Iola Leroy by Frances E.W. Harper
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Frances E.W. Harper >> Iola Leroy
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Marie saw the astounded look on Iola's face, and nerving herself to the
task, said: "Iola, I must tell you what your father always enjoined me
to be silent about. I did not think it was the wisest thing, but I
yielded to his desires. I have negro blood in my veins. I was your
father's slave before I married him. His relatives have set aside his
will. The courts have declared our marriage null and void and my
manumission illegal, and we are all to be remanded to slavery."
An expression of horror and anguish swept over Iola's face, and, turning
deathly pale, she exclaimed, "Oh, mother, it can't be so! you must be
dreaming!"
"No, my child; it is a terrible reality."
Almost wild with agony, Iola paced the floor, as the fearful truth broke
in crushing anguish upon her mind. Then bursting into a paroxysm of
tears succeeded by peals of hysterical laughter, said:--
"I used to say that slavery is right. I didn't know what I was talking
about." Then growing calmer, she said, "Mother, who is at the bottom of
this downright robbery?"
"Alfred Lorraine; I have always dreaded that man, and what I feared has
come to pass. Your father had faith in him; I never had."
"But, mother, could we not contest his claim. You have your marriage
certificate and papa's will."
"Yes, my dear child, but Judge Starkins has decided that we have no
standing in the court, and no testimony according to law."
"Oh, mother, what can I do?"
"Nothing, my child, unless you can escape to the North."
"And leave you?"
"Yes."
"Mother, I will never desert you in your hour of trial. But can nothing
be done? Had father no friends who would assist us?"
"None that I know of. I do not think he had an acquaintance who approved
of our marriage. The neighboring planters have stood so aloof from me
that I do not know where to turn for either help or sympathy. I believe
it was Lorraine who sent the telegram. I wrote to you as soon as I could
after your father's death, but fainted just as I finished directing the
letter. I do not think he knows where your brother is, and, if possible,
he must not know. If you can by any means, _do_ send a letter to Harry
and warn him not to attempt to come home. I don't know how you will
succeed, for Lorraine has us all under surveillance. But it is according
to law."
"What law, mother?"
"The law of the strong against the weak."
"Oh, mother, it seems like a dreadful dream, a fearful nightmare! But I
cannot shake it off. Where is Gracie?"
"The dear child has been running down ever since her papa's death. She
clung to me night and day while I had the brain fever, and could not be
persuaded to leave me. She hardly ate anything for more than a week. She
has been dangerously ill for several days, and the doctor says she
cannot live. The fever has exhausted all her rallying power, and yet,
dear as she is to me, I would rather consign her to the deepest grave
than see her forced to be a slave."
"So would I. I wish I could die myself."
"Oh, Iola, do not talk so. Strive to be a Christian, to have faith in
the darkest hour. Were it not for my hope of heaven I couldn't stand all
this trouble."
"Mother, are these people Christians who made these laws which are
robbing us of our inheritance and reducing us to slavery? If this is
Christianity I hate and despise it. Would the most cruel heathen do
worse?"
"My dear child, I have not learned my Christianity from them. I have
learned it at the foot of the cross, and from this book," she said,
placing a New Testament in Iola's hands. "Some of the most beautiful
lessons of faith and trust I have ever learned were from among our lowly
people in their humble cabins."
"Mamma!" called a faint voice from the adjoining room. Marie
immediately arose and went to the bedside of her sick child, where Mammy
Liza was holding her faithful vigils. The child had just awakened from a
fitful sleep.
"I thought," she said, "that I heard Iola's voice. Has she come?"
"Yes, darling; do you want to see her?"
"Oh, yes," she said, as a bright smile broke over her dying features.
Iola passed quickly into the room. Gracie reached out her thin,
bloodless hand, clasped Iola's palm in hers, and said: "I am so glad you
have come. Dear Iola, stand by mother. You and Harry are all she has. It
is not hard to die. You and mother and Harry must meet me in heaven."
Swiftly the tidings went through the house that Gracie was dying. The
servants gathered around her with tearful eyes, as she bade them all
good-bye. When she had finished, and Mammy had lowered the pillow, an
unwonted radiance lit up her eye, and an expression of ineffable
gladness overspread her face, as she murmured: "It is beautiful, so
beautiful!" Fainter and fainter grew her voice, until, without a
struggle or sigh, she passed away beyond the power of oppression and
prejudice.
CHAPTER XIII.
A REJECTED SUITOR.
Very unexpected was Dr. Gresham's proposal to Iola. She had heartily
enjoyed his society and highly valued his friendship, but he had never
been associated in her mind with either love or marriage. As he held her
hand in his a tell-tale flush rose to her cheek, a look of grateful
surprise beamed from her eye, but it was almost immediately succeeded by
an air of inexpressible sadness, a drooping of her eyelids, and an
increasing pallor of her cheek. She withdrew her hand from his, shook
her head sadly, and said:--
"No, Doctor; that can never be. I am very grateful to you for your
kindness. I value your friendship, but neither gratitude nor friendship
is love, and I have nothing more than those to give."
"Not at present," said Dr. Gresham; "but may I not hope your friendship
will ripen into love?"
"Doctor, I could not promise. I do not think that I should. There are
barriers between us that I cannot pass. Were you to know them I think
you would say the same."
Just then the ambulance brought in a wounded scout, and Iola found
relief from the wounds of her own heart in attending to his.
Dr. Gresham knew the barrier that lay between them. It was one which his
love had surmounted. But he was too noble and generous to take advantage
of her loneliness to press his suit. He had lived in a part of the
country where he had scarcely ever seen a colored person, and around the
race their misfortunes had thrown a halo of romance. To him the negro
was a picturesque being, over whose woes he had wept when a child, and
whose wrongs he was ready to redress when a man. But when he saw the
lovely girl who had been rescued by the commander of the post from the
clutches of slavery, all the manhood and chivalry in his nature arose in
her behalf, and he was ready to lay on the altar of her heart his first
grand and overmastering love. Not discouraged by her refusal, but
determined to overcome her objections, Dr. Gresham resolved that he
would abide his time.
Iola was not indifferent to Dr. Gresham. She admired his manliness and
respected his character. He was tall and handsome, a fine specimen of
the best brain and heart of New England. He had been nurtured under
grand and ennobling influences. His father was a devoted Abolitionist.
His mother was kind-hearted, but somewhat exclusive and aristocratic.
She would have looked upon his marriage with Iola as a mistake and
feared that such an alliance would hurt the prospects of her daughters.
During Iola's stay in the North, she had learned enough of the racial
feeling to influence her decision in reference to Dr. Gresham's offer.
Iola, like other girls, had had her beautiful day-dreams before she was
rudely awakened by the fate which had dragged her into the depths of
slavery. In the chambers of her imagery were pictures of noble deeds; of
high, heroic men, knightly, tender, true, and brave. In Dr. Gresham she
saw the ideal of her soul exemplified. But in her lonely condition,
with all its background of terrible sorrow and deep abasement, she had
never for a moment thought of giving or receiving love from one of that
race who had been so lately associated in her mind with horror,
aversion, and disgust. His kindness to her had been a new experience.
His companionship was an unexpected pleasure. She had learned to enjoy
his presence and to miss him when absent, and when she began to question
her heart she found that unconsciously it was entwining around him.
"Yes," she said to herself, "I do like him; but I can never marry him.
To the man I marry my heart must be as open as the flowers to the sun. I
could not accept his hand and hide from him the secret of my birth; and
I could not consent to choose the happiest lot on earth without first
finding my poor heart-stricken and desolate mother. Perhaps some day I
may have the courage to tell him my sad story, and then make my heart
the sepulchre in which to bury all the love which might have gladdened
and brightened my whole life."
During the sad and weary months which ensued while the war dragged its
slow length along, Dr. Gresham and Iola often met by the bedsides of the
wounded and dying, and sometimes he would drop a few words at which her
heart would beat quicker and her cheek flush more vividly. But he was so
kind, tender, and respectful, that Iola had no idea he knew her race
affiliations. She knew from unmistakable signs that Dr. Gresham had
learned to love her, and that he had power to call forth the warmest
affection of her soul; but she fought with her own heart and repressed
its rising love. She felt that it was best for his sake that they should
not marry. When she saw the evidences of his increasing love she
regretted that she had not informed him at the first of the barrier that
lay between them; it might have saved him unnecessary suffering.
Thinking thus, Iola resolved, at whatever cost of pain it might be to
herself, to explain to Dr. Gresham what she meant by the insurmountable
barrier. Iola, after a continuous strain upon her nervous system for
months, began to suffer from general debility and nervous depression.
Dr. Gresham saw the increasing pallor on Iola's cheek and the loss of
buoyancy in her step. One morning, as she turned from the bed of a young
soldier for whom she had just written a letter to his mother, there was
such a look of pity and sorrow on her face that Dr. Gresham's whole
heart went out in sympathy for her, and he resolved to break the silence
he had imposed upon himself.
"Iola," he said, and there was a depth of passionate tenderness in his
voice, a volume of unexpressed affection in his face, "you are wronging
yourself. You are sinking beneath burdens too heavy for you to bear. It
seems to me that besides the constant drain upon your sympathies there
is some great sorrow preying upon your life; some burden that ought to
be shared." He gazed upon her so ardently that each cord of her heart
seemed to vibrate, and unbidden tears sprang to her lustrous eyes, as
she said, sadly:--
"Doctor, you are right."
"Iola, my heart is longing to lift those burdens from your life. Love,
like faith, laughs at impossibilities. I can conceive of no barrier too
high for my love to surmount. Consent to be mine, as nothing else on
earth is mine."
"Doctor, you know not what you ask," replied Iola. "Instead of coming
into this hospital a self-sacrificing woman, laying her every gift and
advantage upon the altar of her country, I came as a rescued slave, glad
to find a refuge from a fate more cruel than death; a fate from which I
was rescued by the intervention of my dear dead friend, Thomas Anderson.
I was born on a lonely plantation on the Mississippi River, where the
white population was very sparse. We had no neighbors who ever visited
us; no young white girls with whom I ever played in my childhood; but,
never having enjoyed such companionship, I was unconscious of any sense
of privation. Our parents spared no pains to make the lives of their
children (we were three) as bright and pleasant as they could. Our home
was so happy. We had a large number of servants, who were devoted to us.
I never had the faintest suspicion that there was any wrongfulness in
slavery, and I never dreamed of the dreadful fate which broke in a storm
of fearful anguish over our devoted heads. Papa used to take us to New
Orleans to see the Mardi Gras, and while there we visited the theatres
and other places of amusement and interest. At home we had books,
papers, and magazines to beguile our time. Perfectly ignorant of my
racial connection, I was sent to a Northern academy, and soon made many
friends among my fellow-students. Companionship with girls of my own age
was a new experience, which I thoroughly enjoyed. I spent several years
in New England, and was busily preparing for my commencement exercises
when my father was snatched away--died of yellow fever on his way North
to witness my graduation. Through a stratagem, I was brought hurriedly
from the North, and found that my father was dead; that his nearest
kinsman had taken possession of our property; that my mother's marriage
had been declared illegal, because of an imperceptible infusion of negro
blood in her veins; and that she and her children had been remanded to
slavery. I was torn from my mother, sold as a slave, and subjected to
cruel indignities, from which I was rescued and a place given to me in
this hospital. Doctor, I did not choose my lot in life, but I have no
other alternative than to accept it. The intense horror and agony I felt
when I was first told the story are over. Thoughts and purposes have
come to me in the shadow I should never have learned in the sunshine. I
am constantly rousing myself up to suffer and be strong. I intend, when
this conflict is over, to cast my lot with the freed people as a helper,
teacher, and friend. I have passed through a fiery ordeal, but this
ministry of suffering will not be in vain. I feel that my mind has
matured beyond my years. I am a wonder to myself. It seems as if years
had been compressed into a few short months. In telling you this, do you
not, can you not, see that there is an insurmountable barrier between
us?"
"No, I do not," replied Dr. Gresham. "I love you for your own sake. And
with this the disadvantages of birth have nothing to do."
"You say so now, and I believe that you are perfectly sincere. Today
your friendship springs from compassion, but, when that subsides, might
you not look on me as an inferior?"
"Iola, you do not understand me. You think too meanly of me. You must
not judge me by the worst of my race. Surely our country has produced a
higher type of manhood than the men by whom you were tried and tempted."
"Tried, but not tempted," said Iola, as a deep flush overspread her
face; "I was never tempted. I was sold from State to State as an article
of merchandise. I had outrages heaped on me which might well crimson the
cheek of honest womanhood with shame, but I never fell into the clutches
of an owner for whom I did not feel the utmost loathing and intensest
horror. I have heard men talk glibly of the degradation of the negro,
but there is a vast difference between abasement of condition and
degradation of character. I was abased, but the men who trampled on me
were the degraded ones."
"But, Iola, you must not blame all for what a few have done."
"A few have done? Did not the whole nation consent to our abasement?"
asked Iola, bitterly.
"No, Miss Iola, we did not all consent to it. Slavery drew a line of
cleavage in this country. Although we were under one government we were
farther apart in our sentiments than if we had been divided by lofty
mountains and separated by wide seas. And had not Northern sentiment
been brought to bear against the institution, slavery would have been
intact until to-day."
"But, Doctor, the negro is under a social ban both North and South. Our
enemies have the ear of the world, and they can depict us just as they
please."
"That is true; but the negro has no other alternative than to make
friends of his calamities. Other men have plead his cause, but out of
the race must come its own defenders. With them the pen must be
mightier than the sword. It is the weapon of civilization, and they must
use it in their own defense. We cannot tell what is in them until they
express themselves."
"Yes, and I think there is a large amount of latent and undeveloped
ability in the race, which they will learn to use for their own benefit.
This my hospital experience has taught me."
"But," said Dr. Gresham, "they must learn to struggle, labor, and
achieve. By facts, not theories, they will be judged in the future. The
Anglo-Saxon race is proud, domineering, aggressive, and impatient of a
rival, and, as I think, has more capacity for dragging down a weaker
race than uplifting it. They have been a conquering and achieving
people, marvelous in their triumphs of mind over matter. They have
manifested the traits of character which are developed by success and
victory."
"And yet," said Iola, earnestly, "I believe the time will come when the
civilization of the negro will assume a better phase than you
Anglo-Saxons possess. You will prove unworthy of your high vantage
ground if you only use your superior ability to victimize feebler races
and minister to a selfish greed of gold and a love of domination."
"But, Iola," said Dr. Gresham, a little impatiently, "what has all this
to do with our marriage? Your complexion is as fair as mine. What is to
hinder you from sharing my Northern home, from having my mother to be
your mother?" The tones of his voice grew tender, as he raised his eyes
to Iola's face and anxiously awaited her reply.
"Dr. Gresham," said Iola, sadly, "should the story of my life be
revealed to your family, would they be willing to ignore all the
traditions of my blood, forget all the terrible humiliations through
which I have passed? I have too much self-respect to enter your home
under a veil of concealment. I have lived in New England. I love the
sunshine of her homes and the freedom of her institutions. But New
England is not free from racial prejudice, and I would never enter a
family where I would be an unwelcome member."
"Iola, dear, you have nothing to fear in that direction."
"Doctor," she said, and a faint flush rose to her cheek, "suppose we
should marry, and little children in after years should nestle in our
arms, and one of them show unmistakable signs of color, would you be
satisfied?"
She looked steadfastly into his eyes, which fell beneath her
truth-seeking gaze. His face flushed as if the question had suddenly
perplexed him. Iola saw the irresolution on his face, and framed her
answer accordingly.
"Ah, I see," she said, "that you are puzzled. You had not taken into
account what might result from such a marriage. I will relieve you from
all embarrassment by simply saying I cannot be your wife. When the war
is over I intend to search the country for my mother. Doctor, were you
to give me a palace-like home, with velvet carpets to hush my tread, and
magnificence to surround my way, I should miss her voice amid all other
tones, her presence amid every scene. Oh, you do not know how hungry my
heart is for my mother! Were I to marry you I would carry an aching
heart into your home and dim its brightness. I have resolved never to
marry until I have found my mother. The hope of finding her has colored
all my life since I regained my freedom. It has helped sustain me in the
hour of fearful trial. When I see her I want to have the proud
consciousness that I bring her back a heart just as loving, faithful,
and devoted as the last hour we parted."
"And is this your final answer?"
"It is. I have pledged my life to that resolve, and I believe time and
patience will reward me."
There was a deep shadow of sorrow and disappointment on the face of Dr.
Gresham as he rose to leave. For a moment he held her hand as it lay
limp in his own. If she wavered in her determination it was only for a
moment. No quivering of her lip or paling of her cheek betrayed any
struggle of her heart. Her resolve was made, and his words were
powerless to swerve her from the purpose of her soul.
After Dr. Gresham had gone Iola went to her room and sat buried in
thought. It seemed as if the fate of Tantalus was hers, without his
crimes. Here she was lonely and heart-stricken, and unto her was
presented the offer of love, home, happiness, and social position; the
heart and hand of a man too noble and generous to refuse her
companionship for life on account of the blood in her veins. Why should
she refuse these desirable boons? But, mingling with these beautiful
visions of manly love and protecting care she saw the anguish of her
heart-stricken mother and the pale, sweet face of her dying sister, as
with her latest breath she had said, "Iola, stand by mamma!"
"No, no," she said to herself; "I was right to refuse Dr. Gresham. How
dare I dream of happiness when my poor mamma's heart may be slowly
breaking? I should be ashamed to live and ashamed to die were I to
choose a happy lot for myself and leave poor mamma to struggle alone. I
will never be satisfied till I get tidings of her. And when I have found
her I will do all I can to cheer and brighten the remnant of her life."
CHAPTER XIV.
HARRY LEROY.
It was several weeks after Iola had written to her brother that her
letter reached him. The trusty servant to whom she delivered it watched
his opportunity to mail it. At last he succeeded in slipping it into
Lorraine's mail and dropping them all into the post office together.
Harry was studying at a boys' academy in Maine. His father had given
that State the preference because, while on a visit there, he had been
favorably impressed with the kindness and hospitality of the people. He
had sent his son a large sum of money, and given him permission to spend
awhile with some school-chums till he was ready to bring the family
North, where they could all spend the summer together. Harry had
returned from his visit, and was looking for letters and remittances
from home, when a letter, all crumpled, was handed him by the principal
of the academy. He recognized his sister's handwriting and eagerly
opened the letter. As he read, he turned very pale; then a deep flush
overspread his face and an angry light flashed from his eyes. As he read
on, his face became still paler; he gasped for breath and fell into a
swoon. Appalled at the sudden change which had swept over him like a
deadly sirocco, the principal rushed to the fallen boy, picked up the
missive that lay beside him, and immediately rang for help and
dispatched for the doctor. The doctor came at once and was greatly
puzzled. Less than an hour before, he had seen him with a crowd of
merry, laughter-loving boys, apparently as light-hearted and joyous as
any of them; now he lay with features drawn and pinched, his face deadly
pale, as if some terrible suffering had sent all the blood in his veins
to stagnate around his heart. Harry opened his eyes, shuddered, and
relapsed into silence. The doctor, all at sea in regard to the cause of
the sudden attack, did all that he could to restore him to consciousness
and quiet the perturbation of his spirit. He succeeded, but found he was
strangely silent. A terrible shock had sent a tremor through every
nerve, and the doctor watched with painful apprehension its effect upon
his reason. Giving him an opiate and enjoining that he should be kept
perfectly quiet, the doctor left the room, sought the principal, and
said:--
"Mr. Bascom, here is a case that baffles my skill. I saw that boy pass
by my window not more than half an hour ago, full of animation, and now
he lies hovering between life and death. I have great apprehension for
his reason. Can you throw any light on the subject?"
Mr. Bascom hesitated.
"I am not asking you as a matter of idle curiosity, but as a physician.
I must have all the light I can get in making my diagnosis of the case."
The principal arose, went to his desk, took out the letter which he had
picked up from the floor, and laid it in the physician's hand. As the
doctor read, a look of indignant horror swept over his face. Then he
said: "Can it be possible! I never suspected such a thing. It must be a
cruel, senseless hoax."
"Doctor," said Mr. Bascom, "I have been a life-long Abolitionist and
have often read of the cruelties and crimes of American slavery, but
never before did I realize the low moral tone of the social life under
which such shameless cruelties could be practiced on a defenseless widow
and her orphaned children. Let me read the letter again. Just look at
it, all tear-blotted and written with a trembling hand:--
'DEAR BROTHER:--I have dreadful news for you and I hardly know how
to tell it. Papa and Gracie are both dead. He died of yellow fever.
Mamma is almost distracted. Papa's cousin has taken possession of
our property, and instead of heirs we are chattels. Mamma has
explained the whole situation to me. She was papa's slave before she
married. He loved her, manumitted, educated, and married her. When
he died Mr. Lorraine entered suit for his property and Judge
Starkins has decided in his favor. The decree of the court has made
their marriage invalid, robbed us of our inheritance, and remanded
us all to slavery. Mamma is too wretched to attempt to write
herself, but told me to entreat you not to attempt to come home. You
can do us no good, and that mean, cruel Lorraine may do you much
harm. Don't attempt, I beseech you, to come home. Show this letter
to Mr. Bascom and let him advise you what to do. But don't, for our
sake, attempt to come home.
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