Uncle Tom's Cabin
was, he laid down a greasy pocket-book on the cotton-bales, and began
anxiously studying over certain papers in it, the young man standing
by, the while, looking down on him with an air of careless, easy
drollery.
“Papa, do buy him! it’s no matter what you pay,” whispered Eva, softly,
getting up on a package, and putting her arm around her father’s neck.
“You have money enough, I know. I want him.”
“What for, pussy? Are you going to use him for a rattle-box, or a
rocking-horse, or what?
“I want to make him happy.”
“An original reason, certainly.”
Here the trader handed up a certificate, signed by Mr. Shelby, which
the young man took with the tips of his long fingers, and glanced over
carelessly.
“A gentlemanly hand,” he said, “and well spelt, too. Well, now, but I’m
not sure, after all, about this religion,” said he, the old wicked
expression returning to his eye; “the country is almost ruined with
pious white people; such pious politicians as we have just before
elections,—such pious goings on in all departments of church and state,
that a fellow does not know who’ll cheat him next. I don’t know,
either, about religion’s being up in the market, just now. I have not
looked in the papers lately, to see how it sells. How many hundred
dollars, now, do you put on for this religion?”
“You like to be jokin, now,” said the trader; “but, then, there’s
_sense_ under all that ar. I know there’s differences in religion. Some
kinds is mis’rable: there’s your meetin pious; there’s your singin,
roarin pious; them ar an’t no account, in black or white;—but these
rayly is; and I’ve seen it in niggers as often as any, your rail
softly, quiet, stiddy, honest, pious, that the hull world couldn’t
tempt ’em to do nothing that they thinks is wrong; and ye see in this
letter what Tom’s old master says about him.”
“Now,” said the young man, stooping gravely over his book of bills, “if
you can assure me that I really can buy _this_ kind of pious, and that
it will be set down to my account in the book up above, as something
belonging to me, I wouldn’t care if I did go a little extra for it. How
d’ye say?”
“Wal, raily, I can’t do that,” said the trader. “I’m a thinkin that
every man’ll have to hang on his own hook, in them ar quarters.”
“Rather hard on a fellow that pays extra on religion, and can’t trade
with it in the state where he wants it most, an’t it, now?” said the
young man, who had been making out a roll of bills while he was
speaking. “There, count your money, old boy!” he added, as he handed
the roll to the trader.
“All right,” said Haley, his face beaming with delight; and pulling out
an old inkhorn, he proceeded to fill out a bill of sale, which, in a
few moments, he handed to the young man.
“I wonder, now, if I was divided up and inventoried,” said the latter
as he ran over the paper, “how much I might bring. Say so much for the
shape of my head, so much for a high forehead, so much for arms, and
hands, and legs, and then so much for education, learning, talent,
honesty, religion! Bless me! there would be small charge on that last,
I’m thinking. But come, Eva,” he said; and taking the hand of his
daughter, he stepped across the boat, and carelessly putting the tip of
his finger under Tom’s chin, said, good-humoredly, “Look-up, Tom, and
see how you like your new master.”
Tom looked up. It was not in nature to look into that gay, young,
handsome face, without a feeling of pleasure; and Tom felt the tears
start in his eyes as he said, heartily, “God bless you, Mas’r!”
“Well, I hope he will. What’s your name? Tom? Quite as likely to do it
for your asking as mine, from all accounts. Can you drive horses, Tom?”
“I’ve been allays used to horses,” said Tom. “Mas’r Shelby raised heaps
of ’em.”
“Well, I think I shall put you in coachy, on condition that you won’t
be drunk more than once a week, unless in cases of emergency, Tom.”
Tom looked surprised, and rather hurt, and said, “I never drink,
Mas’r.”
“I’ve heard that story before, Tom; but then we’ll see. It will be a
special accommodation to all concerned, if you don’t. Never mind, my
boy,” he added, good-humoredly, seeing Tom still looked grave; “I don’t
doubt you mean to do well.”
“I sartin do, Mas’r,” said Tom.
“And you shall have good times,” said Eva. “Papa is very good to
everybody, only he always will laugh at them.”
“Papa is much obliged to you for his recommendation,” said St. Clare,
laughing, as he turned on his heel and walked away.
CHAPTER XV
Of Tom’s New Master, and Various Other Matters
Since the thread of our humble hero’s life has now become interwoven
with that of higher ones, it is necessary to give some brief
introduction to them.
Augustine St. Clare was the son of a wealthy planter of Louisiana. The
family had its origin in Canada. Of two brothers, very similar in
temperament and character, one had settled on a flourishing farm in
Vermont, and the other became an opulent planter in Louisiana. The
mother of Augustine was a Huguenot French lady, whose family had
emigrated to Louisiana during the days of its early settlement.
Augustine and another brother were the only children of their parents.
Having inherited from his mother an exceeding delicacy of constitution,
he was, at the instance of physicians, during many years of his
boyhood, sent to the care of his uncle in Vermont, in order that his
constitution might be strengthened by the cold of a more bracing
climate.
In childhood, he was remarkable for an extreme and marked sensitiveness
of character, more akin to the softness of woman than the ordinary
hardness of his own sex. Time, however, overgrew this softness with the
rough bark of manhood, and but few knew how living and fresh it still
lay at the core. His talents were of the very first order, although his
mind showed a preference always for the ideal and the æsthetic, and
there was about him that repugnance to the actual business of life
which is the common result of this balance of the faculties. Soon after
the completion of his college course, his whole nature was kindled into
one intense and passionate effervescence of romantic passion. His hour
came,—the hour that comes only once; his star rose in the horizon,—that
star that rises so often in vain, to be remembered only as a thing of
dreams; and it rose for him in vain. To drop the figure,—he saw and won
the love of a high-minded and beautiful woman, in one of the northern
states, and they were affianced. He returned south to make arrangements
for their marriage, when, most unexpectedly, his letters were returned
to him by mail, with a short note from her guardian, stating to him
that ere this reached him the lady would be the wife of another. Stung
to madness, he vainly hoped, as many another has done, to fling the
whole thing from his heart by one desperate effort. Too proud to
supplicate or seek explanation, he threw himself at once into a whirl
of fashionable society, and in a fortnight from the time of the fatal
letter was the accepted lover of the reigning belle of the season; and
as soon as arrangements could be made, he became the husband of a fine
figure, a pair of bright dark eyes, and a hundred thousand dollars;
and, of course, everybody thought him a happy fellow.
The married couple were enjoying their honeymoon, and entertaining a
brilliant circle of friends in their splendid villa, near Lake
Pontchartrain, when, one day, a letter was brought to him in _that_
well-remembered writing. It was handed to him while he was in full tide
of gay and successful conversation, in a whole room-full of company. He
turned deadly pale when he saw the writing, but still preserved his
composure, and finished the playful warfare of badinage which he was at
the moment carrying on with a lady opposite; and, a short time after,
was missed from the circle. In his room, alone, he opened and read the
letter, now worse than idle and useless to be read. It was from her,
giving a long account of a persecution to which she had been exposed by
her guardian’s family, to lead her to unite herself with their son: and
she related how, for a long time, his letters had ceased to arrive; how
she had written time and again, till she became weary and doubtful; how
her health had failed under her anxieties, and how, at last, she had
discovered the whole fraud which had been practised on them both. The
letter ended with expressions of hope and thankfulness, and professions
of undying affection, which were more bitter than death to the unhappy
young man. He wrote to her immediately:
“I have received yours,—but too late. I believed all I heard. I was
desperate. _I am married_, and all is over. Only forget,—it is all that
remains for either of us.”
And thus ended the whole romance and ideal of life for Augustine St.
Clare. But the _real_ remained,—the _real_, like the flat, bare, oozy
tide-mud, when the blue sparkling wave, with all its company of gliding
boats and white-winged ships, its music of oars and chiming waters, has
gone down, and there it lies, flat, slimy, bare,—exceedingly real.
Of course, in a novel, people’s hearts break, and they die, and that is
the end of it; and in a story this is very convenient. But in real life
we do not die when all that makes life bright dies to us. There is a
most busy and important round of eating, drinking, dressing, walking,
visiting, buying, selling, talking, reading, and all that makes up what
is commonly called _living_, yet to be gone through; and this yet
remained to Augustine. Had his wife been a whole woman, she might yet
have done something—as woman can—to mend the broken threads of life,
and weave again into a tissue of brightness. But Marie St. Clare could
not even see that they had been broken. As before stated, she consisted
of a fine figure, a pair of splendid eyes, and a hundred thousand
dollars; and none of these items were precisely the ones to minister to
a mind diseased.
When Augustine, pale as death, was found lying on the sofa, and pleaded
sudden sick-headache as the cause of his distress, she recommended to
him to smell of hartshorn; and when the paleness and headache came on
week after week, she only said that she never thought Mr. St. Clare was
sickly; but it seems he was very liable to sick-headaches, and that it
was a very unfortunate thing for her, because he didn’t enjoy going
into company with her, and it seemed odd to go so much alone, when they
were just married. Augustine was glad in his heart that he had married
so undiscerning a woman; but as the glosses and civilities of the
honeymoon wore away, he discovered that a beautiful young woman, who
has lived all her life to be caressed and waited on, might prove quite
a hard mistress in domestic life. Marie never had possessed much
capability of affection, or much sensibility, and the little that she
had, had been merged into a most intense and unconscious selfishness; a
selfishness the more hopeless, from its quiet obtuseness, its utter
ignorance of any claims but her own. From her infancy, she had been
surrounded with servants, who lived only to study her caprices; the
idea that they had either feelings or rights had never dawned upon her,
even in distant perspective. Her father, whose only child she had been,
had never denied her anything that lay within the compass of human
possibility; and when she entered life, beautiful, accomplished, and an
heiress, she had, of course, all the eligibles and non-eligibles of the
other sex sighing at her feet, and she had no doubt that Augustine was
a most fortunate man in having obtained her. It is a great mistake to
suppose that a woman with no heart will be an easy creditor in the
exchange of affection. There is not on earth a more merciless exactor