Location via proxy:   [ UP ]  
[Report a bug]   [Manage cookies]                
Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    From $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    The Octoroon
    The Octoroon
    The Octoroon
    Ebook304 pages3 hours

    The Octoroon

    By M. E. Braddon

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    The Octoroon or The Lily of Louisiana is a dark tale of crime, race and slavery. Cora, educated in Britain, returns to her fathers plantation in Louisiana to explore the truth about her mother's slave origins. This book, originally published as a series between 1861 and 1862, was Braddon's second anonymous novel and is now known as a classic anti-slavery novel. Mary Elizabeth Braddon was born in Soho, London, England in 1835. She had her first serial novel published in 1861 and was an extremely prolific writer for the rest of her life. She produced more than 80 novels as well as several stage plays.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWhite Press
    Release dateDec 1, 2020
    ISBN9781528765329
    The Octoroon

    Read more from M. E. Braddon

    Related to The Octoroon

    Related ebooks

    History For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • UNLIMITED

      The Wisdom Of Shakespeare

      Apr 15, 2021

      “... the purpose of playing, whose end both at the first, and now, was end is, to hold as ’twere the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure.” These words

      3 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Terrence McNally: 1938-2020

      Apr 27, 2020

      TERRENCE McNALLY made no insistence on his significance. If there were only one thing to be gleaned from the litany of speeches, interviews, and works of his I have read since his passing, it seems to be that for Terrence the most significant thing w

      2 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Black Stage Report

      Feb 25, 2019

      Black Stage Report
      15 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Adapting the Bard: On the Hogarth Shakespeare Project’s Diversity Problem

      Oct 5, 2017

      It is disappointing when a project aims to see “the Bard’s plays retold by acclaimed, bestselling novelists and brought to life for a contemporary readership,” yet the writers selected are not ultimately representative of all that contemporary societ

      6 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Shakespeare Through The Ages

      Apr 15, 2021

      In 1623, the playwright and poet Ben Jonson wrote that his friend Shakespeare “was not of an age, but for all time”. But Jonson could scarcely have imagined the impact and influence Shakespeare would have on four centuries of thinkers, writers, compo

      4 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The House Of Tom

      May 14, 2024

      The House Of Tom
      5 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Art of Reading James Baldwin

      Oct 11, 2017

      WILLIAM GIRALDI is the author of the novels Busy Monsters (Norton, 2011) and Hold the Dark (Norton, 2014), and a memoir, The Hero’s Body (Norton, 2016). A collection of criticism, American Audacity, is forthcoming from Norton in 2018. I WENT looking

      14 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Oceans

      Mar 15, 2019

      I used to be interested in mountains. They moved at a speed I could deal with. They waited for me to catch up. It was like that all my life. Then we moved to California, and after eight years of earthquakes I began to doubt my ability to put things i

      12 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      V (formerly Eve Ensler) On Biden, Feminism And Why She Was Wrong To Cancel Her Father

      Mar 9, 2021

      You don’t just hook up with Eve Ensler," said Glenn Close, who performed in the play that made Enlser’s name and changed the lives of women around the world, The Vagina Monologues. "You become part of her crusade". Talking to Ensler, who is now known

      6 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Jenkins

      Feb 4, 2021

      Jenkins
      6 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      An Aria Of Anguish

      May 28, 2021

      An Aria Of Anguish
      7 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Blackface Was Never Harmless

      Feb 16, 2019

      Blackface Was Never Harmless
      5 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Suzan-Lori Parks

      Apr 15, 2019

      The Pulitzer Prize–winning playwright on adapting classics, the black avant-garde and how much of the world is a stage

      2 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Daring to Eat the Peach: The Nature of Being Possessed

      Feb 17, 2022

      Burroughs understood inspiration as a form of possession, as an intersection between astral realms and the typewriter. This was magic as literary criticism. The post Daring to Eat the Peach: The Nature of Being Possessed appeared first on The Million

      21 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      How Encanto Explains America

      Jan 16, 2022

      How Encanto Explains America
      7 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Soul Sisters

      Aug 15, 2024

      Soul Sisters
      9 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      What A Book Can Do For A Girl

      May 27, 2022

      What A Book Can Do For A Girl
      3 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      What a Great Talker She Was

      Sep 1, 2020

      What a Great Talker She Was
      8 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Readers Write: Shared Reading Memories, Appreciation of New Daily Format

      Oct 21, 2017

      Shared reading memories I was enchanted by Robert Klose’s Sept. 4 Home Forum essay, “How I became a reader of books.” It brought back memories of my more than threescore years of reading, even as a small child. Having experienced the pleasure of boo

      1 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Books

      Jul 25, 2022

      Books
      6 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for The Octoroon

    0 ratings

    0 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      The Octoroon - M. E. Braddon

      CHAPTER I.

      CORA.

      THE last notes of a favorite waltz resounded through the splendid saloons of Mrs.Montresor’s mansion in Grosvenor Square; sparkling eyes and glittering jewels flashed in the lamplight; the rival queens of rank and beauty shone side by side upon the aristocratic crowd; the rich perfumes of exotic blossoms floated on the air; brave men and lovely women were met together to assist at the farewell ball given by the wealthy American, Mrs. Montresor, on her departure to New Orleans with her lovely niece, Adelaide Horton, whose charming face and sprightly manners had been the admiration of all London during the season of 1860.

      The haughty English beauties were by no means pleased to see the sensation made by the charms of the vivacious young American, whose brilliant and joyous nature contrasted strongly with the proud and languid daughters of fashion, who intrenched themselves behind a barrier of icy reserve, which often repelled their admirers.

      Adelaide Horton was a gay and light-hearted being. Born upon the plantation of a wealthy father, the cries of beaten slaves had never disturbed her infant slumbers; for the costly mansion in which the baby heiress was reared was far from the huts of the helpless creatures who worked sometimes sixteen hours a day to swell the planter’s wealth. No groans of agonized parents torn from their unconscious babes; no cries of outraged husbands severed from their newly-wedded wives had ever broken Adelaide’s rest. She knew nothing of the slave-trade; as at a very early age the planter’s daughter had been sent to England for her education. Her father had died during her absence from America, and she was thus left to the guardianship of an only brother, the present possessor of Horton Ville, as the extensive plantation and magnificent country-seat were called.

      On Adelaide attaining her eighteenth year, her aunt, Mrs. Montresor, an inhabitant of New York, and the widow of a rich merchant, had crossed the Atlantic at Augustus Horton’s request, for the purpose of giving her niece a season in London, and afterward escorting her back to Louisiana.

      She found Adelaide all that her most anxious relatives could have wished—elegant, accomplished, fashionable, well-bred; a little frivolous, perhaps, but what of that, since her lot in life was to be a smooth and easy one? Mrs. Montresor was delighted, and expressed her gratification very warmly to the Misses Beaumont, of West Brompton, in whose fashionable seminary Adelaide had been educated.

      In an antechamber leading out of the crowded ball-room—an antechamber where the atmosphere was cool, and where the close neighborhood of a fountain plashing into its marble basin in an adjoining conservatory refreshed the wearied ear, two young men lounged lazily upon a satin-covered couch, watching the dancers through the open ball-room door.

      The first of these young men was a Southerner, Mortimer Percy, the partner of Augustus Horton, and the first cousin of the planter and his pretty sister Adelaide.

      Mortimer Percy was a handsome young man. His fair curling hair clustered round a broad and noble forehead; his large clear blue eyes sparkled with the light of intellect; his delicate aquiline nose and chiseled nostrils bespoke the refinement of one who was by nature a gentleman; but a satirical expression spoiled an otherwise beautiful mouth, and an air of languor and weariness pervaded his appearance. He seemed one of those who have grown indifferent to life, careless alike of its joys and sorrows.

      His companion contrasted strongly with him both in appearance and manner. With a complexion bronzed by southern suns, with flashing black eyes, a firm but flexible mouth, shaded with a silky raven mustache, and thick black hair brushed carelessly back from his superb forehead, Gilbert Margrave, artist, engineer, philanthropist, poet, seemed the very type of rhanly energy.

      The atmosphere of a crowded ball-room appeared unnatural to him. That daring spirit was out of place amidst the narrow conventionalities of fashionable life; the soaring nature needed wide savannas and lofty mountain tops, distant rivers and sounding waterfalls; the artist and poet mind sighed for the beautiful—not the beautiful as we see it in a hot-house flower, imprisoned in a china vase, but as it lurks in the gigantic cup of the Victoria regia on the broad bosom of the mighty Amazon.

      But Gilbert Margrave was one of the lions of 1860. An invention in machinery, which had enriched both the inventor and the cotton-spinners of Manchester, had made the young engineer celebrated, and when it was discovered that he belonged to a good Somersetshire family, that he was handsome and accomplished, an artist and a poet, invitations flocked in upon him from all the fashionable quarters of the West-end.

      He had been silent for some time, his gaze riveted upon one of the brilliant groups in the ball-room, when Mortimer Percy tapped him lightly on the shoulder with his gloved hand.

      Why, man, what are you dreaming of? he said, laughing; what enchanted vision has enchained your artist glance? what fairy form has bewitched your poet soul? One would think you were amid solitudes of some forest on the banks of the Danube, instead of a ball-room in Grosvenor Square. Confess, my Gilbert, confess to your old friend, and reveal the nymph whose spells have transformed you into a statue.

      Gilbert smiled at his friend’s sally. The two young men had met upon the Continent, and had traveled together through Germany and Switzerland.

      The nymph is no other than yonder lovely girl, talking to your cousin, Miss Horton, said Gilbert; look at her, Mortimer; watch the graceful head, the silky raven hair, as she bends down to whisper to her companion. Is she not lovely?

      Few who looked upon the young girl, of whom Gilbert Margrave spoke, could well have answered otherwise than in the affirmative. She was indeed lovely! In the first blush of youth, with the innocence of an angel beaming in every smile; with the tenderness of a woman lying shadowed in the profound depths of her almond-shaped black eyes. Features, delicately molded and exquisitely proportioned; a tiny rose-bud mouth; a Grecian nose, a complexion fairer than the ungathered lily hiding deep in an untrodden forest; it was difficult for the imagination of the poet, or the painter, to picture aught so beautiful.

      Is she not lovely? repeated Gilbert Margrave.

      The young Southerner put his head critically on one side, with the calculating glance with which a connoisseur in the fine arts regards a valuable picture. The used-up Mortimer Percy made it a rule never to commit himself by admiring anything or anybody.

      Hum—ha! he muttered thoughtfully; yes, she’s by no means bad-looking.

      By no means bad-looking! cried Gilbert Margrave, impatiently; you cold-hearted automaton, how dare you speak of womanly perfection in such a manner? She’s an angel, a goddess—a siren—a

      You’ll have an attack of apoplexy, Margrave, if you go on in this way, said Mortimer, laughing.

      Can you tell me who she is?

      "No. But I can do more. I can tell you what she is!"

      What do you mean?

      I mean that your angel, your nymph, your goddess, your siren, is—a slave.

      A slave! exclaimed Gilbert.

      Yes. The African blood runs in those purple veins. The hereditary curse of slavery hovers over that graceful and queen-like head.

      But her skin is fairer than the lily.

      "What of that? Had you been a planter, Gilbert, you would have been able to discover, as I did, when just now I stood close to that lovely girl, the fatal signs of her birth. At the extreme corner of the eye, and at the root of the finger-nails, Southern gentlemen can always discover the trace of slavery, though but one drop of the blood of the despised race tainted the object upon whom he looked."

      But this girl seems an intimate friend of your cousin, Adelaide; who can she be? asked Gilbert.

      Yes, that is the very thing that puzzles me. Adelaide must be utterly ignorant of her origin, or she would never treat as a friend one who, on the other side of the Atlantic, would be her lady’s maid. But hush, here comes my aunt, she will be able to tell us all about her beautiful guest.

      Mrs. Montresor was still a handsome woman. She bore a family likeness to her nephew, Mortimer, who was the only son of her sister, while Adelaide and Augustus Horton were the children of her brother. Her fair ringlets had, as yet, escaped the hand of Time. No telltale streaks of gray had stolen amid the showering locks. Her blue eyes were as bright as those of a girl, and shone with the light of good-humor and benevolence. She was not only a handsome woman, she was a lovable one. The young instinctively clung to her, and felt that within that ample bosom beat a kindly heart, which a long summer of prosperity had never rendered callous to the woes of others.

      Come, gentlemen, she said gayly, as she approached the two friends; this is really too bad! Here are you lolling on a sofa, ‘wasting your sweetness on the desert air,’ while I have, at least, half a dozen pretty girls waiting for eligible partners for the next waltz. As for you, Mortimer, she added, shaking her perfumed fan threateningly at her nephew, you are really incorrigible; poor Adelaide does not even know you are here.

      I came in late, my dear aunt, and I saw that both you and my cousin were so surrounded by admirers, it was quite impossible to approach you.

      A pretty excuse, sir, which neither I nor Adelaide will accept, said Mrs. Montresor, laughing.

      And then, again, I wanted to have a chat with Gilbert.

      Out upon your gallantry, sir; you preferred talking to Mr. Margrave to dancing with your cousin and affianced bride?

      I am not a very good dancer; I am apt to tread upon the ladies’ lace flounces, and get my heels entangled in the spurs of young dragoons. I really thought my cousin would rather be excused.

      Indeed, sir, exclaimed Mrs. Montresor, evidently rather annoyed by her nephew’s indifference; I should not be surprised if Adelaide should one day ask to be excused from marrying you.

      Good gracious, cried Mortimer, playing with his watch-chain; do you think my cousin is not very violently in love with me?

      Violently in love with you; coxcomb! But, joking apart, really, Mortimer, you are the coldest, most unpoetical, soulless creature I ever met with.

      My dear aunt, said Mortimer, apologetically, I will freely own that I am not a very sentimental person. But what of that? My intended marriage with my cousin, Adelaide, is by no means a romantic affair. In the first place, Augustus Horton and I are partners. My marriage with his sister is therefore advisable, on the ground of commercial interests. That is reason number one, not very romantic to begin with. Reason number two is: you have two nephews and one niece; you wish your favorite nephew (meaning me) to marry your niece, in order that one of these days, you may leave them the bulk of your fortune. There’s nothing particularly romantic in this. You say to the two young people, ‘Marry!’ and the two young people say ‘Very well, we’re agreeable!’ and behold the business is settled. Very advisable, and very proper, no doubt, but not a subject for romance, my dear aunt.

      Bah, Mortimer, you’re incorrigible; but I know that at the bottom of your heart you’re very much in love with your pretty cousin, notwithstanding your pretended indifference.

      Come, then, my best of aunts. Forgive your most perverse of nephews, and answer me one question, for the benefit of Gilbert Margrave here, who has been bewitched by one of the lilies of your ball-room.

      Indeed, and pray who is the lady?

      That is the very question we want you to answer, replied Mortimer, leading his aunt to the curtained doorway of the ballroom. See, there she is, that dark-eyed girl talking to my cousin Adelaide.

      That is Miss Leslie.

      What Miss Leslie?

      The daughter of Mr. Gerald Leslie, of New Orleans.

      Indeed! exclaimed Mortimer.

      Yes. But you seem surprised.

      I am a little, replied the young man, thoughtfully. I did not know Leslie had a daughter.

      But you see he has, since she is an intimate friend of Adelaide’s.

      How did they become acquainted?

      They were educated at the same school.

      Indeed. She is a very lovely girl, and you must be good enough to introduce us to her, by and by.

      Take care, Mortimer, said his aunt, you are surely not going to fall in love with Miss Leslie?

      Not the least danger, my dear aunt. Though I would not say as much for poor Gilbert, here.

      Pshaw! Mortimer, exclaimed the young artist, reddening; it is the painter’s privilege to admire beauty without loving it.

      No doubt of it, my dear boy, answered Mortimer; "but, unfortunately, sometimes a certain little rosy-legged gentleman, with a bow and arrows, called Cupid, steps in; the painter forgets his privilege, and the man falls in love with the artist’s model."

      Well, I must leave you, gentlemen, said Mrs. Montresor; "I think I see Adelaide and Miss Leslie coming this way; so if you want an introduction to the young Southerner you must obtain it through my niece. Au revoir, naughty boys!"

      Stay, my dear aunt; you will forgive Mr. Margrave when I tell you that he is as determined an abolitionist as yourself, or any of your friends in New York. He means sailing for the Southern States in a month, armed with some new inventions in machinery, which he declares ought to supersede slave-labor.

      Yes, madam, said Gilbert, earnestly; your nephew well knows my opinion upon this subject; and though his interests may be allied to the hateful barter, which should call a blush to the cheek of every honest American, I know that his heart is with us.

      Let me shake hands with you, Mr. Margrave, exclaimed Mrs. Montresor; I declare to you that so hateful to me is the slave-trade, and all connected with it, that were it not necessary for me to escort my niece home and assist at her marriage with this hair-brained boy, I would never again set foot upon the accursed soil of Louisiana; but I must not say more to you, now, for here come the young ladies. Adelaide is but a child, as yet, and has never thought seriously of the matter, while her brother, Augustus, like his father before him, is a determined advocate of slavery. Once more, adieu! and the elegant, although portly Mrs. Montresor, glided from the room, her rich robes of sky-blue moire antique rustling around her.

      Gilbert, said Mortimer, hurriedly, as soon as his aunt was out of hearing, remember, I beg, do not breathe to a mortal one hint of what I just now told you, with regard to Miss Leslie’s origin. I suspect some painful mystery here, and I would not, for the world, that any idle talk of mine should cause this poor girl’s gentle heart one throb of sorrow, or one thrill of shame.

      You may rely upon me, Mortimer, exclaimed Gilbert, with enthusiasm. My lips are sealed forever.

      He had scarcely spoken when the two young girls approached, arm-in-arm.

      There was a marked contrast between the two friends. Young as Adelaide Horton was, she had already all the finished elegance and easy confidence of a woman of fashion. Frivolous, capricious, and something of a coquette, she was born to charm in a ball-room, and to shine in a crowd. Cora Leslie was a creature of an utterly different nature. Like some wild flower from the luxuriant forests of her native South, she seemed destined to bloom with a sweeter perfume in loneliness. To blossom for the silent stars and the midnight skies; to expand her fairest petals to the sunshine of one loving heart.

      I do not care to see my cousin just now, said Mortimer, so I will leave you, Gilbert, to make yourself agreeable to the young ladies, while I go and smoke a cigar in the balcony opening out of the conservatory.

      The young man strolled through the curtained doorway leading into the cool retreat, as his cousin and her friend entered from the ball-room.

      Here, at least, my dear Cora, we shall be able to breathe, said Adelaide, as the two girls approached Gilbert. Ah, Mr. Margrave, she added, perceiving the young artist, it is here, then, that you have been hiding yourself while a hundred lion-hunters have been trying to chase you. Cora, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Gilbert Margrave, engineer, artist, poet—lion! Mr. Margrave, allow me to present you to Miss Cora Leslie, my friend, and the most elegant waltzer in my aunt’s crowded assembly.

      I beg, Mr. Margrave, said Cora Leslie, that you will not listen to Miss Horton’s assertions; she only grants me this eulogy because she knows that she waltzes better than I.

      Will you permit me to be the judge of that, Miss Leslie? said Gilbert; and in order that I may be so, grant me your hand for the next waltz?

      Oh, yes, yes! cried Adelaide, laughing, we’ll waltz with you. I promise for Cora. Now, pray go back into the ballroom, Mr. Margrave, and satisfy those good people who are pining to stare you out of countenance, which is the only English tribute to genius. Go now, you shall summon Cora as soon as the first notes of the waltz strike up.

      "Au revoir, Miss Leslie, till I come to claim your hand."

      Gilbert bowed and left the anteroom, not without one enthusiastic glance at the innocent face of the fair Louisianian.

      There goes another of your admirers, Cora. cried Adelaide, as she flung herself into one of the luxurious easy-chairs, while Cora seated herself on a sofa, a few paces distant, and laid her bouquet of hot-house flowers on a tiny table at her side; "I declare, Miss Cora Leslie, that I begin to think I did a very unwise thing in persuading my dear, good-natured aunt to give this farewell reunion to our English friends, for you had only to make your appearance in order to steal every admirer I have. It is a general desertion to the camp of the enemy. I should not wonder if Mortimer himself joined the renegades, and left me to sing willow for my inconstant swain."

      But I thought from what you told me, Adelaide, replied Cora, laughing, that Mr. Percy was by no means a very enthusiastic or romantic person.

      Oh, no, indeed, said Adelaide, with an impatient sigh: you are right there, my dear Cora; never was there such a cold-hearted, matter-of-fact being as that cousin and future husband of mine. If he pays me a compliment, it is only an artful way of drawing attention to one of my defects, which, I will own, are rather numerous. If he ever utters an affectionate word, I always feel convinced that he is laughing at me. Imagine now, my dear Cora, was it not flattering to my womanly vanity to hear him say, when we arrived in London a month or two ago, after a separation of four years: My dear Adelaide, my aunt has taken it into her head that you and I ought to marry; I don’t want to oppose her, and I suppose you don’t either."

      And you replied——?

      ‘Oh, no, my dear cousin; I’ve no objection to marry you. But don’t ask anything else.’

      But why did you give your consent? asked Cora.

      I scarcely know. I am impetuous, rash, passionate, capable of doing even a wicked action under the influence of some sudden impulse. I am daring enough, Heaven knows, but there is one species of courage I lack—the courage which gives the power of resistance. I could not oppose my aunt. Has she not been the tenderest of mothers to me? Besides, I did not love any one else, or at least——Why abandon myself to dreams that can never be realized? Again, as the wife of my cousin, Mortimer, I should never be an exile from my dear, native South. If you see me gay and happy, Cora, in spite of my approaching marriage, it is that I shall soon behold the blue skies of my beloved Louisiana.

      Forgive me, dearest Adelaide, said Cora Leslie, but from a few words that escaped you just now, I fancy that I have a secret of your heart. Has Mr. Margrave by any chance made an impression in that quarter?

      You are very inquisitive, miss, replied Adelaide, blushing. Mr. Margrave is an accomplished young man, but his manner to me has never gone beyond the bounds of the most ceremonious politeness. Perhaps, indeed, had he betrayed any warmer sentiment toward me, I might——But do not, I implore you, force me to reflect, my dear Cora. Is it not decided that I am to marry Mortimer? I will present him to you this evening, if he makes his appearance, and you shall tell me what you think of him.

      I am most impatient to see him, said Cora. Tell me, dear Adelaide, did you ask him for tidings of my father?

      Do not think me forgetful, dear Cora, but I had so much to say to him about my brother and my native country, that I forgot to make the inquiries you charged me with. There now, you are angry with me, I know; I can see it in your eyes.

      No, Adelaide, no! answered Cora; that which you see in my eyes is not anger, but anxiety. It is nearly three months since I have received any letter from my dear father, and this long silence is so unlike his affectionate consideration that it has filled me with alarm.

      Nay, my dear Cora, the cares of business, no doubt, have prevented his writing; or perhaps he is coming over to England, and wishes to give you a delightful surprise. Did you not tell me that Mr. Leslie meant to sell his plantation, and take up his abode in England? But here comes Mortimer, and you can yourself make all the inquiries you wish.

      CHAPTER II.

      THE FATAL RESOLVE.

      THE young planter strolled with a leisurely step through the doorway of the conservatory, bowing to the two girls as he entered the room.

      At last! exclaimed Adelaide. So you have actually condescended to honor my aunt’s assembly with your gracious presence, my dear cousin. Perhaps you were in hopes you would not see me.

      Perhaps you were in hopes I would not come, retorted the young man.

      On the contrary, said Adelaide, "I was awaiting you with impatience. But pray don’t be alarmed; it was not on my own account, but on that of Miss Leslie, that I wished to see you. My friend is anxious to

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1