The Brother Clerks; A Tale of New-Orleans.

The day wore on, and everything went on in its usual manner, until just before Mr. Delancey's dinner hour, when, to the surprise of all, the loud report of a pistol was heard, coming from the little court, just at the back part of the store. As its echo died away, all those clerks not at the moment engaged, rushed to the long windows, and sprang through into the court, to learn what the matter was. Guly was the first on the spot, and to his horror and amazement, found Jeff lying on the ground, weltering in his blood, but still showing signs of life.

'Jeff!' he exclaimed, bending over him, 'what have you done!'

'Oh-Massa-Guly'-gasped the negro, turning his dimming eyes to the boy's face, 'you'se come with your blue eyes to light me to Heaven. Couldn't lib longer, and hab de master dat I lubbed tink me a robber. I'se tried allus to be a good nigger, an' hope's I'll go to de good place.'

'God grant it.'

'Young Massa, is dis death?'

''Tis coming, Jeff.'

'Let me pray; I only knows one prayer, an' it's so short.'

'Say it.'

''Now I lay me'-oh, I'se goin' fast, young massa.'

'Go on.'

''Down to sleep'-Massa Guly dis long sleep.'

Guly took his hand.

''I pray de Lord my-soul-to keep; an'-should-I die'-Oh, dis is de wrong prayer-Bressed Lord, forgive my sins, and take me to dat Heaven where de white folks go, dat I may see Massa Guly, wid his white wings on. Good-bye, young massa. Last at my side in death, I'll be fust at yours in Heaven.'

With a convulsive effort, the dying man turned upon his side, the limbs grew rigid, the death-rattle shook an instant in his throat, and poor Jeff was dead.

Guly left the negro's side, to acquaint Mr. Delancey, who had remained sitting stiffly in his chair, of the facts. The merchant listened unmoved, but ordered the body to be sent to his house, and a longer or better ordered funeral never passed through the streets of New-Orleans, than that which next day bore poor Jeff to his last resting-place. Whether or not that Master felt he had wronged a true and faithful slave, could not be told; but all he could do to show he honored his memory, was done; and as much expense and pomp were displayed in those last rites, as ever were lavished over a white man's bones.[A]

[Footnote A: A fact.]

'Everything ready now, Minny?' said Della, glancing tearfully around her sumptuous apartments.

'Everything is prepared, Miss. Shall we go?'

'Sure you are able to walk to the carriage, Minny?'

'Oh, yes, Miss; certain of it.'

Once more Della turned to look upon those objects, which use and long association had endeared to her. There were her books, her birds, her flowers, the bed, where she had dreamed so many happy dreams, and the cushioned chair, where she had so often sat listless and happy. With a sigh, which she could not repress, she waved them a fond adieu, and, taking Minny's arm, crept out upon the balcony, down the stairs, and through the secret garden-door. Here was an outlet Mr. Delancey had never thought of; and while the guard, he had placed at her door, stood vigilant and wakeful, the bird flew through the window.

Once in the street, at night, and in darkness, Della grew timid, and clutched convulsively her attendant's arm; but they went on steadily, until arriving at an adjacent corner, a third person joined them, and helped them into the carriage, which stood waiting near by.

'Oh, Bernard!' cried Della, laying her trembling hand upon his arm, as he sat beside her in the carriage, with Minny, and they were being whirled through the almost deserted streets, 'no hand can ever come between us again. I am yours at last.'

'Nothing shall ever part us more,' returned Bernard, drawing her fondly towards him. 'You have given up much for me, but the aim of my life shall be to make you happy.'

'I have lost nothing, Bernard, compared to the love I have gained. Only never let that swerve or falter, and I shall be the happiest wife that ever God looked down upon and blessed.'

The carriage stopped at the door of the cathedral, and the party entered the church, where a priest was already in waiting. Blanche and Guly made their appearance from a side aisle, and Wilkins introduced them to Della, telling her he had engaged them, as dear friends of his, to officiate in the approaching ceremony. Della expressed her pleasure, and half-crying, half-smiling, kissed Blanche affectionately, telling her she hoped, since she was one of Wilkins' friends, that she would henceforth be a sister to her, and that they would all be very happy. Then Wilkins drew that fluttering hand in his, and led Della to the altar. Guly and Blanche stepped to their places, and the ceremony began.

Leaning against a pillar, a little in the shadow, behind the marriage-group, stood Minny, the quadroon; with face blanched to an almost unearthly pallor, she listened to the vows which fell from Bernard's lips. With chilled heart, again came back the memory of the hour when those same lips, in this very spot, had thus sworn to love and cherish her. But what of this? her heart had been legally broken, and she had no right to complain!

The ceremony ended, Bernard and his bride, and Minny, started for the lake shore, where, though late in the season, they intended to remain awhile, previous to returning to take up their residence again in the city. They set Blanche down at her own door, and Guly, who was waiting for the adieus to be over, stepped forward, and pressing Wilkins' hand, exclaimed:-

'Matters have indeed explained themselves, my friend; I little thought of this. May you be as happy as you deserve to be!'

'Thank you, Guly; I shall, no doubt, be much happier than I deserve to be.' Then bending forward, he added, in a lower tone, 'If the old gentleman is stormy to-morrow, at the loss of his daughter, remember you know nothing about the affair; you'll lose your place, I'm afraid, if you do.'

'You surely don't mean 'tis Mr. Delancey's child?'

'Aye, the same.'

'Can it be possible! It will, no doubt, be a bitter blow to him; but I believe you worthy of any man's daughter, Wilkins. God bless you.'

Wilkins smiled at Guly's warmth, and, waving his hand, the carriage rolled out of sight; and Della, trustful and happy, laid her head upon the broad breast which had vowed to cherish her, and wept her tears, and smiled her smiles-a bride.

Guly, after seeing Blanche safely to her home, turned away, and hurried to his room, thinking over the strange events of the day, and wondering what the morrow would bring.

In wedding Della, Wilkins had accomplished two things; he gratified the love he really felt for her, and, at the same time, in so terribly wounding Mr. Delancey's pride, he had amply revenged himself for the long years spent in his service in that humility of manner which the merchant ever seemed to exact from his clerks, as though they were but slaves of a whiter hue.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

'Oh! that such a son should stand before a father's face.'

Byron.

It was early in the morning, the day after Della's elopement, and Mr. Delancey, who had just risen, was walking back and forth upon the verandah, sipping his cup of strong coffee, nor dreaming of the shadow which had fallen on his hearth-stone. He was interrupted by a servant, who came to inform him that a messenger had just