Part 11 (2/2)
CHAPTER XII.
HEART'S SECRETS REVEALED AND UNREVEALED.
”He--he--he! Didn't Ma.s.sa George make Spit-fire fly, tho'? Gorry!
'specks them bobolishenis 'll have to take it now, no 'stake.
He--he--he!”
”O you get out. What you talk 'bout bobolishenis anyhow? Think you're mighty smart n.i.g.g.e.r, don't ye? It's my opinion ye don't know nothin'--that's all.” And Aunt Lizzy moved away with the air of one who did understand and utterly despised one who was not as fortunate as herself, as the toss of her lofty turban perfectly demonstrated.
”'Specks old woman, ye'd jus' like to know all what dis nig' duz.
'Mighty smart! He--he--he! Gals ain't 'speeted to know nothin' no how,”
and Pete, who was the especial favorite of his young master, turned away from his unappreciative auditor with all the dignity supposed to have been handed over to him with the last suit of young ma.s.sa's cast-off clothing in which he was pompously arrayed.
Just then the soft folds of a white dress peeped out from behind the foliage of the ”Prairie Queen,” which scrambled about in native abandonment everywhere over the corridor on one side of the moss-covered terrace. Pete saw it as it waved in the noonday breeze, which was scarcely sufficient to move a leaf or flower, so stealthily it came ladened with its burden of perfume. Discovering that some one was so near, the astonished slave was about to retreat in much confusion, when Grace Stanley stepped from behind the ma.s.sive vine and stood before him.
Evidently there had been tears in her brilliant eyes that were unused to weeping, but they had succeeded only in leaving transparent shadows over their brightness. Sad traces, to be sure, of what had been, as well as presentiments of what might be. Her soft cheek wore a deeper tint than was usual to it, and her long lashes drooped lower, casting a sombre shade beneath them, and that was all. Yet the little heart, all unused to sorrow, throbbed beneath the pure white bodice with a wound it seemingly had not the power to bind up. She had come to Rosedale as free and joyous as the birds that flitted among the orange blossoms where the zephyrs were then gathering their sweets, and the future over which her feet would gladly tread decked with the brightest and sweetest flowers, among which the trailing serpent had never for a moment showed his treacherous head; but she had found that the blossom of hope will wither and the golden suns.h.i.+ne fade; and this consciousness had pierced her sensitive nature as a cruel dart, and the pain had made her cheek tear-stained and brought shadows of disappointment. She had met George St. Clair two years before her present visit, and thought him the most n.o.ble and true of all his s.e.x, and who can tell of the dreams that came uninvited into her nightly visions as well as in her peaceful day reveries? Can you, gentle reader? There comes a day to us all when the kaleidoscope of every heart's experience gives a sudden turn as it presents to view more complex minglings of brilliant colors and perplexing designs than has ever been seen in any previous whirl, weird fancies through which we are all looking.
Grace Stanley had been watching their ever changing glow until the brilliant tints had imprinted their rosy hues over every hope and promise of her life; but on this very morning there had been another turn, and the sombre shades were now uppermost. He loved ”Lily-Bell,”
and had flown from her presence a rejected lover, but without one word of farewell to her. ”My country shall henceforth be my bride,” she had heard him say, and who could tell what the terrible war might bring to them all. He was gone, and this fact alone was sufficient to sadden her future, still ”no one shall know it,” she thought as she walked across the garden and stepped upon the moss-covered terrace. ”This hour shall be covered from sight forever, even from myself.” She had grown calm as she stood there listening to the conversation just outside, and with a faint smile flitting among the sombre tints of sadness that were retreating from her pretty face, she bluntly asked the bewildered Pete--
”What did I hear you say about Master George?”
She had drawn more closely the thick veil of indifference, and suddenly her face was wreathed in smiles as she stood there looking into the dark, perplexed visage of the scared negro boy; just as flowers will grow and thrive in beauty on the graves where our idols lie buried.
”O nothin', Miss Grace--nothin', nothin' at all. But he did make Spit-fire look buful, sartin, sure. _Gorry!_ didn't she _go_, tho'?
Dat's all, Miss Grace, sure dat's all.”
”I thought I heard you say something about his going to shoot the abolitionists, Pete, was I mistaken? Do you know what they are?”
”Don't know nothin', Miss Grace, sartin. 'Spects dey be somethin' what hunts a n.i.g.g.e.r mighty sharp, 'cause I heard Ma.s.sa Charles say he'll pop 'em over--dat's all, young missus, sartin, sure, dat's all.”
”Well, Pete, let me tell you something. In my opinion you will be wiser than you are now, and that before many years; only keep your eyes open.”
”Neber you mind, Miss Gracy. Dis nig' 'll keep his eyes peeled, dat's what he will.”
Grace Stanley pa.s.sed leisurely into the hall which ran through the main building leading to the open court beyond where the fountain was throwing its cool, sparkling jets into the suns.h.i.+ne. She did not heed it, however, but pa.s.sed on up the broad winding stairway, meeting no one on the way as she ascended to the hall above. The sun had nearly reached his meridian glory, and the oppressive heat had as usual driven the inmates of that elegant home to their shaded retreats, where in comfortable deshabille they lounged on beds and sofas drawn up by the open windows, that perchance they might catch some stray breeze that would flit up from the orange groves or come from the woodland far away on the hill side.
”Grace,” called a sweet voice through the half-open door of Lillian's room, ”I thought it was your light step I heard on the stairs. Come in here, darling. See how nice and cool it is.” Grace obeyed, but Lillian did not notice the sombre shadows that were playing over the usually sunny face of her cousin, so absorbed was she with the hovering glooms that had fallen from her own pa.s.sing clouds, and so she continued, pleasantly: ”Perhaps you would like to make yourself a little more comfortable? Put on this wrapper, dear, and then come and sit by me, will you? I want to talk a little.”
This was just what her companion did not care to do; still, remembering that her mission to Rosedale was to cheer by her lively mirth and vivacity her drooping cousin, she hastened to obey. Yet how was she to accomplish her task? Only three weeks had pa.s.sed since her arrival, yet weeks so heavy with their weight of circ.u.mstance that her very soul seemed pressed down beneath their weight. Where now was her native joyousness? The cheering powers she was expected to impart to others?
She must recall them. Yet she was chilled and oppressed; what was she to do? Act. Her retreating volubility could only be summoned again to its post through action, and it _must_ be done!
”What a sweet little bouquet,” she exclaimed, arousing herself to her work. ”A delicate spray of jesamine, a few tiny rose-buds and geranium leaves. Do you know that I never could have done that? There is something so exquisite in their arrangement. Somehow as a whole they send an impressive appeal to the inner senses, my 'Lily-Bell.' There must be such a bubbling fountain of poesy in a soul like yours. Teach me, dear cousin, to be like you.” And the pensive speaker dropped upon the floor at the feet of Lillian, where she most delighted to sit, and drooping her head wearily upon her companion's knee.
Both were silent. One heart had that morning drawn back the rusty bolt on the door of its inner chamber and rejoiced to find itself strong enough to drive out at last, its long imprisoned secret of gloom that had made it so wretched through the revolving changes of many years, while the other was even then busy with the fastenings of the secret closet where the unsightly skeleton of her lost love was to be hidden from the world, from herself. Yet so doing might eat the bloom from her cheek and the joy from her buoyant nature. Why did she wish to be like Lillian? She had not asked even her aching heart this question, but all unconsciously to herself a response came up from the hidden recesses of her soul where a fresh grave had been dug by trembling hands and into it a dead hope had been lowered and closely covered, while the damp earth was trodden down hard about it, and the low whisper said, ”If like her, this poor heart to-day would not be draped with its sombre emblems of bereavement.” To be as she was, to possess the power to win. O the poor throbbing hearts all over the world that must keep on through the years with their wounds and pains, for in them are many graves hidden away among the cypress shades, where the pa.s.ser-by can never spy them out; but the eye of the eternal one sees them all, and at every burial the tear of sympathy mingles with the liquid drops of bereavement that must fall on the stone at the mouth of the sepulcher which by and by will be rolled away at His command.
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