Chapter Seven.
The Middy obtains a Decided Advance, and Makes Peter the Great his Confidant.
Many months passed, after the events narrated in the last chapter, before George Foster had the good-fortune to meet again with Hugh Sommers, and several weeks elapsed before he had the chance of another interview with the daughter.
Indeed, he was beginning to despair of ever again seeing either the one or the other, and it required the utmost energy and the most original suggestions of a hopeful nature on the part of his faithful friend to prevent his giving way altogether, and having, as Peter expressed it, “anoder fit ob de blues.”
At last fortune favoured him. He was busy in the garden one day planting flowers, when Peter came to him and said—
“I’s got news for you to-day, Geo’ge.”
“Indeed,” said the middy, with a weary sigh; “what may your news be?”
“You ’member dat pictur’ ob de coffee-house in de town what you doo’d?”
“Yes, now you mention it, I do, though I had almost forgotten it.”
“Ah! but I not forgit ’im! Well, yesterday I tuk it to massa, an’ he bery much pleased. He say, bring you up to de house, an’ he gib you some work to do.”
“I wish,” returned Foster, “that he’d ask me to make a portrait of little Hester Sommers.”
“You forgit, Geo’ge, de Moors neber git deir portraits doo’d. Dey ’fraid ob de evil eye.”
“Well, when are we to go up?”
“Now—I jist come for you.”
Throwing down his garden tools, Foster followed the negro to the house, and was ushered into a small chamber, the light of which was rendered soft and mellow by the stained glass windows through which it passed. These windows were exceedingly small—not more than a foot high by eight inches broad—and they were placed in the walls at a height of nine feet or more from the ground. The walls of the room were decorated with richly-coloured tiles, and the floor was of white marble, but the part that attracted our hero most was the ceiling, which was arched, according to Moorish form, and enriched with elaborate designs in stucco—if not in white marble, the difference being difficult to distinguish. On the marble floor lay several shawls, richly embroidered in coloured silk and gold, a pair of small scarlet slippers, covered with gold thread, a thin veil, and several cushions of different sizes. On one of these last reposed a little tame gazelle, whose bright eyes greeted the two slaves with an inquiring look as they entered.
From all these things Foster judged that this was one of the women’s apartments, and wondered much that he had been admitted into such a jealously-guarded sanctuary, but relieved his mind by setting it down to that eccentricity for which Ben-Ahmed was noted.
He had just arrived at this conclusion when a door opened, and Ben-Ahmed himself entered with the sketch of the coffee-house in his hand.
“Tell him,” said the Moor to Peter, “that I am much pleased with this drawing, and wish him to make one, a little larger in size, of this room. Let him put into it everything that he sees. He will find paper in that portfolio, and all else that he requires on this ottoman. Let him take time, and do it well. He need not work in the garden while thus employed.”
Pointing to the various things to which he referred, the Moor turned and left the apartment.
“Now, Geo’ge, what you t’ink ob all dat?” asked Peter, with a broad grin, when he had translated the Moor’s orders.
“Really I don’t know what to think of it. Undoubtedly it is a step upwards, as compared with working in the garden; but then, don’t you see, Peter, it will give me much less of your company, which will be a tremendous drawback?”
“Das well said. You’s kite right. I hab notice from de fus’ dat you hab a well-constitooted mind, an’ appruciates de value ob friendship. I lub your smood face, Geo’ge!”
“I hope you love more of me than my smooth face, Peter,” returned the middy, “otherwise your love won’t continue, for there are certain indications on my upper lip which assure me that the smoothness won’t last long.”
“Hol’ your tongue, sar! What you go on jabberin’ so to me when you’s got work to do, sar!” said Peter fiercely, with a threatening motion of his fist. “Go to work at once, you white slabe!”
Our hero was taken aback for a moment by this sudden explosion, but the presence of a negro girl, who had entered softly by a door at his back, at once revealed to him the truth that Peter the Great had donned the garb of the hypocrite. Although unused and very much averse to such costume, he felt compelled in some degree to adopt it, and, bowing his head, not only humbly, but in humiliation, he went silently towards his drawing materials, while the girl placed a tumbler of water on a small table and retired.
Turning round, he found that Peter had also disappeared from the scene.
At first he imagined that the water was meant for his refreshment, but on examining the materials on the ottoman he found a box of water-colour paints, which accounted for its being sent.
Although George Foster had never been instructed in painting, he possessed considerable natural talent, and was intensely fond of the art. It was, therefore, with feelings of delight which he had not experienced for many a day that he began to arrange his materials and set about this new and congenial work.
Among other things he found a small easel, which had a very Anglican aspect about it. Wondering how it had got there, he set it up, with a sheet of paper on it, tried various parts of the room, in order to find out the best position for a picture, and went through that interesting series of steppings back and puttings of the head on one side which seem to be inseparably connected with true art.
While thus engaged in the profound silence of that luxurious apartment, with its “dim religious light,” now glancing at the rich ceiling, anon at the fair sheet of paper, he chanced to look below the margin of the latter and observed, through the legs of the easel, that the gorgeous eyes of the gazelle were fixed on him in apparent wonder.
He advanced to it at once, holding out a hand coaxingly. The pretty creature allowed him to approach within a few inches, and then bounded from its cushion like a thing of india-rubber to the other end of the room, where it faced about and gazed again.
“You gaze well, pretty creature,” thought the embryo artist. “Perhaps that’s the origin of your name! Humph! you won’t come to me?”
The latter part of his thoughts he expressed aloud, but the animal made no response. It evidently threw the responsibility of taking the initiative on the man.
Our middy was naturally persevering in character. Laying aside his pencil, he sat down on the marble floor, put on his most seductive expression, held out his hand gently, and muttered soft encouragements—such as, “Now then, Spunkie, come here, an’ don’t be silly—” and the like. But “Spunkie” still stood immovable and gazed.
Then the middy took to advancing in a sitting posture—after a manner known to infants—at the same time intensifying the urbanity of his look and the wheedlement of his tone. The gazelle suffered him to approach until his fingers were within an inch of its nose. There the middy stopped. He had studied animal nature. He was aware that it takes two to love as well as to quarrel. He resolved to wait. Seeing this, the gazelle timidly advanced its little nose and touched his finger. He scratched gently! Spunkie seemed to like it. He scratched progressively up its forehead. Spunkie evidently enjoyed it. He scratched behind its ear, and—the victory was gained! The gazelle, dismissing all fear, advanced and rubbed its graceful head on his shoulder.
“Well, you are a nice little beast,” said Foster, as he fondled it; “whoever owns you must be very kind to you, but I can’t afford to waste more time with you. Must get to work.”
He rose and returned to his easel while the gazelle trotted to its cushion and lay down—to sleep? perchance to dream?—no, to gaze, as before, but in mitigated wonder.
The amateur painter-slave now applied himself diligently to his work with ever-increasing interest; yet not altogether without an uncomfortable and humiliating conviction that if he did not do it with reasonable rapidity, and give moderate satisfaction, he ran the chance of being “whacked” if not worse!
Let not the reader imagine that we are drawing the longbow here, and making these Moors to be more cruel than they really were. Though Ben-Ahmed was an amiable specimen, he was not a typical Algerine, for cruelty of the most dreadful kind was often perpetrated by these monsters in the punishment of trivial offences in those days. At the present hour there stands in the great square of Algiers an imposing mosque, which was designed by a Christian slave—an architect—whose head was cut off because he had built it—whether intentionally or accidentally we know not—in the form of a cross!
For some hours Foster worked uninterruptedly with his pencil, for he believed, like our great Turner in his earlier days, (though Turner’s sun had not yet arisen!) that the preliminary drawing for a picture cannot be too carefully or elaborately done.
After having bumped himself against the wall twice, and tripped over an ottoman once—to the gazelle’s intense surprise—in his efforts to take an artistic view of his work, Foster at last laid down his pencil, stretched himself to his full height, with his hands in the air by way of relaxation, and was beginning to remember that midday meals were not unknown to man, when the negress before mentioned entered with a small round brass tray on which were two covered dishes. The middy lowered his hands in prompt confusion, for he had not attained to the Moors’ sublime indifference to the opinion or thought of slaves.
He was about to speak, but checked the impulse. It was wiser to hold his tongue! A kindliness of disposition, however, induced him to smile and nod—attentions which impelled the negress, as she retired, to display her teeth and gums to an extent that no one would believe if we were to describe it.
On examination it was found that one of the dishes contained a savoury compound of rice and chicken, with plenty of butter and other substances—some of which were sweet.
The other dish contained little rolls of bread. Both dishes appeared to Foster to be made of embossed gold—or brass, but he knew and cared not which. Coffee in a cup about the size and shape of an egg was his beverage. While engaged with the savoury and altogether unexpected meal, our hero felt his elbow touched. Looking round he saw the gazelle looking at him with an expression in its beautiful eyes that said plainly, “Give me my share.”
“You shall have it, my dear,” said the artist, handing the creature a roll, with which it retired contentedly to its cushion.
“Perhaps,” thought the youth, as he pensively sipped his coffee, “this room may be sometimes used by Hester! It obviously forms part of the seraglio.”
Strange old fellow, Ben-Ahmed, to allow men like me to invade such a place.
The thought of the ladies of the harem somehow suggested his mother and sister, and when poor George got upon this pair of rails he was apt to be run away with, and to forget time and place. The reverie into which he wandered was interrupted, however, by the gazelle asking for more. As there was no more, it was fain to content itself with a pat on the head as the painter rose to resume his work.
The drawing was by this time all pencilled in most elaborately, and the middy opened the water-colour box to examine the paints. As he did so, he again remarked on the familiar English look of the materials, and was about to begin rubbing down a little of one of the cakes—moist colours had not been invented—when he observed some writing in red paint on the back of the palette. He started and flushed, while his heart beat faster, for the writing was, “Expect me. Rub this out. H.S.”
What could this mean? H.S? Hester Sommers of course. It was simple—too simple. He wished for more—like the gazelle. Like it, too, he got no more. After gazing at the writing, until every letter was burnt into his memory, he obeyed the order and rubbed it out. Then, in a disturbed and anxious frame of mind, he tried to paint, casting many a glance, not only at his subject, but at the two doors which opened into the room.
At last one of the doors opened—not the one he happened to be looking at, however. He started up, overturned his stool, and all but knocked down the easel, as the negress re-entered to remove the refreshment-tray. She called to the gazelle as she went out. It bounded lightly after her, and the young painter was left alone to recover his composure.
“Ass that I am!” he said, knitting his brows, clenching his teeth, and putting a heavy dab of crimson-lake on the ceiling!
At that moment the other door opened, yet so gently and slightly that he would not have observed it but for the sharp line of light which it let through. Determined not to be again taken by surprise, he became absorbed in putting little unmeaning lines round the dab of lake—not so busily, however, as to prevent his casting rapid furtive glances at the opening door.
Gradually something white appeared in the aperture—it was a veil. Something blue—it was an eye. Something quite beyond description lovely—it was Hester herself, looking—if such be conceivable—like a scared angel!
“Oh, Mr Foster!” she exclaimed, in a half-whisper, running lightly in, and holding up a finger by way of caution, “I have so longed to see you—”
“So have I,” interrupted the delighted middy. “Dear H–—ah—Miss Sommers, I mean, I felt sure that—that—this must be your room—no, what’s its name? boudoir; and the gazelle—”
“Yes, yes—oh! never mind that,” interrupted the girl impatiently. “My father—darling father!—any news of him.”
Blushing with shame that he should have thought of his own feelings before her anxieties, Foster dropped the little hand which he had already grasped, and hastened to tell of the meeting with her father in the Kasba—the ease with which he had recognised him from her description, and the few hurried words of comfort he had been able to convey before the slave-driver interfered.
Tears were coursing each other rapidly down Hester’s cheeks while he was speaking; yet they were not tears of unmingled grief.
“Oh, Mr Foster!” she said, seizing the middy’s hand, and kissing it, “how shall I ever thank you?”
Before she could add another word, an unlucky touch of Foster’s heel laid the easel, with an amazing clatter, flat on the marble floor! Hester bounded through the doorway more swiftly than her own gazelle, slammed the door behind her, and vanished like a vision.
Poor Foster! Although young and enthusiastic, he was not a coxcomb. The thrill in the hand that had been kissed told him plainly that he was hopelessly in love! But a dull weight on his heart told him, he thought as plainly, that Hester was not in the same condition.
“Dear child!” he said, as he slowly gathered up the drawing materials, “if that innocent, transparent, almost infantine creature had been old enough to fall in love she would sooner have hit me on the nose with her lovely fist than have kissed my great ugly paw—even though she was overwhelmed with joy at hearing about her father.”
Having replaced the easel and drawing, he seated himself on an ottoman, put his elbows on his knees, laid his forehead in his hands, and began to meditate aloud.
“Yes,” he said, with a profound sigh, “I love her—that’s as clear as daylight; and she does not love me—that’s clearer than daylight. Unrequited love! That’s what I’ve come to! Nevertheless, I’m not in wild despair. How’s that? I don’t want to shoot or drown myself. How’s that? On the contrary, I want to live and rescue her. I could serve or die for that child with pleasure—without even the reward of a smile! There must be something peculiar here. Is it—can it be Platonic love? Of course that must be it. Yes, I’ve often heard and read of that sort of love before. I know it now, and—and—I rather like it!”
“You don’t look as if you did, Geo’ge,” said a deep voice beside him.
George started up with a face of scarlet.
“Peter!” he exclaimed fiercely, “did you hear me speak? What did you hear?”
“Halo! Geo’ge, don’t squeeze my arm so! You’s hurtin’ me. I hear you say somet’ing ’bout plotummik lub, but what sort o’ lub that may be is more’n I kin tell.”
“Are you sure that is all you— But come, Peter, I should have no secrets from you. The truth is,” (he whispered low here), “I have seen Hester Sommers—here, in this room, not half an hour ago—and—and I feel that I am hopelessly in love with her—Platonically, that is—but I fear you won’t understand what that means—”
The midshipman stopped abruptly. For the first time since they became acquainted he saw a grave expression of decided disapproval on the face of his sable friend.
“Geo’ge,” said Peter solemnly, “you tell me you hab took ’vantage ob bein’ invited to your master’s house to make lub—plo—plotummikilly or oderwise—to your master’s slabe?”
“No, Peter, I told you nothing of the sort. The meeting with Hester was purely accidental—at least it was none of my seeking—and I did not make love to her—”
“Did she make lub to you, Geo’ge—plo—plotummikilly.”
“Certainly not. She came to ask about her poor father, and I saw that she is far too young to think of falling in love at all. What I said was that I have fallen hopelessly in love, and that as I cannot hope that she will ever be—be mine, I have made up my mind to love her hopelessly, but loyally, to the end of life, and serve or die for her if need be.”
“Oh! das all right, Geo’ge. If dat’s what you calls plo—plotummik lub—lub away, my boy, as hard’s you kin. Same time, I’s not kite so sure dat she’s too young to hub. An’ t’ings ain’t allers as hopeless as dey seems. But now, what’s dis you bin do here? My! How pritty. Oh! das real bootiful. But what’s you got in de ceiling—de sun, eh?”
He pointed to the dab of crimson-lake.
Foster explained that it was merely a “bit of colour.”
“Ob course! A cow wid half an eye could see dat!”
“Well—but I mean—it’s a sort of—a kind of—tone to paint up to.”
“H’m! das strange now. I don’t hear no sound nowhar!”
“Well, then, it’s a shadow, Peter.”
“Geo’ge,” said the negro, with a look of surprise, “I do t’ink your plo-plotummik lub hab disagreed wid you. Come ’long to de kitchen an’ hab your supper—it’s all ready.”
So saying, he went off with his friend and confidant to the culinary region, which was also the salle à manger of the slaves.
Chapter Eight.
A Severe Trial—Secret Communication under Difficulties, and Sudden Flight.
The devotion of our middy to the fine arts was so satisfactory in its results that Ben-Ahmed set him to work at various other apartments in his dwelling when the first drawing was nearly finished.
We say nearly finished, because, owing to some unaccountable whim, the Moor would not allow the first drawing to be completed. When Foster had finished a painting of the central court his master was so pleased with the way in which he had drawn and coloured the various shrubs and flowers which grew there, that he ordered him forthwith to commence a series of drawings of the garden from various points of view. In one of these Foster introduced such a life-like portrait of Peter the Great that Ben-Ahmed was charmed, and immediately gave orders to have most of his slaves portrayed while engaged in their various occupations.
In work of this kind many months were spent, for Foster was a painstaking worker. He finished all his paintings with minute care, having no capacity for off-hand or rapid sketching. During this period the engrossing nature of his work—of which he was extremely fond—tended to prevent his mind from dwelling too much on his condition of slavery, but it was chiefly the knowledge that Hester Sommers was under the same roof, and the expectation that at any moment he might encounter her, which reconciled him to his fate, and even made him cheerful under it.
But as week after week passed away, and month after month, without even a flutter of her dress being seen by him, his heart failed him again, and he began to fear that Ben-Ahmed’s son Osman might have returned and carried her off as his bride, or that she might have been sold to some rich Moor—even to the Dey himself! Of course his black friend comforted him with the assurance that Osman had not returned, and that Ben-Ahmed was not the man to sell a slave he was fond of; but such assurances did not afford him much comfort. His mind was also burdened with anxiety about his mother and sister.
He was sitting one day while in this state at an angle of the garden trying to devote his entire mind to the portrayal of a tree-fern, and vainly endeavouring to prevent Hester Sommers from coming between him and the paper, when he was summoned to attend upon Ben-Ahmed. As this was an event of by no means uncommon occurrence, he listlessly gathered up his materials and went into the house.
He found the Moor seated cross-legged on a carpet, smoking his hookah, with only a negress in attendance. His easel, he found, was already placed, and, to his surprise, he observed that the original drawing with which his career as a painter had commenced was placed upon it.
“I wish you to finish that picture by introducing a figure,” said Ben-Ahmed, with solemn gravity.
He spoke in Lingua Franca, which Foster understood pretty well by that time.
It now became evident to him why the drawing of the room had been left unfinished, and he thought it probable that modesty—or, perhaps, a difficulty in overcoming the Moslem’s dislike to being transferred to canvas at all—had caused the delay.
“In what attitude do you wish to be painted?” asked the middy, as he moved the easel a little, and took a professional, head-on-one-side look at his subject.
“In no attitude,” returned the Moor gravely.
“Pardon me,” said Foster in surprise. “Did you not say that—that—”
“I said that I wish you to finish the drawing by introducing a figure,” returned Ben-Ahmed, taking a long draw at the hookah.
“Just so—and may I ask—”
“The figure,” resumed the Moor, taking no notice of the interruption, “is to be one of my women slaves.”
Here he turned his head slightly and gave a brief order to the negress in waiting, who retired by the door behind her.
The middy stood silent for a minute or so, lost in wonder and expectation, when another door opened and a female entered. She was gorgeously dressed, and closely veiled, so that her face was entirely concealed; nevertheless, George Foster’s heart seemed to bound into his throat and half choke him, for he knew the size, air, and general effect of that female as well as if she had been his own mother.
The Moor rose, led her to a cushion, and bade her sit down. She did so with the grace of Venus, and then the Moor removed her veil—looking fixedly at the painter as he did so.
But the middy had recovered self-possession by that time. He was surprised as well as deeply concerned to observe that Hester’s beautiful face was very pale, and her eyes were red and swollen, as if from much crying, but not a muscle in his stolid countenance betrayed the slightest emotion. He put his head a little to one side, in the orthodox manner, and looked steadily at her. Then he looked at his painting and frowned as if considering the best spot in which to place this “figure.” Then he began to work.
Meanwhile the Moor sat down to smoke in such a position that he could see both painter and sitter.
It was a severe test of our middy’s capacity to act the “hyperkrite!” His heart was thumping at his ribs like a sledge-hammer anxious to get out. His hand trembled so that he could scarcely draw a line, and he was driven nearly mad with the necessity of presenting a calm, thoughtful exterior when the effervescence within, as he afterwards admitted, almost blew his head off like a champagne cork.
By degrees he calmed down, ceased breaking the point of his pencil, and used his india-rubber less frequently. Then he took to colour and the brush, and here the tide began to turn in his favour. Such a subject surely never before sat to painter since the world began! He became engrossed in his work. The eyes became intent, the hand steady, the heart regular, the whole man intense, while a tremendous frown and compressed lips told that he “meant business!”
Not less intense was the attention of the Moor. Of course we cannot tell what his thoughts were, but it seemed not improbable that his eccentric recklessness in violating all his Mohammedan habits and traditions as to the seclusion of women, by thus exposing Hester to the gaze of a young infidel, had aroused feelings of jealousy and suspicion, which were not natural to his kindly and un-Moorish cast of soul.
But while young Foster was employed in the application of his powers to energetic labour, the old Moor was engaged in the devotion of his powers to the consumption of smoke. The natural results followed. While the painter became more and more absorbed, so as to forget all around save his sitter and his work, the Moor became more and more devoted to his hookah, till he forgot all around save the soporific influences of smoke. An almost oppressive silence ensued, broken only by the soft puffing of Ben-Ahmed’s lips, and an occasional change in the attitude of the painter. And oh! how earnestly did that painter wish that Ben-Ahmed would retire—even for a minute—to give him a chance of exchanging a word or two with his subject.
But the Moor was steady as a rock. Indeed he was too steady, for the curtains of his eyes suddenly fell, and shut in the owlish glare with which he had been regarding the middy. At the same moment a sharp click and clatter sent an electric thrill to the hearts of all. The Moor’s mouthpiece had fallen on the marble floor! Ben-Ahmed picked it up and replaced it with severe gravity, yet a faint flicker of red in his cheek, and a very slight air of confusion, showed that even a magnificent Moor objects to be caught napping by his slaves.
This incident turned Foster’s thoughts into a new channel. If the Moor should again succumb to the demands of nature—or the influence of tobacco—how could he best make use of the opportunity? It was a puzzling question. To speak—in a whisper or otherwise—was not to be thought of. Detection would follow almost certainly. The dumb alphabet would have been splendid, though dangerous, but neither he nor Hester understood it. Signs might do. He would try signs, though he had never tried them before. What then? Did not “Never venture, never win,” “Faint heart never won,” etcetera, and a host of similar proverbs assure him that a midshipman, of all men, should “never say die.”
A few minutes more gave him the chance. Again the mouthpiece fell, but this time it dropped on the folds of the Moor’s dress, and in another minute steady breathing told that Ben-Ahmed was in the land of Nod—if not of dreams.
A sort of lightning change took place in the expressions of the young people. Hester’s face beamed with intelligence. Foster’s blazed with mute interrogation. The little maid clasped her little hands, gazed upwards anxiously, looked at the painter entreatingly, and glanced at the Moor dubiously.
Foster tried hard to talk to her “only with his eyes.” He even added some amazing motions of the lips which were meant to convey— “What’s the matter with you?” but they conveyed nothing, for Hester only shook her head and looked miserable.
A mild choke at that moment caused the maid to fall into statuesque composure, and the painter to put his frowning head tremendously to one side as he stepped back in order to make quite sure that the last touch was really equal, if not superior, to Michael Angelo himself!
The Moor resumed his mouthpiece with a suspicious glance at both slaves, and Foster, with the air of a man who feels that Michael was fairly overthrown, stepped forward to continue his work. Truly, if Peter the Great had been there at the time he might have felt that he also was fairly eclipsed in his own particular line!
Foster now became desperate, and his active mind began to rush wildly about in quest of useful ideas, while his steady hand pursued its labour until the Moor smoked himself into another slumber.
Availing himself of the renewed opportunity, the middy wrapped a small piece of pencil in a little bit of paper, and, with the reckless daring of a man who had boarded a pirate single-handed, flung it at his lady-love.
His aim was true—as that of a midshipman should be. The little bomb struck Hester on the nose and fell into her lap. She unrolled it quickly, and an expression of blank disappointment was the result, for the paper was blank and she had expected a communication. She looked up inquiringly, and beaming intelligence displaced the blank when she saw that Foster made as though he were writing large text on his drawing. She at once flattened the bit of paper on her knee—eyeing the Moor anxiously the while—and scribbled a few words on the paper.
A loud cough from Foster, followed by a violent sneeze, caused her to crush the paper in her hand and again become intensely statuesque. Prompt though she was, this would not have saved her from detection if the violence of Foster’s sneeze had not drawn the Moor’s first glance away from her and towards himself.
“Pardon me,” said the middy, with a deprecatory air, “a sneeze is sometimes difficult to repress.”
“Does painting give Englishmen colds?” asked the Moor sternly.
“Sometimes it does—especially if practised out of doors in bad weather,” returned Foster softly.
“H’m! That will do for to-day. You may return to your painting in the garden. It will, perhaps, cure your cold. Go!” he added, turning to Hester, who immediately rose, pushed the paper under the cushion on which she had been sitting, and left the room with her eyes fixed on the ground.
As the cat watches the mouse, Foster had watched the girl’s every movement while he bent over his paint-box. He saw where she put the paper. In conveying his materials from the room, strange to say, he slipped on the marble floor, close to the cushion, secured the paper as he rose, and, picking up his scattered things with an air of self-condemnation, retired humbly—yet elated—from the presence-chamber.
Need we say that in the first convenient spot he could find he eagerly unrolled the paper, and read—
“I am lost! Oh, save me! Osman has come! I have seen him! Hateful! He comes to-morrow to—”
The writing ended abruptly.
“My hideous sneeze did that!” growled Foster savagely. “But if I had been a moment later Ben-Ahmed might have—well, well; no matter. She must be saved. She shall be saved!”
Having said this, clenched his teeth and hands, and glared, he began to wonder how she was to be saved. Not being able to arrive at any conclusion on this point, he went off in search of his friend Peter the Great.
He found that worthy man busy mending a rake in a tool-house, and in a few eager words explained how matters stood. At first the negro listened with his wonted, cheerful smile and helpful look, which hitherto had been a sort of beacon-light to the poor midshipman in his troubles, but when he came to the piece of paper and read its contents the smile vanished.
“Osman home!” he said. “If Osman come back it’s a black look-out for poor Hester! And the paper says to-morrow,” cried Foster; “to take her away and marry her, no doubt. Peter, I tell you, she must be saved to-night! You and I must save her. If you won’t aid me I will do it alone—or die in the attempt.”
“Geo’ge, if you was to die a t’ousan’ times dat wouldn’t sabe her. You know de Kasba?”
“Yes, yes—go on!”
“Well, if you was to take dat on your shoulders an’ pitch ’im into de sea, dat wouldn’t sabe her.”
“Yes it would, you faint-hearted nigger!” cried the middy, losing all patience, “for if I could do that I’d be able to wring the neck of every pirate in Algiers—and I’d do it too!”
“Now, Geo’ge, keep cool. I’s on’y p’intin’ out what you can’t do; but p’r’aps somet’ing may be done. Yes,” (he struck his forehead with his fist, as if to clinch a new idea),—“yes, I knows! I’s hit it!”
“What!” cried Foster eagerly.
“Dat you’s got nuffin to do wid,” returned the negro decisively. “You must know not’ing, understand not’ing, hear an’ see not’ing, for if you do you’ll be whacked to deaf. Bery likely you’ll be whacked anyhow, but dat not so bad. You must just shut your eyes an’ mout’ an’ trust all to me. You understand, Geo’ge?”
“I think I do,” said the relieved middy, seizing the negro’s right hand and wringing it gratefully. “Bless your black face! I trust you from the bottom of my soul.”
It was, indeed, a source of immense relief to poor Foster that his friend not only took up the matter with energy, but spoke in such a cheery, hopeful tone, for the more he thought of the subject the more hopeless did the case of poor Hester Sommers appear. He could of course die for her—and would, if need were—but this thought was always followed by the depressing question, “What good would that do to her?”
Two hours after the foregoing conversation occurred Peter the Great was seated in a dark little back court in a low coffee-house in one of the darkest, narrowest, and most intricate streets of Algiers. He sat on an empty packing-box. In front of him was seated a stout negress, in whom an Ethiopian might have traced some family likeness to Peter himself.
“Now, Dinah,” said he, continuing an earnest conversation which had already lasted for some time, “you understand de case properly—eh?”
“Ob course I does,” said Dinah.
“Well, den, you must go about it at once. Not a minute to lose. You’ll find me at de gardin door. I’ll let you in. You know who you’s got to sabe, an’ you must find out your own way to sabe her, an’—now, hol’ your tongue! You’s just a-goin’ to speak—I must know nuffin’. Don’ tell me one word about it. You’s a cleber woman, Dinah.”
“Yes, my brudder. I wasn’t born yesterday—no, nor yet the day before.”
“An’, Samson, will you trust him?”
“My husband is as good as gold. I trust him wid eberyt’ing!” replied this pattern wife.
“An’ Youssef—what ob him?”
“He’s more’n t’ree quarters blind. Kin see not’ing, an’ understan’s less.”
“Dinah, you’s a good woman,” remarked her appreciative brother, as he rose to depart. “Now, remember, dis am de most important job you an’ I hab had to do since we was took by de pirits out ob de same ship. An’ I do t’ink de Lord hab bin bery good to us, for He’s gi’n us good massas at last, though we had some roughish ones at fust. Foller me as quick as you can.”
Dinah, being a warm-hearted woman, and very sympathetic, did not waste time. She reached Ben-Ahmed’s villa only half an hour later than her brother, with a basket of groceries and other provisions that Peter had purchased in town. Peter took care that the young negress, whom we have already introduced as an attendant in the house, should be sent to receive the basket, and Dinah took care that she should not return to the house until she had received a bouquet of flowers to present to the young English girl in the harem. Inside of this bouquet was a little note written by Peter. It ran thus—
“Tri an git owt to de gardin soons yoo kan.”
When Hester Sommers discovered this note, the first ray of hope entered into her fluttering heart, and she resolved to profit by it.
Meanwhile, Dinah, instead of quitting the place after delivering her basket, hid herself in the shrubbery. It was growing dark by that time, and Peter made a noisy demonstration of sending one of the slaves to see that the garden gate was locked for the night. Thereafter he remained all the rest of the evening in his own apartments in pretty loud conversation with the slaves.
Suddenly there was a cry raised, and several slaves belonging to the inner household rushed into the outer house with glaring eyes, shouting that the English girl could not be found.
“Not in de house?” cried Peter, starting up in wild excitement.
“No—nowhar in de house!”
“To de gardin, quick!” shouted Peter, leading the way, while Ben-Ahmed himself, with undignified haste, joined in the pursuit.
Lanterns were lighted, and were soon flitting like fireflies all over the garden, but no trace of the fugitive was found. Peter entered into the search with profound interest, being as yet utterly ignorant of the method of escape devised by his sister. Suddenly one of the slaves discovered it. A pile of empty casks, laid against the wall in the form of a giant staircase, showed how Hester had climbed, and a crushed bush on the other side testified to her mode of descent.
Ben-Ahmed and Peter ran up to the spot together. “Dey can’t hab gone far, massa. You want de horses, eh?” asked the latter.
“Yes. Two horses, quick!”
Peter went off to the stables in hot haste, remarking as he ran—
“What a hyperkrite I is, to be sure!”
Chapter Nine.
Hester introduced to a New Home and New Friends under Peculiar Circumstances, and a New Name.
Long before their flight was discovered Hester Sommers and Dinah had penetrated into a dense thicket, where the negress proceeded to produce a wonderful metamorphosis.
“Now, my dear,” she said, hastily undoing a large bundle which she carried, while Hester, panting and terrified, sat down on the grass beside her, “don’t you be frighted. I’s your fri’nd. I’s Dinah, de sister ob Peter de Great, an’ de fri’nd also ob Geo’ge. So you make your mind easy.”
“My mind is quite easy,” said Hester; “and even if you were not Peter’s sister, I’d trust you, because of the tone of your kind voice. But who is Geo’ge?”
Dinah opened her eyes very wide at this question, for Peter had already enlightened her mind a little as to the middy’s feelings towards Hester.
“You not know Geo’ge?” she asked.
“Never heard of him before, Dinah.”
“Geo’ge Foster?”
“Oh, I understand! It was your way of pronouncing his name that puzzled me,” returned the girl, with a faint smile. “I’m glad you are his friend, too, poor fellow!”
“Well, you is a babby!” exclaimed Dinah, who had been mixing up what appeared to be black paint in a wooden bowl. “Now, look yar, don’t you be frighted. It’s a matter ob life an’ deaf, you know, but I’s your fri’nd! Jest you do zackly what I tells you.”
“Yes, Dinah,” said Hester, alarmed, notwithstanding, by the earnestness and solemnity of her new friend, “what am I to do?”
“You come yar, an’ don’t moob whateber I does to you. Dere, I’s goin’ to make you a nigger!”
She applied a large brush to Hester’s forehead, and drew it thence down her left cheek, under her chin, up the right cheek, and back to the starting point, thus producing a black band or circle two inches broad.
“Now shut your bootiful eyes,” she said, and proceeded to fill up the circle.
In a quarter of an hour Hester was as black as the ace of spades—neck, hands, and arms, as well as face—her fair hair was effectually covered and concealed by a cotton kerchief, and then her dress was changed for the characteristic costume of negro women.
“Now your own mudder wouldn’t know you,” said Dinah, stepping back to survey her work, and, strange to say, putting her black head quite artistically a little on one side. “You’s a’most as good-lookin’ as myself—if you was on’y a little fatter. Now, mind, you’s a dumb gal! Can’t speak a word. Don’t forgit dat. An’ your name’s Geo’giana. Come along.”
Leaving her fine clothes concealed in a deep hole, Hester followed her companion as fast as she could. On returning to the road Dinah took her friend by the hand and helped her to run for a considerable distance. Then they walked, and then ran again, until poor Hester was almost exhausted.
Resuming their walk after a short rest, they gained the main road and met with several people, who paid no attention to them whatever, much to Hester’s relief, for she had made sure of being detected. At last they reached the city gate, which was still open, as the sun had not yet set. Passing through unchallenged, Dinah at once dived into a maze of narrow streets, and, for the first time since starting, felt comparatively safe.
Fortunately for the success of their enterprise, the negress costume fitted loosely, so that the elegance of Hester’s form was not revealed, and her exhaustion helped to damage the grace of her carriage!
“Now, dearie, you come in yar an’ rest a bit,” said Dinah, turning into a dark cellar-like hole, from which issued both sounds and smells that were not agreeable. It was the abode of one of Dinah’s friends—also a negress—who received her with effusive goodwill.
Retiring to the coal-hole—or some such dark receptacle—Dinah held her friend in conversation for about a quarter of an hour, during which time several hearty Ethiopian chuckles were heard to burst forth. Then, returning to the cellar, Dinah introduced her friend to Hester as Missis Lilly, and Hester to Missis Lilly as Miss Geo’giana.
Wondering why her friend had selected for her the name—if she remembered rightly—of one of Blue Beard’s wives, Hester bowed, and was about to speak when Dinah put her flat nose close to hers and sternly said, “Dumb.”
“Moreober,” she continued, “you mustn’t bow like a lady, or you’ll be diskivered ’mediately. You must bob. Sally!”
This last word was shouted. The instant effect was the abrupt stoppage of one of the disagreeable sounds before referred to—a sound as of pounding—and the appearance of a black girl who seemed to rise out of a pit in the floor at the darkest end of the cellar.
“Sally, show dis yar stoopid gal how to bob.”
The girl instantly broke off, so to speak, at the knees for a moment, and then came straight again.
“Now, Geo’giana, you bob.”
Hester entered into the spirit of the thing and broke off admirably, whereat Dinah and Lilly threw back their heads and shook their sides with laughter. Sally so far joined them as to show all her teeth and gums. Otherwise she was expressionless.
“Now you come yar wid me into dis room,” said Dinah, taking Hester’s hand and heading her along a passage which was so profoundly dark that the very walls and floor were invisible. Turning suddenly to the left, Dinah advanced a few paces and stood still.
“You stop where you is, Geo’giana, till I gits a light. Don’t stir,” she said, and left her.
A feeling of intense horror began to creep over the poor girl when she was thus left alone in such a horrible place, and she began almost to regret that she had forsaken the comfortable home of the Moor, and to blame herself for ingratitude. In her agony she was about to call aloud to her negro friend not to forsake her, when the words, “Call upon Me in the time of trouble,” occurred to her, and, falling on her knees, she cast herself upon God.
She was not kept waiting long. Only a minute or two had elapsed when Dinah returned with a candle and revealed the fact that they stood in a small low-roofed room, the brick floor of which was partially covered with casks, packing-cases, and general lumber.
“Dis am to be your room, Geo’giana,” said her friend, holding the candle over her head and surveying the place with much satisfaction.
Poor Hester shuddered.
“It is an awful place,” she said faintly.
“Yes, it am a awrful good place,” said Dinah, with satisfaction. “Not easy to find you yar; an’ if dey did git dis lengt’ widout breakin’ dere legs, dere’s a nice leetil hole yar what you could git in an’ larf to youself.”
She led the poor girl to the other end of the room, where, in a recess, there was a boarded part of the wall. Removing one of the boards, she disclosed an opening.
“Das a small hole, Geo’giana, but it’s big enough to hold you, an’ when you’s inside you’ve on’y got to pull de board into its place, and fix it—so.”
Setting down the candle, the woman stepped into the hole, and went through the performance that would devolve upon Hester in case of emergency.
“But why leave me here at all?” pleaded Hester, when Dinah had exhausted her eulogy of the hiding-place. “Why not take me to your own home?”
“Cause it’s not so safe as dis,” answered Dinah. “P’r’aps in time you may come dere—not now. Moreober, Missis Lilly is a fuss-rate creetur, most as good as myself, if her temper was a leetil more ’eavenly. But she’s a winged serubim wid dem as don’t rile ’er, an’ she’ll be awrful good to you for my sake an’ Peter’s. You see, we was all on us took by the pints at de same time, and we’re all Christ’ns but ob course we don’t say much about dat yar!”
“And am I to be always dumb—never to speak at all?” asked Hester, in a rather melancholy tone.
“Oh! no—bress you! It’s on’y when you’re in de front or outside dat you’s dumb. When you’s back yar you may speak to Lilly an’ Sally much as you like, on’y not too loud; an’ keep your eyes open, an’ your ears sharp always. If you don’t it’s lost you will be. Don’t forgit Osman!”
Hester shuddered again; said that she would never forget Osman, and would be as careful and attentive to orders as possible.
“An’ dey’ll gib you a little work to do—not much—on’y a little. When peepil speak to you, just point to your ears and mout’, an’ shake your head. Das enuff. Dey won’t boder you arter dat. Now, dearie, I must go. I’ll come an’ see you sometimes—neber fear. What’s to become ob you in de long-run’s more’n I kin tell, for it’s Peter de Great as’ll hab to settle dat kestion. You’s in his hands. I knows not’ing, so you’ll hab to be patient.”
Patient, indeed! Little did that poor painted slave think what demands would yet be made upon her patience. Full two months elapsed before she again saw Peter, or heard anything about Ben-Ahmed and her former friends at Mustapha!
Meanwhile, Dinah having departed, she wisely set herself to make the most of her new friends.
Mrs Lilly she soon found to be quite as amiable as Dinah had described her. She and Sally were slaves to the Moor who dwelt in the house which formed the superstructure of their cellars; but, unlike white slaves, they were allowed a good deal of personal liberty; first, because there was no danger of their running away, as they had no place to run to; second, because their master wanted them to buy and sell vegetables and other things, in order that he might reap the profit; and, last, because, being an easy-going man, the said master had no objection to see slaves happy as long as their happiness did not interfere in any way with his pleasure.
“Now, Geo’giana,” said Mrs Lilly, in the course of their first conversation, “my massa he neber come down yar, nor trouble his head about us, as long’s I take him a leetle money ebery day, an’ nobody else hab got a right to come, so you’s pretty safe if dey don’t send de janissaries to make a sarch—an’ if dey do, you know whar to go. I’ll tell massa we make more money if I gits anoder slabe-gal, an’ he’ll agree, for he agrees to eberyt’ing ob dat sort! Den he’ll forgit all about it, an’ den you an’ Sally kin go about town what you like.”
“But I fear, Mrs Lilly, that I won’t be able to help you to make more money,” objected Hester timidly.
“Oh yes, you will. You’ll larn to ’broider de red an’ blue slippers. Das pay well when neatly done, an’ I kin see by de shape ob your fingers you do it neatly. You’s hungry now, I darsay, so go to work at your grub, an’ den I’ll show you what to do.”
Somewhat comforted by the kindly tone and motherly bearing of Mrs Lilly, Hester went into one of the dark cellar-like rooms of the interior of her new home, and found it to be a sort of kitchen, which borrowed its light from the outer room by means of a convenient wall that was white-washed for the purpose of transmitting it. This reflector was not an eminent success, but it rendered darkness visible. At the time we write of, however, the sun having set, the kitchen was lighted by a smoky oil-lamp of classic form and dimness. Here she found Sally busy with her evening meal.
Sally was apparently about as little of a human being as was consistent with the possession of a human form and the power of speech. Most of her qualities seemed to be negative—if we may say so. She was obviously not unamiable; she was not unkind; and she was not sulky, though very silent. In fact, she seemed to be the nearest possible approach to a human nonentity. She may be described as a black maid-of-all-work, but her chief occupation was the pounding of roasted coffee-beans. This operation she performed in the pit in the floor before mentioned, which may be described as a hole, into which you descended by four steps from the front room. As the front room itself was below the level of the street, it follows that the “pit” penetrated considerably deeper into the bowels of the earth. In this pit Sally laboured hard, almost day and night, pounding the coffee-beans in an iron mortar, with an iron pestle so heavy that she had to stand up and use it with both hands. She had got into the habit of relieving herself by an audible gasp each time she drove the pestle down. It was not a necessary gasp, only a remonstrative one, as it were, and conveyed more to the intelligent listener than most of the girl’s average conversation did. This gasp was also one of the disagreeable sounds which had saluted the ears of Hester on her first entrance into the new home.
“Mrs Lilly is very kind,” said Hester, as she sat down at a small table beside her fellow-slave.
Sally stopped eating for a moment and stared. Supposing that she had not understood the remark, Hester repeated it.
“Yes,” assented Sally, and then stopped the vocal orifice with a huge wooden spoonful of rice.
Judging that her companion wished to eat in undisturbed silence, Hester helped herself to some rice, and quietly began supper. Sally eyed her all the time, but was too busy feeding herself to indulge in speech. At last she put down her spoon with a sigh of satisfaction, and said, “Das good!” with such an air of honest sincerity that Hester gave way to an irresistible laugh.
“Yes, it is very good indeed. Did you cook it?” asked Hester, anxious to atone for her impoliteness.
“Yes. I cook ’im. I do all de cookin’ in dis yar ouse—an’ most ob de eatin’ too.”
“By the way, Sally, what is it that you keep pounding so constantly in that—that hole off the front room?”
“Coffee,” answered Sally, with a nod.
“Indeed! Surely not the household coffee. You cannot drink such a quantity!”
Sally stared for a minute; then opened her mouth, shut her eyes, threw back her head, and chuckled.
“No,” she said, with sudden gravity; “if we drink’d it all we’d all bu’st right off. I pounds it, Missis Lilly sells it, an’ massa pockets de money.”
“Do you pound much?” asked Hester, in a tone of sympathy.
“Oh! housefuls,” said Sally, opening her eyes wide. “’Gin at daylight—work till dark, ’cept when doin’ oder t’ings. De Moors drink it. Awrful drinkers am de Moors. Mornin’, noon, an’ night dey swill leetle cups ob coffee. Das de reason dey’s all so brown.”
“Indeed? I never heard before that the brown-ness of their complexion was owing to that. Are you sure?”
“Oh yes; kite sure. Coffee comes troo de skin—das it,” returned Sally, with perfect confidence of tone and manner.
Suddenly she was smitten with a new idea, and stared for some time at her fellow-slave. At last she got it out.
“Missis Lilly say dat you’s dumb. How kin you speak so well if you’s dumb?”
Poor Hester was greatly perplexed. She did not know how far her companion had been let into the secret reason of her being there, and was afraid to answer. At last she made up her mind.
“I am not really dumb, you know; I have only to be dumb when in the street, or when any visitor is in the house here; but when alone with Mrs Lilly or you I am allowed to speak low.”
A gleam of intelligence beamed on the black girl’s face as she said, “No, you’s not dumb. Moreober, you’s not black!”
“Oh, Sally!” exclaimed Hester, in quite a frightened tone; “how did you find that out?”
“Hasn’t I got eyes an’ ears?” demanded Sally. “Your voice ain’t nigger, your ’plexion ain’t nigger, an’ your mout’ an’ nose ain’t nigger. Does you t’ink Sally’s an ass?”
“No, indeed, I am sure you are not; but—but, you—you won’t betray me, Sally?”
“Whas dat?”
“You won’t tell upon me? Oh, you can’t think what dreadful punishment I shall get if I am found out! You won’t tell on me, dear Sally—won’t you not?” entreated Hester, with tears in her eyes.
“Dere, stop dat! Don’t cry! Das wuss dan speakin’, for de tearz’ll wash all de black off your face! Tell on you? Dee see dat?”
Hester certainly did see “dat,” for Sally had suddenly protruded we fear to say how many inches of red flesh from her mouth.
“I cut dat off wid de carvin’-knife sooner dan tell on you, for you’s my fri’nd, because Peter de Great am your fri’nd. But you muss be dumb—dumb as you kin, anyhow—an’ you mus’ neber—neber cry!”
The earnestness of this remark caused Hester to laugh even when on the verge of weeping, so she grasped Sally’s hand and shook it warmly, thus cementing the friendship which had so auspiciously begun.
After the meal Mrs Lilly took her lodger into the front room and gave her embroidery work to do. She found it by no means difficult, having learned something like it during her residence with Ben-Ahmed’s household. At night she retired to the dark lumber-room, but as Sally owned one of the corners of it Hester did not feel as lonely as she had feared, and although her bed was only made of straw, it was by no means uncomfortable, being spread thickly and covered with two blankets.
She dreamed, of course, and it may easily be understood that her dreams were not pleasant, and that they partook largely of terrible flights from horrible dangers, and hairbreadth escapes from an ogre who, whatever shape he might assume, always displayed the head and features of the hated Osman.
Next morning, however, she arose pretty well refreshed, and inexpressibly thankful to find that she was still safe.
For a long time she remained thus in hiding. Then, as it was considered probable that search for her had been given up as useless, Mrs Lilly resolved to send her out with Sally to one of the obscurer market-places, to purchase some household necessaries.
“You see, chile,” said the motherly woman, “you git sick on my hands if you not go out, an’ dere’s no danger. Just keep your shawl well ober your face, an’ hold your tongue. Don’t forgit dat. Let ’em kill you if dey likes, but don’t speak!”
With this earnest caution ringing in her ears, Hester went forth with Sally to thread the mazes of the town. At first she was terribly frightened, and fancied that every one who looked at her saw through her disguise, but as time passed and no one took the least notice of her, her natural courage returned, and gradually she began to observe and take an interest in the strange persons and things she saw everywhere around her.