# Atalanta in the South/Chapter 12

CHAPTER XII.
"Was Margaret glad, or sorry, that the cloud which hung over him had been dissipated?" Philip asked himself a thousand times; and at each self-interrogation he either felt his heart grow sick and faint with doubt, or quicken its beating with the joy of hope. There was something so sacred to him about this young girl's heart that he dared not ask her to lift the veil which hung about it and to unfold to him its virgin sanctuary. He silently offered up at that white shrine a love as pure as ever man was blessed with. He loved her as no man should ever love her again, with a love surpassing the love of self. He thanked God for that love, and was glad to think that so great a wealth of affection was his to lay reverently at her feet. Should she take it or leave it, he was always the richer for having it to give; and so he spoke only with his eyes and voice, which grew tender when she was near. Human lives have their ebb and flow, their storms and calms; and in the days which followed Feuardent's confession there was peace and quiet ​for Philip. He saw Margaret very often. He sat with her while she worked in the afternoon, when his own day's toil was over; and in the sunset-hour they lingered in the little garden, where the splendid rose-bloom wrapped the modest little house with its sweetness. Up and down the narrow paths they paced, her loosened hair sometimes touching him as if with the touch of fire. She was not quite what she had been to him in those early winter-days. The perfect frankness of girlhood had left her, and the reserve of young womanhood had insensibly taken its place. She talked to him of her work as of old, and in odd moments modelled for him a little statuette of herself in her long blue apron. It seemed as if she wished to turn to him the artist-side of her nature, which he could understand, perhaps, better than any one else. He carried the little figure home and fashioned for it a shrine, carved with more love than skill. She learned from him about his poor patients, and the hospital where he labored was often brightened by her presence. He was conscious that she tried to atone to him for the injustice she had done him; but from the night when she had learned the truth, they never spoke of the past or mentioned Feuardent's name. The melancholy which at first had hung about her grew less perceptible, and the smile which had ​seemed forced at his coming, now lighted up her earnest face naturally.
It was in these days that the long-planned excursion to the Rondelet plantation came off. The party assembled in the early morning at the levee, where a small steamer chartered for the occasion awaited them. The Hardens were the first to arrive; and shortly after, Bouton de Rose drove up at a sharp pace in a very shabby cab, from which he descended "with the royal air of a prince of the blood leaving his chariot of state," as Mrs. Harden said. Colonel Lagrange, very much buttoned up and military in his appearance, came next; and last of all the Ruysdales with Rondelet, who had gone to fetch them.
The day was an exquisite one, and the guests seemed to be in the best of spirits as they stepped on board the steamer. Mrs. Harden's face was wreathed with smiles, and her light, merry voice rang out cheerfully as she took an affecting farewell of her skye, yelping in the arms of the black coachman.
"My dog," she said, "my dear dog, I cannot take you with me! I dare not risk your precious life on the treacherous billow. Poor forsaken one, try to be cheerful, and don't chew up the new sofa-cushion while I am away! The old ones are still quite good enough for you to spoil. ​Sneeze, my idol, farewell! I shall not be happy till I again fold you to my heart. Dari,"—turning suddenly to her husband, and speaking in an undertone,"—do you think Mary remembered to put in my curling-tongs and prayer-book? I can't go without them."
"The tongs are there; I saw her put them in," said her husband.
"Well, that's the most important; I suppose I can pray without my prayer-book, though I could not have curled my hair without my tongs. Good-by, my deserted love! farewell, my own little Sneeze!"
The laugh which followed Mrs. Harden's touching leave-taking of her skye was very irritating to one person who heard it. Not to the stevedores at work in the mammoth ship near by, surely, nor to the group of idlers who were watching the departure, but to a man standing behind a pile of cotton-bales, whose eyes were fixed on the face of the young girl about whose comfort Philip Rondelet was busying himself. The physician placed a stool beneath her feet and brought a cushion for her back; and at these very simple acts of courtesy the unreasonable being behind the cotton-bales ground his teeth, and, I regret to say, swore roundly, cursing the steamer, the footstool, the Rondelet plantation, and everybody on the boat, always ​excepting the young lady who leaned comfortably back in the camp-chair, quite unconscious of the maledictions called down upon the devoted heads of her companions.
The people on the steamer, after watching the preparations for departure, settled themselves to enjoy the sail up the river. They passed great orange-groves, where the flat monotony of the landscape was agreeably broken by masses of dark foliage. Groups of pecan-trees, tall and beautiful in shape and color, were outlined against the crystalline sky. Here and there a few scattered negro cabins were to be seen; but for the most part there was little sign of habitation on either bank. At one point they passed an enormous raft of logs brought to anchor at the river-bank. Margaret was much interested in this, which was to her a novel sight. "I wish I could see what it is like to be on such a raft," she said, "and what sort of people live in that queer little house."
Philip, who knew no better law than Margaret's wish, gave the necessary orders, and five minutes later she stepped lightly on the outermost of the great trees solidly chained together. A man came out of the shanty set in the middle of the raft and asked if they were come to buy his lumber. He was a rough-looking old fellow, hard of face and voice. When Margaret told ​him that she had never seen such a raft before, he made her welcome to his drifting home. "'U'd ask you to step inside, on'y the boys is thar—taint much of a place for ladies, but good 'nuff for we 'uns. That 's my youngest cub; he was born on a raft, and larnt all he knows on one. Yes, we come from Red River; been three months on this yer raft oo' logs—fair lumber too, as ever growed."
The cub was an uncouth creature, too tall for his trousers and sleeves, too short for his boots and coat. He stared at Margaret, and presently set to work building a fire in front of the door of the hut. She caught a glimpse of the interior, where two men were lying asleep on the floor. The cub, occasionally casting a side-glance at Margaret, proceeded to stir a thick yellow compound contained in a broken bowl. He then took a greasy spider and prepared to fry the not very appetizing batter into cakes. Here the father expostulated: "Hold up, Nathan; taint dinner-time yet by two hours. They uns can't eat a mess o' your fixin'."
The cub looked very shamefaced and, dropping his griddle, turned his back to Margaret and walked to the edge of the raft, where he stood with his hands in his pockets, whistling the air of a camp-meeting hymn. Margaret, who had seen his mortification, spoke to him as they were ​leaving the raft and thanked him for the trouble he had taken. The cub made no answer, but the back of his neck and his ears grew very red.
Miss Ruysdale had about her throat a crimson silk handkerchief, which she unfastened and laid in the old man's hand as he helped her to step on board the steamer. "Give this to Nathan from me," she whispered to him. As the little tug steamed briskly up the river, they saw the cub handling the square of silk very carefully. Then he brought out from his breeches pocket a piece of crumpled brown paper, and carefully wrapping Margaret's gift in it, he placed the packet in the leg of his boot for safety.
It was mid-day when they reached the plantation where Philip's childhood had been passed. As the steamer rounded the turn in the river which brought them in sight of the tall chimneys of the sugar-house, the whistle was sounded thrice. The signal was answered by a blast on an invisible horn, and by the time the boat was moored at the levee, a swarm of children of all sizes and colors had gathered upon the river-bank. Just as the gang-plank was thrown ashore, a carriage drove up at a smart pace, and a gentleman descended in time to assist the ladies to land.
Francis Rondelet, great-uncle to Philip, was a striking-looking old man,—tall and gaunt, ​with a mass of thick white hair, fierce black eyes and a kindly mouth which curiously belied each other. He made his guests welcome with a stately old-fashioned courtesy which impressed Bouton de Rose immeasurably.
"He has the air of a duke," the young man whispered to Mrs. Harden.
"Not at all," answered that imperturbable lady; "he has the air of an American gentleman."
She loved a lord as dearly as most of us, but she loved her birthright as a free and independent American citizen still more, and would allow no opportunity to pass in which she might impress the young aristocrat with that fact. A large carriage stood waiting for them; and after seeing his guests seated, the old man—he was nearer to ninety than to eighty years—climbed to the front seat and, taking the reins from the boy who held them, guided the horses over the rough and heavy road with a firm hand. The old Rondelet house stood some way back from the levee, the approach to it leading through an avenue of mighty live-oaks. It was a pleasant habitation, built in the shape of a Maltese cross, with wide galleries running around it and a broad staircase leading from either side of the entrance to the upper veranda. A wide hall divided the whole length of the house, and from it opened square, spacious rooms, cool and dim ​with the twilight darkness of the Louisiana interiors. The dining-room, separated from the hall by an arched screen of exquisitely carved white wood, was the first object of interest to the hungry excursionists.
A dainty breakfast was served them by a pair of pretty bronze handmaidens, whose beauty of form and color delighted Margaret's artistic eye. Mrs. Harden found the viands "utterly delicious," and complimented her host on the excellence of his coffee, his home-made wine, his marvellous orange sweetmeats and golden corn bread. They sat together after the meal on the shaded gallery until the sun was low in the horizon. General Ruysdale was much interested in conversing with the old planter, whose mind was wont to revert to the days when his plantation produced three times as much cane as now, and his fields teemed with the laborers who worked without hire. General Ruysdale complimented him on his fine estate and the healthy appearance of the negroes. The old man shook his head and sighed.
"Ah, poor creatures," he said, "they are badly off now—half clothed, badly fed. My dear sir, it was a sad day for the negro when the responsibility of feeding and clothing himself was put upon him. My men were dressed well, sir,—two suits of clothes a year, of the best materials; ​good food, and all they could eat of it; doctors and medicines when they were sick; and regular work, sir. Not a spell of hard labor for two days, and then a debauch for three. Poor creatures! they are nothing but children, not fit to take care of themselves. I pity them myself; I do indeed. They were much better off before their so-called emancipation,—a thousand times better off."
"That may be so, Mr. Rondelet, I don't deny that there is a great deal of truth in what you say,"—Colonel Lagrange was the speaker,—"but we are a great deal better off without slavery. Emancipation of the blacks, General Ruysdale, you Northern folk talk so much about—it wasn't the emancipation of an inferior African race that was of so much importance, it was the emancipation of the Southern whites, sir, from the curse of slavery, that made Abraham Lincoln a great man; and twenty years from now every intelligent man in the South, sir, will be of my opinion."
Francis Rondelet smiled incredulously at this speech. He could not accept these new opinions, so contradictory to the prejudices of the past. He waved his delicate white hand airily and said,—
"I cannot agree with you, Colonel. It must be the end of all order and public decency when men who have no sense of honesty are given an ​equal voice in the government with ourselves. The negroes all steal, sir. I never knew one that would n't steal. They have no idea of the sacredness of property."
"Is it not rather soon to expect people who have never owned any property, not even their own bodies, to develop a delicate sense of meum and tuum? How should they understand that which it has taken centuries of civilization to develop ever so little in ourselves? Give them property of their own, and that is the surest way to teach them to respect yours."
It was Margaret who spoke, blushing at her own temerity as soon as she had uttered the words.
"I think, Mademoiselle, that you have said the very best thing that could be said on the subject, which is in truth a vexed one," said Philip.
Margaret looked at him gratefully.
"What future seems to you to lie before the Southern negroes?" asked the General, addressing Colonel Lagrange.
"Can't say, sir. I should like to see them all shipped to Liberia. I believe that white men could do their work, and the country would be a deal better without them."
"There, sir, you are mistaken," interrupted the planter. "They are a necessity,—a ​necessary evil, I think we may call them; and while Louisiana produces crops of sugar-cane, of rice, and of cotton, the negro must stay to gather them. To be sure, the measures which Congress seems about to adopt point to the direct crushing out of the sugar interests of the South. It is too lucrative a business for us to be permitted to carry on. Sugar brings seven cents a pound now, and when the duty is lifted, this estate, which to-day yields only half what it once did, will not pay for the planting. Strange times these!"
The old man, spoke bitterly, and a moment's silence followed, broken at last by Bouton de Rose.
"I wish that I had seen La Louisiane in other times. It must have been very picturesque, slavery," he said, lightly.
"It is very picturesque now," said Margaret, "quite as full of romance and color as any life that I have ever seen in the old world."
Darius Harden, whose diplomatic soul had been tortured by the conversation, which could hardly fail to prove a heated one should it be allowed to go farther, seeing his opportunity to make a diversion, said:—
"I quite agree with you, Miss Margaret. It is cooler now; will you not come and see the quarters?"
​"Willingly."
"And I also will go," said Bouton de Rose. "I have no great knowledge of the affairs which ces messieurs are discussing."
Mrs. Harden, who had been yawning behind her fan, joined the party, and they took their way to the negro-quarters, situated half a mile from the house.
"What an enchanting little beast! What is he?" asked Margaret, stopping to admire a bright-eyed, gray-furred creature tugging at the end of its chain.
"That is Zillah, my uncle's pet coon. Is n't she pretty? Here, Coony, there 's something in my pocket for you."
The coon sprang on Philip's shoulder, and its curious little hands, delicate and horribly human, fumbled in his pockets till they found a bit of sugar. It cried plaintively when they left it, and ran after them as far as its chain would permit.
Hero was their guide about the miniature village. He introduced them to the preacher, a young man of intelligent aspect, but who won little favor among his parishioners, as Margaret inferred from Hero's rather slighting comment: "Bro' Peaseley 's a good man, but he is teruble put to it for prayer; he ain't got no gift of retribution." Hero, who had been born and bred on the plantation, was made very welcome by such ​of the men and women as were not in the fields at work. His old grandmother lived in a neat whitewashed cabin shaded by a giant fig-tree. She was of the pure African type, tall and powerful, with a kindly old face threaded with a web of wrinkles. Her head was bound up in a bandanna handkerchief so arranged as to give the effect of an impossibly elongated occipital development. Her spotless white dress and kerchief brought out her grotesque features as a snood of ivory enhances the blackness of an ebony mask. A dozen babies left in her care rolled about on the clean sanded floor, yelping and screaming like a litter of young puppies. A broken pitcher, containing a bunch of yellow-hearted lilies, stood on a shelf beside a young mulatto woman who was sitting in the corner suckling an infant. She was the embodiment of physical beauty and strength, her color a warm bronze, her features delicate and almost Greek in their perfection of outline. The hands were slim, and the bare feet high-instepped and aristocratic in shape. The strain of white blood which had crossed the African in her must have been a patrician one. She did not notice the visitors, but went on crooning a low song to the child in her arms. Hero ignored her presence as completely as she failed to recognize his. He spoke only to the old woman, never glancing at ​the pretty figure with its short blue skirt and low white bodice sitting so near him. The grandmother, who was somewhat deaf, persisted in considering Margaret as a "missionary." She showed her her Bible and hymn-book, holding the latter upside down in perfect unconsciousness.
"What an Eve one could model from that girl in her savage beauty!" said Margaret to Philip. "She has a perfection of form and freshness of face that seem to bring back the Woman of the first Eden."
"And yet she is as finished an actress as the most modern Eve. Would you have guessed that that woman was the wife of my boy Hero, and that she had not seen him until this moment for six weeks past? That is her idea of etiquette."
"They are a curious people and very interesting," said Margaret. "I think it wonderful that in little more than a century they should have arrived at so high a degree of civilization as is seen among the more educated ones to-day. In the natural course of events, the social conditions they now live in would not have been arrived at in a thousand years and more."
"Margaret," said Mrs. Harden under her breath, "you are talking about things of which you are totally ignorant. They are hopelessly ​immoral, these creatures, and there is no use in trying to teach them, how to behave themselves decently," she went on, speaking somewhat bitterly. "I hardly know a family to which some woman of that low race has not brought misery and shame. They are utterly depraved. You sympathize with them; I tell you it is their victims who deserve our pity."
"Is the fault altogether theirs that they have come to this pass?" questioned Margaret. "How can people who for generations have had no idea of the sacredness of family life learn what it means in so few years? Suppose your father had been sold into one State, your mother and sisters and brothers into another,—don't you think that you might have rather misty ideas about domestic relations?"
"But that did n't happen outside of books, you know," answered Mrs. Harden. "Besides, they are perfectly untrustworthy—"
"And yet, Mrs. Harden, my uncle could, if he would, tell a very different story. During the war my father and himself and all the white men on the plantation were away from home righting for the lost cause, and the women of the family were left here alone unprotected, at the mercy of these 'untrustworthy' creatures, as you call them; and what did they do? Riot, steal, devastate, as white men would have done? No, they ​protected the women, they worked the crops; they were faithful, docile, obedient, as if the force which had once kept them so had not been broken forever. And this is not an isolated case, this was the rule all over the country; and thus it was, by his self-restraint and forbearance, that the negro won the respect of the community, which no legal edict could ever have gained for him."
They had by this time reached the house; and Francis Rondelet, who had caught his nephew's words, waved his white hand in gracious if some what condescending acquiescence.
"Yes, Philip, you are certainly right, their conduct was most praiseworthy. But what does it prove? Simply that they were conscious of their inability to act and think for themselves. They went on automatically performing the tasks which they had been taught to accomplish. The negro is naturally a docile creature, quite docile."
He tapped the lid of his old silver snuff-box and took a pinch of maccaboy in a manner which seemed to dismiss the unwelcome topic of conversation.
He was a lonely old man, Francis Rondelet, his only companion in his quiet life an invalid niece, Philip's sister, who administered from her couch the affairs of the small household. The advent of his nephew's friends was a pleasant interruption to the monotony of existence on the ​plantation, and it was late when they separated for the night. Philip was in no mood for sleep. He strolled down to the levee to smoke a cigar and watch a certain window where a light still burned. Across the white curtain a shadow passed, vague yet graceful in its movements. He stood with folded arms watching that small square of light as intently as if a momentous issue hung upon the reappearance of the shadow.
It passed again, this time more clearly defined. He could trace the rounded outline of the bare shoulders and the wavy sweep of unbound tresses floating far below the waist. And then with a burning blush he turned away, the feeling of a shamed Acteon in his heart. He had been too much absorbed to notice the approach of a huge, shambling fellow, who came slouching up to him and touched him on the shoulder.
"Marse Philip."
"Hero, is that you? What are you doing here at this time of night?"
"It 's a fine evening, Marse Philip."
Philip nodded silently, keeping his back resolutely turned to the house.
"Never see the stars brighter," Hero continued.
He evidently had something to say, and Rondelet waited till he should gain time to shape his thoughts.
​"What sort of season does old Marse call it?"
"Very good," answered Philip.
"Marse Philip."
A long pause followed. It was evident that Hero was summoning up his courage to speak his mind.
"Well, Hero."
"Marse Philip."
Another long pause, during which the ragged cap was removed and the left ear gently caressed.
"Marse Philip, why don't you git married?"
"That 's a hard question to answer, Hero. What makes you think that I want to marry?"
"Marse Philip, you needs a wife to look arter you."
"A wife 's an expensive luxury. You look after me very well. What would you have to do if I took a wife?"
"A nigger can't take care of you, mor 'n to brush you clothes and keep trashy folks from a cheating of you too much. 'T would be a real 'conomy for you to be married, Marse Philip; wives is savin' folks."
"Indeed!" Philip observed, remembering certain sums of money extorted from him by Hero under plea of matrimonial expenses.
"Thar's that young lady," Hero continued, "her with the yallar har. Why would n't she make you a good wife?"
​"Perhaps she would n't have me, Hero."
A low incredulous whistle was the only response to this remark.
"Besides, I can't afford to marry yet," Philip added. His pulses were beating at an absurd rate, and his face was bright with a light which was not reflected from the moon, a light of hope which shone through his deep gray eyes. The coarse-featured, clumsy creature beside him understood that look, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other uneasily.
"Marse Philip, you gwine to marry that young lady," he said at last, "and me and my wife 's a gwine to wait on yer. She 's good for wuk; she 's lazed long enuff, I tell her. She 's smart, she is. We could keep you bof comfortable like; and 'bout the wages, why yer know, Marse Philip, yer 've paid me mor 'n I 'se worth for ten years, twice mor 'n, 'nd yer need n't think nothin' about that."
There was a moment's silence, and then Philip coughed very suddenly and relit his cigar.
"Thank you, Hero," he said when the spark was fairly kindled; "thank you kindly, and good night."
The light had vanished from the corner window now, and with it the shadow of that lithe young figure,—a shadow which mixed itself wilfully all that night with Philip Rondelet's dreams.