Uncle Tom's Cabin
and among them a middle-aged mulatto woman, of very respectable
appearance, stood foremost, in a tremor of expectation and joy, at the
door.
“O, there’s Mammy!” said Eva, as she flew across the room; and,
throwing herself into her arms, she kissed her repeatedly.
This woman did not tell her that she made her head ache, but, on the
contrary, she hugged her, and laughed, and cried, till her sanity was a
thing to be doubted of; and when released from her, Eva flew from one
to another, shaking hands and kissing, in a way that Miss Ophelia
afterwards declared fairly turned her stomach.
“Well!” said Miss Ophelia, “you southern children can do something that
_I_ couldn’t.”
“What, now, pray?” said St. Clare.
“Well, I want to be kind to everybody, and I wouldn’t have anything
hurt; but as to kissing—”
“Niggers,” said St. Clare, “that you’re not up to,—hey?”
“Yes, that’s it. How can she?”
St. Clare laughed, as he went into the passage. “Halloa, here, what’s
to pay out here? Here, you all—Mammy, Jimmy, Polly, Sukey—glad to see
Mas’r?” he said, as he went shaking hands from one to another. “Look
out for the babies!” he added, as he stumbled over a sooty little
urchin, who was crawling upon all fours. “If I step upon anybody, let
’em mention it.”
There was an abundance of laughing and blessing Mas’r, as St. Clare
distributed small pieces of change among them.
“Come, now, take yourselves off, like good boys and girls,” he said;
and the whole assemblage, dark and light, disappeared through a door
into a large verandah, followed by Eva, who carried a large satchel,
which she had been filling with apples, nuts, candy, ribbons, laces,
and toys of every description, during her whole homeward journey.
As St. Clare turned to go back his eye fell upon Tom, who was standing
uneasily, shifting from one foot to the other, while Adolph stood
negligently leaning against the banisters, examining Tom through an
opera-glass, with an air that would have done credit to any dandy
living.
“Puh! you puppy,” said his master, striking down the opera glass; “is
that the way you treat your company? Seems to me, Dolph,” he added,
laying his finger on the elegant figured satin vest that Adolph was
sporting, “seems to me that’s _my_ vest.”
“O! Master, this vest all stained with wine; of course, a gentleman in
Master’s standing never wears a vest like this. I understood I was to
take it. It does for a poor nigger-fellow, like me.”
And Adolph tossed his head, and passed his fingers through his scented
hair, with a grace.
“So, that’s it, is it?” said St. Clare, carelessly. “Well, here, I’m
going to show this Tom to his mistress, and then you take him to the
kitchen; and mind you don’t put on any of your airs to him. He’s worth
two such puppies as you.”
“Master always will have his joke,” said Adolph, laughing. “I’m
delighted to see Master in such spirits.”
“Here, Tom,” said St. Clare, beckoning.
Tom entered the room. He looked wistfully on the velvet carpets, and
the before unimagined splendors of mirrors, pictures, statues, and
curtains, and, like the Queen of Sheba before Solomon, there was no
more spirit in him. He looked afraid even to set his feet down.
“See here, Marie,” said St. Clare to his wife, “I’ve bought you a
coachman, at last, to order. I tell you, he’s a regular hearse for
blackness and sobriety, and will drive you like a funeral, if you want.
Open your eyes, now, and look at him. Now, don’t say I never think
about you when I’m gone.”
Marie opened her eyes, and fixed them on Tom, without rising.
“I know he’ll get drunk,” she said.
“No, he’s warranted a pious and sober article.”
“Well, I hope he may turn out well,” said the lady; “it’s more than I
expect, though.”
“Dolph,” said St. Clare, “show Tom down stairs; and, mind yourself,” he
added; “remember what I told you.”
Adolph tripped gracefully forward, and Tom, with lumbering tread, went
after.
“He’s a perfect behemoth!” said Marie.
“Come, now, Marie,” said St. Clare, seating himself on a stool beside
her sofa, “be gracious, and say something pretty to a fellow.”
“You’ve been gone a fortnight beyond the time,” said the lady, pouting.
“Well, you know I wrote you the reason.”
“Such a short, cold letter!” said the lady.
“Dear me! the mail was just going, and it had to be that or nothing.”
“That’s just the way, always,” said the lady; “always something to make
your journeys long, and letters short.”
“See here, now,” he added, drawing an elegant velvet case out of his
pocket, and opening it, “here’s a present I got for you in New York.”
It was a daguerreotype, clear and soft as an engraving, representing
Eva and her father sitting hand in hand.
Marie looked at it with a dissatisfied air.
“What made you sit in such an awkward position?” she said.
“Well, the position may be a matter of opinion; but what do you think
of the likeness?”
“If you don’t think anything of my opinion in one case, I suppose you
wouldn’t in another,” said the lady, shutting the daguerreotype.
“Hang the woman!” said St. Clare, mentally; but aloud he added, “Come,
now, Marie, what do you think of the likeness? Don’t be nonsensical,
now.”
“It’s very inconsiderate of you, St. Clare,” said the lady, “to insist
on my talking and looking at things. You know I’ve been lying all day
with the sick-headache; and there’s been such a tumult made ever since
you came, I’m half dead.”
“You’re subject to the sick-headache, ma’am!” said Miss Ophelia,
suddenly rising from the depths of the large arm-chair, where she had
sat quietly, taking an inventory of the furniture, and calculating its
expense.
“Yes, I’m a perfect martyr to it,” said the lady.
“Juniper-berry tea is good for sick-headache,” said Miss Ophelia; “at
least, Auguste, Deacon Abraham Perry’s wife, used to say so; and she
was a great nurse.”
“I’ll have the first juniper-berries that get ripe in our garden by the
lake brought in for that special purpose,” said St. Clare, gravely
pulling the bell as he did so; “meanwhile, cousin, you must be wanting
to retire to your apartment, and refresh yourself a little, after your
journey. Dolph,” he added, “tell Mammy to come here.” The decent
mulatto woman whom Eva had caressed so rapturously soon entered; she
was dressed neatly, with a high red and yellow turban on her head, the
recent gift of Eva, and which the child had been arranging on her head.
“Mammy,” said St. Clare, “I put this lady under your care; she is
tired, and wants rest; take her to her chamber, and be sure she is made
comfortable,” and Miss Ophelia disappeared in the rear of Mammy.
CHAPTER XVI
Tom’s Mistress and Her Opinions
“And now, Marie,” said St. Clare, “your golden days are dawning. Here
is our practical, business-like New England cousin, who will take the
whole budget of cares off your shoulders, and give you time to refresh
yourself, and grow young and handsome. The ceremony of delivering the
keys had better come off forthwith.”
This remark was made at the breakfast-table, a few mornings after Miss
Ophelia had arrived.
“I’m sure she’s welcome,” said Marie, leaning her head languidly on her
hand. “I think she’ll find one thing, if she does, and that is, that
it’s we mistresses that are the slaves, down here.”
“O, certainly, she will discover that, and a world of wholesome truths
besides, no doubt,” said St. Clare.
“Talk about our keeping slaves, as if we did it for our _convenience_,”
said Marie. “I’m sure, if we consulted _that_, we might let them all go
at once.”
Evangeline fixed her large, serious eyes on her mother’s face, with an
earnest and perplexed expression, and said, simply, “What do you keep
them for, mamma?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure, except for a plague; they are the plague of my
life. I believe that more of my ill health is caused by them than by
any one thing; and ours, I know, are the very worst that ever anybody
was plagued with.”
“O, come, Marie, you’ve got the blues, this morning,” said St. Clare.
“You know ’t isn’t so. There’s Mammy, the best creature living,—what
could you do without her?”
“Mammy is the best I ever knew,” said Marie; “and yet Mammy, now, is
selfish—dreadfully selfish; it’s the fault of the whole race.”
“Selfishness _is_ a dreadful fault,” said St. Clare, gravely.
“Well, now, there’s Mammy,” said Marie, “I think it’s selfish of her to
sleep so sound nights; she knows I need little attentions almost every
hour, when my worst turns are on, and yet she’s so hard to wake. I
absolutely am worse, this very morning, for the efforts I had to make
to wake her last night.”
“Hasn’t she sat up with you a good many nights, lately, mamma?” said
Eva.
“How should you know that?” said Marie, sharply; “she’s been
complaining, I suppose.”
“She didn’t complain; she only told me what bad nights you’d had,—so
many in succession.”
“Why don’t you let Jane or Rosa take her place, a night or two,” said
St. Clare, “and let her rest?”
“How can you propose it?” said Marie. “St. Clare, you really are
inconsiderate. So nervous as I am, the least breath disturbs me; and a
strange hand about me would drive me absolutely frantic. If Mammy felt
the interest in me she ought to, she’d wake easier,—of course, she
would. I’ve heard of people who had such devoted servants, but it never
was _my_ luck;” and Marie sighed.
Miss Ophelia had listened to this conversation with an air of shrewd,
observant gravity; and she still kept her lips tightly compressed, as
if determined fully to ascertain her longitude and position, before she
committed herself.
“Now, Mammy has a _sort_ of goodness,” said Marie; “she’s smooth and
respectful, but she’s selfish at heart. Now, she never will be done
fidgeting and worrying about that husband of hers. You see, when I was
married and came to live here, of course, I had to bring her with me,
and her husband my father couldn’t spare. He was a blacksmith, and, of
course, very necessary; and I thought and said, at the time, that Mammy
and he had better give each other up, as it wasn’t likely to be
convenient for them ever to live together again. I wish, now, I’d
insisted on it, and married Mammy to somebody else; but I was foolish
and indulgent, and didn’t want to insist. I told Mammy, at the time,
that she mustn’t ever expect to see him more than once or twice in her
life again, for the air of father’s place doesn’t agree with my health,
and I can’t go there; and I advised her to take up with somebody else;
but no—she wouldn’t. Mammy has a kind of obstinacy about her, in spots,
that everybody don’t see as I do.”
“Has she children?” said Miss Ophelia.
“Yes; she has two.”
“I suppose she feels the separation from them?”
“Well, of course, I couldn’t bring them. They were little dirty
things—I couldn’t have them about; and, besides, they took up too much
of her time; but I believe that Mammy has always kept up a sort of
sulkiness about this. She won’t marry anybody else; and I do believe,
now, though she knows how necessary she is to me, and how feeble my
health is, she would go back to her husband tomorrow, if she only
could. I _do_, indeed,” said Marie; “they are just so selfish, now, the
best of them.”
“It’s distressing to reflect upon,” said St. Clare, dryly.
Miss Ophelia looked keenly at him, and saw the flush of mortification
and repressed vexation, and the sarcastic curl of the lip, as he spoke.
“Now, Mammy has always been a pet with me,” said Marie. “I wish some of
your northern servants could look at her closets of dresses,—silks and
muslins, and one real linen cambric, she has hanging there. I’ve worked
sometimes whole afternoons, trimming her caps, and getting her ready to
go to a party. As to abuse, she don’t know what it is. She never was