Iola Leroy by Frances E.W. Harper

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"Madness and folly inconceivable!" exclaimed Lorraine.

"What to you is madness and folly is perfect sanity with me. After all,
Alf, is there not an amount of unreason in our prejudices?"

"That may be true; but I wasn't reasoned into it, and I do not expect to
be reasoned out of it."

"Will you accompany me North?"

"No; except to put you in an insane asylum. You are the greatest crank
out," said Lorraine, thoroughly disgusted.

"No, thank you; I'm all right. I expect to start North to-morrow. You
had better come and go."

"I would rather follow you to your grave," replied Lorraine, hotly,
while an expression of ineffable scorn passed over his cold, proud face.

CHAPTER X.

SHADOWS IN THE HOME.

On the next morning after this conversation Leroy left for the North, to
attend the commencement and witness the graduation of his ward. Arriving
in Ohio, he immediately repaired to the academy and inquired for the
principal. He was shown into the reception-room, and in a few moments
the principal entered.

"Good morning," said Leroy, rising and advancing towards him; "how is my
ward this morning?"

"She is well, and has been expecting you. I am glad you came in time for
the commencement. She stands among the foremost in her class."

"I am glad to hear it. Will you send her this?" said Leroy, handing the
principal a card. The principal took the card and immediately left the
room.

Very soon Leroy heard a light step, and looking up he saw a radiantly
beautiful woman approaching him.

"Good morning, Marie," he said, greeting her cordially, and gazing upon
her with unfeigned admiration. "You are looking very handsome this
morning."

"Do you think so?" she asked, smiling and blushing. "I am glad you are
not disappointed; that you do not feel your money has been spent in
vain."

"Oh, no, what I have spent on your education has been the best
investment I ever made."

"I hope," said Marie, "you may always find it so. But Mas----"

"Hush!" said Leroy, laying his hand playfully on her lips; "you are
free. I don't want the dialect of slavery to linger on your lips. You
must not call me that name again."

"Why not?"

"Because I have a nearer and dearer one by which I wish to be called."

Leroy drew her nearer, and whispered in her ear a single word. She
started, trembled with emotion, grew pale, and blushed painfully. An
awkward silence ensued, when Leroy, pressing her hand, exclaimed: "This
is the hand that plucked me from the grave, and I am going to retain it
as mine; mine to guard with my care until death us do part."

Leroy looked earnestly into her eyes, which fell beneath his ardent
gaze. With admirable self-control, while a great joy was thrilling her
heart, she bowed her beautiful head and softly repeated, "Until death us
do part."

Leroy knew Southern society too well to expect it to condone his offense
against its social customs, or give the least recognition to his wife,
however cultured, refined, and charming she might be, if it were known
that she had the least infusion of negro blood in her veins. But he was
brave enough to face the consequences of his alliance, and marry the
woman who was the choice of his heart, and on whom his affections were
centred.

After Leroy had left the room, Marie sat awhile thinking of the
wonderful change that had come over her. Instead of being a lonely slave
girl, with the fatal dower of beauty, liable to be bought and sold,
exchanged, and bartered, she was to be the wife of a wealthy planter; a
man in whose honor she could confide, and on whose love she could lean.

Very interesting and pleasant were the commencement exercises in which
Marie bore an important part. To enlist sympathy for her enslaved race,
and appear to advantage before Leroy, had aroused all of her energies.
The stimulus of hope, the manly love which was environing her life,
brightened her eye and lit up the wonderful beauty of her countenance.
During her stay in the North she had constantly been brought in contact
with anti-slavery people. She was not aware that there was so much
kindness among the white people of the country until she had tested it
in the North. From the anti-slavery people in private life she had
learned some of the noblest lessons of freedom and justice, and had
become imbued with their sentiments. Her theme was "American
Civilization, its Lights and Shadows."

Graphically she portrayed the lights, faithfully she showed the shadows
of our American civilization. Earnestly and feelingly she spoke of the
blind Sampson in our land, who might yet shake the pillars of our great
Commonwealth. Leroy listened attentively. At times a shadow of annoyance
would overspread his face, but it was soon lost in the admiration her
earnestness and zeal inspired. Like Esther pleading for the lives of her
people in the Oriental courts of a despotic king, she stood before the
audience, pleading for those whose lips were sealed, but whose condition
appealed to the mercy and justice of the Nation. Strong men wiped the
moisture from their eyes, and women's hearts throbbed in unison with the
strong, brave words that were uttered in behalf of freedom for all and
chains for none. Generous applause was freely bestowed, and beautiful
bouquets were showered upon her. When it was known that she was to be
the wife of her guardian, warm congratulations were given, and earnest
hopes expressed for the welfare of the lonely girl, who, nearly all her
life, had been deprived of a parent's love and care. On the eve of
starting South Leroy procured a license, and united his destiny with the
young lady whose devotion in the darkest hour had won his love and
gratitude.

In a few days Marie returned as mistress to the plantation from which
she had gone as a slave. But as unholy alliances were common in those
days between masters and slaves, no one took especial notice that Marie
shared Leroy's life as mistress of his home, and that the family silver
and jewelry were in her possession. But Leroy, happy in his choice,
attended to the interests of his plantation, and found companionship in
his books and in the society of his wife. A few male companions visited
him occasionally, admired the magnificent beauty of his wife, shook
their heads, and spoke of him as being very eccentric, but thought his
marriage the great mistake of his life. But none of his female friends
ever entered his doors, when it became known that Marie held the
position of mistress of his mansion, and presided at his table. But she,
sheltered in the warm clasp of loving arms, found her life like a joyous
dream.

Into that quiet and beautiful home three children were born, unconscious
of the doom suspended over their heads.

"Oh, how glad I am," Marie would often say, "that these children are
free. I could never understand how a cultured white man could have his
own children enslaved. I can understand how savages, fighting with each
other, could doom their vanquished foes to slavery, but it has always
been a puzzle to me how a civilized man could drag his own children,
bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh, down to the position of social
outcasts, abject slaves, and political pariahs."

"But, Marie," said Eugene, "all men do not treat their illegitimate
children in the manner you describe. The last time I was in New Orleans
I met Henri Augustine at the depot, with two beautiful young girls. At
first I thought that they were his own children, they resembled him so
closely. But afterwards I noticed that they addressed him as 'Mister.'
Before we parted he told me that his wife had taken such a dislike to
their mother that she could not bear to see them on the place. At last,
weary of her dissatisfaction, he had promised to bring them to New
Orleans and sell them. Instead, he was going to Ohio to give them their
freedom, and make provision for their future."

"What a wrong!" said Marie.

"Who was wronged?" said Leroy, in astonishment.

"Every one in the whole transaction," answered Marie. "Your friend
wronged himself by sinning against his own soul. He wronged his wife by
arousing her hatred and jealousy through his unfaithfulness. He wronged
those children by giving them the _status_ of slaves and outcasts. He
wronged their mother by imposing upon her the burdens and cares of
maternity without the rights and privileges of a wife. He made her crown
of motherhood a circlet of shame. Under other circumstances she might
have been an honored wife and happy mother. And I do think such men
wrong their own legitimate children by transmitting to them a weakened
moral fibre."

"Oh, Marie, you have such an uncomfortable way of putting things. You
make me feel that we have done those things which we ought not to have
done, and have left undone those things which we ought to have done."

"If it annoys you," said Marie, "I will stop talking."

"Oh, no, go on," said Leroy, carelessly; and then he continued more
thoughtfully, "I know a number of men who have sent such children North,
and manumitted, educated, and left them valuable legacies. We are all
liable to err, and, having done wrong, all we can do is to make
reparation."

"My dear husband, this is a wrong where reparation is impossible.
Neither wealth nor education can repair the wrong of a dishonored birth.
There are a number of slaves in this section who are servants to their
own brothers and sisters; whose fathers have robbed them not simply of
liberty but of the right of being well born. Do you think these things
will last forever?"

"I suppose not. There are some prophets of evil who tell us that the
Union is going to dissolve. But I know it would puzzle their brains to
tell where the crack will begin. I reckon we'll continue to jog along as
usual. 'Cotton fights, and cotton conquers for American slavery.'"

Even while Leroy dreamed of safety the earthquake was cradling its fire;
the ground was growing hollow beneath his tread; but his ear was too
dull to catch the sound; his vision too blurred to read the signs of the
times.

"Marie," said Leroy, taking up the thread of the discourse, "slavery is
a sword that cuts both ways. If it wrongs the negro, it also curses the
white man. But we are in it, and what can we do?"

"Get out of it as quickly as possible."

"That is easier said than done. I would willingly free every slave on my
plantation if I could do so without expatriating them. Some of them have
wives and children on other plantations, and to free them is to separate
them from their kith and kin. To let them remain here as a free people
is out of the question. My hands are tied by law and custom."

"Who tied them?" asked Marie.

"A public opinion, whose meshes I cannot break. If the negro is the
thrall of his master, we are just as much the thralls of public
opinion."

"Why do you not battle against public opinion, if you think it is
wrong?"

"Because I have neither the courage of a martyr, nor the faith of a
saint; and so I drift along, trying to make the condition of our slaves
as comfortable as I possibly can. I believe there are slaves on this
plantation whom the most flattering offers of freedom would not entice
away."

"I do not think," said Marie, "that some of you planters understand your
own slaves. Lying is said to be the vice of slaves. The more intelligent
of them have so learned to veil their feelings that you do not see the
undercurrent of discontent beneath their apparent good humor and
jollity. The more discontented they are, the more I respect them. To me
a contented slave is an abject creature. I hope that I shall see the
day when there will not be a slave in the land. I hate the whole thing
from the bottom of my heart."

"Marie, your Northern education has unfitted you for Southern life. You
are free, yourself, and so are our children. Why not let well enough
alone?"

"Because I love liberty, not only for myself but for every human being.
Think how dear these children are to me; and then for the thought to be
forever haunting me, that if you were dead they could be turned out of
doors and divided among your relatives. I sometimes lie awake at night
thinking of how there might be a screw loose somewhere, and, after all,
the children and I might be reduced to slavery."

"Marie, what in the world is the matter with you? Have you had a
presentiment of my death, or, as Uncle Jack says, 'hab you seed it in a
vision?'"

"No, but I have had such sad forebodings that they almost set me wild.
One night I dreamt that you were dead; that the lawyers entered the
house, seized our property, and remanded us to slavery. I never can be
satisfied in the South with such a possibility hanging over my head."

"Marie, dear, you are growing nervous. Your imagination is too active.
You are left too much alone on this plantation. I hope that for your own
and the children's sake I will be enabled to arrange our affairs so as
to find a home for you where you will not be doomed to the social
isolation and ostracism that surround you here."

"I don't mind the isolation for myself, but the children. You have
enjoined silence on me with respect to their connection with the negro
race, but I do not think we can conceal it from them very long. It will
not be long before Iola will notice the offishness of girls of her own
age, and the scornful glances which, even now, I think, are leveled at
her. Yesterday Harry came crying to me, and told me that one of the
neighbor's boys had called him 'nigger.'"

A shadow flitted over Leroy's face, as he answered, somewhat soberly,
"Oh, Marie, do not meet trouble half way. I have manumitted you, and the
children will follow your condition. I have made you all legatees of my
will. Except my cousin, Alfred Lorraine, I have only distant relatives,
whom I scarcely know and who hardly know me."

"Your cousin Lorraine? Are you sure our interests would be safe in his
hands?"

"I think so; I don't think Alfred would do anything dishonorable."

"He might not with his equals. But how many men would be bound by a
sense of honor where the rights of a colored woman are in question? Your
cousin was bitterly opposed to our marriage, and I would not trust any
important interests in his hands. I do hope that in providing for our
future you will make assurance doubly sure."

"I certainly will, and all that human foresight can do shall be done for
you and our children."

"Oh," said Marie, pressing to her heart a beautiful child of six
summers, "I think it would almost make me turn over in my grave to know
that every grace and charm which this child possesses would only be so
much added to her value as an article of merchandise."

As Marie released the child from her arms she looked wonderingly into
her mother's face and clung closely to her, as if to find refuge from
some unseen evil. Leroy noticed this, and sighed unconsciously, as an
expression of pain flitted over his face.

"Now, Marie," he continued, "stop tormenting yourself with useless
fears. Although, with all her faults, I still love the South, I will
make arrangements either to live North or go to France. There life will
be brighter for us all. Now, Marie, seat yourself at the piano and
sing:--

'Sing me the songs that to me were so dear,
Long, long ago.
Sing me the songs I delighted to hear,
Long, long ago."

As Marie sang the anxiety faded from her face, a sense of security stole
over her, and she sat among her loved ones a happy wife and mother. What
if no one recognized her on that lonely plantation! Her world was,
nevertheless, there. The love and devotion of her husband brightened
every avenue of her life, while her children filled her home with music,
mirth, and sunshine.

Marie had undertaken their education, but she could not give them the
culture which comes from the attrition of thought, and from contact with
the ideas of others. Since her school-days she had read extensively and
thought much, and in solitude her thoughts had ripened. But for her
children there were no companions except the young slaves of the
plantation, and she dreaded the effect of such intercourse upon their
lives and characters.

Leroy had always been especially careful to conceal from his children
the knowledge of their connection with the negro race. To Marie this
silence was oppressive.

One day she said to him, "I see no other way of finishing the education
of these children than by sending them to some Northern school."

"I have come," said Leroy, "to the same conclusion. We had better take
Iola and Harry North and make arrangements for them to spend several
years in being educated. Riches take wings to themselves and fly away,
but a good education is an investment on which the law can place no
attachment. As there is a possibility of their origin being discovered,
I will find a teacher to whom I can confide our story, and upon whom I
can enjoin secrecy. I want them well fitted for any emergency in life.
When I discover for what they have the most aptitude I will give them
especial training in that direction."

A troubled look passed over the face of Marie, as she hesitatingly said:
"I am so afraid that you will regret our marriage when you fully realize
the complications it brings."

"No, no," said Leroy, tenderly, "it is not that I regret our marriage,
or feel the least disdain for our children on account of the blood in
their veins; but I do not wish them to grow up under the contracting
influence of this race prejudice. I do not wish them to feel that they
have been born under a proscription from which no valor can redeem them,
nor that any social advancement or individual development can wipe off
the ban which clings to them. No, Marie, let them go North, learn all
they can, aspire all they may. The painful knowledge will come all too
soon. Do not forestall it. I want them simply to grow up as other
children; not being patronized by friends nor disdained by foes."

"My dear husband, you may be perfectly right, but are you not preparing
our children for a fearful awakening? Are you not acting on the plan,
'After me the deluge?'"

"Not at all, Marie. I want our children to grow up without having their
self-respect crushed in the bud. You know that the North is not free
from racial prejudice."

"I know it," said Marie, sadly, "and I think one of the great mistakes
of our civilization is that which makes color, and not character, a
social test."

"I think so, too," said Leroy. "The strongest men and women of a
down-trodden race may bare their bosoms to an adverse fate and develop
courage in the midst of opposition, but we have no right to subject our
children to such crucial tests before their characters are formed. For
years, when I lived abroad, I had an opportunity to see and hear of men
of African descent who had distinguished themselves and obtained a
recognition in European circles, which they never could have gained in
this country. I now recall the name of Ira Aldridge, a colored man from
New York City, who was covered with princely honors as a successful
tragedian. Alexander Dumas was not forced to conceal his origin to
succeed as a novelist. When I was in St. Petersburg I was shown the
works of Alexander Sergevitch, a Russian poet, who was spoken of as the
Byron of Russian literature, and reckoned one of the finest poets that
Russia has produced in this century. He was also a prominent figure in
fashionable society, and yet he was of African lineage. One of his
paternal ancestors was a negro who had been ennobled by Peter the
Great. I can't help contrasting the recognition which these men had
received with the treatment which has been given to Frederick Douglass
and other intelligent colored men in this country. With me the wonder is
not that they have achieved so little, but that they have accomplished
so much. No, Marie, we will have our children educated without being
subjected to the depressing influences of caste feeling. Perhaps by the
time their education is finished I will be ready to wind up my affairs
and take them abroad, where merit and ability will give them entrance
into the best circles of art, literature, and science."

After this conversation Leroy and his wife went North, and succeeded in
finding a good school for their children. In a private interview he
confided to the principal the story of the cross in their blood, and,
finding him apparently free from racial prejudice, he gladly left the
children in his care. Gracie, the youngest child, remained at home, and
her mother spared no pains to fit her for the seminary against the time
her sister should have finished her education.

CHAPTER XI.

THE PLAGUE AND THE LAW.

Years passed, bringing no special change to the life of Leroy and his
wife. Shut out from the busy world, its social cares and anxieties,
Marie's life flowed peacefully on. Although removed by the protecting
care of Leroy from the condition of servitude, she still retained a deep
sympathy for the enslaved, and was ever ready to devise plans to
ameliorate their condition.

Leroy, although in the midst of slavery, did not believe in the
rightfulness of the institution. He was in favor of gradual
emancipation, which would prepare both master and slave for a moral
adaptation to the new conditions of freedom. While he was willing to
have the old rivets taken out of slavery, politicians and planters were
devising plans to put in new screws. He was desirous of having it ended
in the States; they were clamorous to have it established in the
Territories.

But so strong was the force of habit, combined with the feebleness of
his moral resistance and the nature of his environment, that instead of
being an athlete, armed for a glorious strife, he had learned to drift
where he should have steered, to float with the current instead of nobly
breasting the tide. He conducted his plantation with as much lenity as
it was possible to infuse into a system darkened with the shadow of a
million crimes.

Leroy had always been especially careful not to allow his children to
spend their vacations at home. He and Marie generally spent that time
with them at some summer resort.

"I would like," said Marie, one day, "to have our children spend their
vacations at home. Those summer resorts are pleasant, yet, after all,
there is no place like home. But," and her voice became tremulous, "our
children would now notice their social isolation and inquire the cause."
A faint sigh arose to the lips of Leroy, as she added: "Man is a social
being; I've known it to my sorrow."

There was a tone of sadness in Leroy's voice, as he replied: "Yes,
Marie, let them stay North. We seem to be entering on a period fraught
with great danger. I cannot help thinking and fearing that we are on the
eve of a civil war."

"A civil war!" exclaimed Marie, with an air of astonishment. "A civil
war about what?"

"Why, Marie, the thing looks to me so wild and foolish I hardly know how
to explain. But some of our leading men have come to the conclusion that
North and South had better separate, and instead of having one to have
two independent governments. The spirit of secession is rampant in the
land. I do not know what the result will be, and I fear it will bode no
good to the country. Between the fire-eating Southerners and the
meddling Abolitionists we are about to be plunged into a great deal of
trouble. I fear there are breakers ahead. The South is dissatisfied with
the state of public opinion in the North. We are realizing that we are
two peoples in the midst of one nation. William H. Seward has
proclaimed that the conflict between freedom and slavery is
irrepressible, and that the country cannot remain half free and half
slave."

"How will _you_ go?" asked Marie.

"My heart is with the Union. I don't believe in secession. There has
been no cause sufficient to justify a rupture. The North has met us time
and again in the spirit of concession and compromise. When we wanted the
continuance of the African slave trade the North conceded that we should
have twenty years of slave-trading for the benefit of our plantations.
When we wanted more territory she conceded to our desires and gave us
land enough to carve out four States, and there yet remains enough for
four more. When we wanted power to recapture our slaves when they fled
North for refuge, Daniel Webster told Northerners to conquer their
prejudices, and they gave us the whole Northern States as a hunting
ground for our slaves. The Presidential chair has been filled the
greater number of years by Southerners, and the majority of offices has
been shared by our men. We wanted representation in Congress on a basis
which would include our slaves, and the North, whose suffrage represents
only men, gave us a three-fifths representation for our slaves, whom we
count as property. I think the step will be suicidal. There are
extremists in both sections, but I hope, between them both, wise
counsels and measures will prevail."

Just then Alfred Lorraine was ushered into the room. Occasionally he
visited Leroy, but he always came alone. His wife was the only daughter
of an enterprising slave-trader, who had left her a large amount of
property.

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