Iola Leroy by Frances E.W. Harper

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Her social training was deficient, her education limited, but she was
too proud of being a pure white woman to enter the home of Leroy, with
Marie as its presiding genius. Lorraine tolerated Marie's presence as a
necessary evil, while to her he always seemed like a presentiment of
trouble. With his coming a shadow fell upon her home, hushing its music
and darkening its sunshine. A sense of dread oppressed her. There came
into her soul an intuitive feeling that somehow his coming was fraught
with danger. When not peering around she would often catch his eyes bent
on her with a baleful expression.

Leroy and his cousin immediately fell into a discussion on the condition
of the country. Lorraine was a rank Secessionist, ready to adopt the
most extreme measures of the leaders of the movement, even to the
reopening of the slave trade. Leroy thought a dissolution of the Union
would involve a fearful expenditure of blood and treasure for which,
before the eyes of the world, there could be no justification. The
debate lasted late into the night, leaving both Lorraine and Leroy just
as set in their opinions as they were before they began. Marie listened
attentively awhile, then excused herself and withdrew.

After Lorraine had gone Marie said: "There is something about your
cousin that fills me with nameless dread. I always feel when he enters
the room as if some one were walking over my grave. I do wish he would
stay at home."

"I wish so, too, since he disturbs you. But, Marie, you are growing
nervous. How cold your hands are. Don't you feel well?"

"Oh, yes; I am only a little faint. I wish he would never come. But, as
he does, I must make the best of it."

"Yes, Marie, treat him well for my sake. He is the only relative I have
who ever darkens our doors."

"I have no faith in his friendship for either myself or my children. I
feel that while he makes himself agreeable to you he hates me from the
bottom of his heart, and would do anything to get me out of the way. Oh,
I am _so_ glad I am your lawful wife, and that you married me before you
brought me back to this State! I believe that if you were gone he
wouldn't have the least scruple against trying to prove our marriage
invalid and remanding us to slavery."

Leroy looked anxiously and soberly at his wife, and said: "Marie, I do
not think so. Your life is too lonely here. Write your orders to New
Orleans, get what you need for the journey, and let us spend the summer
somewhere in the North."

Just then Marie's attention was drawn to some household matters, and it
was a short time before she returned.

"Tom," continued Leroy, "has just brought the mail, and here is a letter
from Iola."

Marie noticed that he looked quite sober as he read, and that an
expression of vexation was lingering on his lips.

"What is the matter?" asked Marie.

"Nothing much; only a tempest in a teapot. The presence of a colored
girl in Mr. Galen's school has caused a breeze of excitement. You know
Mr. Galen is quite an Abolitionist, and, being true to his principles,
he could not consistently refuse when a colored woman applied for her
daughter's admission. Of course, when he took her he was compelled to
treat her as any other pupil. In so doing he has given mortal offense to
the mother of two Southern boys. She has threatened to take them away if
the colored girl remains."

"What will he do about it?" asked Marie, thoughtfully.

"Oh, it is a bitter pill, but I think he will have to swallow it. He is
between two fires. He cannot dismiss her from the school and be true to
his Abolition principles; yet if he retains her he will lose his
Southern customers, and I know he cannot afford to do that."

"What does Iola say?"

"He has found another boarding place for her, but she is to remain in
the school. He had to throw that sop to the whale."

"Does she take sides against the girl?"

"No, I don't think she does. She says she feels sorry for her, and that
she would hate to be colored. 'It is so hard to be looked down on for
what one can't help.'"

"Poor child! I wish we could leave the country. I never would consent to
her marrying any one without first revealing to him her connection with
the negro race. This is a subject on which I am not willing to run any
risks."

"My dear Marie, when you shall have read Iola's letter you will see it
is more than a figment of my imagination that has made me so loth to
have our children know the paralyzing power of caste."

Leroy, always liberal with his wife and children, spared neither pains
nor expense to have them prepared for their summer outing. Iola was to
graduate in a few days. Harry was attending a school in the State of
Maine, and his father had written to him, apprising him of his intention
to come North that season. In a few days Leroy and his wife started
North, but before they reached Vicksburg they were met by the
intelligence that the yellow fever was spreading in the Delta, and that
pestilence was breathing its bane upon the morning air and distilling
its poison upon the midnight dews.

"Let us return home," said Marie.

"It is useless," answered Leroy. "It is nearly two days since we left
home. The fever is spreading south of us with fearful rapidity. To
return home is to walk into the jaws of death. It was my intention to
have stopped at Vicksburg, but now I will go on as soon as I can make
the connections."

Early next morning Leroy and his wife started again on their journey.
The cars were filled with terror-stricken people who were fleeing from
death, when death was everywhere. They fled from the city only to meet
the dreaded apparition in the country. As they journeyed on Leroy grew
restless and feverish. He tried to brace himself against the infection
which was creeping slowly but insidiously into his life, dulling his
brain, fevering his blood, and prostrating his strength. But vain were
all his efforts. He had no armor strong enough to repel the invasion of
death. They stopped at a small town on the way and obtained the best
medical skill and most careful nursing, but neither skill nor art
availed. On the third day death claimed Leroy as a victim, and Marie
wept in hopeless agony over the grave of her devoted husband, whose sad
lot it was to die from home and be buried among strangers.

But before he died he placed his will in Marie's hands, saying: "I have
left you well provided for. Kiss the children for me and bid them
good-bye."

He tried to say a parting word to Gracie, but his voice failed, and he
fainted into the stillness of death. A mortal paleness overspread his
countenance, on which had already gathered the shadows that never
deceive. In speechless agony Marie held his hand until it released its
pressure in death, and then she stood alone beside her dead, with all
the bright sunshine of her life fading into the shadows of the grave.
Heart-broken and full of fearful forebodings, Marie left her cherished
dead in the quiet village of H---- and returned to her death-darkened
home.

It was a lovely day in June, birds were singing their sweetest songs,
flowers were breathing their fragrance on the air, when Mam Liza,
sitting at her cabin-door, talking with some of the house servants, saw
a carriage approaching, and wondered who was coming.

"I wonder," she said, excitedly, "whose comin' to de house when de folks
is done gone."

But her surprise was soon changed to painful amazement, when she saw
Marie, robed in black, alighting from the carriage, and holding Gracie
by the hand. She caught sight of the drooping head and grief-stricken
face, and rushed to her, exclaiming:--

"Whar's Marse Eugene?"

"Dead," said Marie, falling into Mammy Liza's arms, sobbing out, "dead!
_ died_ of yellow fever."

A wild burst of sorrow came from the lips of the servants, who had
drawn near.

"Where is he?" said Mam Liza, speaking like one suddenly bewildered.

"He is buried in H----. I could not bring him home," said Marie.

"My pore baby," said Mam Liza, with broken sobs. "I'se drefful sorry. My
heart's most broke into two." Then, controlling herself, she dismissed
the servants who stood around, weeping, and led Marie to her room.

"Come, honey, lie down an' lem'me git yer a cup ob tea."

"Oh, no; I don't want anything," said Marie, wringing her hands in
bitter agony.

"Oh, honey," said Mam Liza, "yer musn't gib up. Yer knows whar to put
yer trus'. Yer can't lean on de arm of flesh in dis tryin' time."
Kneeling by the side of her mistress she breathed out a prayer full of
tenderness, hope, and trust.

Marie grew calmer. It seemed as if that earnest, trustful prayer had
breathed into her soul a feeling of resignation.

Gracie stood wonderingly by, vainly trying to comprehend the great
sorrow which was overwhelming the life of her mother.

After the first great burst of sorrow was over, Marie sat down to her
desk and wrote a letter to Iola, informing her of her father's death. By
the time she had finished it she grew dizzy and faint, and fell into a
swoon. Mammy Liza tenderly laid her on the bed, and helped restore her
to consciousness.

Lorraine, having heard of his cousin's death, came immediately to see
Marie. She was too ill to have an interview with him, but he picked up
the letter she had written and obtained Iola's address.

Lorraine made a careful investigation of the case, to ascertain whether
Marie's marriage was valid. To his delight he found there was a flaw in
the marriage and an informality in the manumission. He then determined
to invalidate Marie's claim, and divide the inheritance among Leroy's
white relations. In a short time strangers, distant relatives of her
husband, became frequent visitors at the plantation, and made themselves
offensively familiar. At length the dreadful storm burst.

Alfred Lorraine entered suit for his cousin's estate, and for the
remanding of his wife and children to slavery. In a short time he came
armed with legal authority, and said to Marie:--

"I have come to take possession of these premises."

"By what authority?" she gasped, turning deathly pale. He hesitated a
moment, as if his words were arrested by a sense of shame.

"By what authority?" she again demanded.

"By the authority of the law," answered Lorraine, "which has decided
that Leroy's legal heirs are his white blood relations, and that your
marriage is null and void."

"But," exclaimed Marie, "I have our marriage certificate. I was Leroy's
lawful wife."

"Your marriage certificate is not worth the paper it is written on."

"Oh, you must be jesting, cruelly jesting. It can't be so."

"Yes; it is so. Judge Starkins has decided that your manumission is
unlawful; your marriage a bad precedent, and inimical to the welfare of
society; and that you and your children are remanded to slavery."

Marie stood as one petrified. She seemed a statue of fear and despair.
She tried to speak, reached out her hand as if she were groping in the
dark, turned pale as death as if all the blood in her veins had receded
to her heart, and, with one heart-rending cry of bitter agony, she fell
senseless to the floor. Her servants, to whom she had been so kind in
her days of prosperity, bent pityingly over her, chafed her cold hands,
and did what they could to restore her to consciousness. For awhile she
was stricken with brain fever, and her life seemed trembling on its
frailest cord.

Gracie was like one perfectly dazed. When not watching by her mother's
bedside she wandered aimlessly about the house, growing thinner day by
day. A slow fever was consuming her life. Faithfully and carefully Mammy
Liza watched over her, and did all she could to bring smiles to her lips
and light to her fading eyes, but all in vain. Her only interest in life
was to sit where she could watch her mother as she tossed to and fro in
delirium, and to wonder what had brought the change in her once happy
home. Finally she, too, was stricken with brain fever, which intervened
as a mercy between her and the great sorrow that was overshadowing her
young life. Tears would fill the servants' eyes as they saw the dear
child drifting from them like a lovely vision, too bright for earth's
dull cares and weary, wasting pain.

CHAPTER XII.

SCHOOL-GIRL NOTIONS.

During Iola's stay in the North she found a strong tide of opposition
against slavery. Arguments against the institution had entered the
Church and made legislative halls the arenas of fierce debate. The
subject had become part of the social converse of the fireside, and had
enlisted the best brain and heart of the country. Anti-slavery
discussions were pervading the strongest literature and claiming, a
place on the most popular platforms.

Iola, being a Southern girl and a slave-holder's daughter, always
defended slavery when it was under discussion.

"Slavery can't be wrong," she would say, "for my father is a
slave-holder, and my mother is as good to our servants as she can be. My
father often tells her that she spoils them, and lets them run over her.
I never saw my father strike one of them. I love my mammy as much as I
do my own mother, and I believe she loves us just as if we were her own
children. When we are sick I am sure that she could not do anything more
for us than she does."

"But, Iola," responded one of her school friends, "after all, they are
not free. Would you be satisfied to have the most beautiful home, the
costliest jewels, or the most elegant wardrobe if you were a slave?"

"Oh, the cases are not parallel. Our slaves do not want their freedom.
They would not take it if we gave it to them."

"That is not the case with them all. My father has seen men who have
encountered almost incredible hardships to get their freedom. Iola, did
you ever attend an anti-slavery meeting?"

"No; I don't think these Abolitionists have any right to meddle in our
affairs. I believe they are prejudiced against us, and want to get our
property. I read about them in the papers when I was at home. I don't
want to hear my part of the country run down. My father says the slaves
would be very well contented if no one put wrong notions in their
heads."

"I don't know," was the response of her friend, "but I do not think that
that slave mother who took her four children, crossed the Ohio River on
the ice, killed one of the children and attempted the lives of the other
two, was a contented slave. And that other one, who, running away and
finding herself pursued, threw herself over the Long Bridge into the
Potomac, was evidently not satisfied. I do not think the numbers who are
coming North on the Underground Railroad can be very contented. It is
not natural for people to run away from happiness, and if they are so
happy and contented, why did Congress pass the Fugitive Slave Bill?"

"Well, I don't think," answered Iola, "any of our slaves would run away.
I know mamma don't like slavery very much. I have often heard her say
that she hoped the time would come when there would not be a slave in
the land. My father does not think as she does. He thinks slavery is not
wrong if you treat them well and don't sell them from their families. I
intend, after I have graduated, to persuade pa to buy a house in New
Orleans, and spend the winter there. You know this will be my first
season out, and I hope that you will come and spend the winter with me.
We will have such gay times, and you will so fall in love with our sunny
South that you will never want to come back to shiver amid the snows and
cold of the North. I think one winter in the South would cure you of
your Abolitionism."

"Have you seen her yet?"

This question was asked by Louis Bastine, an attorney who had come North
in the interests of Lorraine. The scene was the New England village
where Mr. Galen's academy was located, and which Iola was attending.
This question was addressed to Camille Lecroix, Bastine's intimate
friend, who had lately come North. He was the son of a planter who lived
near Leroy's plantation, and was familiar with Iola's family history.
Since his arrival North, Bastine had met him and communicated to him his
intentions.

"Yes; just caught a glimpse of her this morning as she was going down
the street," was Camille's reply.

"She is a most beautiful creature," said Louis Bastine. "She has the
proud poise of Leroy, the most splendid eyes I ever saw in a woman's
head, lovely complexion, and a glorious wealth of hair. She would bring
$2000 any day in a New Orleans market."

"I always feel sorry," said Camille, "when I see one of those Creole
girls brought to the auction block. I have known fathers who were deeply
devoted to their daughters, but who through some reverse of fortune were
forced to part with them, and I always think the blow has been equally
terrible on both sides. I had a friend who had two beautiful daughters
whom he had educated in the North. They were cultured, and really belles
in society. They were entirely ignorant of their lineage, but when their
father died it was discovered that their mother had been a slave. It was
a fearful blow. They would have faced poverty, but the knowledge of
their tainted blood was more than they could bear."

"What became of them?"

"They both died, poor girls. I believe they were as much killed by the
blow as if they had been shot. To tell you the truth, Bastine, I feel
sorry for this girl. I don't believe she has the least idea of her negro
blood."

"No, Leroy has been careful to conceal it from her," replied Bastine.

"Is that so?" queried Camille. "Then he has made a great mistake."

"I can't help that," said Bastine; "business is business."

"How can you get her away?" asked Camille. "You will have to be very
cautious, because if these pesky Abolitionists get an inkling of what
you're doing they will balk your game double quick. And when you come to
look at it, isn't it a shame to attempt to reduce that girl to slavery?
She is just as white as we are, as good as any girl in the land, and
better educated than thousands of white girls. A girl with her apparent
refinement and magnificent beauty, were it not for the cross in her
blood, I would be proud to introduce to our set. She would be the
sensation of the season. I believe to-day it would be easier for me to
go to the slums and take a young girl from there, and have her
introduced as my wife, than to have society condone the offense if I
married that lovely girl. There is not a social circle in the South that
would not take it as a gross insult to have her introduced into it."

"Well," said Bastine, "my plan is settled. Leroy has never allowed her
to spend her vacations at home. I understand she is now very anxious to
get home, and, as Lorraine's attorney, I have come on his account to
take her home."

"How will you do it?"

"I shall tell her her father is dangerously ill, and desires her to come
as quickly as possible."

"And what then?"

"Have her inventoried with the rest of the property."

"Don't she know that her father is dead?"

"I think not," said Bastine. "She is not in mourning, but appeared very
light-hearted this morning, laughing and talking with two other girls. I
was struck with her great beauty, and asked a gentleman who she was. He
said, 'Miss Leroy, of Mississippi.' I think Lorraine has managed the
affair so as to keep her in perfect ignorance of her father's death. I
don't like the job, but I never let sentiment interfere with my work."

Poor Iola! When she said slavery was not a bad thing, little did she
think that she was destined to drink to its bitter dregs the cup she was
so ready to press to the lips of others.

"How do you think she will take to her situation?" asked Camille.

"O, I guess," said Bastine, "she will sulk and take it pretty hard at
first; but if she is managed right she will soon get over it. Give her
plenty of jewelry, fine clothes, and an easy time."

"All this business must be conducted with the utmost secrecy and speed.
Her mother could not have written to her, for she has been suffering
with brain fever and nervous prostration since Leroy's death. Lorraine
knows her market value too well, and is too shrewd to let so much
property pass out of his hands without making an effort to retain it."

"Has she any brothers or sisters?"

"Yes, a brother," replied Bastine; "but he is at another school, and I
have no orders from Lorraine in reference to him. If I can get the girl
I am willing to let well enough alone. I dread the interview with the
principal more than anything else. I am afraid he will hem and haw, and
have his doubts. Perhaps, when he sees my letters and hears my story, I
can pull the wool over his eyes."

"But, Louis, this is a pitiful piece of business. I should hate to be
engaged in it."

A deep flush of shame overspread for a moment the face of Lorraine's
attorney, as he replied: "I don't like the job, but I have undertaken
it, and must go through with it."

"I see no '_must_' about it. Were I in your place I would wash my hands
of the whole business."

"I can't afford it," was Bastine's hard, business-like reply. On the
next morning after this conversation between these two young men, Louis
Bastine presented himself to the principal of the academy, with the
request that Iola be permitted to leave immediately to attend the
sick-bed of her father, who was dangerously ill. The principal
hesitated, but while he was deliberating, a telegram, purporting to come
from Iola's mother, summoned Iola to her father's bedside without delay.
The principal, set at rest in regard to the truthfulness of the
dispatch, not only permitted but expedited her departure.

Iola and Bastine took the earliest train, and traveled without pausing
until they reached a large hotel in a Southern city. There they were
obliged to wait a few hours until they could resume their journey, the
train having failed to make connection. Iola sat in a large, lonely
parlor, waiting for the servant to show her to a private room. She had
never known a great sorrow. Never before had the shadows of death
mingled with the sunshine of her life.

Anxious, travel-worn, and heavy-hearted, she sat in an easy chair, with
nothing to divert her from the grief and anxiety which rendered every
delay a source of painful anxiety.

"Oh, I hope that he will be alive and growing better!" was the thought
which kept constantly revolving in her mind, until she fell asleep. In
her dreams she was at home, encircled in the warm clasp of her father's
arms, feeling her mother's kisses lingering on her lips, and hearing the
joyous greetings of the servants and Mammy Liza's glad welcome as she
folded her to her heart. From this dream of bliss she was awakened by a
burning kiss pressed on her lips, and a strong arm encircling her.
Gazing around and taking in the whole situation, she sprang from her
seat, her eyes flashing with rage and scorn, her face flushed to the
roots of her hair, her voice shaken with excitement, and every nerve
trembling with angry emotion.

"How dare you do such a thing! Don't you know if my father were here he
would crush you to the earth?"

"Not so fast, my lovely tigress," said Bastine, "your father knew what
he was doing when he placed you in my charge."

"My father made a great mistake, if he thought he had put me in charge
of a gentleman."

"I am your guardian for the present," replied Bastine. "I am to see you
safe home, and then my commission ends."

"I wish it were ended now," she exclaimed, trembling with anger and
mortification. Her voice was choked by emotion, and broken by smothered
sobs. Louis Bastine thought to himself, "she is a real spitfire, but
beautiful even in her wrath."

During the rest of her journey Iola preserved a most freezing reserve
towards Bastine. At length the journey was ended. Pale and anxious she
rode up the avenue which led to her home.

A strange silence pervaded the place. The servants moved sadly from
place to place, and spoke in subdued tones. The windows were heavily
draped with crape, and a funeral air pervaded the house.

Mammy Liza met her at the door, and, with streaming eyes and convulsive
sobs, folded her to her heart, as Iola exclaimed, in tones of hopeless
anguish:--

"Oh, papa's dead!"

"Oh, my pore baby!" said mammy, "ain't you hearn tell 'bout it? Yore
par's dead, an' your mar's bin drefful sick. She's better now."

Mam Liza stepped lightly into Mrs. Leroy's room, and gently apprised her
of Iola's arrival. In a darkened room lay the stricken mother, almost
distracted by her late bereavement.

"Oh, Iola," she exclaimed, as her daughter entered, "is this you? I am
so sorry you came."

Then, burying her head in Iola's bosom, she wept convulsively. "Much as
I love you," she continued, between her sobs, "and much as I longed to
see you, I am sorry you came."

"Why, mother," replied Iola, astonished, "I received your telegram last
Wednesday, and I took the earliest train I could get."

"My dear child, I never sent you a telegram. It was a trick to bring you
down South and reduce you to slavery."

Iola eyed her mother curiously. What did she mean? Had grief dethroned
her reason? Yet her eye was clear, her manner perfectly rational.

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