Iola Leroy - Frances Ellen Watkins Harper (suggested reading txt) 📗

Abolition principles; yet if he retains her he will lose his Southern customers, and I know he cannot afford to do that.”

“What does Iola say?”

“He has found another boarding place for her, but she is to remain in the school. He had to throw that sop to the whale.”

“Does she take sides against the girl?”

“No, I don’t think she does. She says she feels sorry for her, and that she would hate to be colored. ‘It is so hard to be looked down on for what one can’t help.’ ”

“Poor child! I wish we could leave the country. I never would consent to her marrying anyone without first revealing to him her connection with the negro race. This is a subject on which I am not willing to run any risks.”

“My dear Marie, when you shall have read Iola’s letter you will see it is more than a figment of my imagination that has made me so loth to have our children know the paralyzing power of caste.”

Leroy, always liberal with his wife and children, spared neither pains nor expense to have them prepared for their summer outing. Iola was to graduate in a few days. Harry was attending a school in the State of Maine, and his father had written to him, apprising him of his intention to come North that season. In a few days Leroy and his wife started North, but before they reached Vicksburg they were met by the intelligence that the yellow fever was spreading in the Delta, and that pestilence was breathing its bane upon the morning air and distilling its poison upon the midnight dews.

“Let us return home,” said Marie.

“It is useless,” answered Leroy. “It is nearly two days since we left home. The fever is spreading south of us with fearful rapidity. To return home is to walk into the jaws of death. It was my intention to have stopped at Vicksburg, but now I will go on as soon as I can make the connections.”

Early next morning Leroy and his wife started again on their journey. The cars were filled with terror-stricken people who were fleeing from death, when death was everywhere. They fled from the city only to meet the dreaded apparition in the country. As they journeyed on Leroy grew restless and feverish. He tried to brace himself against the infection which was creeping slowly but insidiously into his life, dulling his brain, fevering his blood, and prostrating his strength. But vain were all his efforts. He had no armor strong enough to repel the invasion of death. They stopped at a small town on the way and obtained the best medical skill and most careful nursing, but neither skill nor art availed. On the third day death claimed Leroy as a victim, and Marie wept in hopeless agony over the grave of her devoted husband, whose sad lot it was to die from home and be buried among strangers.

But before he died he placed his will in Marie’s hands, saying: “I have left you well provided for. Kiss the children for me and bid them goodbye.”

He tried to say a parting word to Gracie, but his voice failed, and he fainted into the stillness of death. A mortal paleness overspread his countenance, on which had already gathered the shadows that never deceive. In speechless agony Marie held his hand until it released its pressure in death, and then she stood alone beside her dead, with all the bright sunshine of her life fading into the shadows of the grave. Heartbroken and full of fearful forebodings, Marie left her cherished dead in the quiet village of H⁠⸺ and returned to her death-darkened home.

It was a lovely day in June, birds were singing their sweetest songs, flowers were breathing their fragrance on the air, when Mam Liza, sitting at her cabin-door, talking with some of the house servants, saw a carriage approaching, and wondered who was coming.

“I wonder,” she said, excitedly, “whose comin’ to de house when de folks is done gone.”

But her surprise was soon changed to painful amazement, when she saw Marie, robed in black, alighting from the carriage, and holding Gracie by the hand. She caught sight of the drooping head and grief-stricken face, and rushed to her, exclaiming:⁠—

“Whar’s Marse Eugene?”

“Dead,” said Marie, falling into Mammy Liza’s arms, sobbing out, “dead! he died of yellow fever.”

A wild burst of sorrow came from the lips of the servants, who had drawn near.

“Where is he?” said Mam Liza, speaking like one suddenly bewildered.

“He is buried in H⁠⸺. I could not bring him home,” said Marie.

“My pore baby,” said Mam Liza, with broken sobs. “I’se drefful sorry. My heart’s most broke into two.” Then, controlling herself, she dismissed the servants who stood around, weeping, and led Marie to her room.

“Come, honey, lie down an’ lem’me git yer a cup ob tea.”

“Oh, no; I don’t want anything,” said Marie, wringing her hands in bitter agony.

“Oh, honey,” said Mam Liza, “yer musn’t gib up. Yer knows whar to put yer trus’. Yer can’t lean on de arm of flesh in dis tryin’ time.” Kneeling by the side of her mistress she breathed out a prayer full of tenderness, hope, and trust.

Marie grew calmer. It seemed as if that earnest, trustful prayer had breathed into her soul a feeling of resignation.

Gracie stood wonderingly by, vainly trying to comprehend the great sorrow which was overwhelming the life of her mother.

After the first great burst of sorrow was over, Marie sat down to her desk and wrote a letter to Iola, informing her of her father’s death. By the time she had finished it she grew dizzy and faint, and fell into a swoon. Mammy Liza tenderly laid her on the bed, and helped restore her to consciousness.

Lorraine, having heard of his cousin’s death, came immediately to see Marie. She was too ill to have an interview with him, but he picked up the letter she had written and obtained Iola’s address.

Lorraine made a careful investigation