In Which Is A Happy Meeting, Some Curious Facts Developed, And Clotilda's History Disclosed

IT was seven days after the sailing of the Maggy Bell, as described in the foregoing chapter, that Montague was seen sitting in the comfortably furnished parlour of a neat cottage in the suburbs of Nassau. The coal fire burned brightly in a polished grate; the carpets and rugs, and lolling mats, indicated of care and comfort; the tabbied furniture and chastely worked ottomans, and sofas, and chairs, and inlaid workstands, seem bright of regularity and taste; and the window curtains of lace and damask, and the scroll cornices from which they flowingly hung, and the little landscape paintings that hung upon the satin-papered walls, and the soft light that issued from two girandoles on the mantel-piece of figured marble, all lent their cheering aid to make complete the radiant picture of a happy home. But Montague sat nervous with anxiety. "Mother won't be a minute!" said a pert little fellow of some seven summers, who played with his hands as he sat on the sofa, and asked questions his emotions forbid answering. On an ottoman near the cheerful fire, sat, with happy faces, the prettily dressed figures of a boy and girl, older in age than the first; while by the side of Montague sat Maxwell, whose manly countenance we transcribed in the early part of our narrative, and to whom Montague had in part related the sad events of the four months past, as he heaved a sigh, saying, "How happy must he die who careth for the slave!" Ere the words had escaped his lips, the door opened, and the graceful form of a beautiful woman entered, her finely oval but pensive face made more expressive by the olive that shaded it, and those deep soul-like eyes that now sparkled in gentleness, and again flashed with apprehension. Nervously she paused and set her eyes with intense stare on Montague; then vaulted into his arms and embraced him, crying, "Is not my Annette here?" as a tear stole down her cheeks. Her quick eye detected trouble in his deportment; she grasped his left hand firmly in her right, and with quivering frame besought him to keep her no longer in the agony of suspense. "Why thus suddenly have you come? ah!-you disclose a deep-rooted trouble in not forewarning me! tell me all and relieve my feelings!" she ejaculated, in broken accents. "I was driven from that country because I loved nature and obeyed its laws. My very soul loved its greatness, and would have done battle for its glories-yea, I loved it for the many blessings it hath for the favoured; but one dark stain on its bright escutcheon so betrayed justice, that no home was there for me-none for the wife I had married in lawful wedlock." Here the woman, in agonising throbs, interrupted him by enquiring why he said there was no home for the wife he had married in lawful wedlock-was not the land of the puritans free? "Nay!" he answered, in a measured tone, shaking his head, "it is bestained not with their crimes-for dearly do they love justice and regard the rights of man-but with the dark deeds of the man-seller, who, heedless of their feelings, and despising their moral rectitude, would make solitary those happy homes that brighten in greatness over its soil." Again, frantic of anxiety, did the woman interrupt him: "Heavens!-she is not dragged back into slavery?" she enquired, her emotions rising beyond her power of restraint, as she drew bitter pangs from painful truths. With countenance bathed in trouble did Montague return her solicitous glance, and speak. "Into slavery" he muttered, in half choked accents "was she hurled back." He had not finished the sentence ere anxiety burst its bounds, and the anxious woman shrieked, and fell swooning in his arms. Even yet her olive face was beautefully pale. The cheerful parlour now rung with confusion, servants bustled about in fright, the youthful family shrieked in fear, the father sought to restore the fond mother, as Montague chafed her right hand in his. Let us leave to the reader's conjecture a scene his fancy may depict better than we can describe, and pass to one more pleasant of results. Some half an hour had transpired, when, as if in strange bewilderment, Clotilda opened her eyes and seemed conscious of her position. A deep crimson shaded her olive cheeks, as in luxurious ease she lay upon the couch, her flushed face and her thick wavy hair, so prettily parted over her classic brow, curiously contrasting with the snow-white pillow on which it rested. A pale and emaciated girl sat beside her, smoothing her brow with her left hand, laying the right gently on the almost motionless bosom, kissing the crimsoning cheek, and lisping rather than speaking, "Mother, mother, oh mother!-it's only me." And then the wet courses on her cheeks told how the fountain of her soul had overflown. Calmly and vacantly the woman gazed on the fair girl, with whom she had been left alone. Then she raised her left hand to her brow, sighed, and seemed sinking into a tranquil sleep. "Mother! mother! I am once more with my mother!" again ejaculates the fair girl, sobbing audibly; "do you not know me, mother?" Clotilda started as if suddenly surprised. "Do I dream?" she muttered, raising herself on her elbow, as her great soft eyes wandered about the room. She would know who called her mother. "'Tis me," said the fair girl, returning her glances, "do you not know your Annette-your slave child?" Indeed the fair girl was not of that bright countenance she had anticipated meeting, for though the punishment had little soiled her flesh the dagger of disgrace had cut deep into her heart, and spread its poison over her soul. "This my Annette!" exclaimed Clotilda, throwing her arms about the fair girl's neck, drawing her frantically to her bosom, and bathing her cheeks with her tears of joy. "Yes, yes, 'tis my long-lost child; 'tis she for whom my soul has longed-God has been merciful, rescued her from the yawning death of slavery, and given her back to her mother! Oh, no, I do not dream-it is my child,--my Annette!" she continued. Long and affectionately did they mingle their tears and kisses. And now a fond mother's joy seemed complete, a child's sorrow ended, and a happy family were made happier. Again the family gathered into the room, where, as of one accord, they poured out their affectionate congratulations. One after another were the children enjoined to greet Annette, kiss her, and call her sister. To them the meeting was as strange as to the parents it was radiant of joy. "Mother!" said the little boy, as he took Annette by the hand and called her sister, and kissed her as she kissed him, "was you married before you was married to father?" The affectionate mother had no answer to make; she might have found one in the ignominy of the slave world. And now, when the measure of joy seemed full-when the bitterness of the past dwindled away like a dream, and when the future like a beacon hung out its light of promise,--Clotilda drew from a small workstand a discoloured paper written over in Greek characters, scarce intelligible. "Annette!" said she, "my mother gave me this when last I saw her. The chains were then about her hands, and she was about to be led away to the far south slave market: by it did I discover my history." Here she unfolded its defaced pages, lifted her eyes upwards invokingly, and continued--"To speak the crimes of great men is to hazard an oblivion for yourself, to bring upon you the indifference of the multitude; but great men are often greatest in crime-for so it proved with those who completed my mother's destruction. Give ear, then, ye grave senators, and if ye have hearts of fathers, lend them! listen, ye queen mothers of my country, whose sons and daughters are yet travelling the world's uncertainties! listen, ye............