 
 
 “Yes, I remember the old fellow.” 
 
 “But where did you get that voice?” asked the mis- 
 tress. 
 
 “That is a question for psychologists to answer. If 
 ©ur gifts come directly from God, I must thank Him for 
 it, but if they are given to us by our parents, I suppose 
 that I may thank my father,” I answered a little bold- 
 
 ly- 
 
 ‘ 4 Well, it matters not where you got it ; but it sounds 
 wonderfully like the voice of my father, ’ ’ said the mas- 
 ter. “Sing it again for me.” 
 
 I complied and the concert was ended. 
 
106 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 Many days afterward, it grew to be a puzzle to me to 
 know whether it was really an unlucky trip of the lame 
 foot that caused the cry of pain, or was it only a co- 
 quettish ruse to have me carry her in my arms again 
 that called as she clung to the newel for support, when 
 she had started up to her room. 
 
 I did not stop to consider. It sufficed for me to know 
 that she wanted my strong arms to upbear her, and 
 with a fiercely beating heart and closer clasp than ever 
 before I gathered her to my bosom and carried her up, 
 while the master and mistress looked on to applaud my 
 ready obedience and to wonder at my giant strength. 
 
 How wretchedly blind were we all, and especially 
 that mother, whose jealous care of her daughter would 
 not have permitted the ungloved hand of a white lover 
 to rest so much as upon her arm, and yet she could 
 stand by and see a strong, robust, lusty negro folding 
 her yielding form to his heart while her cheek lay al- 
 most against his lips, kindled into a crimson flame from 
 the fire of the riotous blood that so fiercely pulsed in 
 his own. Such wulful blindness was not merely folly, 
 but it was a crime. 
 
 Holding her thus I did not stop on the landing to 
 stand her on her feet, but carried her on down the hall 
 and into her room, where with a lingering, loving, ten- 
 der pressure I sat her on her bed and turned to run 
 away from the dangerous propinquity, when with a 
 detaining clasp on my shoulder she stopped me. 
 
 “Stay a minute, Paul; this is so sweet. You are so 
 strong and your strength so thrills me. It is a glory to 
 be in your arms. I must thank you, ' ’ she murmured 
 blushingly. 
 
 4 ‘ I — I am glad it serves you. It is yours always to 
 command/' I chokingly answered. 
 
 “Yes, I know. You are very kind, and I must still 
 further trouble you — I fear I have hurt my ankle over 
 again. Will you please see? It is really painful/' she 
 added, daintily drawing up her skirts and extending 
 the wounded foot. 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 107 
 
 There is a delightful coquetry, as well as artistic 
 charm in the manner a pretty woman flirts her skirts. 
 No skill with the fan, no arch of the eyes, no pretty 
 moue can begin to equal its ravishing effect upon the 
 appreciative eye. My charming young mistress was 
 piquantly graceful in all her actions — every motion 
 was a grace— and the dainty naivete with which she 
 lifted the little cloud of snowy 1 lace and nainsook, 
 themselves so delicately suggestive of unspeakable 
 beauties, was the perfection of maidenly finesse. 
 
 As tenderly as, my trembling fingers would allow me, 
 I unclasped the bejewelled garter and drew down the 
 stocking, and holding the ball of her plump little heel 
 in my hand I softly pressed my fingers upon the wound. 
 The swelling had all disappeared, but the angry 
 blotches of purple, in painful contrast with the snowy 
 skin, showed that the hurt was still there. 
 
 “Qh, ouch!” she cried, with a flinch of pain, as I 
 touched the tender spot, 4 ‘ there is where the hurt is. 
 Have I really broken it over?” she asked. 
 
 “Oh, no; I think not. You must have given it a 
 wrench at the stairs. I am very sorry it pains you, but 
 I think it will soon be well again,” I assuringly an- 
 swered, unconsciously caressing her foot with a tender 
 stroke. 
 
 “Ah, that is soothing. You must rub it for me, Paul. 
 There is magic in your touch. Sally, get the ointment 
 and let him rub it for me. He is so much more tender 
 and soft than you with your awkward thumb, ” she said 
 as I softly chafed the tender skin. 
 
 Sally handed me the bottle. 
 
 “Ah, that is so soothing, so pleasant, m delicious. 
 What a wonderful touch you have — how can a hand s® 
 strong be so soft, so tender, so delicate! I do not won- 
 der that mamma could not give you up , 5 * she burst out 
 again, half laughing, half seriously as I gently applied 
 the aromatic lotion, and softly stroked the glowing 
 flesh, “and I — X am so glad that you did not go.” 
 
 X hardly know how long X knelt there at my divin- 
 
108 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 ity’s feet, soothing with my tenderest touch the quiver- 
 ing ankle and softly stroking the snowy instep, with 
 an occasional involuntary and irresistible caress of the 
 soft, velvety calf, throwing into it as much of the subtle 
 force that was thrilling my nerves as it was possible for 
 a caressing contact to infuse. It did not seem a minute, 
 and I could have knelt there all night without tiring or 
 thinking to count the passing time, had not the sleepy- 
 headed and prosaic Sally, after yawning and muttering 
 her discontent for awhile, become desperate at last and 
 broke out, “Dar, now, dat’ill do. Yo’ fool you,’ doan 
 yer see hits done pass bedtime and Miss Jinny orter 
 be asleep. Dat’ll do, won’t it, Miss Jinny? Send de 
 fool away, an’ lemme strip yer ter bed,” she said, open- 
 ing the dressing case and producing the young lady’s 
 night gown. 
 
 “Yes, Paul, that will do. It feels so much better; 
 indeed, it is quite well now — no pain, only, Paul, if you 
 will, you may kiss it, like you would kiss a baby’s hurt, 
 and like Sally sometimes kisses it,” she added in apolo- 
 getic explanation as she noticed the flush that shown 
 through my swarthy skin. 
 
 I stooped and utterly oblivious of the presence of 
 Sally, I kissed the pinky sole, the toes, the now glowing 
 instep and then with a long, loving, passionate inspira- 
 tion as if to draw in a surfeit of sweetness I kissed the 
 quivering ankle. 
 
 “Thanks, thanks — that is so sweet. Good night, 
 Paul, I shall want you again in the morning,” she soft- 
 ly said, as I reluctantly arose to go. 
 
 She was a little shy next morning, and blushed with 
 a pretty confusion when I went in to announce break- 
 fast — but she soon rallied and with a smile she said : 
 
 “You have come to carry me down. That is good, 
 but I don’t think I need to burden you this morning. 
 My foot is ever so much better. You must be a con- 
 jurer, Paul, to thus charm all the pain away. How in 
 the world do you do it? See,” putting out' the pretty 
 foot with a display of a well turned calf as well, “see, 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 109 
 
 I can wear my boot. I do believe I can stand to ride 
 this afternoon. Isn’t it nice? Only I — I am almost 
 sorry that it is well. I wanted you to kiss — I — I mean 
 to cure it again.” 
 
 “ I am glad that it does not pain you, but am gladder 
 still that you think so kindly of my skill, and could 
 trust me to care for it. It was very sweet of you, and 
 — and it was inexpressibly sweet to me,” I stammered. 
 
 “Was it indeed? Then I, too, am glad. I feared that 
 it was selfish in me and that I had tired you. Come, I 
 may not need you to carry me, but I shall need the sup- 
 port of your arm down the steps,” she said pausing at 
 the head of the stairs. With her hand lightly resting 
 on my shoulder, she herself drew my arm around her 
 waist and with its strength encircling her in a half em- 
 brace I almost bodily lifted her down. Her mother 
 stood at the bottom to receive her with a kiss. 
 
 “How is your ankle, darling? Paul said you had 
 strained it again.” 
 
 “Oh, yes, just a little, but, thanks to Paul, it is quite, 
 quite well again. He rubbed it so softly that he charmed 
 all the hurt away. You cannot imagine what a mag- 
 netic touch he has in his finger tips.” 
 
 “Yes, I know. It is equal to a little voltaic battery. 
 Nothing does my back and legs half so much good as 
 for him to rub them. What a pity Paul hadn’t been a 
 white man. He would have made a capital doctor. All 
 the ladies would have been crazy after him.” 
 
 “It is happy for us, mamma, that he was not. We 
 can have him all to ourselves, now. I don’t think I 
 could care to divide him with any other — I mean with 
 every other — woman. Should you?” 
 
 4 ‘ Oh, no, I am glad that he is ail our own. Only we 
 must not spoil him with flattery. We mustn’t give him 
 the big-head,” answered the mistress with a playful 
 shake of her head at me. 
 
 “Ah, I don’t think he could be so easily spoiled. 
 He rubbed my foot and ankle so nicely last night and 
 never once got an inch above his business,” with a 
 
119 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 saucy little nod, and then blushing at the sauciness, she 
 added, 4 4 He was as backward as a girl and I had to 
 tell him to kiss it, like Sally kisses it, before he would 
 touch it with his lips. And it was that I think, mamma, 
 that cured it. He seemed to kiss all the hurt away, 
 and this morning it is not even colored as it was yes- 
 terday. ’ ? 
 
 “Yes, that was very w r ell; and Paul you must come 
 to my room after dinner — I wish you to rub my back,” 
 said the mistress, as she put her arm around her daugh- 
 ter ? s waist and lovingly they walked into breakfast. 
 
 I was not derelict in my duty to my mistress and im- 
 parted as much of superfluous vitality to her failing 
 nerves as was possible for a purely manual friction to 
 transmit, as after having Winnie to open her corsage, 
 she lay prone upon her stomach and ordered me to rub 
 her spine. There may have been a mesmeric som- 
 nolence in it, but I am sure she felt none of the subtle 
 force that had so unconsciously thrilled the being of 
 her daughter the evening before. It was a warm, 
 strong, ruddy glow I brought to the surface, soothing 
 and strengthening, but there was no odic thrill in the 
 touch and when she gave a little sigh nearly akin to a 
 snore and slightly turned on her side for a sleep, I could 
 withdraw my hand with the cold composure of an octo- 
 genarian surgeon. 
 
 “Now, you have put mamma to sleep, I must trouble 
 you to wait upon me,” said the young mistress, who 
 had been a silent spectator of the mesmeric operation. 
 
 “I am always ready to wait upon you,” I answered. 
 
 “Then come with me to the library. There are gome 
 passages in the story you read me of ‘Paul and Yir- 
 ginia’ I wish you to read again.” 
 
 Of course an expression of her wish was a law to me 
 and I followed her to the library as closely as my 
 station would allow. 
 
 The volume lay on the table and the passage opened 
 of itself as if she had been reading it before. It was 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 the tender love scene in the grove and when I had read 
 it, I paused for her comment. 
 
 She sat silent for a moment, a little pale at first, but 
 I saw the pinky color rising up, a little shell-tint at 
 first, but coloring deeper and deeper into a rosy red, 
 and with a sudden turn she said, 4 4 That was very sweet, 
 wasn’t it?” 
 
 4 4 To Paul it must have been heaven itself,” I an- 
 swered. 
 
 4 4 And to Virginia, too,” she said; 4 4 and suppose, 
 Paul— suppose it had been we two — you and I — that 
 you had been Paul and I, Virginia, what would you 
 have done?” 
 
 4 4 Oh, Miss Virginia, you should not ask me. I — I 
 could not dare to make such a presumptuous supposi- 
 tion.” 
 
 4 4 Well, let me make it then. I will suppose that you 
 are Paul, and I— I am Virginia. What would you have 
 done?” 
 
 4 4 No — no, my sweet mistress, let me ask it? Suppose 
 you were Virginia, the gracious mistress, and I poor 
 Paul, the slave, what would you have done?” 
 
 4 4 1 should have done this, Paul — I should have put 
 my arms up to your neck so, and said, 4 Paul, my life, I 
 love you— kiss, kiss me, Paul’,” and rising she placed 
 her fair round arms about my neck and reaching up 
 her rich, ripe, melting lips to my own she kissed me, 
 
 4 4 Oh, darling — darling, my love,” I cried, clasping 
 her to my heart and giving her kiss for kiss, dashing 
 them upon her lips, her chin, her eyes and her forehead ; 
 and then horrified at my boldness I released her from 
 my arms and placing her back in her chair, I turned and 
 ran away from her presence almost as wild in thought 
 as an animal released from a snare. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
 
 The veil was now lifted from both our hearts, the 
 scales from our eyes, and she knew that I loved her as 
 blindly, madly, despairingly as I felt that she, my 
 queenly mistress, loved me. But where was it to lead ? 
 Where ? Ah, love — such love as ours — had but one 
 goal. And did we know? And knowing, not draw 
 back in shame, confusion and horror? Ah, we hardly 
 knew— we did not think. We could not draw back, 
 but like the doomed of destiny gathering roses on the 
 flowery slopes of Avernus, we only saw its ravishing 
 beauties and felt the subtle charm of their intoxicating 
 odors. As for my&elf, could I be blamed? For a man 
 of my feelings, with my natural love for the beautiful, 
 my susceptibilities to the charms of sweetness, of wom- 
 anly loveliness, of my health and strength and manly 
 vigor, to be daily thrown into contact with, to look 
 upon, to touch, to inhale the fragrance of her beauty 
 and to feel the magnetic allurement of the presence of 
 such a woman as Virginia Choteaux and not to surren- 
 der himself, heart and soul, to their influences, would 
 be to belie his very nature and to stultify his manhood. 
 
 I loved Virginia Choteaux from the first kindly glance 
 she ever gave me. I knew that I loved her then as I 
 know it now. I did not deliberately seek to win — or the 
 world wdll say debauch — her love, because I never 
 dreamed of such a sweet possibility. What I did was 
 done in that unconscious or rather instinctive spirit 
 that makes us all, high or low, wish to appear well in 
 the eyes of those we love. It was this blind, un- 
 conscious groping after applause and sympathetic ad- 
 
 112 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 113 
 
 miration inherent in all men who respect themselves, 
 that made me in selecting my readings for her enter- 
 tainment always choose such subjects as made physical 
 strength and courage and stature the standards of man- 
 ly excellence. I was strong, I was active, I was bold, 
 and despite my swart color, I was not unhandsome. My 
 profile silhouetted on a card would have attracted pleas- 
 ing notice on any drawing room table or in the studio 
 of any artist. I had a fair share of animal vivre in 
 my loins, but I was not inordinately passionate. There 
 are, I fancy, but few men living who can point to a 
 more continent life than mine. My own father, high- 
 born gentleman that he was, had led less or else I had 
 never been born. 
 
 It was not, then, a lecherous desire to riot on her 
 beauty, her sweetness, that drew my heart so madly to 
 hers. I loved her because I should have had to be 
 either more or less than man not to have loved her. And 
 she — she returned that love because she would have had 
 to be more than woman not to have done so. The con- 
 ditions of the propinquity into which the blindness of 
 the master and the father had placed us, and the dis- 
 connected chain of seductive events and circumstances 
 which followed were irresistible. 
 
 If we sinned it was because we were both mortal— 
 because God had made her beautiful, lovely and sweet, 
 and the same God had made me strong, manly and at- 
 tractive. It was natural then, that, thrown together as 
 we were, we should have loved — loved as only two such 
 hearts could love. 
 
 It was not like a guilty conscious quaking with fear 
 for myself that I fled from her presence and hid myself 
 as well as I could all the evening from her sight. For 
 my own self and the consequences upon my own head I 
 never once thought, but only of her. I dreaded the 
 shock that would come to her when in the soberness of 
 solitude she realized the truth — that I, the ill-born ne- 
 gro, had dared to lift my soul to hers. I thought not of 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 m 
 
 my slavery — in all my life I have thought but little of 
 that circumstance. It was the taint of the negro that 
 made me a pariah in my own estimation. Slavery was 
 a political and social condition that could — and in a 
 rational prescience I felt would — be set aside, but this 
 other, the ban of Africa could never be lifted. The 
 one was a social status that could be changed at the 
 will of men, the other was a physical essence, a vital 
 and distinguishing feature of racial inferiority, that 
 only the bleaching of my bones in the grave could ef- 
 face. This it was — the fear of reproaching her self- 
 respect with a sense of my nearness— that held me as 
 far awa y from her sight as my duties would allow me 
 to keep. I was afraid the sight of my face would re- 
 buke her with a sense of her rashness and momentary 
 weakness. 
 
 And, well, perhaps, was it that I did avoid her, for it 
 would have embarrassed if not humiliated her to have 
 seen me. I feared, too, that she might think I wished to 
 presume upon what she had done — the amazing con- 
 descension she had shown me — and thus thinking might 
 be frightened at my nearness. 
 
 It was more than a week before I stood face to face 
 with her, and then it was in answer to a summons from 
 my mistress that I went. 
 
 “I wish to know, Paul, what it is you are so sulky 
 about? Is it because I would not let you go back to 
 the plantation?” 
 
 “Oh, no, ma’am,” I meekly protested. 
 
 6 6 Then what is the matter ? What are you blowed up 
 about? I have noticed you skulking around for a week 
 like you had been caught in the chicken house. Now, 
 sir, I want to tell you, you must put yourself back in 
 your proper place or I will have Joe to give you a strap- 
 ping. Do you understand ? ’ 9 
 
 “I am very sorry, mistress, that I have displeased 
 you. I didn’t mean to neglect my duties, I am sure.” 
 
 “Didn’t mean to do it? Then why did you? You 
 haven’t done a hand’s turn for your Miss Virginia in I 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 115 
 
 don’t know how long. What do you mean by neglect- 
 ing her, when you know it is for her service alone that 
 I keep you?” 
 
 “I don’t think, mamma, that Paul meant to neglect 
 me. I— I really haven’t needed him,” sweetly inter- 
 posed the young mistress, with a pitying glance at me. 
 
 “But Sally says he hasn’t so much as brought a 
 pitcher of water to your room this week.” 
 
 “That is because I ordered her, the lazy hussy, to do 
 it herself. She is mad and wants to set you on Paul. It 
 is her place to fetch the water and I made her do it. ’ ’ 
 
 “No, it is not her place. It is Paul’s and I mustn’t 
 hear of him neglecting it any more. Do youT under- 
 stand, sirrah?” 
 
 “Yes, ma’am.” 
 
 “Yery well, be sure you heed, and now you may go, 
 or, wait a minute. Virginia, don’t you think you are 
 strong enough for a ride? A gallop would help you I 
 am sure. You have been moping around the house long 
 enough,” 
 
 “I don’t know, mamma; I feel quite strong enough 
 for almost anything, but I do not care to ride.” 
 
 “But I care; you must take a little gallop if just for 
 the exercise. Go, Paul, and get out her mare.” 
 
 I knew it was no use to protest— even had I wished 
 to avoid the attendance upon the ride — and with an 
 humble obeisance, I went out to saddle the horses. 
 
 I found her ready at the gate, and wishing to relieve 
 her of any further fear of my presumption, I kneeled 
 and offered my back for a step to mount. 
 
 “No, no — I cannot accept such an abject service from 
 you. You must give me your hand,” she said, with a 
 flush, as she put out her foot. 
 
 “I might hurt your ankle. Let me lift you by the 
 waist,” I respectfully asked, and without awaiting her 
 answer, I grasped her waist with my hands and lightly 
 lifted her to her seat. 
 
 There was no boldness in the action, only a consid- 
 erate service to avoid a possible discomfort to her, and 
 
116 
 
 THE STOBY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 she graciously recognized it as such, and with some- 
 thing like the -old brightness, she said: 
 
 “That is much better, and I thank you.” 
 
 And then we rode away, she giving Dido a free rein 
 and I with difficulty keeping the restive and rampant 
 Selim at a proper distance from the mare. 
 
 I could plainly see that it was merely to satisfy her 
 mother that she rode and that she felt a disquieting 
 constraint in being alone with me. I was anxious to 
 reassure her, and to this end scrupulously avoided any 
 reference to what had passed, either by word, look or 
 sign. I kept my place precisely as I had kept it before, 
 neither too near nor too far, and was glad to think that 
 it relieved her. 
 
 She took only a short canter through the lane, not 
 venturing into the solitude of the woods, and then rode 
 home. As respectfully as before, I lifted up my hands 
 to her arms and lifted her down. Her mother stood on 
 the portico ready to welcome her. 
 
 “Ah, now, you look so much rosier. I am sure the 
 ride has done you good.” 
 
 “Oh, yes, I do feel ever so much better, and we will 
 have some music after supper, ’ ’ she answered, brightly, 
 and I felt that a little rift in the cloud had been made. 
 
 After supper I stood out in the dark of the portico 
 and listened to her songs, while I gloated through the 
 open lattice on the ravishing beauty of her face. I al- 
 most hoped to be called in to help in the song, and for 
 the first time in my life felt a little jealous slight that 
 I was not. 
 
 The next morning I commenced again my duties of 
 personal attendance upon her room, and although it 
 was earlier than usual when I went in with a can of 
 fresh water from the spring for her morning lavation, 
 I once again surprised her on the ottoman drawing on 
 her stocking. With a quick start she dropped the up- 
 lifted foot and shook down her skirts in maidenly con- 
 fusion, while I with equal perturbation drew back a 
 moment. Then I respectfully advanced with the water. 
 
THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 117 
 
 “I think it is very wrong in mamma to require such 
 a menial service of you,” she said, still nervously 
 smoothing down her skirts. 
 
 “That it should embarrass you is all that troubles 
 me. The service is really a pleasure to me, anything 
 that I can do for you is happiness,” I answered, speak- 
 ing with eyes as well as tongue. 
 
 “Yes, and everything you do for me is a gladness to 
 me also, ’ ’ she answered. ‘ ‘ Only I — I do not like you to 
 do things for me that Sally or Joe, or Stumpy Jake 
 could do. You are worthy of better things. I do not 
 ask a menial’s service of you.” 
 
 “No service, if performed for you, would seem menial 
 to me. I would consider it a pleasure that the proudest 
 gentleman in the land might envy me,” I answered 
 earnestly. 
 
 “Ah! that is gallant, and you must believe me, Paul, 
 when I tell you how much I appreciate your goodness. 
 How really and truly I thank you for it. Only I must 
 not impose too much upon your kindness. Since mamma 
 demands this of you I must perforce accept it, but I 
 want you to know, Paul, that in accepting it, I do it as 
 a — a token of— of your — your devotion for me, rather 
 than the duty of a servant, ’ ’ she said with a sweet earn- 
 estness. 
 
 “It is my great, my idolizing devotion for you that 
 dignifies the service into a happy, happy privilege,” I 
 answered, and then fearing to again overstep my pru- 
 dence I adjusted the lavatory and went out. 
 
 That afternoon she rode again and on the ride the 
 distance between a servile groom and queenly mistress 
 was insensibly lessened, and when we returned I was 
 riding close by her side, neither of us knowing when 
 or how the friendly propinquity had been established. 
 
 After supper music was again in order, and this time 
 I was called in the last to finish the entertainment with 
 the “Marseillaise.” 
 
 “If I believed in the old Pythagorean doctrine of the 
 transmigration of souls, and could understand how tke 
 
118 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 souls of men could go into horses and dogs and negroes, 
 I should say that the souls of my father and of my 
 brother Jules had by some fantastic freak crept into 
 Paul. If ever the voice of one man lived in the voice 
 of another the voice of my father lives in the voice of 
 this negro,” said my master, turning with a little sober- 
 ness to the mistress. 
 
 “Yes, they are wondrously alike; but perhaps it is 
 the song itself, the words and the air he used to love 
 so well, which suggests the sameness and recall the 
 good, old father,” said the mistress, “and now Paul, 
 you may go.” 
 
 In order to avoid another matutinal surprise, I went 
 in much earlier the next morning, before the young 
 mistress was awake and softly moving about I arranged 
 the room and had turned to go, when she called. 
 
 “I wish you to read to me this morning, Paul; after 
 breakfast come to me in the library. ’ ? 
 
 “I shall be so glad to read to you,” I answered with 
 the gladness thrilling my voice. 
 
 After breakfast, having paid my obeisance to my mis- 
 tress, I followed my young mistress to the library. 
 Drawing an easy chair for her to the window where the 
 fragrance from the roses could float in and envelop her 
 with their sweetness, I drew the lecturn before her and 
 was- ready to take my stand, when she interfered. 
 
 “Mo, no, Paul, you shall not stand any mure. Here, 
 you can sit on this rug at my feet, if you will not sit 
 in a chair, but you must not stand. ? ? 
 
 “Thank you for the grace. It will be so — so—” 
 
 “So what?” she asked with a smile as I hesitated to 
 speak. 
 
 “May I speak it?” 
 
 “Oh, yes, speak what you have in mind. It would 
 be what ? ” 
 
 “It would be so sweet to always sit at your feet,” I 
 answered softly. 
 
 “Will it? Then get your book and come.” 
 
 “What shall I get?” 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 119 
 
 “ Get. Shakespeare again. ‘Romeo and Juliet ’ — or, 
 no that was too sad. I should like something happy to- 
 day. Let me see the book. Oh, this is such a lovely 
 picture,” she added, as kneeling at her feet — almost 
 against her lap — I held the volume, opening by chance 
 at an illuminated depiction of Venus weeping over the 
 wounded Adonis. “But this must be sad, too. What 
 is it? ‘Venus and Adonis.’ Is it so really sad? I have 
 never read it. It is short/ ’ turning the leaves to es j 
 timate its length, “You may read it for me. Will you 
 please ?” 
 
 I took the book, and setting myself at her feet and 
 infusing all the fire of my soul into the subject, I read 
 the spirited poem. I did not stop to observe the ex- 
 citing effect it had upon her — the thrilling starts and 
 crimson blushes — but read on to the end. 
 
 When I had finished she sat silent for a moment with 
 cheeks rosy red and heaving bosom, and then she softly 
 said, as if communing with herself: 
 
 “Ah, love — love! Whalf a ravishing, maddening 
 thing it must be — if even a goddess could thus be en- 
 tranced. If she, the proud goddess, the very queen 
 of love itself, could be so weak, wfiat can one expect 
 from a mortal like me?” 
 
 “I cannot believe it a weakness,” I ventured to say, 
 “but rather an inspiration, making men strong and 
 brave ; and women fair and sweet. I never felt so much 
 like a man — nay, more than a man — until — until — ” 
 I had to pause. 
 
 . “Until when?” she asked with an encouraging smile, 
 itself full of meaning. 
 
 “I fear it will anger you for me to speak it.” 
 
 “No, no. I don’t think, Paul, that you could ever 
 anger me again. Tell me what is it that makes you feel 
 such a glory in your manhood!” 
 
 “The blessed sight of the woman I love,” I answered 
 boldly. 
 
 “And that woman is?” with a further encouraging 
 arch ©f her eye-brows. 
 
120 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 ‘ ‘ My mistress. My beautiful, my sweet, my queenly, 
 gentle mistress,” I answered softly. 
 
 “And you love me, Paul?” 
 
 “Dearer than I love my own soul.” 
 
 “And I — I love you, Paul — weak, wicked, shameful 
 though it be, I do love you, and I cannot help it,” she 
 cried, bowing her head in her hands to hide her shame 
 and bursting into a flood of tears. 
 
 I knew not what to say to soothe her — to thank and 
 to bless her— I could only stoop reverently and press 
 my lips to the hem of her garment and in that moment 
 of supreme adoration, kiss the soles of her feet and 
 then I silently stole away. 
 
 After dinner we rode again and though we rode side 
 by side — almost knee against knee — we rode in silence, 
 hardly a word being spoken. But as some draperies re- 
 veal more than they conceal, so there are silences which 
 speak more eloquently than words, and such was the 
 silence that held us both mute. There was no need of 
 words between us now — not even to conceal — we both 
 knew that we loved and it would have been a misery 
 to have known more. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE AFTERMATH OF ANGUISH. 
 
 The next morning I read to her again. This time I 
 chose a subject less suggestive of passion, but less un- 
 happy, the comedy, “As You Like It.” Its genial 
 humor and charming spirit pleased and assured her 
 and when she went out to dinner it was in a gay flut- 
 ter of spirits, very pretty to see and inexpressibly 
 sweet to me. 
 
 After dinner I was ready at the door waiting the 
 order to fetch the horses for the ride, when Sally in 
 high glee came to tell me that her young mistress had 
 given her a little holiday that afternoon to go down 
 to the branch to hunt “bubby blossoms” and that I 
 would have to wait upon her all by myself. 
 
 “She ses she can’t ride this evenin’, kase ole massa 
 an’ ole misstus am gwine ter town an’ she has ter 
 stay an’ keep house. An’ she sees fer yo’ ter run rite 
 now ’an fotch her a pitcher ob fresh water from de 
 spring, an’ yo’ ’ad bettah makaste ’bout it, too, er 
 yo’ll kotch it, foh I tells yo’, she’s in one ob her little 
 tantrums dis evenin’, an’ is as spiteful as a cat. She’* 
 gettin’ mitey kurus yere lately, enyhow.” 
 
 I hurried to the spring and in a few moments I was 
 back with the bubbles still sparkling on the pitcher’s 
 brim, as I softly tapped at the door. 
 
 “Ah, it is you? Come in. I am so glad that you 
 have come. Mamma has gone to town, and I have, to 
 keep house, and so we cannot ride — but — I — X don’t 
 believe that I care as we can make it so much pleasant- 
 er here. Give me a sip of water and then you cans, 
 sit here on the lounge by me and fan me to sleep.” 
 
 121 
 
122 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 There was in her room, in addition to her high 
 canopied bedstead, a low springy couch or lounge, 
 upon which she took her noon-day siestas. Upon this 
 she was lithely reclining, attired in airy, loose, cool- 
 ing negligee, every beauty and grace and charm of 
 person revealed — by being half hidden — in its most 
 ravishing loveliness. Ah, had the Venus herself — of 
 whom we had been reading — possessed such 'a form, 
 such a figure, such a bosom, such arms, as the gossamer- 
 like wrapper so charmingly disclosed, with such lips, 
 such eyes and such breath, the poor weakling milk- 
 sop of an Adonis would not have required the “ivory 
 pale” to have restrained him from running away. 
 
 I filled a glass and proffered it to her, but the 
 tremor of my hand dashed a little spray on her neck. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Ouch ! 7 7 she gasped, from the little shock oceasiQned 
 by the icy douche, “what an awkward Ganymede you 
 make , 77 she laughed as recovering, she took the gob- 
 let herself and sipped its coolness. “But , 77 she added, 
 brightly, “I have got my classics confused. It was 
 the strong Hercules and Ganymede served. I must 
 reverse our positions and I will be Ganymede. There, 
 thanks; now my fan, if you please, and let me see if 
 you are so awkward with it . 77 
 
 I took the glass and put it away, and found her fan, 
 a dainty, rose-scented spread of feathers, almost as 
 airy itself as a zephyr. 
 
 “Now, Paul, you may sit here by me, close, close 
 as you please. I do so love to feel the subtle, strange, 
 but delicious magnetism of your nearness. It seems 
 as though a part of your magnificent strength were be- 
 ing transfused into my own being. Ah, now fan me 
 gently and let me close my eyes and fancy myself in 
 a beautiful paradise, 7 ’ she continued with a bewitching 
 smile as she languishingly closed her eyes and lay 
 blind for a few moments, as if to give my ravished 
 sight time and chance to explore unabashed the heaven 
 of beauty it would have been too timorous to look 
 upon under the consciousness of her own. And then 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 123 
 
 with a flush she started up, the movement shaking 
 loose the diamond clasp that held the fleecy drapery 
 around her neck and shoulder, and gazing tenderly 
 into my eyes she said: 
 
 4 4 Paul, I ought not to have you here, so near me, 
 and we two all alone, and loving as we do — you, so 
 strong and I — I so weak. I— I almost fear it is wrong, 
 that you — you will despise me for it — that you will 
 think me bold, unmaidenly, unwomanly. But, oh, 
 Paul, I do love you so, and there is no hope for my 
 love! You will not despise me, dear Paul, you will 
 not think me bold.” 
 
 4 4 Despise you, Virginia, my beautiful mistress, my 
 life, my love ? No, no, you are all the world to me — 
 life, love, heaven!” X cried in a passionate impulse, 
 stooping to kiss her. 
 
 4 4 Oh, that is sweet, sweet,” she whispered, detain- 
 ing my head in her arms, 4 4 so sweet — kiss me again, 
 Paul, kiss me ! Ah, now, ’ ’ relieving my head and at 
 the same time drawing me toward her, 4 4 ah, I love 
 you, Paul, with all my heart — take me, take me,” she 
 
 cried, in her uncontrollable excitement. 
 
 ^ ^ ^ ^ 
 
 It was a wild delirium of love and passion, and when, 
 with the first return of reason, X looked upon the 
 flower I had despoiled, it was yet in a daze of senses 
 and a whirl of brain nearly akin to madness — a temp- 
 est of self-reproach crowding in upon me with' the re- 
 turn of fuller consciousness. For a moment X watched 
 her as she lay so fair and sweet before me, her heart 
 fluttering faintly against her snowy breast, her lips 
 panting for breath, and her eyes closed in a half 
 sleepy, half stupified tangor, and then the faint little 
 fiuter suddenly growing into a startled beat, the little 
 babe-like pants into a gasp of pain, and her eyes, her 
 large lustrous fawn-like eyes, opened staring fright- 
 enedly around and then putting up her hand to hide 
 her heaving, naked bosom, she threw me aside with an 
 almost superhuman thrust as she started up. 
 
124 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 “Oh, horror! Paul, what have you done? Misery, 
 sin, shame, oh, my God, why did you not kill me ? Oh, 
 Paul, you have- destroyed me. Go, go, leave the room 
 and the house forever, lest our sin consumes us where 
 we stand. Undone, undone— lost, lost!” and spring- 
 ing from the couch she knelt by her bed and bury- 
 ing her face in the pillow, she burst into a piteous 
 wail of moans, of tears and of sobs. 
 
 I would have tried to comfort her, but it seemed a 
 sacrilege for me to speak, and like the serpent steal- 
 ing out from the Eden it had destroyed, I slunk from 
 the room. Gladly would I have hanged myself to the 
 nearest tree to have made her once more what she 
 could never be again.' 
 
 Oh, how I had wounded my sweet dove ! And how 
 I wished I could die if death might recall the blow. 
 Not for any thought of myself, for any dread of the 
 death that would be swift to follow the disclosure 
 of my act, as surely as the withering crash follows 
 the lightning’s livid stroke, but all for her whose fair 
 head was now bowed do wn under its weight of shame 
 — of shame I had wrought — for her, whom I had left 
 kneeling in such an agony of remorse and sorrow, as 
 only the blessed Christ, who pities and forgives can 
 ever know. 
 
 Had I not loved her as I did, with all my strength, 
 with all my heart, with all my soul, I might have felt 
 the seducer’s unmanly pride in his conquest, an ex- 
 ultant triumph in the masterful strength that had en- 
 abled me, the despised negro, the slave, to overcome 
 and subdue the queenly mistress ; but no, my triumph 
 was to be her eternal shame, and heart-sick with yearn- 
 ing pity for her and contempt and loathing for my- 
 self I went down and out from the house — out from 
 the yard, out from the sight and sound of human-kind, 
 to hide myself in the stables among the dumb cattle, 
 wishing that I were one of them, that instead of the 
 susceptibilities of a man, like the ox 1 had been born 
 with a brute’s numbness of soul. 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 125 
 
 As nearly distracted as it is possible for a rational 
 mind to be without passing forever into the darkness 
 of madness I lay all that afternoon grovelling on my 
 belly in a manger with my lips in the dust, and it 
 was not until Hance, the coachman, came to stable his 
 carriage horses, that I could arouse myself from my 
 frenzy of remorse, and brushing the litter and dust 
 from my clothes I went back to the house to face my 
 master and mistress, without knowing or caring what 
 was to be my doom. 
 
 If it had been possible to relieve her soui from even 
 the thought of guilt, and by doing so I could have 
 made her sweetly innocent in her own conscience, I 
 should have walked boldly into the house and facing 
 my master told him that I had broken into her cham- 
 ber and despite the despairing struggles and cries and 
 tears of the helpless victim, had foully ravished his 
 daughter, and folding my hands to be tied, would have 
 begged him for the love he had for his child to kill 
 me, to shoot, hang, or burn me at the stake. Nay, 
 more, had she in her agony of conscience confessed 
 to her mother our mutual shame, I should have belied 
 her truth and averred that I alone was the guilty 
 ravisher and she the innocent victim. 
 
 That much I had firmly resolved upon and it was 
 this, the first intelligent resolution which I could evoke 
 from the despairing chaos of mind, that gave me cour- 
 age to rise and firin in this purpose I went forth, half 
 expecting to be met at the gate by Joe with the un- 
 leashed bloodhoundsand chains and handcuffs, to hunt 
 down, to catch and shackle the supposed fugitive. But 
 there were no handcuffs nor chains. The master was 
 there. He had come in high spirits over his unani- 
 mous nomination for State senator, and the mistress 
 was there sharing his elation, good natured as ever, 
 but ready to scold me for my truancy. 
 
 “Where in the world have you been all the after- 
 noon, you lazy rascal, leaving your young mistress 
 all alone by herself? Joe tells me that you and Sally 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 have both been gone to the woods — nest-hunting, 111 
 be bound — and not a soul to wait upon Virginia, and 
 if it wasn’t that she begged so piteously for you, 
 
 I would have Joe to whip you both. And now I want 
 to tell you — I lay down this law— if ever I go off again 
 and leave you to take care of her and come back and 
 find you gone from the house I shall have you bucked 
 down and fifty lashes upon your bare back. Do you 
 understand me!” 
 
 “Yes, ma’am,” I humbly replied, glad, almost bless- 
 ing her, for her reproaches. 
 
 “Now, run up to her room and see if your Miss 
 Virginia wants you. I found her crying with the head- 
 ache when I came.” 
 
 I could not repress a sight of relief, notwithstanding 
 the desperate resolve I had made to have it out at 
 once if needs be, and anxious to say or do something 
 I knew not what, to soothe her I hurried up and softly 
 knocked. 
 
 “Come in,” she said, and my keen solicitude detected 
 a hollowness in her voice. 
 
 Steadying my own nerves with a desperate energy, 
 
 I went in. 
 
 She shrank back with a little start and threw up 
 her hands as if to wave me away. 
 
 “Your mother bid me come!” I started to explain, ' 
 when she burst out: 
 
 “My mother— ah, poor, foolish mamma. Why, why, 
 oh, why, could she not see? Oh, Paul, my heart is 
 broken. Oh, why did you?” and covering her face 
 with her hands she burst into a paroxism of weep- 
 ing. What could I do or say — save fall at her feet 
 and kiss them, and clutch her knee in my agony of 
 remorse and sorrow for her wretched, heart-broken 
 condition. 
 
 For a moment she sobbed, and then holding back 
 her tears she went on : 
 
 “You should have saved me, Paul, from my own self- 
 — for oh, I do — do love you so.” 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 127 
 
 “And I, my sweet mistress/ ’ I cried, at last, find- 
 ing my tongue, “I will willingly do anything, I will 
 gladly die to save you now. It is for this I wished 
 to see you again— to ask you to let me go to your 
 father and tell him how, how grievously I have 
 wronged you, and let my death at the stake atone for it 
 all.” 
 
 4 * Oh, no, no, no ! you do not know what they would 
 do? They would kill you — they would murder you! 
 You know not how terrible their vengeance would 
 be. No, that must never be. It is madness to talk so! 
 And besides, Paul, it was not you alone. It was my 
 fault, too — mine more than yours. My own great love 
 for you betrayed me and I cannot find it in my heart 
 to blame you. Oh, if I — I myself could die and let 
 my death undo it all, I — I would wish to die, but no 
 harm must come to you. Oh, no, Paul; do not you 
 ever, ever think of such a thing again.” 
 
 “But darling, the thought of your sorrow almost 
 drives me to some desperate expedient. What can I 
 do to comfort you ? Tell me something, please, or your 
 distress will madden me,” I cried, still retaining my 
 attitude of suppliance at her feet. 
 
 “There is nothing, Paul,” she said, bidding me to 
 rise, “only you, you must not despise me. Oh, I can 
 not bear the thought of that, Paul. I care not for 
 all the world beside, but do not you think me bad,” she 
 cried piteously, stretching out her hands to me. 
 
 “And were I ingrate — brute enough — for such a 
 thought I should ask God to visit upon me His most 
 horrible, ineffable curse. No, no, darling, to me you 
 are as an angel of heaven, the sweetest and the best 
 — and I pray God that I alone may bear the conse- 
 quences of my act.” 
 
 I am sure that my sincerity and earnestness, my 
 own apparent wretchedness of spirit fully impressed 
 her and in a measure sustained her in this her supreme 
 hour of anguish. She shrank not away — as she first did 
 — and I seized her hand and showered kisses upon kisses 
 
128 THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 upon it — kisses from which all the fire of passion had 
 been burned — in which all the sympathy, all the ten- 
 derness of my heart and its hopes for her own eternal 
 salvation were poured forth in a speechful devotion, 
 little short of idolatry. When we both had recovered 
 somewhat our mental composure, our thoughts returned 
 to things about us and I, to further restore her equan- 
 imity, asked: 
 
 “But, Miss Virginia, what is it you will do? Can 
 you go down to the table or shall I fetch your supper 
 to you here?” 
 
 “No, not you. You must keep away from me, Paul, 
 no matter what mamma may order. But now I will 
 wash my face and go down. Please go away, Paul, 
 and do, oh, please do not despise me.” 
 
 “You are as sacred to me as an angel,” I vehemently 
 answered, as I turned to go. 
 
 “And, Paul, one more word,” she cried calling me 
 back, ‘ ‘ you must not wrong me by thinking it was € or — 
 for that I sent for you to come to me. That it was to 
 tempt you I lay as I did before you — for indeed it was 
 not. God knows I loved you and so longed for your 
 nearness, and to have your arms about me, but it was 
 not for that. Even when I asked you to take me I did 
 not know the danger we both were in. You must not 
 think so wrong of me, Paul. ’ ' 
 
 I had not thought it — but had the thought been 
 burned in my brain a mortal conviction, the truth in 
 her eyes now, as she so piteously appealed to me, even 
 to me, her ravisher, for charity would have told me how 
 wretchedly I had wronged her. 
 
 “No, my sweet mistress, I shall not think that of 
 you. Could I so think, my own remorse would be less 
 bitter. Ah, no darling, let us feel that it was our 
 destiny — that Pate has thrown our lives together, and 
 that I nor you could have resisted its decree no more 
 than the roses can refuse to bloom when the spring sun 
 warms them into fragrance. Please, Miss Virginia, 
 take heart and let me bare all the blame.” 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 129 
 
 “No, I cannot be so simple as that. I was to blame. 
 Bwt you must help me, Paul, to bear it. Your strength 
 of character, now, must save me, as your great strength 
 of arm, of loin and of thigh has undone me. I will go 
 dnvn now. Will my eyes betray me? Are they very 
 red!” 
 
 Those blessed eyes, so sweet in their pathos, had bee* 
 sealded with tears, but she had forced them dry, and 
 now though the lids were swollen, they shone as sweet- 
 ly bright as ever, as with a courage more than Spartan, 
 she went down to hide by a smiling face the secret that 
 lay so heavily upon her heart. 
 
 And then, after supper, to assure her mother’s anx- 
 ious solicitude about her headache, she went into the 
 muse room to sing for her father. 
 
 like a bird she carolled two or three little airs apd 
 then by a grim mockery of chance he asked her to sing 
 “Bvaleen’s Bower,” one of his old-time favorites. I 
 stood in the dark without and watched her as she sang, 
 and my heart bled as it blessed her for the fortitude 
 with which she sang the sweet, sad story, so painfully 
 suggestive of her own bitter shame. It was pathetic 
 and touching— but the sorrow of soul that gave it its 
 pathos was accredited to her skill, as with a kiss her 
 father thanked her for the plaintive sweetness of her 
 song. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 WELCOME VISITORS. 
 
 For some time I studiously avoided her presence and 
 was beginning to dread that my dereliction of duties 
 would again fall under the notice of my mistress, when 
 the arrival of visiting relatives brought a happy relief 
 to both of us. These were her aunt, Marie Noltrieb, 
 her mother’s sister, and her pretty cousin and prospec- 
 tive sister-in-law, Isaura. 
 
 They came with a retinue of servants for a visit of 
 several days, and in the companionship of the lively 
 young lady, my gentle young mistress forgot something 
 of her sad unrest and found immunity from the em- 
 barrassment of my presence, when my duties brought 
 us together. 
 
 Miss Noltrieb w r as a bright, pretty girl, a few 
 months the senior of my young mistress, full of hoiden 
 spirits with a soupcon of something more charmingly 
 piquant. It was really refreshing to hear her bright lit- 
 tle sallies of wit, and the naive sparkle of her humor, 
 and in the clatter of her tongue feven my own oppression 
 of soul found a respite, as I am sure that my gentle- 
 hearted mistress felt its revivifying effect. 
 
 I loved to hear, unnoticed of course, her pretty tattle, 
 with its little surprises of wit and bold flashes of fun, 
 sometimes more piquant than modest, more dainty than 
 proper, albeit the notice she first so graciously deigned 
 to take of me was more flattering to my pride of looks 
 than to my intelligence. 
 
 It was during the day after their arrival, I had been 
 ealled out on the lawn to lay off and set the croquet 
 wickets for the young people, that after watching my 
 
 130 
 
THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 131 
 
 movements for awhile, she suddenly turned to my 
 young mistress and said: 
 
 ‘ 1 Oh, Cousin, I must tell you what a charmingly hand- 
 some waiting-boy you have — what a magnificent stature 
 he has — almost an Apollo— and how elegantly he 
 moves? Look at his legs, how trim and well-rounded 
 and straight! Negro that he is, I don't think I ever 
 saw so handsome a leg before. It makes one almost 
 want to squeeze it. Why, he would do for a model 
 for Apollo. Did you ever notice him?" 
 
 “Yes, I think Paul a very strong, finely built man," 
 blushingly answered my young mistress. 
 
 “And a surprisingly handsome one, too —good 
 enough looking for a white man. And let me tell you, 
 Coz, how frightened I was this morning when he came 
 into my room to fetch the water." 
 
 “Frightened?" with a quick inquiry. 
 
 “Yes, positively shocked. It was really too funny. I 
 vras lazy, you know, and had just got up, and was sit- 
 ting in my chemise— yes, with not another blessed 
 thread on — almost as naked as a skinned rat, flat on the 
 ~ floor, buckling my garter, when someone knocked, and 
 thinking it was Nannette, I told her to come, and the 
 door opened and in he came. I saw his feet and legs 
 first and they looked so really nice and trim and elegant 
 I thought it w r as a man, and you just ought to have seen 
 me pulling down my chemise with one hand and hiding 
 my bosoms (applying a term less elegant, I must con- 
 fess) with the other. I never felt' so infinitesimally 
 small before in all my life — all except my bosoms (ap- 
 plying a still more suggestive term) and they seemed 
 bigger than hay-cocks. But I had to look up, and oh, 
 you don't know how relieved I was to find it was a 
 negro, and then he spoke so respectfully and never 
 once looked, that I felt at my ease on the instant, and 
 when he had arranged the washstand and I had put 
 on my boots, I had him to lace them for me, which he 
 did just the nicest you ever saw, kneeling as gallantly 
 as a gentleman, and never once squeezing my ankle nor 
 
132 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 trying to look up, as I am sure a gentleman -would 
 have done. Oh, Cousin Jenny, I would give the world 
 lor just such a fellow to wait upon me. Now, would 
 you let me have him, if 1 can persuade mamma to get 
 papa to buy him for me?” 
 
 “Oh, I don’t think that mamma would let him go, 
 and I am equally sure that papa would not sell him /* 
 was the evasive answer, made with a little blush. 
 
 “Yes, but if you don’t care, I am quite as sure I can 
 beg him into it. How would you like to live with me, 
 Buck? What’s his name. Cousin?” 
 
 “ ‘Paul.’ His name is ‘Paul’,” was the curt answer. 
 
 “Ah, ‘Paul,’ that is nice itself. Say, Paul, how would 
 yeu like to have me for your mistress ? ’ ’ she continued, 
 ierning to me. 
 
 “I am sure you would make a good mistress,” I 
 answered. 
 
 ‘ * Yes, I suspect I would soon spoil you. Only there is 
 mamma. Mamma is so prudish — so much like an old 
 maid Presbyterian. Do you know, Cousin Jenny, that 
 she is getting so she won’t let us girls have a negro boy 
 about the house? ’She says they would be sure to be 
 seeing things — like there was anything in that ? ’ ’ 
 
 “And I think Aunt Marie is wise in doing so. We 
 girls are apt to be too careless,” soberly put in my 
 young mistress. 
 
 “Tut. Who would care if they did? I am sure our 
 mammas had better look after their boys instead of 
 watching you and me so closely. They have just as 
 much fun as they please with the yellow girls.” 
 
 “Oh, Cousin Isaura,” with a blushing protest. 
 
 “Yes, but they do though. They are all alike, Al- 
 phonse, Eugene and Pierre, and mamma don’t seem te 
 care a fig about it. Why, Eugene and Pierre actually 
 had a fight about Eloise, the new quadroon girl papa 
 bought for me last Christmas.” 
 
 “That was shocking!” 
 
 “No, it wasn’t, for she is really a very pretty girl — 
 almost as white as I am — with a lissom figure and a 
 
THE STORY OP A SLATE. 
 
 13* 
 
 beautiful bust. I almost envy her her embonpoint (she 
 didn't call them that). But, la! Coz, you needn't be 
 making such awful eyes at me. Cousin Victor is just 
 as bad at my brothers. Oh, yes he is, for I caught him 
 myself, him and your girl, Sally, last Christmas when 
 I was here." 
 
 “Caught him?" with an indignant protest. 
 
 “Yes, caught him chucking Sally's chin and fooling 
 around with her in a most indecent way, and I am sure 
 he was fixing his fences just like all the rest of the boys. 
 When the sly hussy looked around to watch and hap- 
 pened to see me peeping through the window, you 
 should have seen her look of consternation. I could 
 hardly keep from crying, ‘boo!' at him, the naughty 
 fellow. I intend to tell him about it the very first night 
 we are married. I shall hold him off a week for it. 
 You see if I don't." 
 
 “The wickets are ready, Miss Virginia. Do they 
 suit you?" I interrupted, having finished my work as 
 the young lady finished her rather piquant narrative. 
 
 “Oh, yes, very well, and you may go, now," and t© 
 her relief, as well as my own, I respectfully retired. 
 
 I have given the colloquy in its pert and pointed ex- 
 pressions, — only lacking such vernacular diction as 
 would seem wholly indecent, and the charming little 
 shrugs and winks and nods with which the young lady 
 emphasized their meaning — not to fill in a shadow in 
 the picture of the old southern home life, but simply t© 
 illustrate more fully the unheeded danger to which 
 the lives and the hearts, to say nothing of the morals, 
 both of master and mistress, as well as of the negr© 
 man and the negro girl were exposed. 
 
 That evening I appeared in the music room, in re- 
 sponse to a summons from my mistress, to sing the Mar- 
 seillaise hymn for Aune Marie — in truth, she was my 
 father's own cousin — and the subject of buying me was 
 brought up again. 
 
 I rendered the hymn with more than ordinary em- 
 pressement, for I felt that it would please my sweet, 
 
134 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 young mistress, and had to respond to an encore, when 
 the aunt broke out with a sigh: 
 
 “Ah, Gustave, how that reminds me of poor, dear 
 Jules . 7 ? 
 
 Poor, dear Jules would, had he lived, have been her 
 husband, as French-like they had been betrothed to each 
 ©ther while children, and notwithstanding the lapse of 
 all these years, through which she had rendered a duti- 
 ful response to the conjugal regards of Major Nottrieb, 
 she yet carried in her memory a rosy and tender place 
 for poor, dear Jules— so untimely slain. 
 
 “Yes, and of my father; we have all remarked it, and 
 I told Pauline that it almost converts me to the Pytha- 
 gorean theory of the transmigration of souls. I can 
 almost believe that it is the soul of my father and of 
 Jules that I hear singing in Paul,” answered the master, 
 soberly. 
 
 “And Aunty, dear, I want to beg you,” cried Miss 
 Isaura, dramatically, kneeling at my mistress’ feet and 
 gushingly kissing her hand, “I want you to give him 
 to me and let papa buy him. Now, Aunt Pauline, won’t 
 you?” 
 
 “Oh! but Paul belongs to Virginia, and she, i am 
 sure, could not do without him,” smilingly answered the 
 aunt. 
 
 “No, but I have asked her, and she says I may. Oh, 
 Aunty, darling-, please give him to me? Let me have 
 him. He is no nice — so handy about the room and waits 
 upon one so charmingly. He is so much better than a 
 negro girl. He laced my boots for me this morning as 
 Nannette never could have laced them. There was not 
 a wrinkle in them all day and they are just as easy as 
 slippers. Oh, Aunt ! you must let me have him; Cousin 
 Jenny, doesn’t care.” 
 
 “No, no; I need him myself. You may have one of 
 my eye teeth if you like, but I cannot spare Paul. 
 Why, he is my conjurer and I should die from my 
 rheumatism if you were to take him . 9 9 
 
 “Conjurer?” with a pretty opening of her eyes. 
 
135 
 
 S THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 “Yes, to conjure the rheumatism away. I verily 
 believe I should have died long ago if it had not been 
 for Paul rubbing me.” 
 
 “Yes,” playfully broke in the master, “yes, Marie, 
 Pauline has made a wonderful discovery. She has found 
 the veritable elixir of life itself, and it exudes from 
 Paul's fingers. She keeps the poor negro's palms sore 
 with rubbing her back and knees.” 
 
 “Yes, sister was telling me about his wonderful pow- 
 er, and I shall have him to rub me tonight when I go t© 
 bed. I can very well understand the principle of the sur- 
 charged strength and vitality of the strong flowing out 
 to and revivifying the weak. It is a scientific truth only 
 recently discovered. It is called the ‘od' or ‘odic force.* 
 M. Beichenback has successfully demonstrated its truth 
 and analyzed its principle. Ah, it is a wonderful dis- 
 covery. Do you hear, Buck,” turning to me, as I stood 
 in a respectful back-ground, “I shall want you to com© 
 to me after awhile and mesmerize me to sleep. My 
 knees are as stiff as a rusty gate hinge and you must re- 
 vivify them with your hands.” 
 
 Madam Noltrieb had a smattering of scientific knowl- 
 edge and she never missed an opportunity to display it. 
 
 “And, mamma, you will make papa buy him for me, 
 if Aunt Pauline will sell him?” appealed the impor- 
 tunate young lady, turning to her mother. 
 
 “We will see, darling.** 
 
 “Oh! I am so glad. Now, Aunty, dear, you — you 
 must let me have him. Mustn't she, Uncle?” 
 
 “No, no — not now, darling,” smilingly answered the 
 mistress, “wait until after Victor comes home and you 
 two are married, and then maybe, if Virginia doesn’t 
 care, you may have him. * * 
 
 “Ah, no! — that is too long to wait — and besides I 
 shall not need him then, no how.** 
 
 “Not need him then? Why?” 
 
 “Because I will have Victor, then, and he will be 
 enough. ' * 
 
 “Yes, but you must not put too much upon Victor, or 
 
136 
 
 THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 you two will soon tire of one another. It will he very 
 nice for him to lace your boots for a month or so, but 
 the pleasure will cease to please when it becomes a 
 service. Anyhow, Pet, you must not ask me for Paul, 
 now. I can not spare him,” and to end the matter, she 
 pleasantly kissed the pouting lips and pushed the 
 young lady away. 
 
 I had no means of measuring the quantity of odic 
 fluid my perspiring palms infused into the fat but some- 
 what flaccid calves and knees of the lady that night, as 
 disrobed for slumber, she sat upon her couch with her 
 feet in my lap, but as it soon set her bare toes to con- 
 vulsively digging in my groins and caused a succession 
 of soft self-satisfied cackles, which in a young lady 
 would no doubt have been giggles, I presumed it was 
 enough to satisfy her of the truth of her new theory. 
 
 At any rate, after some ten or fifteen minutes of 
 vigorous rubbing on my part, she dropped back on her 
 pillow; the little cackles gave place to progressive 
 snores, and with a surfeited kick she dismissed me. As 
 gently as I could I composed her limbs to a restful 
 position, and softly withdrew, leaving her to pleasant 
 dreams of her absent lord or, perhaps, of the “poor, 
 dear Jules.” 
 
 “This negro of yours, Pauline, is worth his weight 
 in gold,” she began the next morning as she greeted 
 her sister. “He has the true mesmeric touch. I could 
 feel the thrill as soon as he touched my knee. He put 
 me to sleep almost in a moment and I slept like a babe 
 all night.” 
 
 “Yes, I told you so.” 
 
 “And, Pauline, isn’t it strange that the negroes more 
 than all others seem gifted with this wonderful power ? 
 All the old astrologers and magicians of the olden times 
 were negroes. You know the history of “Aladdin and 
 the "Wonderful Lamp.” Well you recollect the ma- 
 gician there was an African. That dark and mysterious 
 land seems to be the home of magic and of the subtle 
 
THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 137 
 
 forces. I repeat it, sister Pauline, Paul is worth his 
 weight in gold.” 
 
 “Yes, indeed, and I wouldn’t take a million for him. 
 I don’t care how much Gustave laughs at me for my 
 
 fancy.” 
 
 “And you will not sell him?” 
 
 “Sell him? No. I should as soon sell Gustave him- 
 self. I can’t spare Paul — neither can Virginia — so there 
 is no further use to discuss it. ’ ’ 
 
 This was Saturday. Their visit was protracted until 
 the following Tuesday, when the young mistress went 
 home with them to be gone indefinitely, leaving the 
 house strangely dark and lonesomely dull. 
 
 I had no idea of all that her presence was to me until 
 she had gone. How empty, indeed, was my life without 
 her? In her absence, I realized that she was the very 
 light of my existence. The world was a perpetual mid- 
 night and heaven itself would be dark without her. How 
 I longed to look upon her sweet face once more, and 
 •ateh again the fragrance of her presence — to hear 
 again the voice that was a heavenly music to my ears? 
 Sow leaden seemed the feet of Time during that in- 
 terminable absence ? Each hour seemed to me a year — 
 each day an eternity. ' And when, after days of anxious 
 longing and waiting for her return, the carriage drove 
 *p, and I caught the smile of gladness which beamed 
 Irom her beautiful countenance, as she stepped out, I 
 •ould have fallen at her feet and clutched her knees 
 for very joy. I am sure she read aright the emotions 
 •f my heart, for quickly releasing herself from the 
 fond embrace of her mother, she ran directly to her 
 room. 
 
 “Paul, have you fresh water? Fetch me a pitcher- 
 ful,” she cried, almost excitedly, smiling significantly^ 
 and, oh, so sweetly, as she passed me. 
 
 In a minute more I was in her presence. Ah, yes, 
 there was the same glorious love-light in her eyes, the 
 same sweet smile on her lips, the same fragrance of 
 
138 
 
 THE STOKY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 heaven in her breath, as I filled and handed her the 
 glass. 
 
 “Thanks, that is so nice,” sipping the cooling 
 draught and then putting away the goblet, she turned 
 to her maid. 
 
 “Sally, run down and see if I haven’t left my fan in 
 the carriage.” And then as Sally disappeared she 
 turned with the warm glow of a womanly love flushing 
 her sweet face, and putting her arms up to my neck and 
 laying her head against my heart, lovingly murmured : 
 
 “Oh, Paul, dear, dear Paul, I have come back to 
 you. I have struggled so hard, so long against my love, 
 but I could not stifle it. Oh, darling, I love you, I love 
 you, and I cannot live without you.” 
 
 I could only stoop and kiss her head, her glorious 
 hair, as I softly enclosed her in my arms, and then as 
 gently releasing her I said: 
 
 “And you may never know, my sweet, gentle mis- 
 tress, what a gladness your coming has brought me. 
 Oh, how my very soul blesses you that you have come ! ’ ’ 
 
 “Yes, I can know, for I read it in your eyes. Your 
 soul spoke its gladness to me through your eyes, and 
 eh, it made me feel so happy. But now, darling, oae 
 little kiss, quickly, for Sally is coming. ’ ’ 
 
 I did not stoop to kiss her, but winding my arms 
 about her waist I lifted her bodily up to my lips aad 
 then gently put her down. I went out just as the de 
 trop Sally came back with the missing fan. 
 
 The music that evening was one sweet trill of love 
 and gladness, thrilling with its nameless magic every 
 fibre of my being, as I listened from my place on the 
 portico. 
 
 The nest morning I read for her as she rested in her 
 swing. It was form a little volume of poems by Harry 
 Flash, our own Mobile poet — alas, now dead and almost 
 forgotten, but breathing while he lived the divine af- 
 flatus of the poet. It was a song of what the “Little 
 Bird Told Me,” with its gleeful refrain: 
 
 “She loves me, she loves me,” 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 139 
 
 that pleased me best of all, and even after dinner had 
 been announced and she had gone up to her room to 
 dress, I kept repeating it as I put the book away. 
 
 The afternoon was balmy and delightful and there 
 was heaven in her eyes as she called to me after I had 
 my dinner. 
 
 4 ‘ Have out Dido, Paul, and Selim; we will have a 
 ride, now r — a long, long ride out into the woods and all 
 among the flowers, the wild roses and honeysuckles, 
 the jessamines and lilies, ” she said archly, and then 
 ran up to her room to arrange her toilet. 
 
 I hurriedly brought out the horses and asking Jake to 
 hold them for me, I ran up to my little cuddy to array 
 myself in my best — my very best attire. It was my 
 habit as well as duty to be always cleanly in my person 
 and tidy in my dress. It was no idle threat the mistress 
 had once made, that each fleck of dirt found on the 
 linen of one of the house negroes, was to be whipped off 
 with the cowhide. The order was no reluctantly obeyed 
 command to me, but a luxury and I always was cleanly 
 as well as tastefully dressed. But on this occasion Beau 
 Brummell himself would have with difficulty picked a 
 flaw in the immaculate purity of my attire, as drawing 
 on my well-fitting coat, I went down from my cuddy 
 and announced that the horses were ready. 
 
 I found her waiting, v radiantly, lovely, rosy and 
 sweet. I may never be able to express the feelings that 
 so deliciously thrilled me as I lifted her, the beautiful 
 darling of my life, to her seat in the saddle, and quickly 
 mounting, followed her lead. Followed? Where? Ah, 
 little did I think or care. Had it been into the gaping 
 jaws of death itself, I should have pressed on eagerly 
 after. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 LOVE REIGNS SUPREME. 
 
 I had during her absence given the horses a daily 
 exercise around the fields, but the long rest had some- 
 what pampered them and feeling their spirits now, they 
 needed no whip or spur to urge them on, as the young 
 mistress led the way straight through the lane to the 
 woods, her magnificent mare coquettishly turning her 
 neck and tossing her head back as if to challenge my 
 equally lusty stallion to catch and master her if he 
 could. I thought of the rampant chase of Adonis’ fiery 
 charger and caught something of the voluptuous spirit. 
 
 It was a matter of three miles we galloped before we 
 entered the wood, and she drew up to let me approach 
 to a familiar nearness. 
 
 It was a delightful May afternoon. The fields were 
 full of fragrance and the woods with bloom. The crab- 
 apple, the hawthorn, the yellow jessamine, the wood- 
 bine, the wild rose, the honeysuckle and lily, and 
 grandest of all the magnolia, all were out in their 
 fragrant splendor, filling the air with their intoxicating 
 perfume. 
 
 “Now, Paul,” she said in her musically tender voice, 
 giving me a look of such languishing sweetness as melt- 
 ed my already suffused heart into a fountain of liquid 
 joy, “we will ride to the cave. It was there, Paul, 
 that first came to me the sweet, wild and fluttering 
 consciousness of love — a love that is stronger to ate 
 than life, sweeter than heaven, and sorrowing almost 
 as death. I have tried to stifle that love, to scorn it, 
 to choke it with the contempt I feel for my own weak- 
 ness and shante, but I cannot. I have prayed to my 
 
 140 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 141 
 
 God to help me put it from my heart and to save me 
 from its sin, but I cannot. I am but mortal, and can 
 struggle no longer. It has been my bitterest shame. 
 You must make it my greatest joy. I have come, Paul, 
 to surrender myself to you — my life, my soul, my heart, 
 my all. All that I have and all that I am is yours, 
 dear Paul, all, all your own— to love, to fondle, to 
 caress, if you will, or to — to contemn and despise. 
 In kisses I shall pledge you a love as true, as deep, as 
 reverent and as pure as ever bride pledged to husband. 
 I shall ask of you no pledge in return, for in the soul 
 I have given you I know that you love me.” 
 
 I could not answer with words, only through the 
 light of my eyes, she saw in my own soul a love as 
 strong, as tender, as deep, as o’erpowering as her 
 own. 
 
 The little turn through the tangled woods was made 
 in silence, and we soon drew up on a bank of the 
 cave. 
 
 The season had made a delightful change in the 
 place. The dank, slimy sides of the chasm were now 
 tufted with little beds of wild daisies and snow-drops, 
 and pinks and violets. The overhanging vines that 
 earlier looked like creeping things of ill-omen, were 
 now thick with green and purple, hanging in grace- 
 ful festoons to curtain the chamber below. The water 
 had all dried from the bottom and the smooth white 
 sand lay soft and cool as some ocean beach. 
 
 In the center of the circular chamber, as if raised 
 for a throne or couch for the Queen of the Naiads, was 
 a little bank where the tufted grass, soft, strong and 
 willowy, by knitting its roots together and sinking 
 them deep in the sod had held the earth from wash- 
 ing, while the abrading current of the winter stream 
 wearing down the sand around, had left it a tiny oasis 
 of daisies and green in that minature desert of white. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Oh, how pretty ! and what a fitting bower for love 
 wild as ours,” she cried, looking down into the charm- 
 ing grot. “Let us ride around and down there, Paul, 
 
142 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 and and — gather the — the daisies,” she added, with a 
 rosy, rosy blush and soft drooping eyes. 
 
 A path around led down the hill to a level with the 
 mouth of the little canyon. An mate sense of manful- 
 ness told me to lead the way — that she, my sweet 
 mistress, had shown me the roses and it was now my 
 place to pluck them. And still, too dumb with joy 
 to even -thank her for her grace, I rode forward, scan- 
 ning, as I went, the vista around for any possible dan- 
 ger of surprise from profane intrusion. But the re- 
 treat was safe and sacred, and when I drew up at the 
 entrance below I dismounted, and securely fastening 
 my horse, turned and lifted her down in my arms, hold- 
 ing her only long enough to reassure her shrinking 
 modesty with a kiss. 
 
 “Stand here a moment, sweet, until I prepare you a 
 seat,” I tenderly whispered, and then tethering her 
 mare, I gathered great armfuls of the clustering hon- 
 eysuckles and spread them upon the center bank, al- 
 ready soft with its grassy carpet, while she stood look- 
 ing on in shy curiosity and blushing confusion. And 
 then when I had finished that divan of roses, I went 
 to her, my blushing love, and gently lifting her in my 
 arms carried her to it and enthroned her upon that 
 fragrant couch, as the beautiful queen of my heart; 
 
 the mistress of my life, and the bride of my soul. 
 
 * # * * 
 
 Ah, one moment of that hour of perfect bliss would 
 fee cheaply earned by a lifetime of slavish toil. It paid 
 me for all I had suffered and discounted all that was 
 to come. Ah, those golden- winged, honey-tipped hours, 
 how swiftly they flitted by ! Ah, 
 
 “Who with clear account e’er marks 
 The ebbing of his glass, 
 
 When all its sands are diamond sparks 
 That dazzle as they pass?” 
 
 And ere we had hardly dreamed of a second’s lapse, 
 
THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 143 
 
 the four laughing hours of that sweet spring afternoon 
 had roguishly stolen away, leaving the ripples of sun- 
 set on the bank above to tell us that they were gone. 
 
 With one more lingering kiss upon her sw r eet, sweet 
 Kps and glorious eyes, I tore myself away. And then 
 feeling that her precious feet were too dainty to touch 
 even that crystal sand, I gathered her in my arms 
 and bore her to her mare, and mounting my own steed 
 we dashed away. 
 
 The gallop back home was in silence, but not with 
 flutering fears and doubts and shy reserve, but with a 
 bliss too sweet for speech, each feeling its delicious unc- 
 tion, but too well assured of each other’s sympathy to 
 question. Twilight had fallen when we reached the 
 gate at home and the soft young moon lighted the vista 
 in front of the mansion, but not so brightly that I 
 needed fear the risk of holding her on my breast a 
 moment, giving her another kiss as I lifted her from 
 her saddle. 
 
 “Oh, your ride must have been very pleasant t© 
 have kept you so long,” smilingly said the mistress, 
 meeting her at the door. 
 
 “The pleasantest in my life,” she answered gaily. 
 
 “Indeed, I am glad to know it. How far did you 
 go?” 
 
 “Oh, not so far — I only loitered. I rode to the Ball 
 Cave, and it was so pretty and cool and tempting, that 
 I had Paul to gather honeysuckles and wild roses and 
 make me a divan, where I played Queen of the Naiads, 
 dallying with its royal splendors until Paul perforce 
 had to make me come away. I seemed almost in Fairy- 
 land, and could have stayed there all night, ’ ’ she play- 
 fully chattered, I almost dreading that a slip of the 
 tongue might betray her. 
 
 But the mistress was stolidly blind and only an- 
 swered with an assuring smile, ‘ ‘ Oh, that was pleasant, 
 and I am glad you have found it. Only, now, sweet, 
 run up and hurry for supper. It has been ready eves 
 
 so long.” 
 
144 
 
 THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 Her music after supper was an epithalamium of joy, 
 with the grand wedding march as an overture. 
 
 I stood behind her as she played. There must be no 
 more standing out in the dark like a thief for me. 
 
 “You must come in and stand by my side, Paul,” 
 she said as we met in the hall. 
 
 “But it will appear unseemly. I must not forget 
 my place,” I protested. 
 
 “And your place is by my side, Paul. When it be- 
 comes so that you are not by to hear, I shall never- 
 more sing,” she answered. 
 
 “At least, I must ask the mistress?” 
 
 '‘The mistress? I — I am your mistress,” she inter- 
 cepted with a little of the old imperious scorn of op- 
 position. 
 
 “Ah, yes, of my heart and of my soul, but not of 
 ay service. Oh, darling, ’ ’ I whispered, ‘ ‘ for your own 
 Sweet sake I must the more closely observe the pro- 
 prieties and duties of my station. Please, let me ask 
 her?” 
 
 “No,” with almost obstinate resolution, “I will tell 
 lev that I wish you to sing and to arrange my musie 
 fftr me, but you shall not be driven out from my pres- 
 ence in the dark like a negro. Ah, here comes mamma, 
 now,” adding, as my mistress approached, “Mamma, 
 1 want Paul to help me with my music. I find him so 
 ready with my portfolio, and he knows so well how 
 best to arrange the rack and my seat. ’ ’ 
 
 “Well, why don’t you make him do it. The lazy 
 rascal has nothing else to do but wait upon you. Make 
 him do anything you like. Paul, I thought I told you 
 before that you were to do anything she wanted, and 
 not wait to be asked. Now, go in and attend her, and 
 never let her have to come to me again to have me 
 make you do anything,” said the mistress. 
 
 I was too glad of the happy privilege to demur, but 
 ia. accepting it I resolved to be more circumspect than 
 ever in my outward deportment, and not to show by 
 any presumption of favor that I was anything else t# 
 
THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 145 
 
 My young mistress than a stotish slave. My greatest 
 lear was that she, the queenly, gentle woman, in the 
 Mpulsive warmth of her affection, would throw aside 
 all restraint and clinging to the man she loved, open- 
 ly defy the world. I know, now, that it was fear for 
 Me, and not for any consideration of her ownself that 
 restrained her from so doing. She knew that it would 
 be certain death to me, and in the horror of that dread 
 *be thought not of the shame that would be hers. 
 
 I was busied all the forenoon of the day following 
 m overhauling my master ’s hunting accoutrements, oil- 
 ieg his fowling-pieces and his rifles, and arranging his 
 fishing tackle, for his annual sporting excursion to the 
 Muscadine plantation. 
 
 He would start early after dinner and would be gone 
 a week or more, according to the success of the sport. 
 I was to go with him, but a suspicious twitch in my 
 Mistress’ knee-joint suggested a possible attack of neu- 
 ralgia and the program was changed. 
 
 “I am sorry, dear,” she said at the last moment, 
 “but I can’t spare Paul. I feel another spell coming 
 on and I shall need him to rub me.” 
 
 “Hang it all, Pauline, that’s too bad. I wish some 
 eute Yankee would invent a rubbing machine. I’d get 
 you one if it cost a thousand dollars — a double patent, 
 back-acting, spontaneous od-electro rubbing machine,” 
 petulantly grumbled the master. 
 
 “I wouldn’t have it if you did. I’d rather have 
 Paul than all the machines that ever could be 
 thought of. 
 
 “Oh, well, then, you can have Paul. Mount him on 
 wheels and put a handle to him and go to rubbing, if 
 you like, and I can take Louis. Joe, tell Louis to 
 come.” 
 
 And so I was left behind, inwardly blessing the 
 mistress for her incipient attack of rheumatism. But 
 the blessing was not without its qualifying drawback, 
 as no blessing is, for, while it interfered with what 
 would have been a dreary banishment from my love. 
 
146 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 it also interrupted the delightful program we had each 
 for ourselves arranged for the afternoon’s ride. 
 
 “I fear, darling, you will have to do without your 
 ride today,” the mistress said, as already dressed the 
 young lady came down with a little flutter of glad- 
 ness to tell me to order the horses. “I must have 
 Paul myself this evening. I feel them creeping on, 
 now.” 
 
 “But, mamma — ” my charmer commenced, with an 
 unmistakable pique in her voice, when a warning ap- 
 peal from my eyes restrained her. 
 
 “No buts about it. I must have him to rub my 
 knees. You can swing and have a romp with Bruno 
 on the lawn, which is qpite as healthful as riding ; but 
 you must lend me Paul today. Or, if you must ride, 
 let Joe attend you.” 
 
 Again I nodded an appealing hint to acquiesce, and 
 accepting the disappointment with a charming little 
 pout, she said: 
 
 “Joe, indeed! Joe could no more ride Selim than 
 he could fly to the top of the house. But never mind, 
 I don’t care so much about the ride. I can go back 
 and finish my nap, and when you get done with Paul, 
 he can swing me,” and with a little flush of rebellion 
 on her cheeks, she turned away, halting at the door to 
 add by way of retaliation, “Only, mamma, I do think 
 it is all stuff about this new-fangled idea of the odi« 
 force that Aunt Marie is so crazy about. It is only 
 one of her hobbies. You know she is full of them. 
 It’s the rubbing that does the good, and why can’t you 
 let Winnie rub you?” 
 
 “Winnie, fiddlesticks! I’d as soon have a frog crawl- 
 ing up and down my legs as to have Winnie piddling 
 at them. No, it’s the young, soft, lusky strength of 
 Paul’s warm hand that makes the tickle. So here, 
 Paul, get on your knees and go to work,” answered 
 the mistress, putting her feet upon the ottoman, and 
 lifting her petticoats. 
 
 “I do wish mamma would not do that,” said the 
 
THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 147 
 
 young lady after I had exorcised the demon of rheu- 
 matism. from the mistress’ knees, and had been dis- 
 missed to go out and swing her daughter. 
 
 “Do what, Miss Virginia?” I asked. 
 
 “Let you rub her so. It is hardly decent!” 
 
 “But, darling, if it relieves her pain, I am glad to 
 do it. I do not mind it, and God knows, my sweet, it 
 has not the slightest effect on me. The good mother 
 of my darling is sacred to me.” 
 
 “Yes, oh, yes — I know. It is not that, Paul. There 
 are but few men like you, Paul, my own, dear Paul.” 
 
 After supper and the music was ended, and the 
 mistress was preparing to retire, her daughter called 
 her. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Mamma, ’ ’ she cried, ‘ ‘ I wish to make some different 
 arrangements about Sally’s sleeping. She — she snores 
 so loud and incessantly that I can’t sleep. She must 
 be moved.” 
 
 “Yes, I hear her snoring sometimes clear down here, 
 and only last night it waked your papa, and he gave me 
 a dig, thinking it was I. I told him then it was Sally, 
 but he wouldn’t believe me. But tell me, Virginia, let 
 me ask you— isn’t there something the matter with the 
 hussy, anyhow?” 
 
 The young lady flushed rosy, as she cast a shy glance 
 at me, and with a lowering of her voice, she answered : 
 
 “I am afraid so, mamma.” 
 
 “Humph! I thought as much. I have been notic- 
 ing her for sometime and was sure that it was so,” 
 and then turning a quizzical, half-frowning glance on 
 me, she cried, “And you, Mr. Paul, we have caught you, 
 have we? Ah, ha, my buck, and it was for this, was 
 it, that you wanted to go back to the fields? And 
 aren’t you ashamed of yourself for trying to get away 
 as you did after putting the girl in such a fix?” 
 
 I was hesitating for a reply when the young mistress, 
 with a pretty little scorn, broke in: 
 
 “No, indeed, mamma, it was not Paul. He, I am 
 sure, is above such a disgusting liasion as that.” » 
 
148 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 “Why, child! you know nothing about such things. 
 Paul is not a steer, if he is a negro, and Sally is a 
 bouncing, fine looking wench — with just enough negro 
 in her to make her likerish. It was the most natural 
 thing in the world that they should get too thick. Only, 
 Paul, you should not have tried to sneak out of it, as 
 you did. You should have owned up like a man, and 
 we would have called you married and let you go on 
 with some sort of respect for the household.” 
 
 “But I tell you, mamma, it was not Paul,” with an 
 indignant flash of the eye. 
 
 “And pray, whose is it? — since you seem to know 
 so much about the matter,” a little sharply. 
 
 “It comes somewhat nearer home than Paul,” cut- 
 tingly replied the daughter. 
 
 “Explain yourself, miss.” 
 
 “I am sorry you compel me, but since you falsely 
 accuse Paul, I will tell you.” 
 
 “Tell me then.” 
 
 “It is brother Victor.” 
 
 “Victor! How do you know?” 
 
 * ‘ Sally, herself, confessed it to me ; and Cousin Isaura 
 saw them. But, mamma, I do hope you will not be 
 too hard upon the poor girl. You — you don’t know 
 what a terrible thing it is to be tempted.” 
 
 “Hard! No, of course not. It would be very fool- 
 ish to be angry, now, or to blame the girl. But Vic- 
 tor, ah, poor boy; maybe he, too, couldn’t help it. He 
 is such a spirited, high-strung young fellow, and he 
 gets it from his father. He is a full-blooded Choteaux, 
 and they are all a strong manly race, full of fire and 
 animal vigor. He gets it from his father and from me, 
 for I, too, am a Choteaux. Ah, I am not surprised at 
 this — although perhaps, I ought to have kept them 
 apart. But I don’t know as it matters so much. Young 
 men have to sow their wild oats, anyhow, and it may 
 be as well for them to sow them at home where they 
 •an be gathered, as to scatter them around here and 
 there, and the Lord knows where. I will be glad, 
 
THE STORY OP A SLATE. 
 
 14 # 
 
 though, when he gets through and settles down with 
 Isuara. She is half Choteaux, too, and will give hint 
 enough to do to cultivate the home garden. In the 
 meantime, darling, we must take care of Sally. You 
 can still keep her when you marry, and you will not 
 he the first mistress who has a niece or nephew in the 
 kitchen. ’ ’ 
 
 “Yes, I know, and that will all be well. But now, 
 mamma, I wish you to put Sally in another room to 
 sleep.” 
 
 “Yes, of course, and you must have another girl; 
 I would let you have Win, only she is not — ” 
 
 “Oh, no,” quickly interrupting. “Oh, no, I do not 
 need Winnie. I do not need any one else but Sally, 
 at least, for a while yet. She can still wait upon me, 
 hut she can sleep in a room by herself — in the room 
 this side of mine, or in the one across the hall. I will 
 not be afraid. She will be near enough for me to call, 
 should I need her, and still far enough away not to dis- 
 turb me.” 
 
 “Oh, yes; to be sure. Have her moved, and as for 
 being afraid, you have Paul near by and you can call 
 him. There is no danger with Paul in the house. So, 
 go now, I am sleepy. Make Paul move her bed, and see 
 after everything. Paul, do you hear? Attend to it 
 now. Good night, darling.” 
 
 “Thank you, mamma; good night. Come on Paul.” 
 
 And, a willing slave, I followed the no longer blush- 
 ing, shrinking maiden, but the queenly, imperious 
 woman up to her chamber to do her bidding without 
 question or even suggestion. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 DISQUIETING FEARS. 
 
 “Sally,” she said, arousing the sleepy girl from her 
 nod, “Sally, you must not think that I am angry with 
 you, for I am not, but I am going to have your bed 
 moved to another room. You snore so long and loud 
 that I cannot sleep.” 
 
 “Law, Miss Jinny, yo’ knows I doan snoah.” 
 
 “Yes, but you do. But you can’t help it in your 
 sleep, so I shall move you. Here, undress me while 
 Paul moves your things. You shall have a whole room 
 to yourself. Paul, put them in the second room up 
 the hall,” she explained, as I commenced at once the 
 ready work of eviction. 
 
 By the time I had finished the work of removing, 
 knocking down and setting up the trundle bedstead 
 and lifting out her trunk, Sally had finished her task 
 ®f disrobing her young mistress and was ready to be 
 dismissed. 
 
 “Now, Sally, you may go. Only you must wake 
 when I call you, and never do you come to interrupt 
 me until I call you. Do you undertsand?” 
 
 “Yes’m, zif Paul ’ll only wake me when yo’ wants 
 me. I kin neber wake myse’f.” 
 
 “Yes, Paul will wake you. You can go. And now, 
 Paul,” turning to me as her maid withdrew, “I will 
 tell you. When I gave myself to you yesterday, it was 
 for all time. In my heart I wedded myself to you 
 as solemnly and completely as if I had had a priest 
 to mumble the vows, I inwardly swore myself. My 
 room, now, and my bed are yours, as everything else 
 I have is yours. You can go, now, and then come back 
 
 150 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 1151 
 
 to me. And do not tarry, darling, for I am longing for 
 a kiss.” 
 
 I hurried away to make my customary survey of 
 the premises, and then came back, only pausing a 
 Moment to listen to the stentorian breathing of Sally, 
 before I turned and boldly went into my own, my very 
 own room, where my sweet mistress, my bride, was 
 waiting to receive me. 
 
 It is neither proper nor necessary that I should re- 
 late in detail the events which transpired during those 
 bMssful days which followed — those happy, happy days 
 of golden sunshine and ambrosial shadows. They were 
 perilous days also. I held my life not merely in my 
 open hand, but hung it lightly on my sleeve, where the 
 least of the thousand chances which daily surrounded 
 me, would have laid bare our secret and sent me dumb 
 to the stake. Nor was I blind to the perils which be- 
 set us. I knew that it was over a mine of powder that 
 I was sleeping, with a burning brand in my hand, but 
 then the couch was a bed of roses, and I could smile at 
 the danger. But though I smiled, I did not brazenly 
 defy it. I was scrupulously watchful of myself and of 
 her, who was risking her very soul for me — but it was 
 not with a coward’s fear. I felt that the most trifling 
 favor which my beautiful mistress might deign to give 
 me, was worth a lifetime of jealous guarding from the 
 profane knowledge of others. 
 
 I have often since analyzed life, the matter of living 
 and of loving, and I am persuaded, not only by my 
 own experience, but by a close observation of the ex- 
 periences of others, that all of life worth living, all of 
 it» joys worth having, are those which we live in the 
 presence of or sip from the lips of the one woman 
 dearest of all in the world. It matters not whether 
 that time be long or short — measured even by hours 
 or by years — in its span are rounded up the essence 
 of life and the whole glory of mortal being. 
 
 Ah, those days that followed ! Those few short sum- 
 
152 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 mer months of unfettered love were, the crown and per- 
 fection of my life. Could we have both lived centuries 
 together, gathering roses each day, we could not have 
 tasted more fully the uttermost essence of human ex- 
 istence. 
 
 It mattered not to us then what the world might 
 think, what judgment the social Pharasee migh see fit 
 to pass upon the relations sustained under such covert 
 conditions — in our heart of hearts we both felt we were 
 one in the sight of heaven — that, however, wanting 
 our union was of priestly sanctification, of ritual ob- 
 servance, or of legal recognition, it was hallowed by 
 that divinest of laws — nature’s affinity — that each was 
 necessary to the other’s happiness, and that the con- 
 cealment of that love was the result solely of the in- 
 exorable laws imposed by man himself. How often, 
 oh! how often, during that union, did she, that gon- 
 tlest and sweetest of women, hallow that love with tears 
 — no of shame nor of remorse— but of fear for its sud- 
 den termination. No husband could have felt a pro- 
 founder love or more reverent regard for his spouse 
 nor have held more sacred the conjugal relations, than 
 did I during the continuance of that blissful epoch — 
 the crowning glory of my manhood. 
 
 I know there are many who will consider it an im- 
 piety, a sacrilege, to attempt to hallow that union with 
 the sacred attributes of wedlock — and yet in my inner- 
 most soul I knew that a thousand benedictions of the 
 priest could not have increased the devotion and rever- 
 ence which I felt for her, nor ten thousand certificates 
 of the court could have made more constant or mere 
 complete the womanly love that she gave me in re- 
 turn. 
 
 There was never a night that I did not go to sleep 
 with a prayer on my lips to heaven to bless and to 
 guard her. There was never a waking hour that I 
 did not invoke the grace of heaven upon her life. 
 
 But it was not until then that I felt the utter im- 
 potence of my manhood — my slavish degradation, the 
 
THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 196 
 
 curse of my skin — which, giant though I were, still 
 Made me the veriest pigmy, and which though I wert 
 a thousand times a man, imbued with god-like powers 
 and possessing all the attributes of the very flower 
 and essence of manhood, yet divested me of the small- 
 est title of responsibility before the eyes of the law and 
 assigned me a place in the social scale, the very mock- 
 ery of which made manhood a curse and intelligence 
 a crime. 
 
 Is it any wonder then that in a spirit of blind and 
 intuitive seeking after justice I should have laid the 
 very flower of womanhood under contribution — that I 
 should have instinctively sought to draw myself up to 
 the very proudest estate to which god-like man can 
 aspire — to love and be loved — to imbibe the very am- 
 brosia of existence from the lips of such a woman as 
 
 Virginia Choteaux. 
 
 * # * * 
 
 But every summer has its clouds and ours came soon 
 enough. One morning after the spring days had im- 
 perceptibly glided"~by and midsummer was upon us, I 
 went into her room and found her standing by the 
 window crying. 
 
 Distressed at the least shadow of trouble upon that 
 fair brow, and anxious to soothe it away, I stepped 
 quickly to her side and taking her cheeks between my 
 hands I turned up the sweet lips and kissing them, 
 asked : 
 
 “What is it, darling?” 
 
 “Oh, Paul,” she answered, laying her face against 
 my bosom and bursting into sobs, “oh, Paul, Paul! 
 I fear it is something terrible.” 
 
 My heart, which had misgiven me at first, gave a 
 groan of agony as I divined her appalling meaning. 
 
 “No, no!” I involuntarily protested, “that can- 
 mot be.” 
 
 “Alas, I fear it is; the secret of our love will have 
 to be told. And, oh, my poor darling, they will mur- 
 der you,” she cried, raising up and throwing her shel- 
 
154 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 tering arms around my neck as if to shield me from the 
 danger. 
 
 I have thought often, in truth I am always thinking, 
 of that yearning, pitying cry— that unconscious out- 
 reaching of saving arms, and of the sublime affection 
 that moved her soul, as in that supreme moment of fear 
 for the exposure of her own sorrow and dread and 
 shame, she had no thought of her own self, her own 
 wretched plight, but only of me. Ah, think of it ! She, 
 the sweet mistress of all that magnificent home, the 
 petted darling of that loving household, young, beau- 
 tiful, grand, standing there in the shadow of that, the 
 bitterest peril that ever appalled the heart of woman, 
 unmindful of her own dishonor and shame and ruin, 
 finding in her great love only thoughts for me, the man, 
 the poor despised negro slave, who was the cause of 
 her undoing. Ah, misery and shame can present their 
 examples of moral heroism as weir as the grandest vir- 
 tues. 
 
 “Oh, darling, it is not of me you must think, but 
 of yourself. You need not fear for me, I am nothing; 
 it is yourself — your own peril — we must consider. Tell 
 me, are you quite sure?” 
 
 “Yes, yes, I am almost sure. I have never been de- 
 layed before, and several days have passed now, and 
 yet no symptoms — and, oh, Paul, I feel something is 
 wrong, and, oh, darling, what shall I do?” she cried, 
 breaking down again. 
 
 “I — I must think. I am glad that you told me, but 
 you must let me think ; ah, fool, madman, wretch ! why 
 did I not divine your fears before?” I cried in an 
 agony of remorse and self-approach. 
 
 “Ah! but we must think now,” she said, recover- 
 ing her self-possession and speaking with a calmness 
 that steadied me, “and I have been thinking and if it 
 should prove as I dread, there are two things, Paul, 
 we can do, and you must help me to decide.” 
 
 “But darling,” I interrupted, as much to reassure 
 her in the hour of appalling fears, '“you may be har- 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 155 
 
 rowing your soul with needless apprehensions. I ca m 
 not believe it is what you imagine. Perhaps you are 
 after all only suffering from the effects of your re- 
 cent cold, which, in your otherwise splendid health, 
 you dismissed as of little consequence. It may have 
 been much more deep-seated than you imagined, and a 
 strong sudorific during the night may completely re- 
 store you. And I am sure,” I added, taking heart my- 
 self at what was mainly intended to quiet her anxieties, 
 “you are allowing your imagination to carry you away 
 needlessly. But what are the alternatives you pro- 
 pose?” 
 
 I had a very fair knowledge of what w^ould have 
 been then and is now considered honorable practice 
 in just such a case as then troubled my young mistress, 
 but for a few moments, having allowed her own grave 
 apprehensions to take possession of me, my rather 
 empirical knowledge of medicine had deserted me, but 
 now, having regained my composure I awaited her own 
 suggestions with a remarkable calmness. 
 
 “It was what you suggest, yourself, Paul, dear,” 
 she answered calmly, “get me something to restore me 
 to my former — health; but if I thought — if I knew — 
 I were really enceinte, I would not think of having it 
 done. I think it is so wicked — almost murder.” 
 
 * ‘ But you cannot regard it in that light, my darling, ’ ’ 
 I interrupted, feeling the shudder that shook her as I 
 held her shelteringly in my arms. “No physiological 
 conditions are present as yet which could possibly ad- 
 mit of a shadow of justice in such a charge. Medical- 
 jurisprudence has settled the legal responsibility in 
 such instances as this, and as there is no way of know- 
 ing this early whether your fears are well founded or 
 merely the result of a temporary disorder, you must 
 not, you shall not take such a view of the subject,” 
 I said, endeavoring to mould her judgment to my way 
 of reasoning, which was the almost invariable result 
 of our argumental encounters. “But what is your 
 suggestion?” 
 
156 
 
 THE STORY OP A SLAYB. 
 
 “The other is this, Paul, and for your sake I am 
 sure it is the best for us to do. It is to do nothing 
 now, but await natural developments. Should my 
 fears prove well founded, we can go on here so long 
 as I can without discovery — without showing— and 
 then to ask mamma to let me go away — to let me visit 
 some of my old schoolmates in Virginia or Maryland, 
 and to let you go with me, and then when we get away 
 there, to keep on away to Canada or to the end of the 
 earth, where our babe can be born, and we may live 
 together always without the constant dread of discoY- 
 ery always hanging over our heads.” 
 
 The scheme was a feasible one, and could have been 
 carried into execution, and for a moment its happy 
 prospects actually dazzled me. But it was only for a 
 moment, when came the realization of the sacrifice 
 she was offering to make for me, of all it would cost 
 her to make it, of the beautiful home, the wealth and 
 care and luxury, the loving mother and almost idoliz- 
 ing father, she would have to abandon and forsake for- 
 ever, and then of the poverty and perhaps, misery that 
 would follow, and I could not permit even thoughts of 
 the sacrifice. 
 
 “And you would do all this for me, darling?” I 
 asked. 
 
 “Oh, yes, so gladly. And then we could marry by 
 law, and I could stand before all the world and ac- 
 knowledge you as my husband — my own good, noble, 
 brave-hearted husband, and no one could ever take 
 you away and sell you from me. Not, Paul, that I 
 care so much for the world, or for the law, I could 
 never hold you dearer than I do now were we twenty 
 times married ; no legal ceremony could make you any 
 more my husband to my heart than you are now; but 
 then we would have no one to fear — no dread of dis- 
 covery — no dread of murder and death. Oh, my dear 
 Paul, I am sure that this is the one thing for us to do.” 
 
 “Oh, Virginia,” I cried, amazed at the greatness of 
 her love, “this is so good in you, so sweet and loving 
 
THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 15T 
 
 a»<J true, and it would be such a heaven for me, but 
 oh, darling, it would be ruin to you, disgrace and ruin 
 to your family, misery to your good mother and to 
 yonr father who love you so. Oh, no, it can not, it 
 must not be. Even were it possible for us to do this, 
 to get away safely, I could not allow you to sacrifice 
 so much for me. No, my precious one, I would be ut- 
 terly unworthy of all this love of yours and you would 
 learn to despise me for my meanness were I ingrate 
 enough to allow it. It would be madness in me to in- 
 dulge such a dream. You must at least permit me to 
 prescribe you a sudorific, and should the result of that 
 prove my theory to be incorrect, there is yet time to 
 consider the advisibility of your suggestion.” 
 
 “But, won’t there be trouble in getting it,” she 
 asked, “or danger of! exciting the suspicions of 
 mother?” 
 
 Briefly I explained to her the very simpleness of an 
 ordinary sudorific treatment — so simple, that she al- 
 most blushed for her seeming ignorance. 
 
 “But, now, I have a suggestion to make, darling, 
 which I am sure we had better avail ourselves of while 
 there is yet time. As you know, my own knowledge 
 of matters of this kind is what I have gathered in my 
 readings of the medical works in your father ’s library. 
 My mother, however, is skilled in a practical way. She 
 has a wide knowledge of the uses of nature’s remedies. 
 She is a skilled accoucheuse, and among the negroes 
 of the Cossetot and neighboring plantations, she is ac- 
 counted a voodoo queen. Of her I may be able to ob- 
 tain some simple remedy which may restore you, should 
 my own prescription fail. Were I a white man, I could 
 easily consult a physician, but as it is — not without 
 danger of arousing suspicions. Therefore, darling, I 
 had better go to the mistress and ask for a holiday, and 
 go at once to the Cossetot. In the meantime, you 
 must follow my instructions as to the other.” 
 
 My earnestness subdued her — as in fact all through 
 mar lives my predominating will has swayed that 
 
158 
 
 THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 gentle soul, and without further protest, only with a 
 tearful doubt, she yielded, and together we went down 
 to beg the mistress for my holiday. 
 
 “Mamma, Paul has begged me to ask you for a holi- 
 day for him. He wishes to go to Cossetot to see his 
 mother.” 
 
 “Yes, of course he may go. It’s the first holiday 
 Paul has ever asked for. Write him a pass, darling, 
 and let him go. You may ride Selim, Paul.” 
 
 “Thank you, mamma; and I will write the pass,” 
 she said, seating herself at her mother’s little writing 
 desk. 
 
 I have the scrip before me now, a little slip of paper, 
 yellow with age, written in her own fair hand. As a 
 memento of the old slavery days, I will give it: 
 
 Rosemere, July 19th, 1859. 
 
 Paul has leave to pass and report on good behavior 
 to and from the Cossetot plantation until Monday morn- 
 ing. 
 
 GUSTAV CHOTEAUX, 
 per daughter. 
 
 It is the only serap of writing that she ever gars 
 me, and I have kept it miserly all these years. It is 
 valueless to anyone else, but it is more precious to 
 me than an unlimited check on the Bank of England 
 could possibly be. 
 
 I followed her up to her room again, and after giv- 
 ing her explicit instructions, I murmured blessings 
 upon her sweet life, and kissing her good-bye, hurried 
 out armed with my “pass.” Mounting Selim I was 
 soon far on my way. 
 
 It would have been unnatural for my mother not 
 to have been glad to see me— such a tall, strong fel- 
 low, and so handsomely dressed — but she was not 
 demonstrative, and welcomed me with far less warmth 
 than Mammy Dilsey would have welcomed the young 
 mistress from a week’s journey. 
 
 Adroitly shielding the identity of my mistress from 
 all suspicion I explained the object of my mission. 
 
THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 169 
 
 “Yes, I’ve been listening for something of the sort. 
 You’ve been fooling with some of the house niggers 
 and want to hide it. Well, I don’t blame you. I don’t 
 want you ever in your life to daddy a nigger baby. 
 If you can’t get a white girl, don’t take any. And 
 that was why, Paul, I didn’t want you to go away 
 at first. I was working for you and the Duboise girl to 
 take up with each other, and you could have done it. I 
 had worked on her until I had got her ripe for pluck- 
 ing, and all you would have had to do was to ask her. 
 You could have lived in the swamp and your children 
 would at least have been free. It would have been 
 much better, too, for the girl — for Cosette — than to 
 turn out as she did, a common trollop for old Gans and 
 the steamboat men. But never mind, maybe your time 
 may come yet; but, my son, if it never does, if you 
 never get a chance with a white woman, I had rather 
 for my race to die out than for you to 'keep it up 
 through a nigger. So, now, tell me all about this girl.” 
 
 Then followed a number of very direct interroga- 
 tories and their equally specific replies, in which little 
 remained to be explained. 
 
 “Humph,” said my mother, with an expressive shrug 
 of her shoulders, “Hain’t enough water in your kettle 
 to make such a tempest over. It might only be a little 
 cold — but of course it is best to be on the safe side, 
 and if you act at once and your wench takes a good 
 sweat when you get back and a little of this herb ex- 
 tract I will make for you to-night, she won’t know 
 but that she has forgot that four times seven make 
 twenty-eight.” 
 
 Little as I appreciated having the personality of my 
 sweet mistress even unconsciously alluded to in such 
 a vulgar manner, yet I felt greatly relieved by the 
 assurances of my mother, who, as her conversation 
 will show, had not outgrown any of her early-con- 
 ceived aversion for her equally black yoke-mates. 
 
 I was up bright and early the next morning, and 
 
160 
 
 THE STORY OP A SLATE. 
 
 bidding my mother a hasty, yet affectionate good-bye, 
 I mounted Selim and rode back home. 
 
 I shall never forget the look of happiness which 
 beamed from the countenance of my sweet young 
 mistress as I rode under the “big gate,’’ where she 
 had been loitering for some time in her desire to appre- 
 hend me upon my return. In the look of melting ten- 
 derness she gave me I read more clearly than words 
 could tell of the needlessness of my hasty trip to th« 
 Cossetot plantation. 
 
 “Ah, you are always right, Paul,” she murmured, 
 in those liquid tones which have always been the sweet- 
 est music to my ears. 
 
 I dismounted at once, and leading Selim as near to 
 the side path as possible, soon had an oral descrip- 
 tion of the efficacy of my own prescription — given in 
 a hesitating and blushing confusion, which lent an 
 additional charm to her high spirits and almost ex- 
 uberant manifestation of feeling — born of fears and 
 black shadows so recently dispelled. 
 
 Warned by the seriousness of the ordeal through 
 which we had passed, I determined to be more cau- 
 tious in the future, and by a prudent observance of 
 certain physiological rules we were enabled to avoid 
 any further danger, and while what had happened, a 
 mutual peril and a mutual anxiety, drew our hearts 
 the more closely together, it at the same time served 
 to temper the lustihood of our love and to make its 
 more prudent indulgence only the more sweetly ten- 
 der. 
 
 And so our dark summer cloud passed by, leaving 
 the soft, pure, blue of its skies more bright than ever. 
 
 'I* 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH. 
 
 The young master, Victor, had finished his studies, 
 and after a summer tour through the Northern States, 
 had come home in October to marry his pretty cousin, 
 Isaora Noltrieb, and leaving off sowing wild oats, to 
 settle down into staid and decorous domestic husband- 
 ry. It was a brilliant reception the mistress gave her 
 son and his lovely bride. All the beauty and fashion 
 of the State were there, but among them all there 
 was none to compare in radiant beauty, winsome grace 
 and perfection of womanly loveliness with her, my 
 own heart’s idol. Like a lovely rose in a garden of 
 chrysanthemums she stood among them, the observed 
 and the admired of all who saw her, and eagerly 
 sought after. Oh, how proudly my heart swelled, as 
 standing back in my place among the slaves, I saw 
 the homage men paid her, as with the grace of a queen 
 she accepted their devoirs. How my fond heart gloated 
 on her beauty and blessed her even for the smiles she 
 gave them. What a pride of possession I felt in her 
 love? She, the beautiful, the queenly woman was my 
 own — all, all my own — and I could almost find it in 
 my heart to pity those poor moths who fluttered about 
 her, hut who could not taste even the least of the 
 sweets it was mine to surfeit upon. Ah, what a proud 
 height it was upon which I stood that night only to 
 be plunged the next day into an absym of sorrow cor- 
 respondingly deep. 
 
 It was after all the guests had gone and the house- 
 hold had been put to right, that I was in my mistress’ 
 room “conjuring,” as the negroes called it, her joints, 
 
 161 
 
162 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 when in response to her summons, her daughter 
 eame in. 
 
 “Ah, Virginia, I have something good to tell you.” 
 
 “Oh, what is it?” 
 
 “Can’t you guess?” 
 
 “No, mamma.” 
 
 “Didn’t Eugene hint it?” 
 
 “Eugene?” with a perceptible, half -seared start. 
 
 “Yes; Eugene Lavasser. Now, you sly puss, you 
 needn’t deny it.” 
 
 “Deny what, mamma?” 
 
 “That you know we have arranged for your mar- 
 riage.” 
 
 “My marriage !”■ repeated with a gasp, while my 
 trembling fingers must have puzzled the mistress. 
 
 “Mind, Paul how you pinch. What’s the. matter 
 with the boy? There, that will do my knee— -now my 
 ankle*- and don’t be so awkward. Yes, your marriage. 
 Colonel Lavasser has spoken to me and your papa, and 
 it is all arranged and very handsomely, too. Eugene 
 is his only heir, you know, and he is immensely rich. 
 The Colonel is to settle the Mobile plantation on him 
 with five hundred negroes, and your father is to settle 
 the Cossetot plantation with all its negroes upon you. 
 The two 'places join, you know, and you two will be 
 the richest couple in the State. But why do you stand 
 staring so stupidly for ? Is the news too good for you 
 to believe?” 
 
 “Oh, no, mamma, not to good, but too bad — too 
 wretched and miserable and sad. Oh, mamma, mam- 
 ma! I cannot, cannot marry! It would be a sin!” 
 
 “A sin! What do you mean?” 
 
 “I mean that — that — oh, that I do not love Eugene 
 Lavasser and I — I never can marry him. Oh, mamma, 
 please do not ask me!” 
 
 “Yes, darling; but you must. It is all fixed, now. 
 Your father has already made the compact. In fact. 
 Colonel Lavasser has by this time made the announce- 
 ment to his friends and Eugene himself will come, up 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 1G8 
 
 during the week to confirm it with you. So, Virginia, 
 you must reconcile yourself to our wishes. Eugene 
 is a handsome fellow, and a fine, brave gentleman, and 
 I am sure he will make you a good husband.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ But mamma, I cannot ! ’ ’ breaking down utterly, 
 and bursting into sobs and tears. 
 
 “Tut, tut, tut — such stuff. Why child that is all 
 nonsense. All women have to marry and, I am sure, 
 it is getting time for you. Or, is it that you have a 
 little love affair of your own, and don’t like our 
 choice?” 
 
 “Ah, do not ask me, mamma. It is enough that 
 I cannot marry Eugene.” 
 
 • ‘ ‘ Phew ! what a chit. And that is just the way I 
 felt when your grandmother first told me I must marry 
 your father. I could have cried my eyes out, because 
 I had a silly fancy of my own. But your grandmother 
 had the good sense not to listen to me and by taking 
 the matter in her own hands and making me marry 
 Gustave, saved me from disgrace.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Disgrace ? ’ ’ 
 
 “Yes, and ruin, for I would have run away with 
 Jean Morague, a worthless vagabond, who went com- 
 pletely to the dogs, and was killed in a drunken brawl 
 in a bawdy house. Ah, yes, my child, you must know 
 that parents know better how to choose for their 
 children than they know themselves.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ But I do not love him. I despise him. ’ ’ 
 
 “That’s nothing. I didn’t love your father, nor 
 he me, for that matter, for he was in a hopeless and 
 not very nice entanglement with a married woman, and 
 thought that the sun, moon and stars rose, revolved 
 around her, and set in her eyes. But the old people 
 eared nothing for this, and they made us marry, any- 
 how, and a happy marriage it turned out to be; for 
 I hadn’t got well into it before I thought it the sweet- 
 est thing in the world, and I wouldn’t give Gustave’s 
 little finger for a cow-pen full of poor, stupid Jeans. 
 So, darling, you must put away all your silly notions 
 
164 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 and submit like a dutiful daughter. You must know 
 that it is for your own good. You cannot always go 
 on living as you are. Ouch! Paul, you awkward fel- 
 low. There!” giving my ear a stinging box as in a 
 shock at the chance words she spoke, I gave her ankle 
 an awkward twitch. ‘‘Mind, now, how you hurt me 
 again. Now, you may go, and you, too, Virginia. 
 Think kindly of this matter, darling, and sleep on it 
 and dream sweet dreams of Eugene, so when he comes 
 you will have a mouthful of kisses for him.” 
 
 ‘‘But I hope he will never come. I shall not kiss 
 him if he does; and besides, mamma, I know that he 
 doesn’t love me.” 
 
 ‘‘Ah, well, that is of slight consideration. You will 
 soon fetch him to his milk.” 
 
 ‘‘Oh, mamma! don’t — don’t!” with a gesture of dis- 
 gust and deprecation. 
 
 ‘‘Let him once taste what a sweet girl you are and 
 he will be yours, body and soul. That’s the way I 
 conquered Gustave, after I found he was worth hav- 
 ing,” continued the mistress, unmindful of the appar- 
 ent distress of her daughter. 
 
 ‘‘But Eugene is not worth having. I shall never 
 let him touch me, or try to win his love. I shall not 
 ask him to love me for — for I — I will speak it if I 
 die, I do love another,” she -cried in her desperate 
 distress. 
 
 ‘‘Ah, well, I suspected as much, but that makes no 
 dilference — except it makes it the more imperative 
 that you should be married. When girls get to hanker- 
 ing after lovers, it is time to put them to bed with 
 a husband. We have chosen Eugene Lavasser for your 
 husband, and you should know me well enough to 
 know that when I have made up my mind to a thing it 
 has to be done. So go now. I am tired.” 
 
 A moment later we were in our room, each looking 
 at the other in a dazed and hopeless manner. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Oh Paul, dear Paul ! What shall we do ? ” she cried 
 in an agony of despair, throwing herself into my arms 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 165 
 
 as though I could protect her from the impending 
 evil. 
 
 I had, after the first sharp pain and shock had al- 
 lowed me to think, pondered over the’ matter as seri- 
 ously and as intelligently as the bitterness of my heart 
 and soul would permit, and bitter as my conclusions 
 were, I could not hide the fact from myself— that evem 
 to temporarily stand against the wishes of her parents 
 would not only make the exposure of our shame likely, 
 but further embitter her own life, when forced to suc- 
 cumb to the parental authority, which I had better rea- 
 sons than she herself to know would brook no such 
 interference. Therefore, I answered her as calmly as 
 I could. 
 
 “ Dearest, death itself might rob me of your love 
 and sweetness with less bitterness for me — for then, 
 at least, I would know that you had been all mine — 
 mine all alone. But, darling, I cannot hide the truth 
 from myself — I dare not hide it from you. There is 
 no way of escaping the wishes of your parents — not 
 without dragging you down with me to inevitable ruin, 
 misery and shame, and exposing you, darling, to the 
 vilest opprobrium which can be heaped upon the fair 
 name of woman.” 
 
 ‘ * Oh, Paul, ’ ’ interrupting me with a cry that pierced 
 me to the heart, “is it so, is it so that you wish to 
 give me up — that you are tired of me and want to — 
 to push me onto another ?” 
 
 “No, no darling! You must know better than that. 
 If I did not love you as I do, dearer than my own life, 
 than my own soul, my own happiness, I would take you 
 in my arms and walk boldly out of this house, defying 
 all the powers that be to take you from me. But, 
 darling, I do love you too well, to thus destroy your 
 life, your peace, your future happiness. No, no, sweet, 
 sweet,” kissing her soothingly, “I love you, I love you 
 far too well for that, and that I do love you compels 
 me to give you up. You must know, as your good 
 mother so prophetically, if not meaningly said, we ca* 
 
166 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 not go on always living as we are without utterly 
 destroying you, my darling. I would be a fiend in- 
 carnate to dream myself of such a possibility. Ah, Vir- 
 ginia, I have dreaded the coming of the stroke. We 
 have seen the flash— we dare not defy the bolt. No, 
 darling, you must accede to the wishes of your par- 
 ents.” 
 
 “But I shall not! I am yours. In the sight of God 
 I am your wife. All that a woman, and more than 
 a wife can give, I have given to you, and no other 
 man has a right to take it from you.” 
 
 “Yes I know, and would to God I could enforce 
 my claim— even at the point of a dagger. It is a joy 
 for me to know that you love me, but we can not re- 
 sist the inevitable, and besides, darling,” I cried, fall- 
 ing at her feet and crushing her garment in my hands, 
 as the bitterness of the separation appalled me, “you 
 need not cast me off entirely — you will let me be near 
 you- — to serve you as the humblest slave in your house- 
 hold — to receive a smile or a kindly look. God knows 
 I shall not seek to look higher. You may not utterly 
 overlook me. But whatever comes, I shall live in the 
 sweet knowledge that I once possessed your love in 
 its fullest measure — and that will make those after 
 thoughts less bitter, and possibly he may not supplant 
 me in your heart, and, while the law may give him 
 the right to your person, the fragrance of your love 
 will be mine and will cling to me through life.” 
 
 “Oh, Paul, you do not love me or you would not 
 talk thus of my unfaith to you,” she protested. 
 
 “But it would not be unfaith. It would really be 
 duty. We cannot live thus always. I have known it 
 and I see it more and more each day when I know 
 you are imperiling your sweet name for me, and I — 
 I am hopelessly dragging you down to a certain de- 
 struction — to inevitable ruin and shame. I cannot hide 
 the awful truth from myself and I love you too well 
 to carry you further, and may God give me strength to 
 protect you from all the baser instincts of that love.” 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 167 
 
 “You mean by that, that you are tired of me, and 
 wish to put me off,” she said with forced calmness. 
 “Very well, be it so. You can go now — without an- 
 other word, without another kiss, go back to your owi 
 room, and leave me the woman you first dishonored 
 and now despise, ’ ’ and in a sudden burst of passion she 
 pushed me away from her with her hands, and in the 
 old imperious attitude of a mistress, awaited my de- 
 parture from her presence. 
 
 I was glad for her own sake that she seemed thus 
 to misunderstand me. It was so much easier to obey 
 hor anger than to resist her tears. 
 
 “Yes, it is best for you that I go now,” and turn- 
 ing from the room I went back to my almost disused 
 little cuddy, where falling on my hard bed, I buried 
 my face in the pillow, and gave up to the lonely heart- 
 despair I had struggled so hard to resist in her pres- 
 ence. 
 
 I had lain thus hardly an hour when I was aroused 
 t>7 the stealthy opening of my door and the soft, name- 
 less telegraphy of a woman’s rustling night apparel, 
 and turning, I saw in the shadowy light of the moon 
 that crept through my blinds, the white-robed figure of 
 my own mistress groping its way to me. 
 
 “Oh, Paul,” she whispered, in a voice still tremu- 
 lous with sobs, “I have come to you. I cannot live 
 without you. I am so sorry I drove you away and 
 have come to beg your forgiveness and to ask you to 
 let me remain with you.” 
 
 “Oh, my darling, my darling,” I whispered, spring- 
 ing up and clasping her to my heart, “this is more 
 than I deserve. You overwhelm me with the transcend- 
 ent grace of your love.” 
 
 “Then you will let me stay,” she sobbed," clinging 
 to me with appealing strength, “will let me share for 
 one night your own cold room and make it warm for 
 y©u. Oh, I am so glad,” nestling up close to me, “for 
 it will show you, dear Paul, how much I love you — 
 and how soft love can make the hardest couch.” 
 
168 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE, 
 
 “No, my sweet mistress, I could not permit such a 
 condescension, and besides, it is too cold and too hard 
 for you, my darling. Oh, no, Virginia, I can crawl 
 up to you, to your higher estate, but I can not, I must 
 not drag you down to mine.” 
 
 “Then take me back to my own. It even is cold 
 without you.” 
 
 Ah, what mortal could have resisted the alluring 
 sweetness of that tender and gracious appeal? 
 
 I shuddered then, and I have shuddered often since 
 for the dangers of that ambrosial night, when, as if 
 courting exposure, she seemed to have lost all sight of 
 prudence or propriety. 
 
 “But, darling,” I protested, “we must be prudent; 
 certain exposure will be sure to follow.” 
 
 “Let it follow — let it be exposure and disgrace. I 
 wish it would. I wish I could tell them of my love— 
 if only they would not visit their vengeance upon you 
 — tell them of the sweetness of its taste. Perhaps, 
 then, when I am dishonored, they would not try to 
 take me from you then, and with even this milk-eyed 
 Lavasser, all reeking himself with pollution, to scorn 
 me, I could still be yours. On, how I would bless him 
 for his scorn— for Paul, I had rather be your — your — 
 yes, I will speak it in its vilest sense — I had rather be 
 
 your mistress than to be his wife.” 
 
 ^ ^ 
 
 But daylight brought its moments of rational medi- 
 tation, as well as its lethe to passion, and in the hours 
 of sad but calm reflection which followed, my young 
 mistress foresaw the utter fatuity of even the most 
 stubborn resistance to the expressed wishes of her par- 
 ents. She saw as clearly then as I had seen before 
 that resistance would only augment her own misery 
 and shame, and reluctantly, though she did, she con- 
 fided to me fully her resignation to what under the 
 circumstances we both regarded as inevitable. 
 
 “Oh, Paul, I fear that I was very wicked last night 
 —sinful and mean, but I was so desperate. It seemed 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 169 
 
 so horrible — the idea of marrying any other man but 
 you — of marrying such a man as Eugene Lavasser, 
 while loving such a man as you— you, Paul. But I 
 have thought it all over all morning, and for your 
 •wn sake, Paul, as well as mine, and because you ask 
 it of me, and because you think it best, I will do it. 
 I know now that you do love me truly — better than 
 I love my own self— and that it is for this you think 
 it best that I should marry that man, who comes be- 
 tween us. I can trust you, Paul, in all things, and I 
 will trust you in this. I will marry Eugene Lavasser, 
 but it will only be with my lips, my heart will not speak 
 the vow, for I shall never cease to love you, never, 
 never. I shall hold you first in my heart, and shall 
 think it no sin to have you near me. If I sin at all it 
 will be against you in marrying him, and not against 
 Eugene Lavasser is still loving you. Now, Paul, can 
 you forgive me for the sin against you, and will you 
 promise to love me none the less if I marry him?” 
 
 1 1 Oh, darling, you make me very happy. There is 
 nothing that can ever efface your image from my heart, 
 or lessen the measure of my love, ” I said, softly kiss- 
 ing her. 
 
 The next day young Lavasser came, and the es- 
 pousals were ratified by the ring and the kiss, the 
 brilliancy of the ring compensating, perhaps, for the 
 coldness of the kiss. 
 
 And so they were marired, in all the splendor of 
 wealth and of fashion, and no fairer bride was ever 
 seen, her blushing reserve and almost sad drawing 
 back being accredited to a shy, maidenly modesty. 
 And I! I looked on from afar off with a heart as 
 heavy as lead and almost as dead. 
 
 I knew it was best for us both. that we did not meet 
 or try to speak, and so all the evening I kept as far 
 away as my duties would permit me. 
 
 At the usual hour, early the next morning, I went 
 into the nuptial room to build the fire. "With the 
 nerve of a stoic, I piled on the wood and applied the 
 
170 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 kindling match and then as I arose to leave, some 
 blind impulse caused me to look. The heavy curtains 
 were drawn back and there on that couch, which I had 
 learned to regard as my own, she lay with her head 
 drawn on his breast', her face hiding in his shirt frill, 
 while he softly stroked the flossy tangles from her 
 hair. I had to pause a moment when she shyly raised 
 her face to look at me, and I saw the tears brimming 
 in her eyes, and then I had to clinch my teeth and 
 steel my senses to keep from springing upon his throat 
 and strangling him as he lay, like the tiger would 
 destroy the ravisher of his mate, and positively blind 
 for the moment, I groped my way to the door and stag- 
 gered across the hall to lean against the opposite wall. 
 
 That moment, I think, was the bitterest of my life, 
 the most hellish. Had I remained in that room one 
 second longer, or cast one more glance in those sor- 
 rowing eyes, I should hav« torn her from his arms, 
 and with a demon’s strength thrown him head fore- 
 most through the window. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 IS A WOMAN’S HEART A SPONGE? 
 
 It was more than two months before I saw the 
 bridal couple again. That same morning after early 
 breakfast and before I could creep from the hiding 
 place in the stable, whither I had tottered like a 
 wounded stag to hide his hurt, they had been driven, 
 a gay party to the landing on the river to catch the 
 down boat for their bridal tour, down to the city and 
 over to Havana, and it was not until after the Mardi 
 Gras revel in New Orleans that they returned. I hard- 
 ly know how I got through the time. It seemed an in- 
 terminable age of darkness, and with a heavy, unquiet 
 heart I groped through it, performing my light duties 
 with a mechanical hand. My mistress noticed my de- 
 jection, and with a smile she said: 
 
 14 Ah, I see Paul, you miss your young mistress. We 
 all miss her. Ah, I didn’t know how much of the sun- 
 shine she would carry away, or I should not have s© 
 easily given her up . 9 9 
 
 But at last the long night of winter gloom passed 
 away and they came back again and with her the sun- 
 shine, he proud, haughty, peevish and puerile, she smil- 
 ingly sweet and grandly beautiful as ever. 
 
 It needed not an eye of jealous affection to see at 
 onee that there was but little love between them. There 
 were no characteristics of taste, of sentiment or of feel- 
 ing in common between them. He was cold, selfish, 
 petulent and thoroughly little, while she was warm, 
 generous, passionate, gentle and noble. Theirs had been 
 in its every sense a marriage of convenience, and it 
 was likely to hold together only as such. It united 
 
 171 
 
172 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 in one magnificent domain the broad, fair acres of the 
 two estates which lay side by side on the banks of the 
 sluggish Cossetot, but it left two hearts as coldly apart 
 as if the snows of the Arctics lay banked between 
 them. 
 
 I do not know that she tried to win his love or even 
 regard, but I am sure it would have been casting 
 pearls before a swine for her to have offered even the 
 poorest of her graces to him. He thought more of his 
 full-blooded, thick-lipped Amazon negro concubine than 
 he did of his wife, and more of his horse and his hounds 
 than he did of his concubine. It may have been a grim 
 irony of fate which brought these two together. What- 
 ever it was I noticed at the first glance the incom- 
 patibility of feeling between them, and in spite of my 
 own jealous despair my heart bled with pity for my 
 sweet mistress. 
 
 It was in the forenoon when they arrived, and the 
 house was in a flutter of rejoicing until dinner. Then 
 the bright out-door air suggested a ride to the young 
 gentleman, and he asked : 
 
 “What kind of a mount can you give a fellow? I 
 should like demnition well to take a gallop this after- 
 noon. ” 
 
 “Oh, you can have my mare, Dido. She is a capital 
 courser, ” readily offered his wife, her offer evidently 
 prompted by a desire to be relieved of him. 
 
 “But I want you to ride with me.” 
 
 “ Oh ! Then you will have to ride Prince, papa’s horse. 
 Papa will let you, I am sure.” 
 
 “Certainly, dear; or let him try Selim. He will suit 
 him best, that is, if you can sit him ? ’ ’ 
 
 “Sit him, how?” 
 
 “Ride him, I mean, he is a tartar.” 
 
 4 ‘ Sit him ! Humph, I • can ride a streak of lightning. 
 Tell them to bring him out. I can ride any demnition 
 horse that was ever foaled. And you, ‘ Gin, run and get 
 ready! I am impatient to get out of this demnition 
 sickly air. I never could see what folk wanted to shut 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 173 
 
 themselves up in a house for when the air is so bright 
 out of doors.” 
 
 The master ordered me to get out the horses, and I 
 went away to caparison my own steed for another to 
 take my place by the side of her who had been more 
 than life to me. 
 
 As queenly as ever, as much like a Juno, she came 
 forth and not waiting for the offer of the help her 
 husband had no thought of offering, she called to me. 
 
 “Here, Paul, you must lift me.” 
 
 As steadily as I could command my nerves, but with 
 a choking sensation I can never forget, I lifted her as 
 of old, and then turned to surrender Selim to the new 
 master. 
 
 But Selim did not like the looks or else the smell of 
 the new master, and after giving a suspicious whiff, he 
 extended his nostrils with a snort and gave a disap- 
 proving shake of the head. 
 
 “Whoa, sir! whoa, you fool! You don’t know who 
 you are fooling with. Hold him, Buck, until I mount 
 and then let him go,” ordered the new master, reaching 
 for the pommel. 
 
 But Selim would not tolerate the familiar nearness 
 and with a vicious drawing up of the near hind foot 
 warned him to keep his distance. 
 
 “What, you threaten to kick? You demnition brute, 
 you! There!” lashing him across the flank with his 
 whip. 
 
 The lash enraged the animal beyond all control and 
 rearing with a plunge at the assailant he lifted me bod- 
 ily from the ground as I held him firmly by the bit. 
 So sudden and unexpected was the plunge that it would 
 have thrown me prone, had not my conger-like activity 
 kept me on my feet, and then steadying myself against 
 another plunge, I said: 
 
 “You had better not try to mount. You only enrage 
 the animal, and he will kill you. You could not ride 
 him, if you were to mount.” 
 
 “And who are you, you demnition nigger you, to tell 
 
174 
 
 THE STOKY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 me what to do? Hold that horse, sir, and keep your 
 demnition mouth shut. There, you brute you!” cried 
 the enraged man, again lashing the horse savagely. 
 
 I was for an instant — like a flash it came over me — 
 tempted to give free rein to Selim, and let- him strike 
 his tormentor down where he stood, but happily, I re- 
 sisted the awful impulse and held on the more firmly, 
 when, with another rear and wild plunge, the enraged 
 animal struck out madly with his fore feet, the sharp 
 iron caulk of one shoe catching my sleeve and tearing- 
 it away like a gossamer web, cutting a sharp gash 
 deep into my flesh. The blow slightly numbed my arm, 
 but I still held on and giving his head a sudden twist 
 I brought the furious animal to his knees. 
 
 “Come, Mr. Lavasser,” interposed my master, “you 
 must ride Prince. I am sorry I suggested Selim for 
 the brute is untamed. No one but Paul can touch him 
 and he had to conquer him by sheer strength. Take 
 him away, Paul; mount him yourself and give him a 
 gallop. Ride to the post-office for my mail. Joe, fetch 
 out Prince for Mr. Lavasser,” called the master. 
 
 Glad to get away, I did not wait for remonstrance or 
 protest from the discomfited gentleman, but mounted 
 and turned to go, when the young mistress, who had 
 been sitting quietly on Dido a few paces away, a fright- 
 ened looker-on, called me with a tender, little ery. 
 
 “Oh, Paul! your arm is bleeding. Let me see; I 
 do hope it is not hurt?” 
 
 “No, miss, only a scratch. It doesn’t matter,” I an- 
 swered, sweeping by. 
 
 Dido made an effort to follow, but after a little 
 struggle consented to wait for the more sober paced 
 Prince. Giving rein to Selim I was soon out of sight, lov- 
 ingly patting his flowing mane, and soothingly thanking 
 him for his true-hearted loyalty to me. I almost be- 
 lieve now that the noble fellow understood me. 
 
 That same afternoon the young Master Victor and 
 his wife came to welcome the couple home from the 
 
THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 175 
 
 ■wedding journey, and in the evening a fox-hunt was 
 arranged for the morning. 
 
 ‘ ‘ The foxes are thick as the leaves on the ground, and 
 the hounds are as keen as briers, ’ ’ said the young mas- 
 ter in the enthusiasm of anticipation. 
 
 There was nothing like a fox-hunt to stir the blood of 
 a young southern planter, and Mr. Lavasser was as 
 keen for the chase as his brother-in-law. 
 
 “Have us up at 4 o’clock, Joe. We must be at Gat- 
 lin’s before day-break,” was the last order that night. 
 
 And at 4 o’clock, chill, crisp winter morning as it 
 was, they were up, all three gentlemen, with as many 
 negroes to attend them and with Sampson to manage 
 the hounds, they were off. 
 
 “Here, you Buck,” said Mr. Lavasser, as I held 'his 
 stirrup for him to mount. “You are the fellow who 
 makes the fires for your mistress ? ’ ’ 
 
 “Yes, sir.” 
 
 “Then, your Miss Virginia says for you to make her 
 a rousing fire right away. I left her shivering in the 
 cold. Go up at once and make a fire.” 
 
 And with a brave wind of his horn he was off. 
 
 With a light, bounding heart and nerve athrill with 
 gladness I ran to the wood shed and gathering a great 
 load of hickory wood on my shoulder — I verily believe 
 I could have carried a cord — I almost flew up to her 
 room. I found her door as the indifferent young hus- 
 band had left it — slightly ajar, with the chilly morning 
 air sweeping in. 
 
 As steadily as I could I piled on the wood and kindled 
 the blaze, and then arose and looked around with a 
 yearning hesitation. Had I misinterpreted the meaning 
 of that summons? For a moment I stood irresolute, 
 and receiving no encouraging notice, my heart failed me 
 altogether, and I slowly turned to the door. I had 
 placed my hand on the knob, when she softly called, 
 and with a glad uplifting of heart I looked. She had 
 drawn back the curtains and rosy, blushing, sweet as 
 ever she was resting her body on her elbow. After an 
 
176 
 
 THE STOKY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 interrogation or two concerning her recently-departed 
 liege, she said, noticing my diffident attitude. 
 
 “Ah Paul, you think I have ceased to love you?” 
 
 “It would have been better, perhaps, if you had,” I 
 answered, sadly. 
 
 “Yes, maybe it would, and I did try — honestly try — 
 but I could not. Is the heart of a woman a sponge that 
 it can be squeezed dry at will? And then today, Paul, 
 when you stood so brave again, so strong and so grand, 
 and he — Eugene — was so cruel, so unjust and withal so 
 weak and childish, my heart felt that it was burning, 
 and it was all that it could do to keep from crying out 
 in vindication of its darling and scorn for its tyrant. 
 Oh, darling, I do love you still, and dearer than ever.” 
 
 ^ M 
 
 W W W W 
 
 Oh, was ever there so gracious a mistress before in 
 all the world, or ever such a doit of a husband to quit 
 the downy softness of such a bosom and the fragrant 
 warmth of such arms for a gallop in the frosty air 
 through brambles and briers, over stones and fences? 
 Ah, well, chacon a son gout, as the old French are al- 
 ways saying, he enjoyed the chase, while I blessed him 
 for his room. 
 
 The hunt was so successful and entrancingly de- 
 lightful that it was repeated the next morning and then 
 the next, the careless husband leaving the room behind 
 chilled with the draughts of morning air, and I obe- 
 diently ready to warm it into a rousing glow again. 
 
 Until their house in the city could be finished, the 
 young mistress would keep her home at Rosemere. In 
 addition to their large planting interests, the Lavassers 
 were at the head of one of the most extensive cotton 
 commission and brokerage houses in the South. Being 
 an active member of the firm — and to do the gentleman 
 justice, a very efficient one— young Lavasser, now that 
 the tasteless honeymoon was over, would be expected 
 to resume his place in the office. As he kept his negro 
 mistress in the city, and the young wife could so satis- 
 factorily abide at home with her mother, this imposed 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 177 
 
 «• serious hardship upon him, and accordingly it was 
 arranged that he could spend the Sundays at home, 
 coming up on the boat every Saturday evening and 
 returning the next Monday morning, and the remainder 
 ©f his time he could give to his office. 
 
 And thus the broken link in the chain that bound our 
 lives together was reunited and we went on again lov- 
 ing and being loved, as fondly and as sweetly as ever. 
 There was nothing to disturb the perfection of our 
 paradise but the hebdomadal visits of the unloved and 
 unloving husband. And these were more distasteful 
 to her, my sweet mistress, than they were provocative 
 of jealousy in me. When she conceded so much to me 
 I could not begrudge the little she so reluctantly doled 
 out to him. 
 
 The old delightful rides were resumed, and as soon 
 as the bloom of spring brought the wild roses and the 
 honeysuckles and the daisies came again, we sought 
 once more our pristine bower — the festooned grot. We 
 had named it the Bridal Bower — and bedecking the 
 grassy couch again with flowers, lulled by the drowsy 
 hum of bees and the twitter of birds, I would soothe 
 my darling to sleep, while with a swelling pride of 
 masterful ownership I would sit by keeping watch and 
 ward over her in her slumbers, bewailing only the too, 
 too rapid flight of the golden moments. 
 
 But the softest and sweetest of springs must melt 
 at last into sultry summer, and ours was no excep- 
 tion to the fiat. With the closing of the cotton season 
 in May there was no longer need or excuse for the 
 young husband’s stay in the city, and turning the 
 key of his bagnio upon his dusky concubine, he came 
 home to prepare for the fashionable summer season 
 at seaside or mountain resort. 
 
 They stayed a week, and then, like summer birds 
 taking their flight, they went away to spend the early 
 season in the Virginia mountains. 
 
 In tie fall, when they came back, it was to go to 
 
178 
 
 THE STOEY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 their own home — a pleasant mansion, builded especial- 
 ly for them in the city. 
 
 It was not until the next January that I saw her 
 again, and then she came home to her mother to give 
 birth to her child. Her husband came with her, but 
 went back the next day to his office. It was in the 
 midst of the cotton season, and he thought more of 
 his cotton bales than he did of his wife or prospective 
 heir. 
 
 It was not until he was gone that she called me into 
 her presence, sacred now — holy to me. 
 
 “Paul,” she said, in the same sweet, musical voice 
 of hers, “you will think me weak, I know, but I can- 
 not help it. I have no one else in all the world to 
 whom I can confide my troubles, my doubts and fears 
 and I have to bring them to you.” 
 
 “Ah! And I would to God I could take them all 
 from you and make them my own,” I answered in 
 solemn earnestness. 
 
 “Yes, I believe you, Paul; only you cannot and I 
 have to bear them myself — but your sympathy helps 
 me. Now, I will tell you. As you know, I am soon 
 to become a mother. It may be tomorrow, or may be 
 not for a week. But, Paul, I — I really do not know 
 whether — whether Eugene, my husband, or you is the 
 father. Oh, isn’t it horrible— such a thought — such 
 suspense?” and the tears came to her eyes as she 
 spoke. “And worse than all, Paul, I— I can hardly 
 tell whose I most wish it to be.” 
 
 “Oh, not mine — for your sake and for the sake of 
 the innocent child, not mine ! ” I interrupted, awed by 
 the awfulness of the thought. 
 
 “Ah, it is of it, my child, I am thinking. If it could 
 inherit something of your truth, Paul, something of 
 your strength and mind, and courage, of your good- 
 ness of heart and nobleness of character, I would be 
 glad it was yours.” 
 
 “Oh, but with these it would have to inherit the 
 taint of my race — the dark stain of my blood.” 
 
THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 179 
 
 “Yes, I have thought of that, too. But the taint is 
 not enervating, nor debasing. Alexander Dumas 
 had it." 
 
 "But, my dear mistress," I hastily interrupted, 
 "think of the shame, the reproach. No — no ! God for- 
 bid the shame of such an exposure," I cried. 
 
 "There need be no exposure. No one but you and 
 I and our God need to ever know," she answered 
 bravely. 
 
 "But suppose it should be black, that the blood of 
 my mother should be strongest in its veins and darkeif 
 its skin?" 
 
 "I had thought of that, and that is all that troubles 
 me. It is for this I came to consult you. You, who 
 are so much stronger and wiser than I, must think 
 and tell me,” she said with a sweet trust in my judg- 
 ment and loyal faith. 
 
 "I can suggest but one plan," I said, after a mo- 
 ment’s sober reflection. 
 
 "And what is that?" eagerly. 
 
 "To have no one else with you, but your mother 
 and mine, and should it be so, let them decide." 
 
 "But it would kill my mother." 
 
 "No, not kill her. It would shock and distress her, 
 but she would still have strength to bear it, and 
 thoughts to conceal it. The child could be taken 
 away and cared for by my mother and no one should 
 ever know." 
 
 "And I — oh, I could not give up my baby, for I 
 love it, Paul, already, more dearly than my own life, ’ ’ 
 she cried. 
 
 "No, you would not have to give it up — you could 
 still watch over it, and could devise to see it." 
 
 "You think this could be done?" 
 
 "I am sure of it." 
 
 "And you. Oh, Paul, they would kill you. They may 
 tear my tongue out before I would tell on you.” 
 
 "No danger for me. To punish me might possibly 
 
180 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 expose the secret. Oh, my mistress, you must not fear 
 for me, whatever be the issue!” 
 
 “Are you sure this is best, Paul?” 
 
 “I am sure.” 
 
 “Then you must go at once for your mother. My 
 time is almost up. I will go now and tell mamma. 
 But, Paul, you will not tell your own mother?” 
 
 “Oh, no, no! Not even if the worst should come, 
 she shall not know,” I answered, as she slowly made 
 her way into her mother’s room. 
 
 A few moments after I was summoned to the mis- 
 tress’ presence. 
 
 “Paul, you must get the wagonette at once and 
 drive to Cossetot and fetch Tsa. Your Miss Virginia 
 is going to be confined, and she has taken it into her 
 silly head that no one but Tsa shall be with her. Of 
 course, Tsa is as safe as any doctor, and we will have 
 to humor her. Go, now, Paul, as quickly as you can, 
 and get back tonight. You can get fresh mules at 
 the plantation, and don’t spare them. We can’t tell 
 at what. moment something may happen.” 
 
 As might be supposed, I lost no time in hurrying 
 away, nor in returning, and though it was nine o ’clock 
 in the morning when I started, it was not yet sundown 
 when I dove back into the yard at Rosemere. And it 
 was well that I hurried, for that night at 1 :30 a. m., her 
 baby was delivered. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THE CHASTENING HOD. 
 
 Had I been drawing on the imaginative resources 
 of the writers of romantic fiction — -and therefore 
 naturally straining for dramatic effects, instead of 
 chronicling the somewhat romantic happenings of my 
 life as a slave, I should have closed with the preced- 
 ing chapter, leaving the reader to wonder which the 
 baby was — blue blood or mongrel, magnolia-white or 
 mahogany-brown, but such is not my purpose. I never 
 could tolerate a mise en scene and to attempt one my- 
 self would be to court failure, 
 
 “Ah, darling, I have a great mind to switch you — 
 you ungrateful child, you!” playfully exclaimed the 
 proud grandmother, as she placed the lusty little 
 stranger in the arms of its mother. 
 
 “Why, mamma?” with a pretty wonder in the 
 languid eyes. 
 
 “For not giving me a full-blooded Choteaux. Your 
 boy is all Lavasser — even to the blue eyes ; while, you 
 know, I wanted it to be all Choteaux, ’ 7 and there was 
 really a little pique in the mistress’ tone, playfully 
 as she tried to hide it. 
 
 I wondered if she would have so desperately cared 
 had she known how alarmingly near the little fellow 
 had come of being at least six-eighths Choteaux — 
 even wfith her dislike for her son-in-law, for Eugene 
 Lavasser was a disappointment and consequent abomi- 
 nation to her. 
 
 I was still nothing but a negro slave to the house- 
 hold, and as such had been called in the first moment 
 after the delicate crisis was passed to help with mj 
 
 181 
 
182 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 strong arms and ready hands where service might be 
 needed. 
 
 “Oh, it is all mine, mother — my new-born love, my 
 joy, my precious, precious babe. Oh, my God, I do 
 thank Thee,” cooingly cried the young mother, hug- 
 ging the child to her bosom and baptizing its head 
 with a mother's tears and kisses of gratitude and 
 love. 
 
 She was a magnificent woman, never having known 
 a day of real sickness in ail her life, and from her 
 oonfinement she rallied almost in a day, and before the 
 week was ended she was able not only to walk about 
 her room, but to go down stairs. 
 
 It was one day the next week, when I went in to 
 heap up the fire, that I found her sitting alone with 
 her babe in her arms. 
 
 “Paul, dear, good Paul,” she said, calling to me as 
 I turned to go, “stay a little while — I wish to talk, 
 and besides, you haven't seen my baby yet. Here, look 
 at it, Paul, and kiss it.” 
 
 For a second or two I hesitated — it seemed such a 
 hard thing to ask — to have her, who had been so much 
 to me, my wife in soul, as sacredly my own as any 
 human vows could have made her, to have her plaee 
 his child — the child of my rival — in my arms, and ask 
 me to kiss it. 
 
 For a moment only I hesitated and then, as I saw 
 the tears welling up in her eyes, I pressed the babo 
 to my heart and for her sweet sake, I tenderly 
 kissed it. . 
 
 “Thank you, Paul, you are very good— oh, so good, 
 and I know that God will bless you for your good- 
 ness. I know, Paul, what a bitter thing it was I asked 
 you to do— to kiss his child — but I knew the strength 
 of your goodness. And, now, I have something to 
 tell you. I should have told you before, but I know 
 you will not doubt me now. When I was in mj 
 dilemma of doubt and perplexity about my unborn 
 babe, and about you and Eugene, and about my dirty 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 183 
 
 to you all, X made a vow, a sacred vow to God, that 
 to which one of you, you or Eugene, He had given 
 my babe, to him, its father, I would thenceforth give 
 a wife’s undivided duty. I cannot live this bigamous 
 life always. I cannot live it any longer. Had the babe 
 been yours, Paul, X should have clung to you always. 
 God, it seems, has willed it otherwise, and God know- 
 eth best; and, now, I must ask you, Paul, to help me 
 pmt you away— now and forever — and to help me to 
 clhag to my husband — to the father of my child. For 
 my babe’s sake I must be true to the father. Had 
 yon been the father, for its sake, still, I should have 
 been equally true to you. Do you understand, Paul?” 
 
 “Oh yes, I understand,” I answered huskily. 
 
 “And you will not think ill of me, Paul?” 
 
 “Think ill of you? Ah, no. May God bless you 
 for your resolution. You have decided rightly, and I 
 should be unworthy of your — your esteem — your 
 slightest regard, X should be worse than a viper, should 
 I attempt to further cross your path, or ever seek t© 
 move you from your duty,” I said, solemnly and with 
 a perfect sincerity, born of an almost reverential awe 
 for the look which seemed to glorify the sweet face 
 of the young mother. 
 
 “You have made me so happy, Paul; and, now, all 
 is over between us — all, but my gratitude to you, my 
 undying gratitude for your great goodness,” she said. 
 
 “I shall always be ready to serve you and yours 
 with my life,” I answered, again softly kissing the 
 babe, as it unconsciously smiled at me, and then X 
 quietly went out from her presence, feeling that a 
 wild, riotous, passionate rapture had gone out of my 
 heart forever, and that a peace, nearly akin to glad- 
 ness, had taken its place. 
 
 The next month she went home. The day before she 
 went, she asked the master and mistress to come te 
 bea* in the parlor, and then calling me, she said: 
 
 “Papa, and you, mamma, come into the gallery. I 
 wish to show you something. Something I wonder 
 
184 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 that you, yourselves, have not seen long ago. Come 
 on, Paul, I want you, too.” 
 
 Half wondering what was to come, I followed. 
 
 “Now, Paul, stand there, in that light — so,” plac- 
 ing me in position and assisting my pose. “Now, papa 
 — now, mamma, — look on this picture,” pointing t© my 
 father’s portrait, “and then at Paul, here.” 
 
 “Well?” questioned my master, in a mystified 
 puzzle. 
 
 “Don’t you see the resemblance between the two — 
 my uncle, Jules, and his son, Paul?” 
 
 “My God, it is so!” cried the master with a start, 
 as the truth for the first time flashed upon his mmd, 
 “Pauline, do you see it?” 
 
 “Yes, I see it, and it is so. I wonder I hada’t 
 noticed it before. And that accounts for the voice.” 
 
 “Yes, and the magnificent strength. I should have 
 known that no one but a Choteaux could have lifted 
 that safe. Egad, Paul, I believe I am glad of it!” 
 
 “And it upsets your Pythagorian theory of the 
 transmigration of the soul, ha — ha,” laughed the mis- 
 tress. 
 
 “And Marie’s theory of the African magi and the 
 odic principle,” retorted the master. “I knew it was 
 all tomfoolery.” 
 
 “Yes, I should have known that no other but the 
 hand of a Choteaux could have rubbed so softly — could 
 have thrilled so greatly. But, Virginia, darling, how 
 in the world did you find it out?” 
 
 “By the picture,” she answered. “But, now papa, 
 we must do something for Paul. He is, as you soy 
 and as you see, a Choteaux; and we must give him a 
 chance.” 
 
 “Yes, yes— to be sure. But, Paul, did you kww 
 this?” turning to me. 
 
 “Yes, sir; I have known it all the while.” 
 
 “And it never gave you the big-head?” * 
 
 “It made me think myself above a common nogi *o, 
 but I never could forget that I was not a white mm.” 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 185 
 
 “Good! you are a man of more than common sense. 
 Now, what is it we can do for you!” 
 
 “I have nothing to ask.” 
 
 “Ah, then you must be a fool. What is it, Jenny, 
 you want me to do for him?” 
 
 “Give him his freedom and set him up in life , ’ 9 she 
 answered promptly and practically. 
 
 “No, I can’t do that. The law will not allow me 
 to emancipate him. But I tell you what I can do, 
 Paul. I can take you up North and free you there. 
 Take you to Boston among the Freedmen shriekers 
 and let them steal you. Egad, that’s the trick! They 
 will make a hero of you, and the women will all go 
 crazy over you. You can sell your wool for a dollar 
 a lock. You must play the martyr, Paul, the poor 
 down-trodden brute. What a pity you have been such 
 a good fellow and escaped the cowhide? A few scars 
 on your back would come in so nicely — we must get 
 a scarificator and provide a few, and you must im- 
 provise a story, the . old, old story — horrible to relate 
 and too bad to tell — of nothing to eat but cotton 
 seeds, of feeding nigger babies to blood-hounds, et 
 cetera, et cetera. Ah, my boy, your fortune is made. 
 Pauline, we will start right away. What say you, 
 Paul? I am in earnest. We will go to Boston and I 
 will settle you there with three thousand dollars. Will 
 that do, Jenny?” 
 
 “Oh, yes; w T ith such a start, I am sure, that Paul 
 can make his way to fortune, and besides, we can 
 send him more as he needs it,” said the generous- 
 hearted woman. 
 
 “Yes, of course. What say you, Pauline; would 
 you like a little trip yourself and go with us?” 
 
 “Oh, no, not now. It’s too cold up there. But take 
 Paul and set him up in life. It is right that we should 
 do something for him,” readily acquiesced the mis- 
 tress. 
 
 “Well, what say you, Paul? How does that suit 
 you?” asked the master, turning again to me. 
 
186 
 
 THE STOEY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 “You are very good — and I do thank you for your 
 kindness from the bottom of my heart, but I do not 
 care to go. I have no wish for freedom. I could 
 scarcely do more for myself anywhere than I have done 
 and can do here, and I wish for nothing better than to 
 live with you and my kind mistress as long as you 
 two may live. Mistress, may I stay?” I asked, turn- 
 ing to her. 
 
 “Yes, Paul, if you will; for I do not see how in the 
 world I could possibly do without you. Only, you 
 are to have a new room; and are to wait upon no one 
 else in the world but me,” she answered. 
 
 And so it was decided, and with the exception of 
 a new and better appointed room, a carte blanche to 
 the library, and immunity from the assumptions of 
 Joe, my life went on the same as before. 
 
 The next morning the young mistress, Virginia, went 
 away. I stood at the carriage with the others to bid 
 her good-bye. Mine was the last leave-taking and she 
 gave me her hand. 
 
 “Good-bye, Paul; dear, good Paul — may the good 
 God bless you,” she said, and there were sobs in her 
 voice as well as tears in her eyes as she spoke. 
 
 And this was our parting. 
 
 Everything was lonely after she went, as my life has 
 been lonely ever since. But it was not like the old 
 passionate, rebellious, despairing loneliness that embit- 
 tered as it filled my heart before, but rather that chas- 
 tened sorrow one feels when mourning the saintly dead. 
 
 The next year the war came on with its disastrous 
 consequences following in rapid succession. 
 
 To those who do not understand the subject in its 
 correct as well as its generally accepted relations and 
 bearings, it may be a matter of surprise to know that 
 my sympathies, as were the sympathies of most of my 
 race, were all with our people, and by our people I 
 I mean the people of the South. It is true that out of 
 the struggle came the emancipation of the slaves, but 
 I have ever regarded that as a sequence rather than a 
 
THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 187 
 
 cause. Had it not come then, it must have come late* 
 through the' pacific measures suggested by the best in- 
 terests of the nation. It was not to free the negr** 
 that the war against the Southern States was prose* 
 cuted, and when at last, driven to a desperate extrem- 
 ity the proclamation was issued, who will deny that th* 
 great martyr, whose memory we now justly reverence 
 and respect, did not reckon on the strength which it 
 would bring the cause of the Union as a war expedient 
 rather than its justice to the slaves? It was a war 
 measure, simply that and nothing more. Had there 
 been no secession there would have been on emancipa- 
 tion at that time. 
 
 The war came and brought sorrow and death and dis- 
 aster to the Choteaux, as it did to thousands of other 
 Southern homes. The eldest son, Louis, was killed at 
 Bull Bun. The youngest, Victor, was left cold and 
 stiff on the bloody field of Perryville, while the son- 
 in-law, Eugene Lavasser, was brought home from 
 Ghickamauga, blind, maimed and hopelessly demented 
 from a ballet hole through his temple. 
 
 And then it was that Virginia Choteaux showed the 
 true nobility, the grandeur and sublimity of her char- 
 acter, by the loving, tender, patient and thankless care 
 she bestowed upon that poor wreck of a husband. It was 
 a beautiful thing to see the devotion she showed him, 
 waiting upon him — singing, reading, laughing for him, 
 giving all her life to his peevish and petulant whims. 
 
 And then later on, when all the horrors of war came 
 down upon their home, destroying everything in its 
 path as completely as a cyclone marks its track, it was 
 pitiful to see her, that tenderly-reared woman, driven 
 from the burning mansion, taking shelter in one of 
 the negro cabins, performing for him, with her own, 
 tender hands, the most menial of services — cooking, 
 sewing, washing, in fact, doing everything that a slave 
 might be expected to do, and all the while going about 
 with that same sweet smile glorifying her face and 
 making sunshine for all. 
 
183 
 
 THE STORY OP A SLAVE. 
 
 All, how glad was I that I could help her in this 
 the dark night of her trouble ? How happy that I had 
 not accepted my master’s offer of freedom, but had 
 remained to share the family misfortune? 
 
 The old master had died the second year of the war. 
 He too was in service, commanding a regiment, and 
 died in a hospital away from home. The mistress 
 never recovered from the blow and followed him a 
 short month afterwards. It was a sorrow to the sweet 
 heart of the daughter to give them up, but I am sure 
 it was a blessing that they went as they did, before 
 the coming of such bitter trials and troubles and de- 
 privations. 
 
 But even misery, slowly as it drags its weary lengths 
 along, must have its end at last, and after many 
 desolate months the war was ended, the work of de- 
 struction done, and the almost hopeless task of recon- 
 struction was commenced. Gathering up the scattered 
 fragments of their property— for poor Lavasser was 
 a physical and mental wreck, entirely incapacitated 
 for business, I set to work to rehabilitate the de- 
 vastated plantations, and after nearly two years of 
 hard work and thoughtful management, I succeeded 
 in lifting her and her dependent ones out of the slavish 
 poverty in which she had so patiently trudged into 
 comparative wealth and luxury again. 
 
 And then knowing I could safely depend upon her 
 own busines skill and excellent judgment I relegated 
 my self-assumed trust back to her, and came away 
 where I could see her no more. 
 
 She may have wondered — and I am sure she did — 
 what became of me ; for changing my name, I dropped 
 as completely out of her life and of her ken as if I 
 had been spirited away into another world by the 
 mysterious hand of ironical fate. 
 
 True, my life since that day has not been without 
 incident, but its vicissitudes, its upward struggles, and 
 its successes cannot affect in any degree the story of 
 my bondage. . 
 
THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 189 
 
 Last week I read the announcement of her death. 
 It tame to me in the home paper — for I still call the 
 old place home — and my heart received a blow when 
 I read it. It was a tender tribute to a good woman, and 
 read as follows: 
 
 “Died, at her home near the city, on the 24th in- 
 stant, Mrs. Virginia Choteaux Lavasser, relict of the 
 late Col. Eugene Lavasser, and daughter of the la- 
 mented Col. Gustave Choteaux. Mrs. Lavasser was a 
 woman of rare Christian virtues, rich in all the graces 
 of a true and lovely womanhood, a tender, devoted 
 wife, a loving mother, a generous giver to the needy, 
 and a sympathetic friend and neighbor. She filled all 
 the duties of life with examplary grace and sweetness. 
 Her late husband, Col. Eugene Lavasser, had been a 
 hopeless, helpless invalid and suffered ever since he 
 was so terribly wounded at the battle of Chickamauga, 
 and had only preceded her to rest a few weeks. A son 
 and daughter survive her, Paul Lavasser, Esq., our 
 
 rising fellow citizen, and Julia Lavasser B , of 
 
 Mobile, to whom are intrusted as a priceless legacy the 
 perpetuation of her virtues and the sacredness of her 
 memory.” 
 
 My eyes grew dim as I read and the world seemed 
 strangely dark, and the darkness is hanging heavily 
 
 over me still. 
 
RETROSPECTION 
 
 It is now more than thirty years ago, counted by 
 the lapse of days it seems but a little while, scarcely 
 a decade ; but measured by events, the mutations and 
 astounding changes that have come in such marvelous 
 rapidity, it may be counted a century. 
 
 I was young then, in the full vigor of lusty manhood. 
 I am really not so old now, and still straight, and 
 strong and active, but not strong as I was then. Not 
 so full of the bounding, melting, passionate vitality of 
 life, not so bouyant with animal vivre. I feel the tem- 
 pering hands of years. 
 
 I was a slave then, a human chattel, but one degree 
 above a horse, to be bought and sold, beaten and driven 
 at the caprice of a master or the still more eccentric 
 whim of a mistress. I am a freeman now, clad in the 
 proudest political vesture that ever clothed a freeman, 
 the panoply of American citizenship. 
 
 But it is not for this that I care. Freedom and the 
 franchise, with their magnificent political possibilities, 
 have brought no pleasures to me. Their honors I have 
 worn and could still command, but they are hardly 
 worth the wearing, and still less the winning. Where 
 ignorance and prejudice, and superstition are the step- 
 ping-stones to distinction, it is no great merit to at- 
 tain it. 
 
 The golden days of my life, the bright joy of liv- 
 ing, the triumph of my manhood, the heavenly bliss of 
 loving, came to me as a slave. One day, even the most 
 insipid of that happy, happy epoch, is worth more to 
 me- than all the years I have lived since. I would not 
 
 191 
 
192 
 
 THE STORY OF A SLAVE. 
 
 exchange its bitterest memories for all the honors men 
 could pile upon me. 
 
 It is not a half century since, and all these changes 
 have come. She of whom I am going to write is dead 
 now. Her sins — if sins they be — are with her Saviour, 
 and her secret is left with me. No human being, save 
 us two, ever knew or ever suspected, not even those 
 nearest to her, whom she has left behind. 
 
 No breath of scandal, no taint of shame, no shadow 
 of reproach ever clouded the cerulean purity of her 
 name. With impunity to her memory, I could mount 
 the house top and proclaim aloud the story of her 
 heart ’s hidden secret ; for no one would believe me, and 
 in grateful reverence I bow my head and thank my 
 God that it is so. Those who knew her and loved her, 
 that gentlest, sweetest, and fairest of women, can 
 proudly stand before the world and defy the accusa- 
 tion of an angel from the foot of the Great Throne it- 
 self, because in their hearts and in the eyes of all men 
 and all women, she was pure as the spotless daughter of 
 Jeptha was pure. 
 
 Nor is it for me, who loved her so well, to defile her 
 memory. Oh, no! Sooner than write one line that 
 would identify her, I should wish my wrist to rot from 
 its socket. But there is no danger. Her children, now 
 grown and married, can read all that I write and never 
 once dream that it is of their gentle mother I write. 
 Her identity and her secret are alone with me, with 
 me and my God, and no mortal may ever know of whom 
 it is I speak. 
 
 But why write at all? Why not let it rest with her 
 in the silence of death ? Why not still the aching throb 
 of my heart, as I have hushed it all these years, and 
 go down to my grave with its sweetest idyl unsung? 
 
 Perhaps I should ; only I cannot. My heart is so full 
 of her, of her kindness, her beauty, her sweetness, that 
 it w choking for utterance, and I must needs speak or 
 it will burst. 
 

UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA 
 
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