Hollister did not recognize him readily: he had to take a second and a third look.
"Why, Mr. Cauthorne!" he exclaimed at last, "what is the matter with you?"
"I've been hunting big game down in the Wakulla swamps," replied Cauthorne; "have had a brush of malarial fever. Nothing serious. How is Tallahassee?"
"Oh, dull! nothing doing," said the mechanic, still eying him quizzically. "You look fearful bad, sir, fearful bad. You must 'a' had a considerable tussle. No, there's nothing doing in Tallahassee, there's never any thing doing there. Now it's different in North Carolina where I came from. Up at Raleigh there's always something doing. I was master of a road up there before I came here about a year ago, and I tell you it's different. The folks up there are not above working for a living, and the best families don't avoid being sociable with a fellow because he's poor and didn't own slaves before the war."
"How do you account for the general dilapidation of Tallahassee and its surrounding country, Hollister? The land is very rich, and produce brings large prices." Cauthorne asked this question more from his habit as a correspondent than from any real desire to get the kindly mechanic's views. His thoughts were far away from the proposed subject, in fact, and it was as if from a great distance that he heard what came by way of response.
"Oh! it's mighty easy to see what ails Tallahassee," said Hollister: "its people can't realize that there's been a war, and the niggers are freed, and it takes work to make money, and land is of no value without intelligent work being done on it, and all that sort of thing. Why, these old fellows that own all the land around Tallahassee actually imagine that they're rich, and highfalutin, and buncomb, like they used to be. They don't admit that a church mouse is corpulent by the side of 'em, but it's a Lord's truth all the same. One thing bothers me when I think about 'em: it's what they're going to do when their carriages and things that they had left over after the war all wear out. How are they going to top it over honest poor folks then? You may just set it down that they can't buy new ones any more. That's played out. I don't pity 'em much, they're so everlasting high-headed. Now, if they'd just go at it, and put intelligence to work on their plantations, and raise more corn and oats, and less cotton, and buy fertilizers, and treat their lands decent, they'd get along fine. But they don't think of but two things,—politics, and keeping up appearances. A man'll keep a carriage and a white-hatted driver, and take his family to church in the same old aristocratic way, when he's wearing the same old broadcloth coat he had before the war, though it shines like it had been pretty near rubbed through at the back and elbows. They'll never make any more money till they drop to the racket, and see things just as they are. Now, up in North Carolina, at Raleigh where I came from, the people have got down to fine grinding, so you might say, and they're pulling through all right. They've got some get-up-and-snap about 'em. You ought to go to North Carolina, sir, and see how they're rolling up."
"Hello, Hollister, giving another poor fellow a dose of North Carolina, eh?" shouted a big, fat man, coming up behind the mechanic, and slapping him on the shoulder. "If you want to dry Hollister up, sir," turning to Cauthorne, "just ask him for 'a chaw of rosum;' you know the Tar-heels use pine rosin to chew in place of tobacco. He'll quit talking rather than divide 'rosum' with you! "
The fat man went on through to the smoking-car. Hollister laughed and said,—
"That's Conant: he's full of jokes. He always gets that one off on me."
"Are we nearing Tallahassee?" asked Cauthorne, rousing himself as if from a fit of absent-mindedness. In truth, he hadn't seen Conant, nor had he heard a word of what Hollister had been saying.
"Yes, sir, we're nearly there," was the reply: "yonder are the hills."
Cauthorne looked from the window across a stretch of wet, level sand, and saw with a thrill the first green billows of the Tallahassee region. It was like the sight of land after a long ocean-voyage. Something which since his departure had been in abeyance, now leaped up in him, and tugged at his heart and his brain. The harsh clacking of the car-wheels was turned into music. The breeze rushing in through the open window was heavy with perfume. He saw a house on a hill, and a fig-orchard clinging along the side of a bluff. The engine whistled. A colored boy put his head in the front doorway of the coach, and shouted in a sing-song way, "Tallahassee!"
If he had been an angel of joy, and had announced Eden, it would not have sounded half so sweetly in Cauthorne's ears.
There was a great crowd at the station; soldiers armed to the teeth,—gray-uniformed soldiers, grimly determined in face and manner, who were thronging on a special train ready to start eastward. Cauthorne heard something about a murder at Madison, or some other Middle-Florida town. A young lawyer and politician had been brutally killed by a negro at a court-house door, where the investigation-committee of alleged election frauds was taking evidence.
"I'm in favor of killing every nigger in the State," he heard a man say.
"No, no," said another. "Let's abide by law. Violence and bloodshed will be common enough, do the best we can."
"Law!" cried the other contemptuously. "That young man's death couldn't be avenged by hanging a thousand niggers. I say kill every last one of 'em. The sooner they're killed, the sooner we'll get white immigrants in their places. To steal and murder is all they're fit for."
Cauthorne thought of Mr. Jumas and his family, thus in his own mind refuting the man's sweeping assertion.
But the murder was a foul one, and the excitement was doubled on account of the political origin of the trouble out of which it had come.
At any other time Cauthorne would have lost not a moment in collecting all the information possible touching this affair; but now he climbed into John's carriage,—every one who has been to Tallahassee remembers John's carriage,—and asked to be driven to the City Hotel. What cared he for murders in neighboring towns? What cared he for this one-sided struggle between the races? Let them take the negro, and hang him, as he no doubt deserved to be hung; but as for himself, he had no interest in the matter. A sweet voice was calling him, little hands were beckoning to him; an old house among the trees, the rustic seat, a divinely beautiful form and face, a white dress, scarlet ribbons and flowers,—Lucie, Lucie, the Tallahassee girl,—these were his thoughts, these were his whole life.
He passed through the crowd gathered on the veranda of the hotel, and went at once to his room.
Through his windows, while he was preparing to go to the barber's apartments in the back of the building, he heard many threats from excited lips against the whole negro race.
"I wish dey wasn't no politics," said the barber gloomily. "Us cullud folks what wants to do right is gwine ter hab a powerful hard time on 'count ob de cullud fools what go in for office an' 'p'intments an' sich. I wish sich niggahs'd all go off Norf."
Cauthorne made no reply. It was none of his business. His mind was full of something else. The barber continued,—
"'Pears ter me de white folks is got er better right ter run de gov'ment dan us darkies has, kase dey's more 'quainted wid de business. What 'd I know 'bout makin' laws? All I keers for is 'tection an' a fa'r fiel' fo' business in my line. De res' may fight ober de votes an' de counts an' de offices jes' as much as dey please."
Cauthorne went back to his room again. He did not care to see any one. There was a pile of letters to read. Some of them required answering. He never before had found labor so hard, or his thoughts so little at his command, or his hand so unsteady.
When the sun was down, and the shadows of night began to gather in the streets, he got up from his writing, and took his hat and cane. He stood and hesitated, as of a sudden, for the first time since he had recovered consciousness from the delirium of fever, it darkly fell upon his mind that an impassable gulf lay between him and the happiness he sought. Victor La Rue, with his stubbed hand and leg, rose before him. Col. Vance rose before him. He drew his palm across his forehead. He pressed his fingers on his eyes. It was but a momentary faltering: no power of his could resist the influence which was drawing him. He had to go.
Once out in the street, he walked firmly and rapidly toward La Rue place, passing, without noting them, the objects grown so familiar to his eyes,—the market-house, the little brick church, the old place belonging to the Catholic sisters, the rows of giant live-oaks, the embowered mansions.
There was a new moon, thin and bright, hanging in the west, just above the scalloped horizon, and the dark blue sky was full of stars.
He tramped along, swinging his cane, his eyes downcast. When he reached the La Rue gate it was open. A colored boy, standing near, took off his hat and bowed, saying, "Walk in, sah;" but Cauthorne did not notice him. A carriage had just passed in, and another was close behind him. There was a suppressed stir about the place. Servants were silently and swiftly flitting about as if some important domestic event required all their attention and effort.
Cauthorne passed on to the house; but as he neared the broad steps of the veranda he suddenly became aware that the rooms were filled with ladies and gentlemen. Everywhere shone brilliant lights, everywhere flowers, everywhere the rustle of dresses and the hum of voices.
He stopped at the flickering edge of the illuminated space around the mansion, and watched the forms flit to and fro in the hall and parlors.
By one of those cerebral tricks, as inexplicable as life itself, suddenly a curious old silver bell came into his mind. It was a rare, antique piece of workmanship, which had been in the La Rue family for many generations. Lucie had shown it to him one day. "It is the family marriage-bell," she had said. "It brings a custom with it whose origin is lost as irrecoverably as is the bell-maker's name who wrought the curious old thing. Whenever a La Rue is married, the bell is hung in the wedding-room, in a circle of orange-flowers; and, as soon as the ceremony is over, it is rung. It has a sweet voice."
She shook it till its tender music seemed to fill the old house.
"We are a Huguenot family," she had continued, "and trace ourselves around to the south of France. Some time about the middle of the sixteenth century there is confusion in the line, and we are not certain; but the bell goes back by tradition, and the family marriage-custom with it. When I get married it will be the first time it has served its tinkling turn since papa was the happy man, nearly fifty-five years ago."
"I wonder if I couldn't get it to lift its voice at my nuptial feast?" Cauthorne had said.
"Oh! it never goes out of the family," Lucie had replied, with a little laugh far sweeter than the tones of the bell.
"I shouldn't wish it to," quickly he had rejoined; and then Lucie had put the bell away.
And now standing there, half in the light, half in the shade, Cauthorne recalled every minute feature of the little conversation.
He leaned heavily on his cane, and, pressing his hand on his forehead, muttered,—
"It is her wedding-night,—it is her wedding-night."
And the words, spoken scarcely above a whisper, seemed to reverberate as far as the winds could go. In his heart there was fire,—burning and consuming fire,—in his mouth was thirst, in his brain a crush and confusion coming on again with redoubled force.
How helpless a being is man when once Fate seizes him! How useless his powerful limbs, his cunning, sinewy hands, his active brain! He must stand and see Destiny work out for him the immitigable evil, without so much as offering resistance. What can you do when death falls upon your dearest one? Nothing. What can you do when calamity sweeps away your fortune? Nothing. What can you do when the tongue of slander and the accidental conjunction of circumstances ruin your character? Nothing. What can you do when she whom you love more than life, or fortune, or character, turns away her face and loves another? Nothing. Oh, yes! says the philosopher,—taking his pipe or his cigar from his lips,—oh, yes! you can do something. You can rise superior to Fate. You can fling sorrow and despair to the winds. You can take up a new thread of life. You can shake off your gloom, and go where the sun shines,—you can do whatever you will to do. Shake off this passion? Shake off this strange despair,—this aching regret? How? You cannot quit smoking, oh vain boaster! You cling to your cigar, or your pipe, knowing that you are being slowly but surely poisoned to death; and yet you say, "It is preposterous for a great strong man to be overcome by his love for a girl!" You toss aside the silly story of a consuming passion, and relight the stub of a half-burned maduro. You have never seen your Lucie La Rue. You have never stood on the shadowy line, between light and darkness, listening for the tinkle of the old sweet marriage-bell. You have never felt the cool dew gather on your face in the soft Southern night, as the wind palpitated in. the old trees, and the mocking-birds stirred tunefully in their slumbers; nor the weight of the whole far-spreading night settle down upon your heart, as a sudden silence, falling on the gay guests within the mansion of your love, announced the beginning of the sweet and bitter ceremony which locked her away from you forever.
Once Cauthorne chanced to glance up at a window: it was Willard's favorite window, and there, framed for an instant like the picture of some heavenly spirit, robed in white, veil-covered, crowned with orange-flowers, stood Lucie. The magnolia-bough, yielding to the wind-current, passed a spray across her, like a cloud across the southern moon. And then she vanished.
The old-time colored folk of the household came from their dilapidated quarters, and stood where they could see into the house through the wide-open windows and doors.
Cauthorne heard Auntie Liza's voice. She was saying that "De ceremony's 'bout ter begin. Keep yo'sel's quiet, now, chillen, an' lissen." They all stood like black statues cut out of night itself. " Dar dey is! dar dey is," whispered the old woman. "Bress de sweet chile's soul! Don't she look bootiful! An' Mars' Vance too, Lor' bress 'm, Lor' bress 'm!"
Cauthorne looked, staggered, turned away, and would have left the place, but he was too weak. A little way in the wood he sat down at the root of a tree. Being removed to even this distance seemed to give him a calmer view. He drew in a great breath, and began to exert his strong will.
How long he had been there he could not have guessed, but he had heard the rustle and stir after the ceremony was over and the sweet silver bell had ceased its ringing; a long period of confused noises like murmurings and whisperings of happy people had followed this, and then there was joyful music, and the rhythmic beat of the dancers.
"Mr. Cauthorne," said the well-remembered, subdued voice of Victor La Rue, close beside him. He looked up and saw the outlines of the cripple leaning on his crutches. "I have been hunting for you everywhere," he continued. "Lucie said she saw you, but I could hardly believe it; I thought it probable that she had imagined it. I am glad you did not go in. It is best as it is. It could do no good."
Cauthorne vaguely wondered how Victor had got his knowledge, but he was still too overwhelmed to speak. Slowly and painfully the crippled man eased himself down until he sat upon the ground close by Cauthorne.
The music swelled higher and joyfuller; the feet of the dancers beat to quicker time.
"I know it is terrible," said Victor: "I know what it is to have one's life crushed at a single blow. But I have borne it; and you must bear it, sir, like a man and a Christian."
In a second Cauthorne was aflame with anger. He sprang to his feet and glared through the gloom at his companion.
"What are you here for?" he cried, his voice shaking hoarsely: " what do you come into my way for? What do I care for your troubles, or your advice? Is there no way of escaping you? Do you mean to always come shaking your hurt hand and your maimed leg in my face?"
Victor was speechless with astonishment; and before he could recover himself Cauthorne had strode away into the shadowy boscage, leaving behind him the sting of his terrible words. But he came back in a minute or two, and put his hand upon the soldier's drooping head.
"Forgive my hot humor" he said; "forgive me as I forgive those who trespass against me. I am not myself to-night. It will all be right. You forgive me?"
"I love you," said Victor, grasping his hand and clinging to it tremulously: "there is nothing to forgive, sir."
"And here all ends," said Cauthorne, returning the pressure of the soldier's hand, and bending over him. "Here all ends. Good-by."
Victor heard his heavy footsteps, and knew that he was gone forever.
"Good-by, Lucie," he heard him murmur; and then the music and the dancing and the sough of the night-wind overwhelmed every other sound.
. . . . . . . .
The reader will remember a picture which caused such a stir in Parisian art-circles last season. It was called "A Vision of Florida," and was done in the highest and most commendable style of the impressionist school. It was a young girl, dark-eyed, black-haired, brown-faced, lithe, innocent, clothed in white and dull scarlet, sitting on a rustic seat under a huge, moss-hung, live-oak tree. In the background there was a glimpse of an old gray mansion with a decaying veranda and a many-gabled roof. A mysterious charm hung about the picture, defying criticism and captivating the imagination. One tried in vain to analyze the feeling which crept over him as he contemplated that sweet, happy, half-languid, half-insistant face. It was somewhat the face of a beautiful child just aroused from gentle sleep and wonderful dreams. It half lingered with recollections of those dreams, it half inquired about the present and the promise of the morrow. Such a face will haunt one, such a form will stay in one's memory and rob one of rest.
Lawrence Cauthorne chanced to come upon this picture at the exhibition, and at once—struck numb with a bolt of sorrow he had fancied dead—stood breathless before it. It was as if he stood on the lawn at La Rue place, with Lucie sitting in the old favorite seat before him. The feeling came and passed, like a hot, hurtful waft from some malarious place; and then he carefully examined the canvas, as one who is coldly critical. It was the work, as the reader already knows, of Herman Willard, jun. It has made him famous.
Cauthorne and Willard seldom meet now: they have, by a tacit consent, drifted away from each other.
Once they had a little talk in which they mutually confessed the foolishness of nursing the Tallahassee memory.
"We really missed getting inside of that strange little world, after all," said Willard, toying with a cigarette.
"I got too far in for my peace of mind, I fear," replied Cauthorne.
"Why should it affect one's peace of mind?" demanded Willard. "We dropped in there like strange beings from another planet. She looked curiously and inquiringly at us; she enjoyed us as somewhat new and interesting; but she loved Vance before she ever saw us, and she was, like a true, sweet woman the world over, faithful and loyal to her lord. The thing has its touch of pathos, its pang, its irony; but it also has the dewy freshness, and tenderness, and joyfulness of the old, old story. It ended in a happy marriage. What could be added? Is it not a perfectly rounded poem?"
"Your draught of philosophy is very clear and tempting," said Cauthorne, smiling as one who would rather not, "but one is not satisfied with it. It does not quench one's thirst."
"Oh, well! I don't know," added Willard: "I find much consolation in such philosophy. I am"—
"A sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal," interrupted Cauthorne.
"Perhaps you are right," Willard responded. "In my dreams I often hear those magnolia sprays rustling across the window of the old room at the La Rue place, and life seems a little hollow bubble when I wake."
"There is one consolation," said Cauthorne, more in soliloquy than addressed to his companion. "She is happy. Whenever I contemplate what a horror it would have been if our going there had involved her in sorrow, I thank Heaven fervently that her sweet life is rounded into the ripeness of love."
"You said just a moment ago that my philosophy is insipid, now you regale yourself with it," said Willard half laughing.
"It is tasteless and unsatisfactory," exclaimed Cauthorne, "but, you know, it might have been bitter, burning, deadly, to her as well as to me."
"And to me," added Willard.
They looked at each other. Their eyes were full of visions; their ears were full of tender sounds.
"Let us drop this subject forever," said Cauthorne, going to a window and leaning out so that the breeze from the blue sea below might fan him.
"It would be well," assented Willard.
The day was scarcely begun, but the brisk breath had blown away the mists. The white-capped waves rolled free and far. Some sails were in sight, slanting down the wind, and some white gulls, far out, kept flickering farther and farther, like those that Edgar Fawcett saw
"Gleam as a blossom's petals
Blown through the spacious morn."
THE END.
