FootNote
The new kid on the block, FootNote is known for digitizing historical
documents... many of which are genealogical gems. With naturalizations,
city directories, war records, newspapers, town records, etc... this new
kid is quickly being recognized as an alternative to Ancestry.
While we know our northern friends may not feel it, in the South, Spring is
here. So we thought we'd share a few of our gardening sites appropriate
for this time of the year. Along with gardening, there's grilling, and getting
ready to diet so that you can fit back into that bathing suit this summer!
After more than a fortnight
spent in the highlands of Scotland, Jerome
passed hastily through London on his way to
the continent.
It was toward sunset, on a warm day in
October, shortly after his arrival in
France, that, after strolling some distance
from the Hotel de Leon, in the old and
picturesque town of Dunkirk, he entered a
burial ground such places being always
favorite walks with him and wandered around
among the silent dead. All nature around was
hushed in silence, and seemed to partake of
the general melancholy that hung over the
quiet resting place of the departed. Even
the birds seemed imbued with the spirit of
the place, for they were silent, either
flying noiselessly over the graves, or
jumping about in the tall grass. After
tracing the various inscriptions that told
the characters and conditions of the
deceased, and viewing the mounds beneath
which the dust of mortality slumbered, he
arrived at a secluded spot near where an
aged weeping willow bowed its thick foliage
to the ground, as though anxious to hide
from the scrutinizing gaze of curiosity the
grave beneath it. Jerome seated himself on a
marble tombstone, and commenced reading from
a book which he had carried under his arm.
It was now twilight, and he had read but a
few minutes when he observed a lady, attired
in deep black, and leading a boy, apparently
some five or six years old, coming up one of
the beautiful, winding paths. As the lady's
veil was drawn closely over her face, he
felt somewhat at liberty to eye her more
closely. While thus engaged, the lady gave a
slight scream, and seemed suddenly to have
fallen into a fainting condition. Jerome
sprang from his seat, and caught her in time
to save her from falling to the ground.
At this moment an elderly gentleman, also
dressed in black, was seen approaching with
a hurried step, which seemed to indicate
that he was in some way connected with the
lady. The old man came up, and in rather a
confused manner inquired what had happened,
and Jerome explained matters as well as he
was able to do so. After taking up the
vinaigrette, which had fallen from her hand,
and holding the bottle a short time to her
face, the lady began to revive. During all
this time, the veil had still partly covered
the face of the fair one, so that Jerome had
scarcely seen it. When she had so far
recovered as to be able to look around her,
she raised herself slightly, and again
screamed and swooned. The old man now
feeling satisfied that Jerome's dark
complexion was the immediate cause of the
catastrophe, said in a somewhat petulant
tone,
"I will be glad, sir, if you will leave us
alone."
The little boy at this juncture set up a
loud cry, and amid the general confusion,
Jerome left the ground and returned to his
hotel.
While seated at the window of his room
looking out upon the crowded street, with
every now and then the strange scene in the
graveyard vividly before him, Jerome
suddenly thought of the book he had been
reading, and, remembering that he had left
it on the tombstone, where he dropped it
when called to the lady's assistance, he
determined to return for it at once.
After a walk of some twenty minutes, he
found himself again in the burial ground and
on the spot where he had been an hour
before. The pensive moon was already up, and
its soft light was sleeping on the little
pond at the back of the grounds, while the
stars seemed smiling at their own sparkling
rays gleaming up from the beautiful sheet of
water.
Jerome searched in vain for his book; it was
nowhere to be found. Nothing, save the
bouquet that the lady had dropped, and which
lay half buried in the grass, from having
been trodden upon, indicated that any one
had been there that evening. The stillness
of death reigned over the place; even the
little birds, that had before been
twittering and flying about, had retired for
the night.
Taking up the bunch of flowers, Jerome
returned to his hotel. "What can this mean?"
he would ask himself; "and why should they
take my book?" These questions he put to
himself again and again during his walk. His
sleep was broken more than once that night,
and he welcomed the early dawn as it made
its appearance.
After passing a sleepless night, and hearing
the clock strike six, Jerome took from his
table a book, and thus endeavored to pass
away the hours before breakfast time. While
thus engaged, a servant entered and handed
him a note. Hastily tearing it open, Jerome
read as follows:
"SIR, I owe you an apology for the abrupt
manner in which I addressed you last
evening, and the inconvenience to which you
were subjected by some of my household. If
you will honor us with your presence today
at four o'clock, I will be most happy to
give you due satisfaction. My servant will
be waiting with the carriage at half past
three.
I am, sir, yours, &c., J. Devenant
Jerome Fletcher, Esq.
Who this gentleman was, and how he had found
out his name and the hotel at which he was
stopping, were alike mysteries to Jerome.
And this note seemed to his puzzled brain
like a challenge. "Satisfaction?" He had not
asked for satisfaction. However, he resolved
to accept the invitation, and, if need be,
meet the worst. At any rate, this most
mysterious and complicated affair would be
explained.
The clock on a neighboring church had
scarcely finished striking three when a
servant announced to Jerome that a carriage
had called for him. In a few minutes, he was
seated in a sumptuous barouche, drawn by a
pair of beautiful iron grays, and rolling
over a splendid gravel road entirely shaded
by trees, which appeared to have been the
accumulated growth of many centuries. The
carriage soon stopped at a low villa, which
was completely embowered in trees.
Jerome alighted, and was shown into a superb
room, with the walls finely decorated with
splendid tapestry, and the ceilings
exquisitely frescoed. The walls were hung
with fine specimens from the hands of the
great Italian masters, and one by a German
artist, representing a beautiful monkish
legend connected with the "Holy Catharine,"
an illustrious lady of Alexandria. High
backed chairs stood around the room, rich
curtains of crimson damask hung in folds on
either side of the window, and a beautiful,
rick, Turkey carpet covered the floor. In
the centre of the room stood a table covered
with books, in the midst of which was a vase
of fresh flowers, loading the atmosphere
with their odors. A faint light, together
with the quiet of the hour, gave beauty
beyond description to the whole scene. A
half open door showed a fine marble floor to
an adjoining room, with pictures, statues,
and antiquated sofas, and flower pots filled
with rare plants of every kind and
description.
Jerome had scarcely run his eyes over the
beauties of the room when the elderly
gentleman whom he had met on the previous
evening made his appearance, followed by the
little boy, and introduced himself as Mr.
Devenant. A moment more and a lady, a
beautiful brunette, dressed in black, with
long black curls hanging over her shoulders,
entered the room. Her dark, bright eyes
flashed as she caught the first sight of
Jerome. The gentleman immediately arose on
the entrance of the lady, and Mr. Devenant
was in the act of introducing the stranger
when he observed that Jerome had sunk back
upon the sofa, in a faint voice exclaiming,
"It is she!"
After this, all was dark and dreary. How
long he remained in this condition, it was
for others to tell. The lady knelt by his
side and wept; and when he came to, he found
himself stretched upon the sofa with his
boots off and his head resting upon a
pillow. By his side sat the old man, with
the smelling bottle in one hand and a glass
of water in the other, while the little boy
stood at the foot of the sofa. As soon as
Jerome had so far recovered as to be able to
speak, he said,
"Where am I, and what does all this mean?"
"Wait awhile," replied the old man, "and I
will tell you all."
After the lapse of some ten minutes, Jerome
arose from the sofa, adjusted his apparel,
and said,
"I am now ready to hear anything you have to
say."
"You were born in America?" said the old
man.
"I was," he replied.
"And you knew a girl named Clotelle,"
continued the old man.
"Yes, and I loved her as I can love none
other."
"The lady whom you met so mysteriously last
evening was she," said Mr. Devenant.
Jerome was silent, but the fountain of
mingled grief and joy stole out from beneath
his eyelashes, and glistened like pearls
upon his ebony cheeks.
At this juncture, the lady again entered the
room. With an enthusiasm that can be better
imagined than described, Jerome sprang from
the sofa, and they rushed into each other's
arms, to the great surprise of the old
gentleman and little Antoine, and to the
amusement of the servants who had crept up,
one by one and were hid behind the doors or
loitering in the hall. When they had given
vent to their feelings and sufficiently
recovered their presence of mind, they
resumed their seats.
"How did you find out my name and address?"
inquired Jerome.
"After you had left the grave yard," replied
Clotelle, "our little boy said, 'Oh, mamma!
if there ain't a book!' I opened the book,
and saw your name written in it, and also
found a card of the Hotel de Leon. Papa
wished to leave the book, and said it was
only a fancy of mine that I had ever seen
you before; but I was perfectly convinced
that you were my own dear Jerome."
As she uttered the last words, tears the
sweet bright tears that love alone can bring
forth bedewed her cheeks.
"Are you married?" now inquired Clotelle,
with a palpitating heart and trembling
voice.
"No, I am not, and never have been," was
Jerome's reply.
"Then, thank God!" she exclaimed, in broken
accents.
It was then that hope gleamed up amid the
crushed and broken flowers of her heart, and
a bright flash darted forth like a sunbeam.
"Are you single now?" asked Jerome.
"Yes, I am," was the answer.
"Then you will be mine after all?" said he
with a smile.
Her dark, rich hair had partly come down,
and hung still more loosely over her
shoulders than when she first appeared; and
her eyes, now full of animation and
vivacity, and her sweet, harmonious, and
well modulated voice, together with her
modesty, self possession, and engaging
manners, made Clotelle appear lovely beyond
description. Although past the age when men
ought to think of matrimony, yet the scene
before Mr. Devenant brought vividly to his
mind the time when he was young and had a
loving bosom companion living, and tears
were wiped from the old man's eyes. A new
world seemed to unfold itself before the
eyes of the happy lovers, and they were
completely absorbed in contemplating the
future. Furnished by nature with a
disposition to study, and a memory so
retentive that all who knew her were
surprised at the ease with which she
acquired her education and general
information, Clotelle might now be termed a
most accomplished lady. After her marriage
with young Devenant, they proceeded to
India, where the husband's regiment was
stationed. Soomn after their arrival,
however, a battle was fought with the
natives, in which several officers fell,
among whom was Captain Devenant. The father
of the young captain being there at the
time, took his daughter-in-law and brought
her back to France, where they took up their
abode at the old homestead. Old Mr. Devenant
was possessed of a large fortune, all of
which he intended for his daughter-in-law
and her only child.
Although Clotelle had married young Devenant,
she had not forgotten her first love, and
her father-in-law now willingly gave his
consent to her marriage with Jerome. Jerome
felt that to possess the woman of his love,
even at that late hour, was compensation
enough for the years that he had been
separated from her, and Clotelle wanted no
better evidence of his love for her than the
fact of his having remained so long
unmarried. It was indeed a rare instance of
devotion and constancy in a man, and the
young widow gratefully appreciated it.
It was late in the evening when Jerome led
his intended bride to the window, and the
magnificent moonlight illuminated the
countenance of the lovely Clotelle, while
inward sunshine, emanating from a mind at
ease, and her own virtuous thoughts, gave
brightness to her eyes and made her appear a
very angel. This was the first evening that
Jerome had been in her company since the
night when, to effect his escape from
prison, she disguised herself in male
attire. How different the scene now. Free
instead of slaves, wealthy instead of poor,
and on the eve of an event that seemed
likely to result in a life of happiness to
both.
Clotelle or The Colored Heroine, A tale
of the Southern States
