The Beckoning Hand and Other Stories - The Original Classic Edition. Allen Grant

it, that she had Cesarine's great dark eyes and even white teeth, and something of Cesarine's figure lingered still in her lithe and sinuous yet erect carriage.

       "Grand'mere!" Cesarine said convulsively, flinging her arms with wild delight around that grim and withered gaunt black woman.

       It seemed to me she had never since our marriage embraced me with half the fervour she bestowed upon this hideous old African witch creature.

       "He, Cesarine, it is thee, then, my little one," the old negress cried out suddenly, in her thin high voice and her muffled Haitian patois.

       "I did not expect thee so soon, my cabbage. Thou hast come early. Be the welcome one, my granddaughter."

       I reeled with horror as I saw the wrinkled and haggard African kissing once more my beautiful Cesarine. It seemed to me a horrible desecration. I had always known, of course, since Cesarine was a quadroon, that her grandmother on one side must necessarily have been a full-blooded negress, but I had never yet suspected the reality could be so hideous, so terrible as this.

       I crouched down speechless against the paling in my disgust and astonishment, and motioned with my hand to the negro in the hut to remain perfectly quiet. The door of the house closed, and Cesarine disappeared: but I waited there, as if chained to the spot, under a hot and burning tropical sun, for fully an hour, unconscious of anything in heaven or earth, save the shock and surprise of that unexpected disclosure.

       At last the door opened again, and Cesarine apparently[Pg 22] came out once more into the neighbouring garden. The gaunt negress followed her close, with one arm thrown caressingly about her beautiful neck and shoulders. In London, Cesarine would not have permitted anybody but a great lady to take such a liberty with her; but here in Haiti, she submitted to the old negress's horrid embraces with perfect calmness. Why should she not, indeed! It was her own grandmother.

       They came close up to the spot where I was crouching in the thick drifted dust behind the low fence, and then I heard rather than saw that Cesarine had flung herself passionately down upon her knees on the ground, and was pouring forth a muttered prayer, in a tongue unknown to me, and full of harsh and uncouth gutturals. It was not Latin; it was not even the coarse Creole French, the negro patois in which I heard the people jabbering to one another loudly in the streets around me: it was some still more hideous and barbaric language, a mass of clicks and inarticulate noises, such as I could never have believed might possibly proceed from Cesarine's thin and scornful lips.

       At last she finished, and I heard her speaking again to her grandmother in the Creole dialect. "Grandmother, you will pray and get me one. You will not forget me. A boy. A pretty one; an heir to my husband!" It was said wistfully, with an infinite longing. I knew then why she had grown so pale and thin and haggard before we sailed away from England.

       The old hag answered in the same tongue, but in her shrill withered note, "You will bring him up to the religion, my little one, will you?"

       Cesarine seemed to bow her head. "I will," she said. "He shall follow the religion. Mr. Tristram shall never know anything about it."

       They went back once more into the house, and I crept away, afraid of being discovered, and returned to the[Pg 23] yacht, sick at

       heart, not knowing how I should ever venture again to meet Cesarine.

       But when I got back, and had helped myself to a glass of sherry to steady my nerves, from the little flask on Cesarine's dressing-table, I thought to myself, hideous as it all seemed, it was very natural Cesarine should wish to see her grandmother. After all, was it not better, that proud and haughty as she was, she should not disown her own flesh and blood? And yet, the memory of my beautiful Cesarine wrapped in that hideous old black woman's arms made the blood curdle in my very veins.

       As soon as Cesarine returned, however, gayer and brighter than I had ever seen her, the old fascination overcame me once more, and I determined in my heart to stifle the horror I could not possibly help feeling. And that evening, as I sat alone in the cabin with my wife, I said to her, "Cesarine, we have never spoken about the religious question before: but if it should be ordained we are ever to have any little ones of our own, I should wish them to be brought up in their mother's creed. You could make them better Catholics, I take it, than I could ever make them Christians of any sort."

       11

       Cesarine answered never a word, but to my intense surprise she burst suddenly into a flood of tears, and flung herself sobbing on the cabin floor at my feet in an agony of tempestuous cries and writhings.

       VII.

       A few days later, when we had settled down for a three months' stay at a little bungalow on the green hills behind Port-au-Prince, Cesarine said to me early in the day, "I want to go away to-day, Harry, up into the mountains, to the chapel of Notre Dame de Bon Secours."

       I bowed my head in acquiescence. "I can guess why[Pg 24] you want to go, Reeney," I answered gently. "You want to pray there

       about something that's troubling you. And if I'm not mistaken, it's the same thing that made you cry the other evening when I spoke

       to you down yonder in the cabin."

       The tears rose hastily once more into Cesarine's eyes, and she cried in a low distressed voice, "Harry, Harry, don't talk to me so. You

       are too good to me. You will kill me. You will kill me."

       I lifted her head from the table, where she had buried it in her arms, and kissed her tenderly. "Reeney," I said, "I know how you feel, and I hope Notre Dame will listen to your prayers, and send you what you ask of her. But if not, you need never be afraid that I shall love you any the less than I do at present."

       Cesarine burst into a fresh flood of tears. "No, Harry," she said, "you don't know about it. You can't imagine it. To us, you know, who have the blood of Africa running in our veins, it is not a mere matter of fancy. It is an eternal disgrace for any woman of our race and descent not to be a mother. I cannot help it. It is the instinct of my people. We are all born so: we cannot feel otherwise."

       It was the only time either of us ever alluded in speaking with one another to the sinister half of Cesarine's pedigree.

       "You will let me go with you to the mountains, Reeney?" I asked, ignoring her remark. "You mustn't go so far by yourself, darling." "No, Harry, you can't come with me. It would make my prayers ineffectual, dearest. You are a heretic, you know, Harry. You are not

       Catholic. Notre Dame won't listen to my prayer if I take you with me on my pilgrimage, my darling."

       I saw her mind was set upon it, and I didn't interfere. She would be away all night, she said. There was a rest-house[Pg 25] for pilgrims attached to the chapel, and she would be back again at Maisonette (our bungalow) the morning after.

       That afternoon she started on her way on a mountain pony I had just bought for her, accompanied only by a negro maid. I couldn't let her go quite unattended through those lawless paths, beset by cottages of half savage Africans; so I followed at a distance, aided by a black groom, and tracked her road along the endless hillsides up to a fork in the way where the narrow bridle-path divided into two, one of which bore away to leftward, leading, my guide told me, to the chapel of Notre Dame de Bon Secours.

       At that point the guide halted. He peered with hand across his eyebrows among the tangled brake of tree-ferns with a terrified look; then he shook his woolly black head ominously. "I can't go on, Monsieur," he said, turning to me with an unfeigned shudder. "Mad-ame has not taken the path of Our Lady. She has gone to the left along the other road, which leads at last to the Vaudoux temple."

       I looked at him incredulously. I had heard before of Vaudoux. It is the hideous African canibalistic witchcraft of the relapsing half-heathen Haitian negroes. But Cesarine a Vaudoux worshipper! It was too ridiculous. The man must be mistaken: or else Cesarine had taken the wrong road by some slight accident.

       Next moment, a horrible unspeakable doubt seized upon me irresistibly. What was the unknown shrine in her grandmother's garden at which Cesarine had prayed in those awful gutturals? Whatever it was, I would probe this mystery to the very bottom. I would know the truth, come what might of it.

       "Go,