Peculiar: A Tale of the Great Transition

“Pain has its own noble joy when it kindles a consciousness of life, before stagnant and torpid.”—John Sterling.

Children are quick to detect flaws in the genealogy of their associates. School-girls are quite as exclusive in their notions as our grown-up leaders of society. Woe to the candidate for companionship on whose domestic record there hangs a doubt!

Mrs. Gentry having felt it her duty to inform her pupils that Clara was not a lady, the latter was thenceforth “left out in the cold” by the little Brahmins of the seminary. She would sit, like a criminal, apart from the rest, or in play-hours seek the company, either of Esha or the mocking-bird.

One circumstance puzzled the other young ladies. They could not understand why, in the more showy accomplishments of music, singing, and dancing, more expense should be bestowed on Clara’s education than on theirs. The elegance and variety of her toilet excited at once their envy and their curiosity.

Clara, finding that she was held back from serious studies, gave her thoughts to them all the more resolutely, and excelled in them so far as to shock the conservative notions of Mrs. Gentry, who thought such acquisitions presumptuous in a slave. The pupils all tossed their little heads, and turned their backs, when Clara drew near. All but one. Laura Tremaine prized Clara’s counsels on questions of dress, and defied the jeers and frowns that would deter her from cultivating the acquaintance of one suspected of ignoble birth. Something almost like a friendship grew up between the two. Laura was the only daughter of a wealthy cotton-broker who resided the greater part of the year in New Orleans, at the St. Charles Hotel.

The two girls used to stroll through the garden with arms about each other’s waist. One day Clara, in a gush of candor, not only avowed herself an Abolitionist, but tried to convert Laura to the heresy. Quelle horreur! There was at once a cessation of the intimacy,—-Laura exacting a recantation which the little infidel proudly refused.

The disagreement had occurred only a few days before that flight of Clara’s in which we must now follow her. After parting from Esha, she walked for some distance, ignorant why she selected one direction rather than another, and having no clearly defined purpose as to her destination. She had promenaded thus about an hour, when she saw a barouche approaching. The occupant, a man, sat leaning lazily back with his feet up on the opposite cushions. A black driver and footman, both in livery, filled the lofty front seat. As the vehicle rolled on, Clara recognized Ratcliff. She shuddered and dropped her veil.

Fortunately he was half asleep, and did not see her.

Whither now? Of two streets she chose the more obscure. On she walked, and the carpet-bag began to be an encumbrance. The heat was oppressive. Occasionally a passer-by among the young men would say to an acquaintance, “Did you notice that figure?” One man offered to carry the bag. She declined his aid. On and on she walked. Whither and why? She could not explain. All at once it occurred to her she was wasting her strength in an objectless promenade.

Her utterly forlorn condition revealed itself in all its desolateness and danger. She stopped under the shade of a magnolia-tree, and, leaning against the trunk, put back her veil, and wiped the moisture from her face. She had been walking more than two hours, and was overheated and fatigued. What should she do? The tears began to flow at the thought that the question was one for which she had no reply.

Suddenly she looked round with the vague sense that some one was watching her. She encountered the gaze of a gentleman who, with an air of mingled curiosity and compassion, stood observing her grief. He wore a loose frock of buff nankin, with white vest and pantaloons; and on his head was a hat of very fine Panama straw. Whether he was young or old Clara did not remark. She only knew that a face beautiful from its compassion beamed on her, and that it was the face of a gentleman.

“Can I assist you?” he asked.

“No, thank you,” replied Clara. “I’m fatigued,—that’s all,—and am resting here a few minutes.”

“Here’s a little house that belongs to me,” said the gentleman, pointing to a neat though small wooden tenement before which they were standing. “I do not live here, but the family who do will be pleased to receive you for my sake. You shall have a room all to yourself, and rest there till you are refreshed. Do you distrust me, my child?”

There are faces out of which Truth looks so unequivocally, that to distrust them seems like a profanation. Clara did not distrust, and yet she hesitated, and replied through her tears, “No, I do not distrust you, but I’ve no claim on your kindness.”

“Ah! but you have a claim,” said Vance (for it was he); “you are unhappy, and the unhappy are my brothers and my sisters. I’ve been unhappy myself. I knew one years ago, young like you, and like you unhappy, and through her also you have a claim. There! Let me relieve you of that bag. Now take my arm. Good! This way.” Clara’s tears gushed forth anew at these words, and yet less at the words than at the tone in which they were uttered. So musical and yet so melancholy was that tone.

He knocked at the door. It was opened by Madame Bernard, a spruce little Frenchwoman, who had married a journeyman printer, and who felt unbounded gratitude to Vance for his gift of the rent of the little house.

“Is it you, Mr. Vance? We’ve been wondering why you didn’t come.”

“Madame Bernard, this young lady is fatigued. I wish her to rest in my room.”

“The room of Monsieur is always in order. Follow me, my dear.”

And, taking the carpet-bag, Madame conducted her to the little chamber, then asked: “Now what will you have, my dear? A little claret and water? Some fruit or cake?”

“Nothing, thank you. I’ll rest on the sofa awhile. You’re very kind. The gentleman’s name is Vance, is it?”

“Yes; is he not an acquaintance?”

“I never saw him till three minutes ago. He noticed me resting, and, I fear, weeping in the street, and he asked me in here to rest.”

“’T was just like him. He’s so good, so generous! He gives me the rent of this house with the pretty garden attached. You can see it from the window. Look at the grapes. He reserves for himself this room, which I daily dust and keep in order. Poor man! ’T was here he passed the few months of his marriage, years ago. His wife died, and he bought the house, and has kept it in repair ever since. This used to be their sleeping-room. ’T was also their parlor, for they were poor. There’s their little case of books. Here’s the piano on which they used to play duets. ’T was a hired piano, and was returned to the owner; but Mr. Vance found it in an old warehouse, not long ago, had it put in order, and brought here. ’T is one of Chickering’s best; a superb instrument. You should hear Mr. Vance play on it.”

“Does he play well?” asked Clara, who had almost forgotten her own troubles in listening to the little woman’s gossip.

“Ah! you never heard such playing! I know something of music. My family is musical. I flatter myself I’m a judge. I’ve heard Thalberg, Vieuxtemps, Jael, Gottschalk; and Mr. Vance plays better than any of them.”

“Is he a professor?”

“No, merely an amateur. But he puts a soul into the notes. Do you play at all, my dear?”

“Yes, I began to learn so early that I cannot recollect the time when.”

“I thought you must be musical. Just try this instrument, my dear, that is, if you ’re not too tired.”

“Certainly, if ’t will oblige you.”

Seating herself at the piano, Clara played, from Donizetti’s Lucia, Edgardo’s melodious wail of abandonment and despair, “L’ universo intero e un deserto per me sensa Lucia.”

Mrs. Bernard had opened the door that Vance might hear. At the conclusion he knocked and entered. “Is this the way you rest yourself, young pilgrim?” he asked. “You’re a proficient, I see. You’ve been made to practise four hours a day.”

“Yes, ever since I can remember.”

“So I should think. Now let me hear something in a different vein.”

Clara, while the blood mounted to her forehead, and her whole frame dilated, struck into the “Star-spangled Banner,” playing it with her whole soul, and at the close singing the refrain,

“But that’s treason!” cried Mrs. Bernard.

“Yes, Mrs. Bernard,” said Vance, “run at once to the police-station. Tell them to send a file of soldiers. We must have her arrested.”

“O no, no!” exclaimed Clara, deceived by Vance’s grave acting. Then, seeing her mistake, she laughed, and said: “That’s too bad. I thought for a moment you were in earnest.”

“We will spare you this time,” said Vance, with a smile that made his whole face luminous; “but should outsiders in the street hear you, they may not be so forbearing. They will tear our little house down if you’re not careful.”

“I’ll not be so imprudent again,” returned Clara. “Will you play for me, sir?” And she resumed her seat on the sofa.

Vance played some extemporized variations on the Carnival of Venice; and Clara, who had regarded Mrs. Bernard’s praises as extravagant, now concluded they were the literal truth. “Oh!” she exclaimed, naively, “I never heard playing like that. Do not ask me to play before you again, sir.”

Mrs. Bernard left to attend to the affairs of the cuisine.

“Now, mademoiselle,” said Vance, “what can I do before I go?”

“All I want,” replied Clara, “is time to arrange some plan. I left home so suddenly I’m quite at a loss.”

“Do I understand you’ve left your parents?”

“I have no parents, sir.”

“Then a near relation, or a guardian?”

“Neither, sir. I am independent of all ties.”

“Have you no friend to whom you can go for advice?”

“I had a friend, but she gave me up because I’m an Abolitionist.”

“My poor little lady! An Abolitionist? You? In times like these? When Sumter has fallen, too? No wonder your friend has cast you off. Who is she?”

“Miss Laura Tremaine. She lives at the St. Charles. Do you know her, sir?”

“Slightly. I met her in the drawing-room not long since. She does not appear unamiable. But why are you an Abolitionist?”

“Because I believe in God.”

Vance felt that this was the summing-up of the whole matter. He looked with new interest on the “little lady.” In height she was somewhat shorter than Estelle,—not much over five feet two and a half. Not from her features, but from the maturity of their expression, he judged she might have reached her eighteenth year. Somewhat more of a brunette than Estelle, and with fine abundant hair of a light brown. Eyes—he could not quite see their color; but they were vivid, penetrating, earnest. Features regular, and a profile even more striking in its beauty than her front face. A figure straight and slim, but exquisitely rounded, and every movement revealing some new grace. Where had he seen a face like it?

After a few moments of contemplation, he said: “Do not think me impertinently curious. You have been well educated. You have not had to labor for a living. Are the persons to whom you’ve been indebted for support no longer your friends?”

“They are my worst enemies, and all that has been bestowed on me has been from hateful motives and calculations.”—“Now I’m going to ask a very delicate question. Are you provided with money?”—“O yes, sir, amply.”—“How much have you?”—“Twenty dollars.”—“Indeed! Are you so rich as that? What’s your name?”—“The name I’ve been brought up under is Ellen Murray; but I hate it.”—“Why so?”—“Because of a dream.”—“A dream! And what was it?”—“Shall I relate it?”—“By all means.”

“I dreamed that a beautiful lady led me by the hand into a spacious garden. On one side were fruits, and on the other side flowers, and in the middle a circle of brilliant verbenas from the centre of which rose a tall fountain, fed from a high hill in the neighborhood. And the lady said, ‘This is your garden, and your name is not Ellen Murray.’ Then she gave me a letter sealed with blue—no, gray—wax, and said, ‘Put this letter on your eyes, and you shall find it there when you wake. Some one will open it, and your name will be seen written there, though you may not understand it at first.’ ‘But am I not awake?’ I asked. ‘O no,’ said the lady. ‘This is all a dream. But we can sometimes impress those we love in this way.’ ‘And who are you?’ I asked. ‘That you will know when you interpret the letter,’ she said.”

“And what resulted from the dream?”—“The moment I waked I put my hand on my eyes. Of course I found no letter. The next night the lady came again, and said, ‘The seal cannot be broken by yourself. Your name is not Ellen Murray,—remember that.’ A third night this dream beset me, and so forcibly that I resolved to get rid of the name as far as I could. And so I made my friends call me Darling.”

“Well, Darling, as you—”—“O, but, sir! you must not call me Darling. That would never do!”—“What can I call you, then?”—“Call me Miss, or Mademoiselle.”—“Well, Miss.”—“No, I do not like the sibilation.”—“Will Ma’am do any better?”—“Not till I’m more venerable. Call me Perdita.”—“Perdita what?”—“Perdita Brown,—yes, I love the name of Brown.”

“Well, Perdita, as you’ve not quite made up your mind to seek the protection of Miss Tremaine, my advice is that you remain here till to-morrow. Here is a little case filled with books; and on the shelf of the closet is plenty of old music,—works of Handel, Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Schubert, and some of the Italian masters. Do you play Schubert’s Sacred Song?”—“I never heard it.”—“Learn it, then, by all means. ’T is in that book. Shall I tell Mrs. Bernard you’ll pass the night here?”—“Do, sir. I’m very grateful for your kindness.”—“Good by, Perdita! Should anything detain me to-morrow, wait till I come. Keep up your four hours’ practice. Madame Bernard is amiable, but a little talkative. I shall tell her to allow you five hours for your studies. Adieu, Perdita!”

He held out his hand, and Clara gave hers, and cast down her eyes. “You’ve told me a true story?” said he. “Yes! I will trust you.”

“Indeed, sir, I’ve told you nothing but the truth.”

Yes. She had told the truth, but unhappily not the whole truth. And yet how she longed to kneel at his feet and confess all! Various motives withheld her. She was not quite sure how he had received her antislavery confessions. He might be a friend of Mr. Ratcliff. There was dismay in the very possibility. And finally a certain pride or prudence restrained her from throwing herself on the protection of a stranger not of her own sex.

And so the golden opportunity was allowed to escape!

Vance lingered for a moment holding her hand, as if to invite her to a further confidence; but she said nothing, and he left the room. Clara opened the music-book at Schubert’s piece, and commenced playing. Vance stopped on the stairs and listened, keeping time approvingly. “Good!” he said. Then telling the little landlady not to interrupt Miss Brown’s studies, he quitted the house, walking in the direction of the hotel.

Clara practised till she could play from memory the charming composition commended by Vance. Then she threw herself on the bed and fell asleep. She had not remained thus an hour when there was a knock. Dinner! Mr. Bernard had come in; a dapper little man, so remarkably well satisfied with himself, his wife, and his bill of fare, that he repeatedly had to lay down knife and fork and rub his hands in glee.

“Are you related to Mr. Vance?” he asked Clara.

“Not at all. He saw me in the street, weary and distressed. The truth is, I had left my home for a good reason. I have no parents, you must consider. He asked me in here. From his looks I judged he was a man to trust. I gladly accepted his invitation.”

“Truly he’s a friend in need, Mademoiselle. I saw him do another kind thing to-day.”

“What was it?”

“It happened only an hour ago in Carondelet Street. A ragged fellow was haranguing a crowd. He spoke on the wrong side,—in short, in favor of the old flag. Some laughed, some hissed, some applauded. Suddenly a party of men, armed with swords and muskets, pushed through the crowd, and seized the speaker. They formed a court, Judge Lynch presiding, under a palmetto. They decided that the vagabond should be hung. He had already been badly pricked in the flank with a bayonet. And now a table was brought out, he was placed on it, and a rope put round his neck and tied to a bough. Decidedly they were going to string him up.”

“Good heavens!” cried Clara, who, as the story proceeded, had turned pale and thrust away the plate of food from before her. “Did you make no effort to save him?”

“What could I do? They would merely have got another rope, and made me keep him company. Well, the mob were expecting an entertainment. They were about to knock away the table, when Monsieur Vance pushed through the crowd, hauled off the hangman, and, jumping on the table, cut the rope, and lifted the prisoner faint and bleeding to the ground. What a yell from Judge Lynch and the court! Monsieur Vance, his coat and vest all bloody from contact with—”

“What a shame!” interposed Mrs. Bernard. “A coat and vest he must have put on clean this morning! So nicely ironed and starched!”

“But my story agitates you, Mademoiselle,” said the typesetter. “You look pale.” And the little man, not regarding the inappropriateness of the act, rubbed his hands.

“Go on,” replied Clara; and she sipped from a tumbler of cold water.

“There’s little more to say, Mademoiselle. Messieurs, the bullies, drew their swords on Monsieur Vance. He showed a revolver, and they fell back. Then he talked to them till they cooled down, gave him three cheers, and went off. I and old Mr. Winslow helped him to find a carriage. We put the wounded man into it. He was driven to the hospital, and his wound attended to. ’T is serious, I believe.”

And Bernard again rubbed his hands.

“And was that the last you saw of Mr. Vance?” asked Clara.

“The last. Shall I help you to some pine-apple, Mademoiselle?”

“No, thank you. I’ve finished my dinner. You will excuse me.”

And she returned to the little room assigned to her use.