Chapter IV: Little Glo’s Joy and Woe

She grew a flower of mind and eye.
WORDSWORTH.

We have lingered a little over these first days of their childish friendship, because they were types of so many days that followed, all through the budding spring, the blooming summer, and the fruitful autumn.

The little girl was allowed to do very much as she pleased by her studious uncle and invalid aunt, as it was scarcely possible that she would “run into any danger, or fall into any sin,” on so isolated a place as the promontory, where there was neither evil companions or wild beasts to deprave or destroy her.

On the main she might have been more closely looked after; but here she was so safe that not a thought was given to her safety.

So, every day, when it did not rain, little Gloria went down to the landing to see her playmate and read to him while he mended old nets and seines, or made new ones.

At first she was only “playing school,” but later on she understood her work and grew interested in the progress of her pupil; and thus her play rose into “a labor of love.”

Together they went through the First Book in Geography, and the First Book in History, and the Primary Grammar.

And in this way the child not only advanced her pupil playmate, but refreshed her own memory in those studies, which had been too much neglected since her arrival at the promontory.

A pure, sweet, and faithful affection grew up between the two children, such as we have sometimes seen between two little girls or two little boys; only because neither Gloria nor David had any other playmate to divide their attention, their innocent affection was all the stronger, deeper, and more devoted in its exclusiveness.

Very often, too, the fisher-boy brought an invitation from his grandmother to the little lady to spend a day on the sandhill which the old dame called her home. It was always accepted, and always Gloria had “a happy, happy day.”

She learned of the old cottager to net, to knit, to sew, to piece patchwork quilts out of scraps of bright calico and white linen, and to plait doormats out of strips of brilliant cloth or flannel—arts not likely to be of much use to the West Indian heiress—but she liked to learn them, notwithstanding.

“Wouldn’t I make a right good little cottage girl, after all, Granny Lindsay?” she once asked her old friend, in her childish love of approbation.

“’Ee would, my darling,” said the old dame, tenderly. “’Ee would make a helpful, loving little lass by the cottage fire, or a gracious benign princess in a palace. The world’s breath of sunshine is for ’ee, my flower, from the cottage to the palace.”

“I saw some palaces in Havana, but I would rather have a cottage just like this! Oh, I think a cottage is so nice and cosy, and so—SPLENDID!” exclaimed the little girl, with childlike exaggeration and misapplication of words.

So the once lonely child found much joy in her humble friends, giving and receiving good, while spring bloomed into summer, and summer ripened into autumn, and autumn faded into winter.

Then came cold, and frost, and change, a bitter change for little Gloria.

Her playmate’s work was now the clearing up of the fishing landing, mending boats and oars, and putting them away for winter—work that could not go on parallel with his studies, which were now pursued in the evenings at his own home.

Yet Gloria came down late in the afternoon on every clear day to hear him say his lessons. He told her that this helped him on “ever so much.” And it pleased her.

One day after sunset, when she had heard her pupil’s lesson in a very elementary book of astronomy, and had praised his quick apprehension and patient application, and had greatly encouraged him, as she always did, she took leave and ran home, singing and dancing as she went.

When she reached the house, she found ’Phia at the door, looking out for her.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, come in, child,” said the woman, in a frightened tone.

“What—what is the matter? What has happened?” cried Gloria, catching terror from the other.

“I dunno. Somefin’ awful! Mistress has been goin’ on at that rate! She done put de debbil in marster now, sure! Mind, I tell you, honey, dere’ll be murder done here some ob dese days! Mark my words!”

With a slight scream the terrified child fled from this prophetess of evil toward the sitting-room, where she heard the sound of high words.

She opened the door and hurried in.

And this was what she saw:

Her uncle standing on the corner of the hearth, with his elbow on the mantelpiece, his head leaning on his hand, whose fingers were clutched into his black hair; his starting black eyes staring down upon the floor; his black brows knitted, his teeth clenched, his face pallid with suppressed passion.

Her aunt, with her white dress and yellow hair in wild disorder, as if her own desperate hands had rent and torn them, was raging up and down the floor like a tigress in her cage, pouring forth all the gall and venom of her jealous fury, in words that might never be forgiven or forgotten.

Even the child intuitively perceived this, and feared that the man, stung to madness by the woman’s venomed tongue, might be driven to some rash act, fatal to them both.

She looked, shuddering, from one to the other.

It was terrible to see so fragile a creature as Eusebie in the power of such a tremendous passion, that seemed as if it must shrivel her frame as a cobweb in a flame. But it was more terrible to see in Marcel’s whole aspect the chained devil that might break loose in destroying frenzy at any moment. Full of fear and horror, the child crept trembling to the man’s side, put her arms around his waist, which she could just reach, looked up piteously in his face and whispered, in her coaxing tone:

“Uncle, uncle, uncle.”

“My little angel,” he murmured in reply, as his stern dark face softened and brightened.

“Come away from that man this instant, Gloria,” cried Eusebie, stopping in her wild walk and stamping with fury. “Come away from him, I command you! He is not your uncle! You shall not call him uncle! He is a traitor and a villain! Come away, I say!”

The child did not obey; she could not move; she was half paralyzed by fear and horror, and more likely to sink than to stand.

The man put his arm around her, and drew her closer to him.

The woman stamped with fury.

“Let my niece go, you caitiff!” she screamed.

He did not reply to this, but lifted his head and glared at her, while his face darkened and hardened.

The terrified child—terrified for others, not for herself—pressed closely to him, as if, in extremity, she would hold him back by her own baby strength, and moaned, coaxingly:

“Uncle, uncle, uncle dear.”

Again his face changed; he stooped towards her and she laid her cheek against his lips.

“Come away from that man, or I will tear you from him! He is not your uncle! He is no kin to you! He is nothing to you! No! I thank Heaven that not one drop of his false, black blood runs in the veins of any one belonging to me! I have not even a child! Ha! ha! I know the reason! Fiends are not permitted to be fathers!” hissed the woman, with all the hate and scorn that Satan could cast into her face and voice.

Here the man’s eyes glared so fiercely, while his brow grew so black, that the child clasped him in a frantic clutch, moaning, inarticulately, some words of piteous deprecation to restrain him.

“Leave that wretch this instant, I command you! His contact is infamy! Am I not to be obeyed? Oh, then I will snatch you from him!” screamed the woman, in blind fury, as she sprang towards them; but he was too quick for her.

He lifted the half-fainting child in his arms and bore her swiftly out of the room.

“Oh, uncle, she is crazy! She does not know what she says! Don’t mind her! Don’t go back in the room,” coaxed the child, as she put up her hand and stroked and patted his cheek. “Uncle, dear, don’t go back in the room! Come with me to Granny Lindsay’s cottage. Oh, it is so heavenly there.”

But now the man paid but little attention to what she said. He pulled the bell-cord violently.

’Phia ran to answer the bell.

“Take this child up to her bedroom, and stay with her until she goes to sleep,” he said, placing the little girl in the strong arms of the colored woman.

“Oh, uncle, don’t go back to that room! Don’t, or if you do, take me with you!” pleaded the child, caressing his cheek with her hand.

“Go, my dear, go to bed. Pandemonium is no place for babies. Leave me to deal with that demoniac,” he answered, grimly, as he turned away.

“Oh, uncle, don’t mind her! She don’t know what she says!” pleaded the child, stretching out her hands imploringly towards him.

But he had re-entered the room and clapped the door to behind him.

Gloria slid from the woman’s arms, sat down on the lowest step of the stairs and burst into tears.

“Come to bed, honey. Don’t sit there crying. You can’t do no good by dat. You can’t ’vent de debbil from habbin’ his own way dis night,” said ’Phia.

“Oh, I know—I know—I know!” sobbed the child.

“Well, den, come along up to bed, and I’ll stay ’long ob you for company.”

“Oh, I can’t—I can’t—I can’t—I’m so ’fraid. Let me sit here and wait——”

“Wait for what?”

“Oh, till uncle comes out, or one of them does. Oh, I couldn’t go to bed! I couldn’t go to sleep and leave them so! Hush!” suddenly exclaimed the child, breaking off in her talk, and bending forward her head and straining her sense in fearful attention, as she heard her uncle’s voice in low, tense, bitter tones, and then her aunt’s hissing tongue in reply.

The child clasped her hands in a piteous, helpless agony of prayer.

“Come, come, honey, come up to bed, and I will sit by you and tell you pretty stories about foxes and hares, and dwarfs and giants, and little pigs and things, like I used to do,” said ’Phia.

“Hush!” exclaimed the child, starting forward, with staring eyes, as the voices in the closed room sunk lower and became more bitter, intense and hissing.

“Come, come, honey, you must come to bed. ’Tain’t right to be listening, nohow!” expostulated Sophia, in virtuous indignation.

“Oh! I know it is not! I know it is not! And I can’t hear a word they say. I only want to know—want to know——Oh! I’m so afraid! I’m so afraid, ’Phia!” gasped the child, shuddering from head to foot.

“’Fraid o’ what?”

“Oh! ’fraid of something happening!” panted the little girl.

“You can’t help of what happens, so what’s the use o’ bein’ afeard?”

At that moment the voices in the closed room arose, both speaking together in violent, clashing frenzy.

“Oh, ’Phia! Let’s go in! Let’s go in and stand between them!” pleaded the child, springing up.

“Who?—me? No, I thank you, honey! I’m spunky enough, but I ain’t gwine to part a wolf from a wildcat, dere!”

“Then I will! I will!” cried the brave child, running and flinging herself against the closed door; but it was locked fast, and resisted all her efforts, while the angry voices within clashed together in rage.

Suddenly one voice arose above the other, with the roar of an infuriated wild beast. It was her uncle’s voice. It cried:

“DIE, then! and end it all!”

There was a heavy fall and groan.

With a shriek of horror Gloria arose and fled to the negro woman and buried her face in her bosom.

The next instant the door was suddenly unlocked and thrown open, and Marcellus de Crespigney—his face haggard, his eyes starting, his hair bristling—ran out, tore open the hall door and rushed from the house out into the winter night.

“I must go see what’s happened,” hastily muttered the black woman, in a voice full of awe, as she put the child off her knee and went toward the sitting-room.

Gloria, tottering, moaning, sobbing piteously, followed.

The long room was silent and almost dark, for the candles had not been called for, and there was no light except from the smouldering logs of the fire in the open chimney.

Fallen on a rug before this fire, lay a white form.

Sophia stooped to look at it, and instantly started up in horror, crying out:

“Lord have mercy upon us! He has killed her! Marster has murdered mist’ess!”

HE HAD!

There in a little pool of her own blood, lay the small, white face of Eusebie, with its eyes wide open and glazed.

She was quite dead.