“Do ye know, Tom, that we’ve all got to be sold?” said Adolph.
“How did you hear that?” said Tom.
“I hid myself behind the curtains when Missis was talking with the lawyer. In a few days we shall be sent off to auction, Tom.”
“The Lord’s will be done!” said Tom, folding his arms and sighing heavily.
“We’ll never get another such a master,” said Adolph, apprehensively; “but I’d rather be sold than take my chance under Missis.”
Tom turned away; his heart was full. The hope of liberty, the thought of distant wife and children, rose up before his patient soul, as to the mariner shipwrecked almost in port rises the vision of the church-spire and loving roofs of his native village, seen over the top of some black wave only for one last farewell. He drew his arms tightly over his bosom, and choked back the bitter tears, and tried to pray. The poor old soul had such a singular, unaccountable prejudice in favor of liberty, that it was a hard wrench for him; and the more he said, “Thy will be done,” the worse he felt.
He sought Miss Ophelia, who, ever since Eva’s death, had treated him with marked and respectful kindness.
“Miss Feely,” he said, “Mas’r St. Clare promised me my freedom. He told me that he had begun to take it out for me; and now, perhaps, if Miss Feely would be good enough to speak bout it to Missis, she would feel like goin’ on with it, was it as Mas’r St. Clare’s wish.”
“I’ll speak for you, Tom, and do my best,” said Miss Ophelia; “but, if it depends on Mrs. St. Clare, I can’t hope much for you;—nevertheless, I will try.”
This incident occurred a few days after that of Rosa, while Miss Ophelia was busied in preparations to return north.
Seriously reflecting within herself, she considered that perhaps she had shown too hasty a warmth of language in her former interview with Marie; and she resolved that she would now endeavor to moderate her zeal, and to be as conciliatory as possible. So the good soul gathered herself up, and, taking her knitting, resolved to go into Marie’s room, be as agreeable as possible, and negotiate Tom’s case with all the diplomatic skill of which she was mistress.
She found Marie reclining at length upon a lounge, supporting herself on one elbow by pillows, while Jane, who had been out shopping, was displaying before her certain samples of thin black stuffs.
“That will do,” said Marie, selecting one; “only I’m not sure about its being properly mourning.”
“Laws, Missis,” said Jane, volubly, “Mrs. General Derbennon wore just this very thing, after the General died, last summer; it makes up lovely!”
“What do you think?” said Marie to Miss Ophelia.
“It’s a matter of custom, I suppose,” said Miss Ophelia. “You can judge about it better than I.”
“The fact is,” said Marie, “that I haven’t a dress in the world that I can wear; and, as I am going to break up the establishment, and go off, next week, I must decide upon something.”
“Are you going so soon?”
“Yes. St. Clare’s brother has written, and he and the lawyer think that the servants and furniture had better be put up at auction, and the place left with our lawyer.”
“There’s one thing I wanted to speak with you about,” said Miss Ophelia. “Augustine promised Tom his liberty, and began the legal forms necessary to it. I hope you will use your influence to have it perfected.”
“Indeed, I shall do no such thing!” said Marie, sharply. “Tom is one of the most valuable servants on the place—it couldn’t be afforded, anyway. Besides, what does he want of liberty? He’s a great deal better off as he is.”
“But he does desire it, very earnestly, and his master promised it,” said Miss Ophelia.
“I dare say he does want it,” said Marie; “they all want it, just because they are a discontented set—always wanting what they haven’t got. Now, I’m principled against emancipating, in any case. Keep a negro under the care of a master, and he does well enough, and is respectable; but set them free, and they get lazy, and won’t work, and take to drinking, and go all down to be mean, worthless fellows, I’ve seen it tried, hundreds of times. It’s no favor to set them free.”
“But Tom is so steady, industrious, and pious.”
“O, you needn’t tell me! I’ve see a hundred like him. He’ll do very well, as long as he’s taken care of—that’s all.”
“But, then, consider,” said Miss Ophelia, “when you set him up for sale, the chances of his getting a bad master.”
“O, that’s all humbug!” said Marie; “it isn’t one time in a hundred that a good fellow gets a bad master; most masters are good, for all the talk that is made. I’ve lived and grown up here, in the South, and I never yet was acquainted with a master that didn’t treat his servants well—quite as well as is worth while. I don’t feel any fears on that head.”
“Well,” said Miss Ophelia, energetically, “I know it was one of the last wishes of your husband that Tom should have his liberty; it was one of the promises that he made to dear little Eva on her deathbed, and I should not think you would feel at liberty to disregard it.”
Marie had her face covered with her handkerchief at this appeal, and began sobbing and using her smelling-bottle, with great vehemence.
“Everybody goes against me!” she said. “Everybody is so inconsiderate! I shouldn’t have expected that you would bring up all these remembrances of my troubles to me—it’s so inconsiderate! But nobody ever does consider—my trials are so peculiar! It’s so hard, that when I had only one daughter, she should have been taken!—and when I had a husband that just exactly suited me—and I’m so hard to be suited!—he should be
