Uncle Tom's Cabin
proceeded composedly with this work, amid the lamentations and sobs and
cries of the affrighted servants, who had clustered about the doors and
windows of the verandah.
“Now,” said the physician, “we must turn all these creatures out; all
depends on his being kept quiet.”
St. Clare opened his eyes, and looked fixedly on the distressed beings,
whom Miss Ophelia and the doctor were trying to urge from the
apartment. “Poor creatures!” he said, and an expression of bitter
self-reproach passed over his face. Adolph absolutely refused to go.
Terror had deprived him of all presence of mind; he threw himself along
the floor, and nothing could persuade him to rise. The rest yielded to
Miss Ophelia’s urgent representations, that their master’s safety
depended on their stillness and obedience.
St. Clare could say but little; he lay with his eyes shut, but it was
evident that he wrestled with bitter thoughts. After a while, he laid
his hand on Tom’s, who was kneeling beside him, and said, “Tom! poor
fellow!”
“What, Mas’r?” said Tom, earnestly.
“I am dying!” said St. Clare, pressing his hand; “pray!”
“If you would like a clergyman—” said the physician.
St. Clare hastily shook his head, and said again to Tom, more
earnestly, “Pray!”
And Tom did pray, with all his mind and strength, for the soul that was
passing,—the soul that seemed looking so steadily and mournfully from
those large, melancholy blue eyes. It was literally prayer offered with
strong crying and tears.
When Tom ceased to speak, St. Clare reached out and took his hand,
looking earnestly at him, but saying nothing. He closed his eyes, but
still retained his hold; for, in the gates of eternity, the black hand
and the white hold each other with an equal clasp. He murmured softly
to himself, at broken intervals,
“Recordare Jesu pie—
* * * *
Ne me perdas—illa die
Quærens me—sedisti lassus.”
It was evident that the words he had been singing that evening were
passing through his mind,—words of entreaty addressed to Infinite Pity.
His lips moved at intervals, as parts of the hymn fell brokenly from
them.
“His mind is wandering,” said the doctor.
“No! it is coming HOME, at last!” said St. Clare, energetically; “at
last! at last!”
The effort of speaking exhausted him. The sinking paleness of death
fell on him; but with it there fell, as if shed from the wings of some
pitying spirit, a beautiful expression of peace, like that of a wearied
child who sleeps.
So he lay for a few moments. They saw that the mighty hand was on him.
Just before the spirit parted, he opened his eyes, with a sudden light,
as of joy and recognition, and said _“Mother!”_ and then he was gone!
CHAPTER XXIX
The Unprotected
We hear often of the distress of the negro servants, on the loss of a
kind master; and with good reason, for no creature on God’s earth is
left more utterly unprotected and desolate than the slave in these
circumstances.
The child who has lost a father has still the protection of friends,
and of the law; he is something, and can do something,—has acknowledged
rights and position; the slave has none. The law regards him, in every
respect, as devoid of rights as a bale of merchandise. The only
possible acknowledgment of any of the longings and wants of a human and
immortal creature, which are given to him, comes to him through the
sovereign and irresponsible will of his master; and when that master is
stricken down, nothing remains.
The number of those men who know how to use wholly irresponsible power
humanely and generously is small. Everybody knows this, and the slave
knows it best of all; so that he feels that there are ten chances of
his finding an abusive and tyrannical master, to one of his finding a
considerate and kind one. Therefore is it that the wail over a kind
master is loud and long, as well it may be.
When St. Clare breathed his last, terror and consternation took hold of
all his household. He had been stricken down so in a moment, in the
flower and strength of his youth! Every room and gallery of the house
resounded with sobs and shrieks of despair.
Marie, whose nervous system had been enervated by a constant course of
self-indulgence, had nothing to support the terror of the shock, and,
at the time her husband breathed his last, was passing from one
fainting fit to another; and he to whom she had been joined in the
mysterious tie of marriage passed from her forever, without the
possibility of even a parting word.
Miss Ophelia, with characteristic strength and self-control, had
remained with her kinsman to the last,—all eye, all ear, all attention;
doing everything of the little that could be done, and joining with her
whole soul in the tender and impassioned prayers which the poor slave
had poured forth for the soul of his dying master.
When they were arranging him for his last rest, they found upon his
bosom a small, plain miniature case, opening with a spring. It was the
miniature of a noble and beautiful female face; and on the reverse,
under a crystal, a lock of dark hair. They laid them back on the
lifeless breast,—dust to dust,—poor mournful relics of early dreams,
which once made that cold heart beat so warmly!
Tom’s whole soul was filled with thoughts of eternity; and while he
ministered around the lifeless clay, he did not once think that the
sudden stroke had left him in hopeless slavery. He felt at peace about
his master; for in that hour, when he had poured forth his prayer into
the bosom of his Father, he had found an answer of quietness and
assurance springing up within himself. In the depths of his own
affectionate nature, he felt able to perceive something of the fulness
of Divine love; for an old oracle hath thus written,—“He that dwelleth
in love dwelleth in God, and God in him.” Tom hoped and trusted, and
was at peace.
But the funeral passed, with all its pageant of black crape, and
prayers, and solemn faces; and back rolled the cool, muddy waves of
every-day life; and up came the everlasting hard inquiry of “What is to
be done next?”
It rose to the mind of Marie, as, dressed in loose morning-robes, and
surrounded by anxious servants, she sat up in a great easy-chair, and
inspected samples of crape and bombazine. It rose to Miss Ophelia, who
began to turn her thoughts towards her northern home. It rose, in
silent terrors, to the minds of the servants, who well knew the
unfeeling, tyrannical character of the mistress in whose hands they
were left. All knew, very well, that the indulgences which had been
accorded to them were not from their mistress, but from their master;
and that, now he was gone, there would be no screen between them and
every tyrannous infliction which a temper soured by affliction might
devise.
It was about a fortnight after the funeral, that Miss Ophelia, busied
one day in her apartment, heard a gentle tap at the door. She opened
it, and there stood Rosa, the pretty young quadroon, whom we have
before often noticed, her hair in disorder, and her eyes swelled with
crying.
“O, Miss Feeley,” she said, falling on her knees, and catching the
skirt of her dress, “_do, do go_ to Miss Marie for me! do plead for me!
She’s goin’ to send me out to be whipped—look there!” And she handed to
Miss Ophelia a paper.
It was an order, written in Marie’s delicate Italian hand, to the
master of a whipping-establishment to give the bearer fifteen lashes.
“What have you been doing?” said Miss Ophelia.
“You know, Miss Feely, I’ve got such a bad temper; it’s very bad of me.
I was trying on Miss Marie’s dress, and she slapped my face; and I
spoke out before I thought, and was saucy; and she said that she’d
bring me down, and have me know, once for all, that I wasn’t going to
be so topping as I had been; and she wrote this, and says I shall carry
it. I’d rather she’d kill me, right out.”
Miss Ophelia stood considering, with the paper in her hand.
“You see, Miss Feely,” said Rosa, “I don’t mind the whipping so much,
if Miss Marie or you was to do it; but, to be sent to a _man!_ and such
a horrid man,—the shame of it, Miss Feely!”
Miss Ophelia well knew that it was the universal custom to send women
and young girls to whipping-houses, to the hands of the lowest of
men,—men vile enough to make this their profession,—there to be
subjected to brutal exposure and shameful correction. She had _known_
it before; but hitherto she had never realized it, till she saw the
slender form of Rosa almost convulsed with distress. All the honest
blood of womanhood, the strong New England blood of liberty, flushed to
her cheeks, and throbbed bitterly in her indignant heart; but, with
habitual prudence and self-control, she mastered herself, and, crushing
the paper firmly in her hand, she merely said to Rosa,
“Sit down, child, while I go to your mistress.”
“Shameful! monstrous! outrageous!” she said to herself, as she was
crossing the parlor.
She found Marie sitting up in her easy-chair, with Mammy standing by
her, combing her hair; Jane sat on the ground before her, busy in
chafing her feet.
“How do you find yourself, today?” said Miss Ophelia.
A deep sigh, and a closing of the eyes, was the only reply, for a
moment; and then Marie answered, “O, I don’t know, Cousin; I suppose
I’m as well as I ever shall be!” and Marie wiped her eyes with a
cambric handkerchief, bordered with an inch deep of black.
“I came,” said Miss Ophelia, with a short, dry cough, such as commonly
introduces a difficult subject,—“I came to speak with you about poor
Rosa.”
Marie’s eyes were open wide enough now, and a flush rose to her sallow
cheeks, as she answered, sharply,
“Well, what about her?”
“She is very sorry for her fault.”
“She is, is she? She’ll be sorrier, before I’ve done with her! I’ve
endured that child’s impudence long enough; and now I’ll bring her
down,—I’ll make her lie in the dust!”
“But could not you punish her some other way,—some way that would be
less shameful?”
“I mean to shame her; that’s just what I want. She has all her life
presumed on her delicacy, and her good looks, and her lady-like airs,
till she forgets who she is;—and I’ll give her one lesson that will
bring her down, I fancy!”
“But, Cousin, consider that, if you destroy delicacy and a sense of
shame in a young girl, you deprave her very fast.”
“Delicacy!” said Marie, with a scornful laugh,—“a fine word for such as
she! I’ll teach her, with all her airs, that she’s no better than the
raggedest black wench that walks the streets! She’ll take no more airs
with me!”
“You will answer to God for such cruelty!” said Miss Ophelia, with
energy.
“Cruelty,—I’d like to know what the cruelty is! I wrote orders for only
fifteen lashes, and told him to put them on lightly. I’m sure there’s
no cruelty there!”
“No cruelty!” said Miss Ophelia. “I’m sure any girl might rather be
killed outright!”
“It might seem so to anybody with your feeling; but all these creatures
get used to it; it’s the only way they can be kept in order. Once let
them feel that they are to take any airs about delicacy, and all that,
and they’ll run all over you, just as my servants always have. I’ve
begun now to bring them under; and I’ll have them all to know that I’ll
send one out to be whipped, as soon as another, if they don’t mind
themselves!” said Marie, looking around her decidedly.
Jane hung her head and cowered at this, for she felt as if it was
particularly directed to her. Miss Ophelia sat for a moment, as if she
had swallowed some explosive mixture, and were ready to burst. Then,
recollecting the utter uselessness of contention with such a nature,
she shut her lips resolutely, gathered herself up, and walked out of
the room.