True to a Type.

Vol. I.

by Robert Cleland.

CHAPTER I.

PROLOGUE.

It was evening in New Orleans--the brief swift evening of the South, which links, with imperceptible graduation, the sultry glare of day to the cool of night. The narrow old streets were growing dim in the transparent dusk. The torpid houses, sealed up hermetically through all the afternoon to exclude the heated light and air, awoke from their siesta, throwing wide their doors and cas.e.m.e.nts to the breeze.

The inhabitants came forth, and sauntered up and down, or sat about their doors, drawing long, deep breaths of the evening air--coming back to life again, and throwing off their languor. It was the hour of rest for the toilers, of refreshment for all, and they were enjoying it in indolent content.

Only one among the many moving to and fro appeared animated by a purpose. He stepped briskly forward, brushing against an idler now and then, but was past before the other's eyes had turned in lazy inquiry to know the reason.

He was young. Twenty-one was his actual age, though he might have pa.s.sed for some years older. His features and his skin were browned and sharpened by climate and vicissitude; but in his eye at that moment there was no sign of aught but youth and hope and blissful antic.i.p.ation. Brushing his way swiftly through the sauntering throng, his gaze seemed fixed upon some joy beyond, heedless of nearer objects; and his eyes shone with a clearness like the rift in a moon-obscuring cloud, betraying the brightness and the light within; and a smile was lurking in the corners of his mouth, which waited only for a pretext to break forth in joyous laughter.

Threading his way through the older portion of the town, he arrived at last in the outskirts, where high blank walls overtopped by trees, and houses with their faces turned studiously from the street, preserved the sullen deadness which more populous neighbourhood had cast aside at sundown.

Before a garden door he stopped and knocked--knocked loudly, and with a peculiar tantarabulation, as if it were a well-remembered signal, and stood and waited impatiently. The shuffling of feet could be heard within, and there came whisperings and rustlings, but the door remained fast, and the young man stood and waited, and knocked again, more softly this time, and with a brightening smile as he stood and listened.

"They have gone to call her," he said to himself, "that she may come and open to me herself, as she used to do. Dear girl! It is three long years since last she let me in--three weary years. But why this long delay? She could not expect me, but she knows my knock. Can she be from home? Then why does not some one open?"

Again the footsteps could be heard within. Laggingly they drew near.

Heavy unwillingness could be noted in their tread. The young man knocked again. A key turned gratingly in the stiff old lock, and bolts and fastenings creaked and rasped and yielded tardily, as to a hand which trembled while it pressed them. The door swung open, and the youth with arms extended leaped within the threshold; but the figure which admitted him was not the one he had expected; his arms fell by his side--it was not she.

The figure which had opened drew backward with a scream. It was a servant, and in the doubtful light the white-handkerchief about the head stood out against the dusky foliage of the magnolias, and defined the negro face.

"O Lordie, Lordie!" was her trembling exclamation, as she shrank away.

She would have run, but her limbs were powerless. She stood staring at the visitor with starting eyes whose whites revealed the round dilated pupils, while her mouth hung open in helpless terror.

"Dinah! Is this your welcome to a returned sailor? Where are your mistresses? Did they hear my knock?"

Dinah cowered against the wall, subsiding gradually into a heap upon the ground, powerless to cry out, too dazed even to pray. Her scattered faculties seemed fumbling for a word of power wherewith to reinstate themselves, and avert some peril. "Jerusalem!" was the first which came to hand. Its utterance brought strength and some return of thought. It was followed by "Bress de Lord!" and then with speech restored, she clasped her hands above her head, and with all her strength cried out. "O Lordie! Take de drown man's spook away!"

The visitor turned on his heel and walked round to the front of the house, where doors and shutters stood wide open. Entering by a window open to the ground, he stood in the reception-room: it was empty, and its recesses were concealed in gloom. Nothing was clearly seen but the great white magnolia blossoms in the dim garden without, which burdened the air with their almost too luscious sweetness.

A door opened behind him and the mistress entered, followed by her daughter carrying a lamp. The young man turned eagerly, and the light falling on his features betrayed a shade of disappointment pa.s.sing across them as he recognised the ladies.

"Is Lina from home?" he asked. "But, mother, at least you can welcome me home in the meantime. What! Not a word! No kiss even for your long-lost son-in-law! Surely that is carrying your New England reserve too far."

"Welcome if you will, then, lad! I wish you nought but good. I always liked you well; and you have done nothing to make me change. But oh!

if it had been His will, I would fain you had never returned, seeing you have stayed so long."

She laid her hand upon his open palm. It was cold and nerveless, and her eyes were full of tears.

The young man would have clasped the fingers, but their dullness stole into his heart, and the tremor of her voice filled him with sickening forebodings.

"Lina! Where is Lina? Tell me quick! Has anything come to her?"

"She is gone."

"Dead, do you mean to say?"

"The same to you, lad, as if she were. She is gone from you for ever."

"Hush, mother!" said the daughter. "Remember we agreed to tell him nothing."

"Millicent! Is it you who say such things? What do you mean? Would you keep me from my wife?"

"She is gone; and you must never see her more," said Millicent.

"I must! and will! and shall!"

"You are not the man, then," cried the elder woman, "that I take you for. I tell you, lad, the sight of you would kill her!"

"Why so? What have you told her about me? What has she done? Or what do you say that _I_ have done?"

"Neither of you has done aught amiss, lad--of that I am right sure."

"What then? What is the matter?"

"Let it rest, lad. It is G.o.d's will. Be brave. Be a man, and bear it."

"Bear what? What is it I must bear? You have no right to doubt my courage. Why will you not speak? I demand to be told all."

"Oh lad!--my poor, poor lad!" sobbed the old woman. "Why will you be so set? It is to save your own poor heart that we would keep you in the dark; for what we should have to tell can bring you nought but sorrow--a sorrow without a remedy."

"Have no fear for me. Speak! I can carry my load, whatever it may be.

What is your mystery? Where is Lina?"

"Gone, lad! Have done with her."

"Gone?--dead? No! You do not mean that she is dead. You would have told me that at once. What is it that you mean? Say! Is my Lina not alive? Answer me."

"She lives," the mother answered, with a groan. "There! Nay, it is useless to press me. I tell you she is gone."

"Gone! Would you insinuate shame against my wedded wife?

Unnatural!--against your own sweet daughter? Where has she gone?--and when?--and how?--I am after her. Tell me quick!"

"You cannot go to her, Joseph. She is far away. And"--laying her hand on his arm--"at least I can tell you this, and a.s.sure you with all my heart; there is nought to blush for. She was your faithful wife. No shame can light on her, or upon you."

"_Was_, you say?"

"Yes, lad; all's over now."

"What do you mean?"