Uncle Tom's Cabin
innumerable had been cured there,—difficulties spiritual and temporal
solved there,—all by one good, loving woman, God bless her!
“And so thee still thinks of going to Canada, Eliza?” she said, as she
was quietly looking over her peaches.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Eliza, firmly. “I must go onward. I dare not stop.”
“And what’ll thee do, when thee gets there? Thee must think about that,
my daughter.”
“My daughter” came naturally from the lips of Rachel Halliday; for hers
was just the face and form that made “mother” seem the most natural
word in the world.
Eliza’s hands trembled, and some tears fell on her fine work; but she
answered, firmly,
“I shall do—anything I can find. I hope I can find something.”
“Thee knows thee can stay here, as long as thee pleases,” said Rachel.
“O, thank you,” said Eliza, “but”—she pointed to Harry—“I can’t sleep
nights; I can’t rest. Last night I dreamed I saw that man coming into
the yard,” she said, shuddering.
“Poor child!” said Rachel, wiping her eyes; “but thee mustn’t feel so.
The Lord hath ordered it so that never hath a fugitive been stolen from
our village. I trust thine will not be the first.”
The door here opened, and a little short, round, pin-cushiony woman
stood at the door, with a cheery, blooming face, like a ripe apple. She
was dressed, like Rachel, in sober gray, with the muslin folded neatly
across her round, plump little chest.
“Ruth Stedman,” said Rachel, coming joyfully forward; “how is thee,
Ruth? she said, heartily taking both her hands.
“Nicely,” said Ruth, taking off her little drab bonnet, and dusting it
with her handkerchief, displaying, as she did so, a round little head,
on which the Quaker cap sat with a sort of jaunty air, despite all the
stroking and patting of the small fat hands, which were busily applied
to arranging it. Certain stray locks of decidedly curly hair, too, had
escaped here and there, and had to be coaxed and cajoled into their
place again; and then the new comer, who might have been
five-and-twenty, turned from the small looking-glass, before which she
had been making these arrangements, and looked well pleased,—as most
people who looked at her might have been,—for she was decidedly a
wholesome, whole-hearted, chirruping little woman, as ever gladdened
man’s heart withal.
“Ruth, this friend is Eliza Harris; and this is the little boy I told
thee of.”
“I am glad to see thee, Eliza,—very,” said Ruth, shaking hands, as if
Eliza were an old friend she had long been expecting; “and this is thy
dear boy,—I brought a cake for him,” she said, holding out a little
heart to the boy, who came up, gazing through his curls, and accepted
it shyly.
“Where’s thy baby, Ruth?” said Rachel.
“O, he’s coming; but thy Mary caught him as I came in, and ran off with
him to the barn, to show him to the children.”
At this moment, the door opened, and Mary, an honest, rosy-looking
girl, with large brown eyes, like her mother’s, came in with the baby.
“Ah! ha!” said Rachel, coming up, and taking the great, white, fat
fellow in her arms, “how good he looks, and how he does grow!”
“To be sure, he does,” said little bustling Ruth, as she took the
child, and began taking off a little blue silk hood, and various layers
and wrappers of outer garments; and having given a twitch here, and a
pull there, and variously adjusted and arranged him, and kissed him
heartily, she set him on the floor to collect his thoughts. Baby seemed
quite used to this mode of proceeding, for he put his thumb in his
mouth (as if it were quite a thing of course), and seemed soon absorbed
in his own reflections, while the mother seated herself, and taking out
a long stocking of mixed blue and white yarn, began to knit with
briskness.
“Mary, thee’d better fill the kettle, hadn’t thee?” gently suggested
the mother.
Mary took the kettle to the well, and soon reappearing, placed it over
the stove, where it was soon purring and steaming, a sort of censer of
hospitality and good cheer. The peaches, moreover, in obedience to a
few gentle whispers from Rachel, were soon deposited, by the same hand,
in a stew-pan over the fire.
Rachel now took down a snowy moulding-board, and, tying on an apron,
proceeded quietly to making up some biscuits, first saying to
Mary,—“Mary, hadn’t thee better tell John to get a chicken ready?” and
Mary disappeared accordingly.
“And how is Abigail Peters?” said Rachel, as she went on with her
biscuits.
“O, she’s better,” said Ruth; “I was in, this morning; made the bed,
tidied up the house. Leah Hills went in, this afternoon, and baked
bread and pies enough to last some days; and I engaged to go back to
get her up, this evening.”
“I will go in tomorrow, and do any cleaning there may be, and look over
the mending,” said Rachel.
“Ah! that is well,” said Ruth. “I’ve heard,” she added, “that Hannah
Stanwood is sick. John was up there, last night,—I must go there
tomorrow.”
“John can come in here to his meals, if thee needs to stay all day,”
suggested Rachel.
“Thank thee, Rachel; will see, tomorrow; but, here comes Simeon.”
Simeon Halliday, a tall, straight, muscular man, in drab coat and
pantaloons, and broad-brimmed hat, now entered.
“How is thee, Ruth?” he said, warmly, as he spread his broad open hand
for her little fat palm; “and how is John?”
“O! John is well, and all the rest of our folks,” said Ruth, cheerily.
“Any news, father?” said Rachel, as she was putting her biscuits into
the oven.
“Peter Stebbins told me that they should be along tonight, with
_friends_,” said Simeon, significantly, as he was washing his hands at
a neat sink, in a little back porch.
“Indeed!” said Rachel, looking thoughtfully, and glancing at Eliza.
“Did thee say thy name was Harris?” said Simeon to Eliza, as he
reentered.
Rachel glanced quickly at her husband, as Eliza tremulously answered
“yes;” her fears, ever uppermost, suggesting that possibly there might
be advertisements out for her.
“Mother!” said Simeon, standing in the porch, and calling Rachel out.
“What does thee want, father?” said Rachel, rubbing her floury hands,
as she went into the porch.
“This child’s husband is in the settlement, and will be here tonight,”
said Simeon.
“Now, thee doesn’t say that, father?” said Rachel, all her face radiant
with joy.
“It’s really true. Peter was down yesterday, with the wagon, to the
other stand, and there he found an old woman and two men; and one said
his name was George Harris; and from what he told of his history, I am
certain who he is. He is a bright, likely fellow, too.”
“Shall we tell her now?” said Simeon.
“Let’s tell Ruth,” said Rachel. “Here, Ruth,—come here.”
Ruth laid down her knitting-work, and was in the back porch in a
moment.
“Ruth, what does thee think?” said Rachel. “Father says Eliza’s husband
is in the last company, and will be here tonight.”
A burst of joy from the little Quakeress interrupted the speech. She
gave such a bound from the floor, as she clapped her little hands, that
two stray curls fell from under her Quaker cap, and lay brightly on her
white neckerchief.
“Hush thee, dear!” said Rachel, gently; “hush, Ruth! Tell us, shall we
tell her now?”
“Now! to be sure,—this very minute. Why, now, suppose ’t was my John,
how should I feel? Do tell her, right off.”
“Thee uses thyself only to learn how to love thy neighbor, Ruth,” said
Simeon, looking, with a beaming face, on Ruth.
“To be sure. Isn’t it what we are made for? If I didn’t love John and
the baby, I should not know how to feel for her. Come, now do tell
her,—do!” and she laid her hands persuasively on Rachel’s arm. “Take
her into thy bed-room, there, and let me fry the chicken while thee
does it.”
Rachel came out into the kitchen, where Eliza was sewing, and opening
the door of a small bed-room, said, gently, “Come in here with me, my
daughter; I have news to tell thee.”
The blood flushed in Eliza’s pale face; she rose, trembling with
nervous anxiety, and looked towards her boy.
“No, no,” said little Ruth, darting up, and seizing her hands. “Never
thee fear; it’s good news, Eliza,—go in, go in!” And she gently pushed
her to the door which closed after her; and then, turning round, she
caught little Harry in her arms, and began kissing him.
“Thee’ll see thy father, little one. Does thee know it? Thy father is
coming,” she said, over and over again, as the boy looked wonderingly
at her.
Meanwhile, within the door, another scene was going on. Rachel Halliday
drew Eliza toward her, and said, “The Lord hath had mercy on thee,
daughter; thy husband hath escaped from the house of bondage.”
The blood flushed to Eliza’s cheek in a sudden glow, and went back to
her heart with as sudden a rush. She sat down, pale and faint.
“Have courage, child,” said Rachel, laying her hand on her head. “He is
among friends, who will bring him here tonight.”
“Tonight!” Eliza repeated, “tonight!” The words lost all meaning to
her; her head was dreamy and confused; all was mist for a moment.
When she awoke, she found herself snugly tucked up on the bed, with a
blanket over her, and little Ruth rubbing her hands with camphor. She
opened her eyes in a state of dreamy, delicious languor, such as one
who has long been bearing a heavy load, and now feels it gone, and
would rest. The tension of the nerves, which had never ceased a moment
since the first hour of her flight, had given way, and a strange
feeling of security and rest came over her; and as she lay, with her
large, dark eyes open, she followed, as in a quiet dream, the motions
of those about her. She saw the door open into the other room; saw the
supper-table, with its snowy cloth; heard the dreamy murmur of the
singing tea-kettle; saw Ruth tripping backward and forward, with plates
of cake and saucers of preserves, and ever and anon stopping to put a
cake into Harry’s hand, or pat his head, or twine his long curls round
her snowy fingers. She saw the ample, motherly form of Rachel, as she
ever and anon came to the bedside, and smoothed and arranged something
about the bedclothes, and gave a tuck here and there, by way of
expressing her good-will; and was conscious of a kind of sunshine
beaming down upon her from her large, clear, brown eyes. She saw Ruth’s
husband come in,—saw her fly up to him, and commence whispering very
earnestly, ever and anon, with impressive gesture, pointing her little
finger toward the room. She saw her, with the baby in her arms, sitting
down to tea; she saw them all at table, and little Harry in a high
chair, under the shadow of Rachel’s ample wing; there were low murmurs
of talk, gentle tinkling of tea-spoons, and musical clatter of cups and
saucers, and all mingled in a delightful dream of rest; and Eliza
slept, as she had not slept before, since the fearful midnight hour
when she had taken her child and fled through the frosty starlight.
She dreamed of a beautiful country,—a land, it seemed to her, of
rest,—green shores, pleasant islands, and beautifully glittering water;
and there, in a house which kind voices told her was a home, she saw
her boy playing, free and happy child. She heard her husband’s
footsteps; she felt him coming nearer; his arms were around her, his
tears falling on her face, and she awoke! It was no dream. The daylight
had long faded; her child lay calmly sleeping by her side; a candle was
burning dimly on the stand, and her husband was sobbing by her pillow.
The next morning was a cheerful one at the Quaker house. “Mother” was
up betimes, and surrounded by busy girls and boys, whom we had scarce
time to introduce to our readers yesterday, and who all moved
obediently to Rachel’s gentle “Thee had better,” or more gentle “Hadn’t