The Octoroon (eBook)

CHAPTER I.

CORA.

The last notes of a favorite waltz resounded through the splendid saloons of Mrs. Montresor's mansion in Grosvenor Square; sparkling eyes and glittering jewels flashed in the lamp-light; the rival queens of rank and beauty shone side by side upon the aristocratic crowd; the rich perfumes of exotic blossoms floated on the air; brave men and lovely women were met together to assist the farewell ball given by the wealthy American, Mrs. Montresor, on her departure for New Orleans with her lovely niece, Adelaide Horton, whose charming face and sprightly manners had been the admiration of all London during the season of 1860.

The haughty English beauties were by no means pleased to see the sensation made by the charms of the vivacious young American, whose brilliant and joyous nature contrasted strongly with the proud and languid daughters of fashion who entrenched themselves behind a barrier of icy reserve, which often repelled their admirers.

Adelaide Horton was a gay and light-hearted being. Born upon the plantation of a wealthy father, the cries of beaten slaves had never disturbed her infant slumbers; for the costly mansion in which the baby heiress was reared was far from the huts of the helpless creatures who worked sometimes sixteen hours a day to swell the planter's wealth. No groans of agonized parents torn from their unconscious babes; no cries of outraged husbands, severed from their newly-wedded wives, had ever broken Adelaide's rest. She knew nothing of the slave trade; as at a very early age the planter's daughter had been sent to England for her education. Her father had died during her absence from America, and she was thus left to the guardianship of an only brother, the present possessor of Horton Ville, as the extensive plantation and magnificent country seat were called.

On Adelaide attaining her eighteenth year, her aunt, Mrs. Montresor, an inhabitant of New York, and the widow of a rich merchant, had crossed the Atlantic at Augustus Horton's request, for the purpose of giving her niece a season in London, and afterward escorting her back to Louisiana.

She found Adelaide all that her most anxious relatives could have wished—elegant, accomplished, fashionable, well-bred; a little frivolous, perhaps, but what of that, since her lot in life was to be a smooth and easy one. Mrs. Montresor was delighted, and expressed her gratification very warmly to the Misses Beaumont, of West Brompton, in whose expensive but fashionable seminary Adelaide had been educated.

In an ante-chamber leading out of the crowded ball-room—an ante-chamber where the atmosphere was cool, and where the close neighborhood of a fountain plashing into its marble basin in an adjoining conservatory refreshed the wearied ear, two young men lounged lazily upon a satin-covered couch, watching the dancers through the open ball-room door.

The first of these young men was a South American, Mortimer Percy, the partner of Augustus Horton, and the first cousin of the planter and his pretty sister Adelaide.

Mortimer Percy was a handsome young man. His fair, curling hair clustered round a broad and noble forehead; his large clear blue eyes sparkled with the light of intellect; his delicate aquiline nose and chiseled nostrils bespoke the refinement of one who was by nature a gentleman; but a satirical expression spoiled an otherwise beautiful mouth, and an air of languor and weariness pervaded his appearance. He seemed one of those who have grown indifferent to life, careless alike of its joys and sorrows.

His companion contrasted strongly with him both in appearance and manner. With a complexion bronzed by exposure to Southern suns, with flashing black eyes, a firm but flexible mouth, shaded with a silky raven mustache, and thick black hair brushed carelessly back from his superb forehead, Gilbert Margrave, artist, engineer, philanthropist, poet, seemed the very type of manly energy.

The atmosphere of a crowded ball-room appeared unnatural to him. That daring spirit was out of place amidst the narrow conventionalities of fashionable life; the soaring nature needed wide savannas and lofty mountain tops, distant rivers and sounding waterfalls; the artist and poet mind sighed for the beautiful—not for the beautiful as we see it in a hot-house flower, imprisoned in a china vase, but as it lurks in the gigantic cup of the Victoria regia on the broad bosom of the mighty Amazon.

But Gilbert Margrave was one of the lions of 1860. An invention in machinery, which had enriched both the inventor and the cotton spinners of Manchester, had made the young engineer celebrated, and when it was discovered that he belonged to a good Somersetshire family, that he was handsome and accomplished, an artist and a poet, invitations flocked in upon him from all the fashionable quarters of the West End.

He had been silent for some time, his gaze riveted upon one of the brilliant groups in the ball-room, when Mortimer Percy tapped him lightly on the shoulder with his gloved hand.

"Why, man, what are you dreaming of?" he said, laughing; "what entrancing vision has enchained your artist glance? What fairy form has bewitched your poet soul? One would think you were amid solitudes of some forest on the banks of the Danube instead of a ball-room in Grosvenor Square. Confess, my Gilbert, confess to your old friend, and reveal the nymph whose spells have transformed you into some statue."

Gilbert smiled at his friend's sally. The two young men had met upon the Continent, and had traveled together through Germany and Switzerland.

"The nymph is no other than yonder lovely girl, talking to your cousin, Miss Horton," said Gilbert; "look at her, Mortimer, watch the graceful head, the silky raven hair, as she bends down to whisper to her companion. Is she not lovely?"

Few who looked upon the young girl of whom Gilbert Margrave spoke, could well have answered otherwise than in the affirmative. She was indeed lovely in the first blush of youth, with the innocence of an angel beaming in every smile; with the tenderness of a woman lying shadowed in the profound depths of her almond-shaped black eyes. Features, delicately molded and exquisitely proportioned; a tiny rosebud mouth; a Grecian nose; a complexion fairer than the ungathered lily hiding deep in an untrodden forest; it was difficult for the imagination of the poet, or the painter, to picture aught so beautiful.

"Is she not lovely?" repeated Gilbert Margrave.

The young South American put his head critically on one side, with the calculating glance with which a connoisseur in the fine arts regards a valuable picture. The used-up Mortimer Percy made it a rule never to commit himself by admiring anything, or anybody.

"Hum—ha!" he muttered thoughtfully; "yes, she's by no means bad-looking."

"By no means bad-looking!" cried Gilbert Margrave, impatiently; "you cold-hearted automaton, how dare you speak of womanly perfection in such a manner. She's an angel, a goddess—a siren—a—"

"You'll have an attack of apoplexy, Margrave, if you go on in this way," said Mortimer, laughing.

"Can you tell me who she is?"

"No. But I can do more. I can tell you what she is."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that your angel, your nymph, your goddess, your siren is—a slave."

"A slave?" exclaimed Gilbert.

"Yes. The African blood runs in those purple veins. The hereditary curse of slavery hovers over that graceful and queen-like head."

"But her skin is fairer than the lily."

"What of that? Had you been a planter, Gilbert, you would have been able to discover, as I did, when just now I stood close to that lovely girl, the fatal signs of her birth. At the extreme corner of the eye, and at the root of the finger nails, the South American can always discover the trace of slavery, though but one drop of the blood of the despised race tainted the object upon whom he looked."

"But this girl seems an intimate friend of your cousin, Adelaide; who can she be?" asked Gilbert.

"Yes, that is the very thing that puzzles me. Adelaide must be utterly ignorant of her origin, or she would never treat as a friend one who, on the other side of the Atlantic, would be her lady's maid. But hush, here comes my aunt, she will be able to tell us all about her beautiful guest."

Mrs. Montresor was still a handsome woman. She bore a family likeness to her nephew, Mortimer, who was the only son of her sister, while Adelaide and Augustus Horton were the children of her brother. Her fair ringlets had, as yet, escaped the hand of Time. No tell-tale streaks of gray had stolen amid the showering locks. Her blue eyes were as bright as those of a girl, and shone with the light of good humor and benevolence. She was not only a handsome woman, she was a lovable one. The young instinctively clung to her, and felt that within that ample bosom beat a kindly heart, which a long summer of prosperity had never rendered callous to the woes of others.

"Come, gentlemen!" she said, gayly, as she approached the two friends; "this is really too bad! Here you are lolling on a sofa, 'wasting your sweetness on the desert air,' while I have, at least, half a dozen pretty girls waiting for eligible partners for the next waltz. As for you, Mortimer," she added, shaking her perfumed fan, threateningly at her nephew; "you are really incorrigible; poor Adelaide does not even know you are here."

"I came in late, my dear aunt, and I saw that both you and my cousin were so surrounded by admirers, it was quite impossible to approach you."

"A pretty excuse, sir, which neither I nor Adelaide will accept," said Mrs. Montresor, laughing.

"And then, again, I wanted to have a chat with...