“True enough, Miss Eva,” said Tom; and Tom sang —
“O, had I the wings of the morning,
I’d fly away to Canaan’s shore;
Bright angels should convey me home,
To the new Jerusalem.”
“Where do you suppose new Jerusalem is, Uncle Tom?” said Eva.
“O, up in the clouds, Miss Eva.”
“Then I think I see it,” said Eva. “Look in those clouds! — they look like great gates of pearl; and you can see beyond them — far, far off — it’s all gold. Tom, sing about ‘spirits bright.’”
Tom sung the words of a well-known Methodist hymn,
“I see a band of spirits bright,
That taste the glories there;
They all are robed in spotless white,
And conquering palms they bear.”
“Uncle Tom, I’ve seen them,” said Eva.
Tom had no doubt of it at all; it did not surprise him in the least. If Eva had told him she had been to heaven, he would have thought it entirely probable.
“They come to me sometimes in my sleep, those spirits;” and Eva’s eyes grew dreamy, and she hummed, in a low voice,
“They are all robed in spotless white,
And conquering palms they bear.”
“Uncle Tom,” said Eva, “I’m going there.”
“Where, Miss Eva?”
The child rose, and pointed her little hand to the sky; the glow of evening lit her golden hair and flushed cheek with a kind of unearthly radiance, and her eyes were bent earnestly on the skies.
“I’m going there,” she said, “to the spirits bright, Tom; I’m going, before long.”
The faithful old heart felt a sudden thrust; and Tom thought how often he had noticed, within six months, that Eva’s little hands had grown thinner, and her skin more transparent, and her breath shorter; and how, when she ran or played in the garden, as she once could for hours, she became soon so tired and languid. He had heard Miss Ophelia speak often of a cough, that all her medicaments could not cure; and even now that fervent cheek and little hand were burning with hectic fever; and yet the thought that Eva’s words suggested had never come to him till now.
Has there ever been a child like Eva? Yes, there have been; but their names are always on grave-stones, and their sweet smiles, their heavenly eyes, their singular words and ways, are among the buried treasures of yearning hearts. In how many families do you hear the legend that all the goodness and graces of the living are nothing to the peculiar charms of one who is not. It is as if heaven had an especial band of angels, whose office it was to sojourn for a season here, and endear to them the wayward human heart, that they might bear it upward with them in their homeward flight. When you see that deep, spiritual light in the eye, — when the little soul reveals itself in words sweeter and wiser than the ordinary words of children, — hope not to retain that child; for the seal of heaven is on it, and the light of immortality looks out from its eyes.
Even so, beloved Eva! fair star of thy dwelling! Thou art passing away; but they that love thee dearest know it not.
The colloquy between Tom and Eva was interrupted by a hasty call from Miss Ophelia.
“Eva — Eva! — why, child, the dew is falling; you mustn’t be out there!”
Eva and Tom hastened in.
Miss Ophelia was old, and skilled in the tactics of nursing. She was from New England, and knew well the first guileful footsteps of that soft, insidious disease, which sweeps away so many of the fairest and loveliest, and, before one fibre of life seems broken, seals them irrevocably for death.
She had noted the slight, dry cough, the daily brightening cheek; nor could the lustre of the eye, and the airy buoyancy born of fever, deceive her.
She tried to communicate her fears to St. Clare; but he threw back her suggestions with a restless petulance, unlike his usual careless good-humor.
“Don’t be croaking, Cousin, — I hate it!” he would say; “don’t you see that the child is only growing. Children always lose strength when they grow fast.”
“But she has that cough!”
“O! nonsense of that cough! — it is not anything. She has taken a little cold, perhaps.”
“Well, that was just the way Eliza Jane was taken, and Ellen and Maria Sanders.”
“O! stop these hobgoblin’ nurse legends. You old hands got so wise, that a child cannot cough, or sneeze, but you see desperation and ruin at hand. Only take care of the child, keep her from the night air, and don’t let her play too hard, and she’ll do well enough.”
So St. Clare said; but he grew nervous and restless. He watched Eva feverishly day by day, as might be told by the frequency with which he repeated over that “the child was quite well” — that there wasn’t anything in that cough, — it was only some little stomach affection, such as children often had. But he kept by her more than before, took her oftener to ride with him, brought home every few days some receipt or strengthening mixture,—”not,” he said, “that the child needed it, but then it would not do her any harm.”
If it must be told, the thing that struck a deeper pang to his heart than anything else was the daily increasing maturity of the child’s mind and feelings. While still retaining all a child’s fanciful graces, yet she often dropped, unconsciously, words of such a reach of thought, and strange unworldly wisdom, that they seemed to be an inspiration. At such times, St. Clare would feel a sudden thrill, and clasp her in his arms, as if that fond clasp could save her; and his heart rose up with wild determination to keep her, never to let her go.
The child’s whole heart and soul seemed absorbed in works of love and kindness. Impulsively generous she had always been; but there was a touching and womanly thoughtfulness about her now, that every one noticed. She still loved to play with Topsy, and the various colored children; but she now seemed rather a spectator than an actor of their plays, and she would sit for half an hour at a time, laughing at the odd tricks of Topsy, — and then a shadow would seem to pass across her face, her eyes grew misty, and her thoughts were afar.
“Mamma,” she said, suddenly, to her mother, one day, “why don’t we teach our servants to read?”
“What a question child! People never do.”
“Why don’t they?” said Eva.
“Because it is no use for them to read. It don’t help them to work any better, and they are not made for anything else.”
“But they ought to read the Bible, mamma, to learn God’s will.”
“O! they can get that read to them all they need.”
“It seems to me, mamma, the Bible is for every one to read themselves. They need it a great many times when there is nobody to read it.”
“Eva, you are an odd child,” said her mother.
“Miss Ophelia has taught Topsy to read,” continued Eva.
“Yes, and you see how much good it does. Topsy is the worst creature I ever saw!”
“Here’s poor Mammy!” said Eva. “She does love the Bible so much, and wishes so she could read! And what will she do when I can’t read to her?”
Marie was busy, turning over the contents of a drawer, as she answered,
“Well, of course, by and by, Eva, you will have other things to think of besides reading the Bible round to servants. Not but that is very proper; I’ve done it myself, when I had health. But when you come to be dressing and going into company, you won’t have time. See here!” she added, “these jewels I’m going to give you when you come out. I wore them to my first ball. I can tell you, Eva, I made a sensation.”
Eva took the jewel-case, and lifted from it a diamond necklace. Her large, thoughtful eyes rested on them, but it was plain her thoughts were elsewhere.
“How sober you look child!” said Marie.
“Are these worth a great deal of money, mamma?”
“To be sure, they are. Father sent to France for them. They are worth a small fortune.”
“I wish I had them,” said Eva, “to do wha
t I pleased with!”
“What would you do with them?”
“I’d sell them, and buy a place in the free states, and take all our people there, and hire teachers, to teach them to read and write.”
Eva was cut short by her mother’s laughing.
“Set up a boarding-school! Wouldn’t you teach them to play on the piano, and paint on velvet?”
“I’d teach them to read their own Bible, and write their own letters, and read letters that are written to them,” said Eva, steadily. “I know, mamma, it does come very hard on them that they can’t do these things. Tom feels it — Mammy does, — a great many of them do. I think it’s wrong.”
“Come, come, Eva; you are only a child! You don’t know anything about these things,” said Marie; “besides, your talking makes my head ache.”
Marie always had a headache on hand for any conversation that did not exactly suit her.
Eva stole away; but after that, she assiduously gave Mammy reading lessons.
CHAPTER XXIII
Henrique
About this time, St. Clare’s brother Alfred, with his eldest son, a boy of twelve, spent a day or two with the family at the lake.
No sight could be more singular and beautiful than that of these twin brothers. Nature, instead of instituting resemblances between them, had made them opposites on every point; yet a mysterious tie seemed to unite them in a closer friendship than ordinary.
They used to saunter, arm in arm, up and down the alleys and walks of the garden. Augustine, with his blue eyes and golden hair, his ethereally flexible form and vivacious features; and Alfred, dark-eyed, with haughty Roman profile, firmly-knit limbs, and decided bearing. They were always abusing each other’s opinions and practices, and yet never a whit the less absorbed in each other’s society; in fact, the very contrariety seemed to unite them, like the attraction between opposite poles of the magnet.
Henrique, the eldest son of Alfred, was a noble, dark-eyed, princely boy, full of vivacity and spirit; and, from the first moment of introduction, seemed to be perfectly fascinated by the spirituelle graces of his cousin Evangeline.
Eva had a little pet pony, of a snowy whiteness. It was easy as a cradle, and as gentle as its little mistress; and this pony was now brought up to the back verandah by Tom, while a little mulatto boy of about thirteen led along a small black Arabian, which had just been imported, at a great expense, for Henrique.
Henrique had a boy’s pride in his new possession; and, as he advanced and took the reins out of the hands of his little groom, he looked carefully over him, and his brow darkened.
“What’s this, Dodo, you little lazy dog! you haven’t rubbed my horse down, this morning.”
“Yes, Mas’r,” said Dodo, submissively; “he got that dust on his own self.”
“You rascal, shut your mouth!” said Henrique, violently raising his riding-whip. “How dare you speak?”
The boy was a handsome, bright-eyed mulatto, of just Henrique’s size, and his curling hair hung round a high, bold forehead. He had white blood in his veins, as could be seen by the quick flush in his cheek, and the sparkle of his eye, as he eagerly tried to speak.
“Mas’r Henrique!—” he began.
Henrique struck him across the face with his riding-whip, and, seizing one of his arms, forced him on to his knees, and beat him till he was out of breath.
“There, you impudent dog! Now will you learn not to answer back when I speak to you? Take the horse back, and clean him properly. I’ll teach you your place!”
“Young Mas’r,” said Tom, “I specs what he was gwine to say was, that the horse would roll when he was bringing him up from the stable; he’s so full of spirits, — that’s the way he got that dirt on him; I looked to his cleaning.”
“You hold your tongue till you’re asked to speak!” said Henrique, turning on his heel, and walking up the steps to speak to Eva, who stood in her riding-dress.
“Dear Cousin, I’m sorry this stupid fellow has kept you waiting,” he said. “Let’s sit down here, on this seat till they come. What’s the matter, Cousin? — you look sober.”
“How could you be so cruel and wicked to poor Dodo?” asked Eva.
“Cruel, — wicked!” said the boy, with unaffected surprise. “What do you mean, dear Eva?”
“I don’t want you to call me dear Eva, when you do so,” said Eva.
“Dear Cousin, you don’t know Dodo; it’s the only way to manage him, he’s so full of lies and excuses. The only way is to put him down at once, — not let him open his mouth; that’s the way papa manages.”
“But Uncle Tom said it was an accident, and he never tells what isn’t true.”
“He’s an uncommon old nigger, then!” said Henrique. “Dodo will lie as fast as he can speak.”
“You frighten him into deceiving, if you treat him so.”
“Why, Eva, you’ve really taken such a fancy to Dodo, that I shall be jealous.”
“But you beat him, — and he didn’t deserve it.”
“O, well, it may go for some time when he does, and don’t get it. A few cuts never come amiss with Dodo, — he’s a regular spirit, I can tell you; but I won’t beat him again before you, if it troubles you.”
Eva was not satisfied, but found it in vain to try to make her handsome cousin understand her feelings.
Dodo soon appeared, with the horses.
“Well, Dodo, you’ve done pretty well, this time,” said his young master, with a more gracious air. “Come, now, and hold Miss Eva’s horse while I put her on to the saddle.”
Dodo came and stood by Eva’s pony. His face was troubled; his eyes looked as if he had been crying.
Henrique, who valued himself on his gentlemanly adroitness in all matters of gallantry, soon had his fair cousin in the saddle, and, gathering the reins, placed them in her hands.
But Eva bent to the other side of the horse, where Dodo was standing, and said, as he relinquished the reins,—”That’s a good boy, Dodo; — thank you!”
Dodo looked up in amazement into the sweet young face; the blood rushed to his cheeks, and the tears to his eyes.
“Here, Dodo,” said his master, imperiously.
Dodo sprang and held the horse, while his master mounted.
“There’s a picayune for you to buy candy with, Dodo,” said Henrique; “go get some.”
And Henrique cantered down the walk after Eva. Dodo stood looking after the two children. One had given him money; and one had given him what he wanted far more, — a kind word, kindly spoken. Dodo had been only a few months away from his mother. His master had bought him at a slave warehouse, for his handsome face, to be a match to the handsome pony; and he was now getting his breaking in, at the hands of his young master.
The scene of the beating had been witnessed by the two brothers St. Clare, from another part of the garden.
Augustine’s cheek flushed; but he only observed, with his usual sarcastic carelessness.
“I suppose that’s what we may call republican education, Alfred?”
“Henrique is a devil of a fellow, when his blood’s up,” said Alfred, carelessly.
“I suppose you consider this an instructive practice for him,” said Augustine, drily.
“I couldn’t help it, if I didn’t. Henrique is a regular little tempest; — his mother and I have given him up, long ago. But, then, that Dodo is a perfect sprite, — no amount of whipping can hurt him.”
“And this by way of teaching Henrique the first verse of a republican’s catechism, ‘All men are born free and equal!’”
“Poh!” said Alfred; “one of Tom Jefferson’s pieces of French sentiment and humbug. It’s perfectly ridiculous to have that going the rounds among us, to this day.”
“I think it is,” said St. Clare, significantly.
“Because,” said Alfred, “we can see plainly enough that all men are not born free, nor born equal; they are born anything else. For my part, I think half this republican talk sheer
humbug. It is the educated, the intelligent, the wealthy, the refined, who ought to have equal rights and not the canaille.”
“If you can keep the canaille of that opinion,” said Augustine. “They took their turn once, in France.”
“Of course, they must be kept down, consistently, steadily, as I should,” said Alfred, setting his foot hard down as if he were standing on somebody.
“It makes a terrible slip when they get up,” said Augustine,—”in St. Domingo, for instance.”
“Poh!” said Alfred, “we’ll take care of that, in this country. We must set our face against all this educating, elevating talk, that is getting about now; the lower class must not be educated.”
“That is past praying for,” said Augustine; “educated they will be, and we have only to say how. Our system is educating them in barbarism and brutality. We are breaking all humanizing ties, and making them brute beasts; and, if they get the upper hand, such we shall find them.”
“They shall never get the upper hand!” said Alfred.
“That’s right,” said St. Clare; “put on the steam, fasten down the escape-valve, and sit on it, and see where you’ll land.”
“Well,” said Alfred, “we will see. I’m not afraid to sit on the escape-valve, as long as the boilers are strong, and the machinery works well.”
“The nobles in Louis XVI.’s time thought just so; and Austria and Pius IX. think so now; and, some pleasant morning, you may all be caught up to meet each other in the air, when the boilers burst.”
“Dies declarabit,” said Alfred, laughing.
“I tell you,” said Augustine, “if there is anything that is revealed with the strength of a divine law in our times, it is that the masses are to rise, and the under class become the upper one.”
“That’s one of your red republican humbugs, Augustine! Why didn’t you ever take to the stump; — you’d make a famous stump orator! Well, I hope I shall be dead before this millennium of your greasy masses comes on.”
“Greasy or not greasy, they will govern you, when their time comes,” said Augustine; “and they will be just such rulers as you make them. The French noblesse chose to have the people ‘sans culottes,’ and they had ‘sans culotte’ governors to their hearts’ content. The people of Hayti—”
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 34
