Our World Or the Slaveholder's Daughter Part 35

"n.i.g.g.e.r ain't so good as white man" (he shakes his head, philosophically). "White man sharp; puzzle n.i.g.g.e.r to find out what 'e don, know ven 'e mind t'." Thus saying, he takes a small hymn- book from his pocket, and, Franconia setting the light beside him, commences reading to himself by its dim glare.

"Well! now, uncle, it's getting late, and I've a good way to go, and the night's stormy; so I must prepare for home." Franconia gets up, and evinces signs of withdrawing. She walks across the little chamber three or four times, looks out of the window, strains her sight into the gloomy prospect, and then, as if reluctant to leave her uncle, again takes a seat by his side. Gently laying her left hand upon his shoulder, she makes an effort at pleasantry, tells him to keep up his resolution-to be of good cheer.

"Remember, uncle," she says, calmly, "they tell us it is no disgrace to be poor,--no shame to work to live; and yet poor people are treated as criminals. For my own part, I would rather be poor and happy than rich with a base husband; I have lived in New England, know how to appreciate its domestic happiness. It was there Puritanism founded true American liberty.--Puritanism yet lives, and may be driven to action; but we must resign ourselves to the will of an all-wise Providence." Thus concluding, she makes another attempt to withdraw.

"You must not leave me yet!" says Marston, grasping her hand firmly in his. "Franke, I cannot part with you until I have disclosed what I have been summoning resolution to suppress. I know your attachment, Franconia; you have been more than dear to me. You have known my feelings,--what they have already had to undergo." He pauses.

"Speak it, uncle, speak it! Keep nothing from me, nor make secrets in fear of my feelings. Speak out,--I may relieve you!" she interrupts, nervously: and again encircling her arm round his neck, waits his reply, in breathless suspense.

He falters for a moment, and then endeavours to regain his usual coolness. "To-morrow, Franconia," he half mutters out, "to-morrow, you may find me not so well situated," (here tears are seen trickling down his cheeks) "and in a place where it will not become your delicate nature to visit me."

"Nay, uncle!" she stops him there; "I will visit you wherever you may be-in a castle or a prison."

The word prison has touched the tender chord upon which all his troubles are strung. He sobs audibly; but they are only sobs of regret, for which there is no recompense in this late hour. "And would you follow me to a prison, Franconia?" he enquires, throwing his arms about her neck, kissing her pure cheek with the fondness of a father.

"Yea, and share your sorrows within its cold walls. Do not yield to melancholy, uncle,--you have friends left: if not, heaven will prepare a place of rest for you; heaven shields the unfortunate at last," rejoins the good woman, the pearly tears brightening in mutual sympathy.

"To-morrow, my child, you will find me the unhappy tenant of those walls where man's discomfiture is complete."

"Nay, uncle, nay! you are only allowing your melancholy forebodings to get the better of you. Such men as Graspum-men who have stripped families of their all-might take away your property, and leave you as they have left my poor parents; but no one would be so heartless as to drive you to the extreme of imprisonment. It is a foolish result at best." Franconia's voice falters; she looks more and more intently in her uncle's face, struggles to suppress her rising emotions. She knows his frankness, she feels the pain of his position; but, though the dreadful extreme seems scarcely possible, there is that in his face conveying strong evidence of the truth of his remark.

"Do not weep, Franconia; spare your tears for a more worthy object: such trials have been borne by better men than I. I am but the merchandise of my creditors. There is, however, one thing which haunts me to grief; could I have saved my children, the pain of my position had been slight indeed."

"Speak not of them, uncle," Franconia interrupts, "you cannot feel the bitterness of their lot more than myself. I have saved a mother, but have failed to execute my plan of saving them; and my heart throbs with pain when I think that now it is beyond my power. Let me not attempt to again excite in your bosom feelings which must ever be hara.s.sing, for the evil only can work its destruction. To clip the poisoning branches and not uproot the succouring trunk, is like casting pearls into the waste of time. My heart will ever be with the destinies of those children, my feelings bound in unison with theirs; our hopes are the same, and if fortune should smile on me in times to come I will keep my word-I will s.n.a.t.c.h them from the devouring element of slavery."

"Stop, my child!" speaks Marston, earnestly: "Remember you can do little against the strong arm of the law, and still stronger arm of public opinion. Lay aside your hopes of rescuing those children, Franconia, and remember that while I am in prison I am the property of my creditors, subject to their falsely conceived notions of my affairs," he continues. "I cannot now make amends to the law of nature," he adds, burying his face in his hand, weeping a child's tears.

Franconia looks solicitously upon her uncle, as he sorrows. She would dry her tears to save his throbbing heart. Her n.o.ble generosity and disinterestedness have carried her through many trials since her marriage, but it fails to nerve her longer. Her's is a single-hearted sincerity, dispensing its goodness for the benefit of the needy; she suppresses her own troubles that she may administer consolation to others. "The affection that refuses to follow misfortune to its lowest step is weak indeed. If you go to prison, Franconia will follow you there," she says, with touching pathos, her musical voice adding strength to the resolution. Blended with that soft angelic expression her eyes give forth, her calm dignity and inspiring n.o.bleness show how firm is that principle of her nature never to abandon her old friend.

The old negro, who had seemed absorbed in his sympathetic reflections, gazes steadfastly at his old master, until his emotions spring forth in kindest solicitude. Resistance is beyond his power.

"Neber mind, old mas'r," (he speaks in a devoted tone) "dar's better days comin, bof fo' old Bob and mas'r. Tink 'um sees de day when de old plantation jus so 't was wid mas'r and da' old folks."

Concluding in a subdued voice, he approaches Franconia, and seats himself, book in hand, on the floor at her feet. Moved by his earnestness, she lays her hand playfully upon his head, saying: "Here is our truest friend, uncle!"

"My own heart lubs Miss Frankone more den eber," he whispers in return. How pure, how holy, is the simple recompense! It is nature's only offering, all the slave can give; and he gives it in the bounty of his soul.

Marston's grief having subsided, he attempts to soothe Franconia's feelings, by affecting an air of indifference. "What need I care, after all? my resolution should be above it," he says, thrusting his right hand into his breast pocket, and drawing out a folded paper, which he throws upon the little table, and says, "There, Franconia, my child! that contains the climax of my unlamented misfortunes; read it: it will show you where my next abode will be-I may be at peace there; and there is consolation at being at peace, even in a cell." He pa.s.ses the paper into her hand.

With an expression of surprise she opens it, and glances over its contents; then reads it word by word. "Do they expect to get something from nothing?" she says, sarcastically. "It is one of those soothsayers so valuable to men whose feelings are only with money-to men who forget they cannot carry money to the graves; and that no tribute is demanded on either road leading to the last abode of man."

"Stop there, my child! stop!" interrupts Marston. "I have given them all, 'tis true; but suspicion is my persecutor-suspicion, and trying to be a father to my own children!"

"It is, indeed, a misfortune to be a father under such circ.u.mstances, in such an atmosphere!" the good woman exclaims, clasping her hands and looking upward, as if imploring the forgiveness of Heaven. Tremblingly she held the paper in her hand, until it fell upon the floor, as she, overcome, swooned in her uncle's arms.

She swooned! yes, she swooned. That friend upon whom her affections had been concentrated was a prisoner. The paper was a bail writ, demanding the body of the accused. The officer serving had been kind enough to allow Marston his parole of honour until the next morning.

He granted this in accordance with Marston's request, that by the lenity he might see Daddy Bob and Franconia once more.

Lifting Franconia in his arms, her hair falling loosely down, Marston lays her gently on the cot, and commences bathing her temples. He has nothing but water to bathe them with,--nothing but poverty's liquid. The old negro, frightened at the sudden change that has come over his young missus, falls to rubbing and kissing her hands,--he has no other aid to lend. Marston has drawn his chair beside her, sits down upon it, unb.u.t.tons her stomacher, and continues bathing and chafing her temples. How gently heaves that bosom so full of fondness, how marble-like those features, how pallid but touchingly beautiful that face! Love, affection, and tenderness, there repose so calmly! All that once gave out so much hope, so much joy, now withers before the blighting sting of misfortune. "Poor child, how fondly she loves me!" says Marston, placing his right arm under her head, and raising it gently. The motion quickens her senses-she speaks; he kisses her pallid cheek-kisses and kisses it. "Is it you uncle?" she whispers. She has opened her eyes, stares at Marston, then wildly along the ceiling.

"Yes, I'm in uncle's arms; how good!" she continues, as if fatigued.

Reclining back on the pillow, she again rests her head upon his arm.

"I am at the mansion-how pleasant; let me rest, uncle; let me rest.

Send aunt Rachel to me." She raises her right hand and lays her arms about Marston's neck, as anxiously he leans over her. How dear are the a.s.sociations of that old mansion! how sweet the thought of home!

how uppermost in her wandering mind the remembrance of those happy days!

CHAPTER x.x.xII.

MARSTON IN PRISON.

WHILE Franconia revives, let us beg the reader's indulgence for not recounting the details thereof. The night continues dark and stormy, but she must return to her own home,--she must soothe the excited feelings of a dissolute and disregarding husband, who, no doubt, is enjoying his night orgies, while she is administering consolation to the downcast. "Ah! uncle," she says, about to take leave of him for the night, "how with spirit the force of hope fortifies us; and yet how seldom are our expectations realised through what we look forward to! You now see the value of virtue; but when seen through necessity, how vain the repentance. Nevertheless, let us profit by the lesson before us; let us hope the issue may yet be favourable!"

Bob will see his young missus safe home-he will be her guide and protector. So, preparing his cap, he b.u.t.tons his jacket, laughs and grins with joy, goes to the door, then to the fire-place, and to the door again, where, keeping his left hand on the latch, and his right holding the cas.e.m.e.nt, he bows and sc.r.a.pes, for "Missus comin."

Franconia arranges her dress as best she can, adjusts her bonnet, embraces Marston, imprints a fond kiss on his cheek, reluctantly relinquishes his hand, whispers a last word of consolation, and bids him good night,--a gentle good night-in sorrow.

She has gone, and the old slave is her guide, her human watch-dog.

Slowly Marston paces the silent chamber alone, giving vent to his pent-up emotions. What may to-morrow bring forth? runs through his wearied mind. It is but the sudden downfall of life, so inseparable from the planter who rests his hopes on the abundance of his human property. But the slave returns, and relieves him of his musings. He has seen his young missus safe to her door; he has received her kind word, and her good, good night! Entering the chamber with a smile, he sets about clearing away the little things, and, when done, draws his seat close to Marston, at the fire-place. As if quite at home beside his old master, he eyes Marston intently for some time,--seems studying his thoughts and fears. At length the old slave commences disclosing his feelings. His well-worn bones are not worth a large sum; nor are the merits of his worthy age saleable;--no! there is nothing left but his feelings, those genuine virtues so happily ill.u.s.trated. Daddy Bob will stand by mas'r, as he expresses it, in power or in prison. Kindness has excited all that vanity in Bob so peculiar to the negro, and by which he prides himself in the prime value of his person. There he sits-Marston's faithful friend, contemplating his silence with a steady gaze, and then, giving his jet-black face a double degree of seriousness, shrugs his shoulders, significantly nods his head, and intimates that it will soon be time to retire, by commencing to unboot master.

"You seem in a hurry to get rid of me, Daddy! Want to get your own cranium into a pine-knot sleep, eh?" says Marston, with an encouraging smile, pulling the old slave's whiskers in a playful manner.

"No, Boss; 'tant dat," returns Bob, keeping on tugging at Marston's boots until he has got them from his feet, and safely stowed away in a corner. A gentle hint that he is all ready to relieve Marston of his upper garments brings him to his feet, when Bob commences upon him in right good earnest, and soon has him stowed away between the sheets. "Bob neber likes to hurry old Boss, but den 'e kno' what's on old Mas'r's feelins, an 'e kno' dat sleep make 'um forget 'um!"

rejoins Bob, in a half whisper that caught Marston's ear, as he patted and fussed about his pillow, in order to make him as comfortable as circ.u.mstances would admit. After this he extinguishes the light, and, accustomed to a slave's bed, lumbers himself down on the floor beside his master's cot. Thus, watchfully, he spends the night.

When morning dawned, Bob was in the full enjoyment of what the negro so pertinently calls a long and strong sleep. He cannot resist its soothing powers, nor will master disturb him in its enjoyment.

Before breakfast-time arrives, however, he arouses with a loud guffaw, looks round the room vacantly, as if he were doubting the presence of things about him. Rising to his knees, he rubs his eyes languidly, yawns, and stretches his arms, scratches his head, and suddenly gets a glimpse of old master, who is already dressed, and sits by the window, his attention intently set upon some object without. The old slave recognises the same chamber from which he guided Franconia on the night before, and, after saluting mas'r, sets about arranging the domestic affairs of the apartment, and preparing the breakfast table, the breakfast being cooked at Aunt Beckie's cabin, in the yard. Aunt Beckie had the distinguished satisfaction of knowing Marston in his better days, and now esteems it an honour to serve him, even in his poverty. Always happy to inform her friends that she was brought up a first-rate pastry-cook, she now adds, with great satisfaction, that she pays her owner, the very Reverend Mr. Thomas Tippletony, the ever-pious rector of St.

Michael's, no end of money for her time, and makes a good profit at her business beside. Notwithstanding she has a large family of bright children to maintain in a respectable way, she hopes for a continuance of their patronage, and will give the best terms her limited means admit. She knows how very necessary it is for a southern gentleman who would be anybody to keep up appearances, and, with little means, to make a great display: hence she is very easy in matters of payment. In Marston's case, she is extremely proud to render him service,--to "do for him" as far as she can, and wait a change for the better concerning any balance outstanding.

Bob fetches the breakfast of coffee, fritters, h.o.m.ony, and bacon,--a very good breakfast it is, considering the circ.u.mstances,--and spreads the little rustic board with an air of comfort and neatness complimentary to the old slave's taste. And, withal, the old man cannot forego the inherent vanity of his nature, for he is, unconsciously, performing all the ceremonies of attendance he has seen Dandy and his satellites go through at the plantation mansion.

He fusses and grins, and praises and laughs, as he sets the dishes down one by one, keeping a watchful eye on mas'r, as if to detect an approval in his countenance. "Reckon 'ow dis old n.i.g.g.e.r can fix old Boss up aristocratic breakfast like Dandy. Now, Boss-da'h he is!" he says, whisking round the table, setting the cups just so, and spreading himself with exultation. "Want to see master smile-laugh some-like 'e used down on da'h old plantation!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.es, emphatically, placing a chair at Marston's plate. This done, he accompanies his best bow with a sc.r.a.pe of his right foot, spreads his hands,--the gesture being the signal of readiness. Marston takes his chair, as Bob affects the compound dignity of the very best trained n.i.g.g.e.r, doing the distinguished in waiting.

"A little less ceremony, my old faithful! the small follies of etiquette ill become such a place as this. We must succ.u.mb to circ.u.mstances: come, sit down, Bob; draw your bench to the chest, and there eat your share, while I wait on myself," says Marston, touching Bob on the arm. The words were no sooner uttered, than Bob's countenance changed from the playful to the serious; he could see nothing but dignity in master, no matter in what sphere he might be placed. His simple nature recoils at the idea of dispensing with the attention due from slave to master. Master's fallen fortunes, and the cheerless character of the chamber, are nothing to Daddy- master must keep up his dignity.

"You need'nt look so serious, Daddy; it only gives an extra shade to your face, already black enough for any immediate purpose!" says Marston, turning round and smiling at the old slave's discomfiture.

To make amends, master takes a plate from the table, and gives Bob a share of his h.o.m.ony and bacon. This is very pleasing to the old slave, who regains his wonted earnestness, takes the plate politely from his master's hand, retires with it to the chest, and keeps up a regular fire of chit-chat while dispensing its contents. In this humble apartment, master and slave-the former once opulent, and the latter still warm with attachment for his friend-are happily companioned. They finish their breakfast,--a long pause intervenes.

"I would I were beyond the bounds of this our south," says Marston, breaking the silence, as he draws his chair and seats himself by the window, where he can look out upon the dingy little houses in the lane.

The unhappy man feels the burden of a misspent life; he cannot recall the past, nor make amends for its errors. But, withal, it is some relief that he can disclose his feelings to the old man, his slave.

"Mas'r," interrupts the old slave, looking complacently in his face, "Bob 'll fowler ye, and be de same old friend. I will walk behind Miss Frankone." His simple nature seems warming into fervency.

"Ah! old man," returns Marston, "if there be a wish (you may go before me, though) I have on earth, it is that when I die our graves may be side by side, with an epitaph to denote master, friend, and faithful servant lie here." He takes the old man by the hand again, as the tears drop from his cheeks. "A prison is but a grave to the man of honourable feelings," he concludes. Thus disclosing his feelings, a rap at the door announces a messenger. It is nine o'clock, and immediately the sheriff, a gentlemanly-looking man, wearing the insignia of office on his hat, walks in, and politely intimates that, painful as may be the duty, he must request his company to the county gaol, that place so accommodatingly prepared for the reception of unfortunates.

"Sorry for your misfortunes, sir! but we'll try to make you as comfortable as we can in our place." The servitor of the law seems to have some sympathy in him. "I have my duty to perform, you know, sir; nevertheless, I have my opinion about imprisoning honest men for debt: it's a poor satisfaction, sir. I'm only an officer, you see, sir, not a law-maker-never want to be, sir. I very much dislike to execute these kind of writs," says the man of the law, as, with an expression of commiseration, he glances round the room, and then at Daddy, who has made preparations for a sudden dodge, should such an expedient be found necessary.