The Octoroon E-Book

Mary Elizabeth Braddon

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

The last notes of a favorite waltz resounded through the splendid saloons of Mrs. Montresor's mansion in Grosvenor Square; sparkling eyes and glittering jewels flashed in the lamp-light; the rival queens of rank and beauty shone side by side upon the aristocratic crowd; the rich perfumes of exotic blossoms floated on the air; brave men and lovely women were met together to assist the farewell ball given by the wealthy American, Mrs. Montresor, on her departure for New Orleans with her lovely niece, Adelaide Horton, whose charming face and sprightly manners had been the admiration of all London during the season of 1860.
The haughty English beauties were by no means pleased to see the sensation made by the charms of the vivacious young American, whose brilliant and joyous nature contrasted strongly with the proud and languid daughters of fashion who entrenched themselves behind a barrier of icy reserve, which often repelled their admirers.

Leseprobe

The Octoroon

M. E. BRADDON

© 2024 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782385748029

CONTENTS

I.

CORA.

II.

THE FATAL RESOLVE.

III.

THE USURER'S BARGAIN.

IV.

CORA'S WELCOME.

V.

A FAMILY PARTY.

VI.

PAUL LISIMON.

VII.

PRIDE OF CASTE.

VIII.

TOBY TELLS THE STORY OF THE MURDERED FRANCILIA.

IX.

THE DAUGHTER'S ACCUSATION.

X.

THE YOUNG LOVERS.

XI.

PAUL LISIMON'S RUIN IS PLOTTED BY HIS ENEMIES.

XII.

TRISTAN'S SECRET.

XIII.

PAULINE CORSI OFFERS TO REVEAL A SECRET.

XIV.

AUGUSTUS HORTON TRIES TO AVENGE HIMSELF.

XV.

THE CHALLENGE.

XVI.

CAPTAIN PRENDERGILLS, OF THE AMAZON.

XVII.

REVELATIONS OF GUILT.

XVIII.

THE DUEL IN THE MOONLIGHT.

XIX.

THE HUMAN BLOODHOUND.

XX.

HEAVEN HELPS THOSE WHO TRUST IN PROVIDENCE.

XXI.

THE ABDUCTION.

XXII.

THE ENCOUNTER IN THE GAMBLING-HOUSE.

XXIII.

THE FATAL DAY.

XXIV.

THE SEPARATION.

XXV.

THE STORY OF PAULINE CORSI.

XXVI.

THE SLAVE SALE.

XXVII.

THE EVE OF THE WEDDING.

XXVIII.

THE ABDUCTION.

XXIX.

THE MEETING OF THE LOVERS.

XXX.

THE SUPPRESSED DOCUMENT.

XXXI.

THE FOOTSTEPS OF THE AVENGER.

XXXII.

THE DEAD RETURNED TO LIFE.

XXXIII.

TRISTAN.

XXXIV.

FAREWELL TO LOUISIANA.

THE OCTOROON.

CHAPTER I.

CORA.

The last notes of a favorite waltz resounded through the splendid saloons of Mrs. Montresor's mansion in Grosvenor Square; sparkling eyes and glittering jewels flashed in the lamp-light; the rival queens of rank and beauty shone side by side upon the aristocratic crowd; the rich perfumes of exotic blossoms floated on the air; brave men and lovely women were met together to assist the farewell ball given by the wealthy American, Mrs. Montresor, on her departure for New Orleans with her lovely niece, Adelaide Horton, whose charming face and sprightly manners had been the admiration of all London during the season of 1860.

The haughty English beauties were by no means pleased to see the sensation made by the charms of the vivacious young American, whose brilliant and joyous nature contrasted strongly with the proud and languid daughters of fashion who entrenched themselves behind a barrier of icy reserve, which often repelled their admirers.

Adelaide Horton was a gay and light-hearted being. Born upon the plantation of a wealthy father, the cries of beaten slaves had never disturbed her infant slumbers; for the costly mansion in which the baby heiress was reared was far from the huts of the helpless creatures who worked sometimes sixteen hours a day to swell the planter's wealth. No groans of agonized parents torn from their unconscious babes; no cries of outraged husbands, severed from their newly-wedded wives, had ever broken Adelaide's rest. She knew nothing of the slave trade; as at a very early age the planter's daughter had been sent to England for her education. Her father had died during her absence from America, and she was thus left to the guardianship of an only brother, the present possessor of Horton Ville, as the extensive plantation and magnificent country seat were called.

On Adelaide attaining her eighteenth year, her aunt, Mrs. Montresor, an inhabitant of New York, and the widow of a rich merchant, had crossed the Atlantic at Augustus Horton's request, for the purpose of giving her niece a season in London, and afterward escorting her back to Louisiana.

She found Adelaide all that her most anxious relatives could have wished—elegant, accomplished, fashionable, well-bred; a little frivolous, perhaps, but what of that, since her lot in life was to be a smooth and easy one. Mrs. Montresor was delighted, and expressed her gratification very warmly to the Misses Beaumont, of West Brompton, in whose expensive but fashionable seminary Adelaide had been educated.

In an ante-chamber leading out of the crowded ball-room—an ante-chamber where the atmosphere was cool, and where the close neighborhood of a fountain plashing into its marble basin in an adjoining conservatory refreshed the wearied ear, two young men lounged lazily upon a satin-covered couch, watching the dancers through the open ball-room door.

The first of these young men was a South American, Mortimer Percy, the partner of Augustus Horton, and the first cousin of the planter and his pretty sister Adelaide.

Mortimer Percy was a handsome young man. His fair, curling hair clustered round a broad and noble forehead; his large clear blue eyes sparkled with the light of intellect; his delicate aquiline nose and chiseled nostrils bespoke the refinement of one who was by nature a gentleman; but a satirical expression spoiled an otherwise beautiful mouth, and an air of languor and weariness pervaded his appearance. He seemed one of those who have grown indifferent to life, careless alike of its joys and sorrows.

His companion contrasted strongly with him both in appearance and manner. With a complexion bronzed by exposure to Southern suns, with flashing black eyes, a firm but flexible mouth, shaded with a silky raven mustache, and thick black hair brushed carelessly back from his superb forehead, Gilbert Margrave, artist, engineer, philanthropist, poet, seemed the very type of manly energy.

The atmosphere of a crowded ball-room appeared unnatural to him. That daring spirit was out of place amidst the narrow conventionalities of fashionable life; the soaring nature needed wide savannas and lofty mountain tops, distant rivers and sounding waterfalls; the artist and poet mind sighed for the beautiful—not for the beautiful as we see it in a hot-house flower, imprisoned in a china vase, but as it lurks in the gigantic cup of the Victoria regia on the broad bosom of the mighty Amazon.

But Gilbert Margrave was one of the lions of 1860. An invention in machinery, which had enriched both the inventor and the cotton spinners of Manchester, had made the young engineer celebrated, and when it was discovered that he belonged to a good Somersetshire family, that he was handsome and accomplished, an artist and a poet, invitations flocked in upon him from all the fashionable quarters of the West End.

He had been silent for some time, his gaze riveted upon one of the brilliant groups in the ball-room, when Mortimer Percy tapped him lightly on the shoulder with his gloved hand.

"Why, man, what are you dreaming of?" he said, laughing; "what entrancing vision has enchained your artist glance? What fairy form has bewitched your poet soul? One would think you were amid solitudes of some forest on the banks of the Danube instead of a ball-room in Grosvenor Square. Confess, my Gilbert, confess to your old friend, and reveal the nymph whose spells have transformed you into some statue."

Gilbert smiled at his friend's sally. The two young men had met upon the Continent, and had traveled together through Germany and Switzerland.

"The nymph is no other than yonder lovely girl, talking to your cousin, Miss Horton," said Gilbert; "look at her, Mortimer, watch the graceful head, the silky raven hair, as she bends down to whisper to her companion. Is she not lovely?"

Few who looked upon the young girl of whom Gilbert Margrave spoke, could well have answered otherwise than in the affirmative. She was indeed lovely in the first blush of youth, with the innocence of an angel beaming in every smile; with the tenderness of a woman lying shadowed in the profound depths of her almond-shaped black eyes. Features, delicately molded and exquisitely proportioned; a tiny rosebud mouth; a Grecian nose; a complexion fairer than the ungathered lily hiding deep in an untrodden forest; it was difficult for the imagination of the poet, or the painter, to picture aught so beautiful.

"Is she not lovely?" repeated Gilbert Margrave.

The young South American put his head critically on one side, with the calculating glance with which a connoisseur in the fine arts regards a valuable picture. The used-up Mortimer Percy made it a rule never to commit himself by admiring anything, or anybody.

"Hum—ha!" he muttered thoughtfully; "yes, she's by no means bad-looking."

"By no means bad-looking!" cried Gilbert Margrave, impatiently; "you cold-hearted automaton, how dare you speak of womanly perfection in such a manner. She's an angel, a goddess—a siren—a—"

"You'll have an attack of apoplexy, Margrave, if you go on in this way," said Mortimer, laughing.

"Can you tell me who she is?"

"No. But I can do more. I can tell you what she is."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that your angel, your nymph, your goddess, your siren is—a slave."

"A slave?" exclaimed Gilbert.

"Yes. The African blood runs in those purple veins. The hereditary curse of slavery hovers over that graceful and queen-like head."

"But her skin is fairer than the lily."

"What of that? Had you been a planter, Gilbert, you would have been able to discover, as I did, when just now I stood close to that lovely girl, the fatal signs of her birth. At the extreme corner of the eye, and at the root of the finger nails, the South American can always discover the trace of slavery, though but one drop of the blood of the despised race tainted the object upon whom he looked."

"But this girl seems an intimate friend of your cousin, Adelaide; who can she be?" asked Gilbert.

"Yes, that is the very thing that puzzles me. Adelaide must be utterly ignorant of her origin, or she would never treat as a friend one who, on the other side of the Atlantic, would be her lady's maid. But hush, here comes my aunt, she will be able to tell us all about her beautiful guest."

Mrs. Montresor was still a handsome woman. She bore a family likeness to her nephew, Mortimer, who was the only son of her sister, while Adelaide and Augustus Horton were the children of her brother. Her fair ringlets had, as yet, escaped the hand of Time. No tell-tale streaks of gray had stolen amid the showering locks. Her blue eyes were as bright as those of a girl, and shone with the light of good humor and benevolence. She was not only a handsome woman, she was a lovable one. The young instinctively clung to her, and felt that within that ample bosom beat a kindly heart, which a long summer of prosperity had never rendered callous to the woes of others.

"Come, gentlemen!" she said, gayly, as she approached the two friends; "this is really too bad! Here you are lolling on a sofa, 'wasting your sweetness on the desert air,' while I have, at least, half a dozen pretty girls waiting for eligible partners for the next waltz. As for you, Mortimer," she added, shaking her perfumed fan, threateningly at her nephew; "you are really incorrigible; poor Adelaide does not even know you are here."

"I came in late, my dear aunt, and I saw that both you and my cousin were so surrounded by admirers, it was quite impossible to approach you."

"A pretty excuse, sir, which neither I nor Adelaide will accept," said Mrs. Montresor, laughing.

"And then, again, I wanted to have a chat with Gilbert."

"Out upon your gallantry, sir; you preferred talking to Mr. Margrave to dancing with your cousin and affianced bride?"

"I am not a very good dancer; I am apt to tread upon the ladies' lace flounces, and get my heels entangled in the spurs of young dragoons. I really thought my cousin would rather be excused."

"Indeed, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Montresor, evidently rather annoyed by her nephew's indifference; "I should not be surprised if Adelaide should one day ask to be excused from marrying you."

"Good gracious!" cried young Mortimer, playing with his watch chain; "do you think my cousin is not very violently in love with me?"

"Violently in love with you? coxcomb! But, joking apart, really, Mortimer, you are the coldest, most unpoetical, soulless creature I ever met with."

"My dear aunt," said Mortimer, apologetically, "I will freely own that I am not a very sentimental person. But what of that? My intended marriage with my cousin, Adelaide, is by no means a romantic affair. In the first place, Augustus Horton and I are partners. My marriage with his sister is therefore advisable, on the ground of commercial interests. That is reason number one, not very romantic to begin with. Reason number two is this; you have two nephews and one niece; you wish your favorite nephew (meaning me) to marry your niece, in order that one of these days, having no children of your own, you may leave them the bulk of your fortune. There's nothing particularly romantic in this. You say to the two young people, 'Marry,' and the two young people say, 'Very well, we're agreeable!' and behold the business is settled. Very advisable, and very proper, no doubt, but not a subject for romance, my dear aunt."

"Bah, Mortimer, you're incorrigible; but I know that at the bottom of your heart you're very much in love with your pretty cousin, notwithstanding your pretending indifference."

"Come, then, my best of aunts. Forgive your most perverse of nephews, and answer me one question, for the benefit of Gilbert Margrave here, who has been bewitched by one of the lilies of your ball-room."

"Indeed, and pray who is the lady?"

"That is the very question we want you to answer," replied Mortimer, leading his aunt to the curtained doorway of the ball-room. "See, there she is, that dark-eyed girl, talking to my cousin Adelaide."

"That is Miss Leslie."

"What Miss Leslie?"

"The daughter of Mr. Gerald Leslie, of New Orleans."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Mortimer.

"Yes. But you seem surprised."

"I am a little," replied the young man, thoughtfully; "I did not know Leslie had a daughter."

"But you see he has, since she is an intimate friend of Adelaide's."

"How did they become acquainted?"

"They were educated at the same school."

"Indeed. She is a very lovely girl, and you must be good enough to introduce us to her, by-and-by."

"Take care, Mortimer," said his aunt; "you are surely not going to fall in love with Miss Leslie."

"Not the least danger, my dear aunt. Though I would not say as much for poor Gilbert here."

"Pshaw! Mortimer," exclaimed the young artist, reddening; "it is the painter's privilege to admire beauty without loving it."

"No doubt of it, my dear boy," answered Mortimer; "but unfortunately, sometimes a certain little rosy-legged gentleman, with a bow and arrows, called Cupid, steps in; the painter forgets his privilege, and the man falls in love with the artist's model."

"Well, I must leave you, gentlemen," said Mrs. Montresor; "I think I see Adelaide and Miss Leslie coming this way, so if you want an introduction to the young South American you must obtain it through my niece. Au revoir, naughty boys!"

"Stay, my dear aunt, you will forgive Mr. Margrave when I tell you that he is as determined an abolitionist as yourself, or any of your friends in New York. He means sailing for South America in a month, armed with some new inventions in machinery, which he declares ought to supercede slave labor."

"Yes, madam," said Gilbert, earnestly; "your nephew well knows my opinion upon this subject, and though his interests may be allied to the hateful barter, which should call a blush to the cheek of every honest American, I know that his heart is with us, the abolitionists of slavery."

"Let me shake hands with you, Mr. Margrave," exclaimed Mrs. Montresor; "I declare to you that so hateful to me is the slave trade, and all connected with it, that were it not necessary for me to escort my niece home and assist at her marriage with this hare-brained boy, I would never again set foot upon the accursed soil of Louisiana; but I must not say more to you now, for here come the young ladies. Adelaide is but a child as yet, and has never thought seriously of the matter; while her brother Augustus, like his father before him, is a determined advocate of slavery. Once more, adieu!" and the elegant, although portly, Mrs. Montresor glided from the room, her rich robes of sky-blue moire antique rustling around her.

"Gilbert," said Mortimer, hurriedly, as soon as his aunt was out of hearing, "remember, I beg, do not breathe to a mortal one hint of what I just now told you, with regard to Miss Leslie's origin. I suspect some painful mystery here, and I would not, for the world, that any idle talk of mine should cause this poor girl's gentle heart one throb of sorrow or one thrill of shame."

"You may rely upon me, Mortimer," exclaimed Gilbert, with enthusiasm. "My lips are sealed forever."

He had scarcely spoken, when the two young girls approached, arm-in-arm.

There was a marked contrast between the two friends. Young as Adelaide Horton was, she had already all the finished elegance and easy confidence of a woman of fashion. Frivolous, capricious, and something of a coquette, she was born to charm in a ball-room, and to shine in a crowd. Cora Leslie was a creature of an utterly different nature. Like some wild flower from the luxuriant forests of her native South she seemed destined to bloom with a sweeter perfume in loneliness. To blossom for the silent stars and the midnight skies; to expand her fairest petals to the sunshine of one loving heart.

"I do not care to see my cousin just now," said Mortimer, "so I will leave you, Gilbert, to make yourself agreeable to the young ladies, while I go and smoke a cigar in the balcony opening out of the conservatory."

The young man strolled through the curtained doorway, leading into the cool retreat, as his cousin and her friend entered from the ball-room.

"Here, at least, my dear Cora, we shall be able to breathe," said Adelaide, as the two girls approached Gilbert. "Ah, Mr. Margrave," she added, perceiving the young artist, "it is here, then, that you have been hiding yourself while a hundred lion-hunters have been trying to chase you. Cora, allow me to introduce to you Mr. Gilbert Margrave, engineer, artist, poet—lion! Mr. Margrave, allow me to present to you Miss Cora Leslie, my friend, and the most elegant waltzer in my aunt's crowded assembly."

"I beg, Mr. Margrave," said Cora Leslie, "that you will not listen to Miss Horton's assertions; she only grants me this eulogy because she knows that she waltzes better than I."

"Will you permit me to be the judge of that, Miss Leslie?" said Gilbert, "and, in order that I may be so, grant me your hand for the next waltz?"

"Oh, yes, yes," cried Adelaide, laughing, "we'll waltz with you. I promise for Cora. Now, pray go back into the ball-room, Mr. Margrave, and satisfy those good people who are pining to stare you out of countenance, which is the only English tribute to genius. Go, now, you shall summon Cora as soon as the first notes of the waltz strike up."

"Au revoir, Miss Leslie, till I come to claim your hand."

Gilbert bowed and left the ante-room, not without one enthusiastic glance at the innocent face of the fair Louisianian.

"There goes another of your admirers, Cora," cried Adelaide, as she flung herself into one of the luxurious easy-chairs, while Cora seated herself on a sofa, a few paces distant and laid her bouquet of hot-house flowers on a tiny table at her side. "I declare, Miss Cora Leslie, that I begin to think I did a very unwise thing in persuading my dear, good-natured aunt to give this farewell reunion to our English friends, for you had only to make your appearance in order to steal every admirer I have. It is a general desertion to the camp of the enemy. I should not wonder if Mortimer himself joined the renegades, and left me to sing willow for my inconstant swain."

"But I thought from what you told me, Adelaide," replied Cora, laughing, "that Mr. Percy was by no means a very enthusiastic or romantic person."

"Oh, no indeed," said Adelaide, with an impatient sigh; "you are right there, my dear Cora; never was there such a cold-hearted, matter-of-fact being as that cousin and future husband of mine. If he pays me a compliment, it is only an artful way of drawing attention to one of my defects, which, I will own, are rather numerous. If he ever utters an affectionate word, I always feel convinced that he is laughing at me. Imagine, now, my dear Cora, was it not flattering to my womanly vanity to hear him say, when he arrived in London a month or two ago, after a separation of four years, 'My dear Adelaide, my aunt has taken it into her head that you and I ought to marry; I don't want to oppose her, and I suppose you don't, either.'"

"And you replied—"

"'Oh, no, my dear cousin; I've no objection to marry you. But pray don't ask anything else.'"

"But why did you give your consent?" asked Cora.

"I scarcely know. I am impetuous, rash, passionate, capable of doing even a wicked action when under the influence of some sudden impulse. I am daring enough, Heaven knows, but there is one species of courage that I lack—the courage which gives the power of resistance. I could not oppose my aunt. Has she not been the tenderest of mothers to me? Besides, I did not love any one else, or at least—Why abandon myself to dreams that can never be realized? Again, as the wife of my cousin Mortimer, I shall never be an exile from my dear native South. If you see me gay and happy, Cora, in spite of my approaching marriage, it is that I shall soon behold the blue skies of my beloved Louisiana."

"Forgive me, dearest Adelaide," said Cora Leslie, "but from a few words that escaped you just now, I fancy that I have a secret of your heart. Has Mr. Margrave, by any chance, made an impression in that quarter?"

"You are very inquisitive, miss," replied Adelaide, blushing; "Mr. Margrave is an accomplished young man, but his manner to me has never gone beyond the bounds of the most ceremonious politeness. Perhaps, indeed, had he betrayed any warmer sentiment toward me, I might—But do not, I implore you, force me to reflect, my dear Cora. Is it not decided that I am to marry Mortimer? I will present him to you this evening if he makes his appearance, and you shall tell me what you think of him."

"I am most impatient to see him," said Cora. "Tell me, dear Adelaide, did you ask him for tidings of my father?"

"Do not think me forgetful, dear Cora, but I had so much to say to him about my brother and my native country that I forgot to make the inquiries you charged me with. There, now, you are angry with me, I know, I can see it in your eyes."

"No, Adelaide, no!" answered Cora, "that which you see in my eyes is not anger, but anxiety. It is nearly three months since I have received any letter from my dear father, and this long silence is so unlike his affectionate consideration that it has filled me with alarm."

"Nay, my dear Cora, the cares of business no doubt have prevented his writing; or perhaps he is coming over to England, and wishes to give you a delightful surprise. Did you not tell me that Mr. Leslie meant to sell his plantation, and take up his abode in England? But here comes Mortimer, and you can yourself make all the inquiries you wish."

CHAPTER II.

THE FATAL RESOLVE.

The young planter strolled with a leisurely step through the doorway of the conservatory, bowing to the two girls as he entered the room.

"At last!" exclaimed Adelaide; "so you have actually condescended to honor my aunt's assembly with your gracious presence, my dear cousin. Perhaps you were in hopes you would not see me."

"Perhaps you were in hopes I should not come," retorted the young man.

"On the contrary," said Adelaide, "I was awaiting you with impatience. But pray don't be alarmed, it was not on my own account, but on that of Miss Leslie that I wished to see you. My friend is anxious to ask you about her father."

"I was just about to beg you to introduce me to Miss Leslie," replied Mortimer.

"Mr. Mortimer Percy, cotton merchant and slave proprietor, my cousin and my future husband, as my aunt says—"

"Stop, Adelaide, this is no time for jesting," said Mortimer, gravely.

"Is your news bad, then?" exclaimed his cousin.

"It is not altogether as favorable as I should wish."

"Oh, in Heaven's name, speak, Mr. Percy," cried Cora, pale with agitation, "what has happened to my father?"

"Reassure yourself, Miss Leslie," replied Mortimer, "when I left New Orleans your father was rapidly recovering."

"He had been ill, then?"

"He was wounded in a revolt of the slaves on his plantation."

"Wounded!" exclaimed Cora; "oh, for pity's sake, do not deceive me, Mr. Percy! this wound—was it dangerous?"

"It was no longer so when I left Louisiana, I give you my honor."

Cora sank into a chair, and buried her face in her hands.

"You see, Adelaide," she murmured, after a few moments' silence, "my presentiments were not unfounded. Dearest father, and I was not near to watch and comfort you!"

Adelaide Horton seated herself by the side of her friend, twining her arm affectionately about Cora's slender waist.

"Strange," thought Mortimer Percy, as he watched the two girls, "one word from me, and my cousin would shrink from this lovely and innocent creature with loathing and disdain."

The prelude of a waltz resounded at this moment from the orchestra and Gilbert Margrave appeared to claim his partner.

"Ah!" exclaimed Adelaide, "it is you, Mr. Margrave! My poor friend has just heard some sad news."

"Sad news, Miss Horton!"

"Yes, there has been a revolt of the slaves, in which her father well nigh fell a victim. Thank Heaven, the result was less terrible than it might have been."

While Adelaide was speaking to Mr. Margrave, Mortimer Percy approached the chair on which Cora was seated, and bending over her for a moment said, in a low voice, "let me speak to you alone, Miss Leslie."

"Alone!" exclaimed Cora, with new alarm, then turning to Gilbert, she said, calmly, "I trust that you will be so kind as to excuse me, Mr. Margrave, and ask Adelaide to favor you with her hand for the next waltz, I wish to speak to Mr. Percy about this sad affair."

"Cora insists upon it, Mr. Margrave," said Adelaide, "and you must, therefore, resign yourself. But remember," she added, turning to Cora, "that we only consent on condition that we find you smiling and altogether restored to good spirits on your return. Now, Mr. Mortimer Percy, after this I suppose you will leave off praising the virtue of your pet negroes."

"What would you have, my dear cousin?" replied Mortimer; "when dogs are too violently beaten, they are apt to bite."

"They should be tied up then," retorted Adelaide as she took Gilbert's arm and hurried to the ball-room where the dancers were already whirling round in valse a deux-temps.

Cora rose as she found herself alone with the young planter, and no longer attempting to conceal her agitation, exclaimed, anxiously.

"And am I indeed to believe what you say, Mr. Percy; do you really mean that it is ill-usage which has urged my father's slaves to this revolt?"

"Alas, Miss Leslie," replied the young South American, "the planter finds himself between the horns of a terrible dilemma; he must either beat his slaves or suffer from their laziness. I will own to you that Mr. Leslie is not considered too indulgent a master; but he only follows the example of the greater number of our colonists. However, it is not he, but his overseer who was the chief cause of this revolt. Your father would have interfered; in attempting to do so he was seriously wounded; but let me once more assure you that he was entirely out of danger when I left New Orleans."

"And did he give you no message for me—no letter?" asked Cora.

"No, Miss Leslie."

"What, not a word?"

"Your father did not know that I should see you," replied Mortimer, "and it is on this very subject that I wish to ask you a few questions; not prompted by any vain curiosity, believe me, because you inspire me with the warmest interest."

"Speak, Mr. Percy," said Cora, seating herself.

Mortimer drew a chair to the side of that on which Cora was seated, and placing himself near to her, said gravely,

"Tell me, Miss Leslie, in what manner do you usually receive your father's letters?"

"Through one of his correspondents who lives at Southampton."

"Then they are not directly addressed to you."

"They are not."

"Were you very young when you left Louisiana?"

"I was only five years old," replied Cora.

"So young! Your memory can recall nothing that occurred at that time, I suppose."

"Oh, yes," answered Cora; "but memories so confused that they seem rather to resemble dreams. But there is one recollection which no time can efface. It is of a woman, young, beautiful, who clasped me to her arms, sobbing as she strained me to her breast. I can still hear her sobs when I recall that scene."

"Has Mr. Leslie ever spoken to you of your mother?" asked Mortimer.

"Was it she?" cried Cora, eagerly.

"I do not know, Miss Leslie, for at that time I was still in England, where, like you, I received my education."

"Alas," exclaimed Cora, her beautiful eyes filling with tears, "who could it be if it was not her? No, Mr. Percy. I have never known even the poor consolation of hearing people speak of my mother. Every time I have ventured to address my father on the subject, he has replied in harsh and cold tones that have chilled my heart. All that I could ever learn was that she died young, at New Orleans. I dared not speak upon a subject which caused my poor father such painful emotions."

"But he has always evinced the greatest affection for you, Miss Leslie, has he not?" asked Mortimer.

"Oh, Mr. Percy," replied Cora, her eyes kindling with enthusiasm, "what father ever better loved his child? Every whim, every childish wish has been gratified, but one; alas, that one prayer he would never grant."

"And that prayer was—?"

"That I might join him in New Orleans. On his first visit to England, a year ago, I implored him to take me back with him; but he was deaf to all my entreaties. 'It is because I love you,' he said, 'that I refuse to take you with me'; perhaps it was the climate of Louisiana that he feared; that climate may have been the cause of my mother's death."

"I was sure of it," thought Mortimer, "she is entirely ignorant of her origin."

"All that I could obtain from him in answer to my prayers," continued Cora, "was a promise that this separation should be the last; that he would sell his plantation at the earliest opportunity, and come and establish himself in England."

"And since then," said Mortimer, "has he renewed that promise?"

"With reservations that have made me tremble," replied Cora; "I feel that his affairs are embarrassed, and will detain him from me long after the promised time of our reunion."

"Alas, Miss Leslie, you are not deceived," said Mortimer earnestly; "Mr. Leslie has experienced great losses. The death of Mr. Treverton, his partner, who was killed in a duel a year ago, at the very time of your father's return from England, revealed deficiencies that he had never dreamed of. He was obliged to have recourse to heavy loans; and since that, the revolt of his slaves, in damaging the harvest, has given the finishing blow to his difficulties."

"Then my father is ruined, Mr. Percy," cried Cora, clasping her hands: "oh, do not imagine that the aspect of poverty alarms me; it is not of myself that I think, but of him. What a life of anxiety and effort he has endured, in order to establish a position, which he only seemed to value on my account! Never has he allowed me to hear one expression of uneasiness drop from his lips; never has he denied the most extravagant of my caprices. Ah, if he but knew how gladly I would exchange all this worthless splendor for the happiness of sheltering my head upon his noble breast. If he could but tell how dear the humblest home would be to me after the long isolation of my youth. Who can tell how long our separation may endure!"

"Nay, Miss Leslie," said Mortimer soothingly; "your father's position is far from desperate, though he may require a long time and considerable courage in order to extricate himself from his difficulties."

"A long time! Some years, perhaps?" asked Cora.

"I fear so."

"And during this heart-rending struggle," exclaimed the young girl, "he will not have a creature near him to comfort or sustain him. And if new dangers should menace him—for this revolt has been avenged by the blood of the slave-leaders, has it not?—and fresh cruelties may cause new rebellion. Oh, heaven! the thought makes me tremble! No, my father shall not be alone to struggle! If he suffers I will console him; if he is in danger I will share it with him."

"What do you mean, Miss Leslie?" cried Mortimer.

"You leave England in a few days with Mrs. Montresor and your cousin Adelaide. I will accompany you."

"But, Miss Leslie, remember—" remonstrated the young man.

"I remember nothing but that my father is in danger, and that a daughter's place is by his side. See, here comes Mrs. Montresor; I know she will not refuse to grant my request."

The good-natured hostess had come to the ante-chamber to look after her wall-flowers, as she called them.

"You running away from us, Cora!" she said; "we shall certainly not allow this matter-of-fact nephew of mine to deprive us of the belle of the room."

"Oh, my dear Mrs. Montresor," exclaimed Cora; "a great misfortune has happened to my father."

"I know it, my dear child," replied Mrs. Montresor, "but, thank Heaven, that misfortune is not an irreparable one."

"No, madam, nothing is irreparable but the time which we pass far away from those we love in their hour of trouble. I implore you to take me back to him."

"But Cora," answered Mrs. Montresor, "do you forget that your father formally expressed his wish that you should remain in England?"

"Yes, madam; but the motive of my disobedience will render it excusable, and my first duty is to go and console my father."

"Pardon me if I still interfere, Miss Leslie," said Mortimer Percy, earnestly; "but think once more before you take this rash step. Your father may have some very serious motive for forbidding your return to New Orleans."

"What motive could a father have for separating himself from his only child? But stay," added Cora, struck by the earnestness of Mr. Percy's manner, "perhaps there is some secret mystery which you are aware of. Tell me, sir, is it so? Your manner just now—the strange questions which you asked me, all might lead me to suppose—"

"Those questions were only prompted by my interest in you, Miss Leslie," replied Mortimer; "but it is the same interest which bids me urge you to abandon the thought of this voyage. Your father's welcome may not be as warm as you would wish."

"I know his heart too well to fear that," exclaimed the excited girl; "be it as it may, my resolution is irrevocable; and if you refuse to take me under your charge, Mrs. Montresor," she added, "I will go alone."

"What?" cried Adelaide who had entered the ante-chamber, followed by Gilbert, in time to hear these last words. "You would go alone, Cora; and who, then, opposes your departure? We will go together; will we not, dear aunt?" exclaimed the impetuous girl.

"Yes, Adelaide, since your friend is determined on leaving, it will be far better for her to accompany us," replied Mrs. Montresor; "but I must own that I do not willingly give my consent to Miss Leslie's disobedience to her father's wishes."

"But my father's thanks shall repay you for all, dear madam," said Cora; "I shall never forget his goodness."

"Come, come, then, naughty child, let us return to the ball-room. You must bid adieu to all your acquaintance to-night, for our vessel, the Virginia, sails in three days. Come, children, come."

Mrs. Montresor led the two girls away, while Mortimer Percy flung himself onto a sofa, Gilbert Margrave watching him anxiously.

"Why did you not tell Mrs. Montresor the truth?" asked Gilbert.

"What would have been the use, since I cannot tell it to Miss Leslie? That is what seals my lips. Her father has concealed from her her real origin. She thinks she is of the European race—I discovered that in my interview with her—and I dare not reveal a secret which is not mine to tell."

"And you fear that her return to New Orleans will cause sorrow to herself?" said Gilbert.

"I do," replied the young South American; "every door at which she dares to knock will be closed against her. Even my cousin, her friend, will turn from her with pity, perhaps, but with contempt. You, who dwell in a land where the lowest beggar, crawling in his loathsome rags, is as free as your mightiest nobleman, can never guess the terrors of Slavery. Genius, beauty, wealth, these cannot wash out the stain; the fatal taint of African blood still remains; and though a man were the greatest and noblest upon earth, the curse clings to him to the last. He is—a slave!"

CHAPTER III.

THE USURER'S BARGAIN.

Cora's father, Gerald Leslie, was the owner of a fine estate upon the banks of a lake about two miles out of New Orleans, and also of a handsome house in that city. It is at this latter residence that we will introduce him to the reader.

Gerald Leslie was in the very prime of life. Scarcely yet forty-five years of age, time had set no mark upon his thick chestnut hair or his handsome face, save a few almost imperceptible wrinkles which the cares of the last year or two had drawn in rigid lines about his well-shaped mouth.

His features were massive and regular; the brow broad and intellectual; the large hazel eyes bright but yet thoughtful; and there was a shade of melancholy in the general expression of the countenance which lent a peculiar charm to the face of Gerald Leslie.

It was the face of one who had suffered. It was the face of one who had found himself a lonely man in the very prime of life; in that hour of all other hours in which a man yearns for the smiles of loving eyes, the warm pressure of friendly hands. It was the face of one who had discovered too late that he had sacrificed the happiness of his life to a mistaken principle.

While the good ship Virginia is sailing away from the dim blue shores of the fading English coast, bearing Mrs. Montresor, her nephew and niece and Cora Leslie to their far Southern home, let us enter the planter's luxuriously furnished study, and watch him as he bends over his desk.

The burning Southern sun is banished from the apartment by means of Venetian shutters; the floor is covered with a cool matting woven from Indian reeds; and the faint plash of a fountain in a small garden at the back of the house is heard through one of the open windows.

It is not a pleasant task which occupies the planter. His brow contracts as he examines the papers, pausing every now and then to jot down two or three figures against a long row of accounts, which look terribly formidable, even to the uninitiated. At last he throws down a heap of documents with a weary sigh, and flinging himself back in his chair, abandons himself to gloomy thought.

"Yes, the truth is out at last," he muttered; "no hope of a settlement in England; no chance of a happy home on the other side of the blue Atlantic with my Cora, my only one. Nothing before me but the weary struggle of a ruined man, with difficulties so gigantic that, struggle as I may, they must close in upon me and crush me at the last. Oh, Philip Treverton, but for the cruel deception you practiced upon me, I should not be in this position."

Philip Treverton was Gerald Leslie's late partner. He had been shot a twelvemonth before the opening of our story, in a sanguinary duel with a young Frenchman, who had insulted him in a gaming-house. But the two men had been more than partners, they had been friends; true and sincere friends; and Gerald Leslie no more doubted the honor of his friend, Philip Treverton, than he would have doubted his own.

Among the debts owned by the two planters there was one of no less than one hundred thousand dollars to a lawyer and usurer, one Silas Craig, a man who was both disliked and feared in New Orleans; for he was known to be a hard creditor, unscrupulous as to the means by which he enriched himself, pitiless to those who were backward in paying him.

In an evil hour Gerald Leslie and Philip Treverton had had recourse to this man, and borrowed from him, at a cruelly heavy rate of interest, the sum above mentioned. Treverton was, unlike his partner, a reckless speculator, and, unfortunately, not a little of a gamester; he therefore thought lightly enough of the circumstances. Not so Gerald Leslie. The thought of this loan oppressed him like a load of iron, and he was determined that it should be repaid at any sacrifice. He gathered together the money before leaving New Orleans to visit his daughter in England, and intrusted the sum to his partner, Treverton, with special directions that it should be paid immediately to Silas Craig.

Gerald Leslie knew that his partner was a gamester, but he firmly believed him to be one of the most honorable of men, and he had ever found him strictly just in all their commercial dealings.

He departed, therefore, happy in the thought that the debt was paid, and that Silas Craig, the usurer, could no longer rub his fat, greasy hands, and chuckle at the thought of his power over the haughty planter, Gerald Leslie. He departed happy in the thought that his next voyage would be to convey him to an English home, where the tyranny of prejudice could never oppress his beloved and lovely child.

The first intelligence which greeted him on his return to New Orleans, was the death of his friend and partner.

Philip Treverton had died a week before Gerald Leslie landed. He had died at midnight in a wretched chamber at a gambling-house. There was a mystery about his death—his last hours were shrouded in the darkness of the silent secrets of the night. None knew who had watched beside him in his dying moments. The murderer had escaped; the mutilated body of the murdered man was found in the waters of the Mississippi.

Philip Treverton's death was a sad blow to his survivor, Gerald Leslie. The two men had been associates for years; both thorough gentlemen, intellectual, highly educated, they had been united in the bonds of a sincere and heartfelt friendship.

What then were Gerald Leslie's feelings when he found that his friend, his partner, his associate, the man whom he had fully trusted, had deceived him; and that the money left him in Treverton's hands had never been paid to Silas Craig?

In vain did he search among his friend's papers for the receipt; there was not one memorandum, not one scrap of paper containing any mention of the hundred thousand dollars; and a week after Gerald Leslie's return, he received a visit from the usurer, who came to claim his debt. The planter gave him a bill at a twelve-months' date, the heavy interest for that period fearfully increasing the debt. This bill came due on the very day on which we have introduced Gerald Leslie to the reader, and he was now every moment expecting to hear the usurer announced.

He was still without funds to meet his acceptance. Many other debts were pressing upon him; and he felt that in a few months his plantation must be sold, and he left a ruined man. But, as the drowning wretch clutches at the feeblest straw, or the frailest plank, so he clung to the hope furnished by delay.

"Once more," he muttered, as he leaned his head upon his hands in the attitude of despair, "once more must I humiliate myself to this low-minded wretch, and beg the delay which he may grant or refuse, as it pleases his base nature. Heaven help me, I little dreamed that Gerald Leslie would ever come to sue to Silas Craig."

At this moment a cheerful-looking negro entered the apartment, bearing a card upon a silver salver.