Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe

by Harriet Beecher Stowe

  CHAPTER VII

  CONSULTATION

  “OH, Harry, I’m so glad to see you back! In such trouble as I’ve been to-day! Don’t you think, this very morning, as I was sitting in Aunt Nesbit’s room, Tomtit brought up these two letters; and one of them is from Clayton, and the other from Mr. Carson; and now, see here what Clayton says: ‘ I shall have business that will take me in your vicinity next week; and it is quite possible, unless I hear from you to the contrary, that you may see me at Canema next Friday or Saturday.’ Well, then, see here; there’s another from Mr. Carson, — that hateful Carson! Now, you see, he hasn’t got my letter; says he is coming. What impudence! I’m tired to death of that creature, and he’ll be here just as certain! Disagreeable people always do keep their promises! He’ll certainly be here!”

  “Well, Miss Nina, you recollect you said you thought it would be good fun.”

  “Oh, Harry, don’t bring that up, I beg of you! The fact is, Harry, I’ve altered my mind about that. You know I’ve put a stop to all those foolish things at once, and am done with them. You know I wrote to Carson and Emmons, both, that my sentiments had changed, and all that sort of thing, that the girls always say. I’m going to dismiss all of ’em at once, and have no more fooling.”

  “What, all? Mr. Clayton and all?”

  “Well, I don’t know, exactly, — no. Do you know, Harry, I think his letters are rather improving? — at least, they are different letters from any I’ve got before; and though. I don’t think I shall break my heart after him, yet I like to get them. But the other two I’m sick to death of; and as for having that creature boring round here, I won’t! At any rate, I don’t want him and Clayton here together. I wouldn’t have them together for the world; and I wrote a letter to keep Carson off, this morning, and I’ve been in trouble all day. Everybody has plagued me. Aunt Nesbit only gave me one of her mopy lectures about flirting, and wouldn’t help me in the least. And then, Old Hundred: I wanted him to get out the carriage and horses for me to go over and put this letter in the office, and I never saw such a creature in my life! I can’t make him do anything! I should like to know what the use is of having servants, if you can’t get anything done!”

  “Oh, as to Old Hundred, I understand him, and he understands me,” said Harry. “I never find any trouble with him; but he is a provoking old creature. He stands very much on the dignity of his office. But if you want your letter carried to-night, I can contrive a safer way than that, if you’ll trust it to me.”

  “Ah! well, do take it!”

  “Yes,” said Harry, “I’ll send a messenger across on horseback, and I have means to make him faithful.”

  “Well, Harry, Harry!” said Nina, catching at his sleeve as he was going out, “come back again, won’t you? I want to talk to you.”

  During Harry’s absence, our heroine drew a letter from her bosom, and read it over.

  “How well he writes!” she said to herself. “So different from the rest of them! I wish he’d keep away from here, — that’s what I do! It’s a pretty thing to get his letters, but I don’t think I want to see him. Oh, dear! I wish I had somebody to talk to about it — Aunt Nesbit is so cross! I can’t — no, I won’t care about him! Harry is a kind soul.”

  “Ah, Harry, have you sent the letter?” said she eagerly as he entered.

  “I have, Miss Nina; but I can’t flatter you too much. I’m afraid it’s too late for the mail — though there’s never any saying when the mail goes out, within two or three hours.”

  “Well, I hope it will stay for me, once. If that stupid creature comes, why, I don’t know what I shall do! He’s so presuming! and he’ll squeak about with those horrid shoes of his; and then, I suppose, it will all come out, one way or another; and I don’t know what Clayton will think.” —

  “But I thought you didn’t care what he thought.”

  “Well, you know, he’s been writing to me all about his family. There’s his father, is a very distinguished man, of a very old family; and he’s been writing to me about his sister, the most dreadfully sensible sister, he has got —— good, lovely, accomplished, and pious! Oh, dear me! I don’t know what in the world he ever thought of me for! And, do you think, there’s a postscript from his sister, written elegantly as can be!”

  “As to family, Miss Nina,” said Harry, “I think the Gordons can hold up their heads with anybody; and then, I rather think you’ll like Miss Clayton.”

  “Ah! but then, Harry, this talking about fathers and sisters, it’s bringing the thing awfully near! It looks so much, you know, as if I really were caught. Do you know, Harry, I think I’m just like my pony? You know, she likes to have you come and offer her corn, and stroke her neck; and she likes to maize you believe she’s going to let you catch her; but when it comes to putting a bridle on her, she’s off in a minute. Now, that’s the way with me. It’s rather exciting, you know, these beaux, and love-letters, and talking sentiment, going to the opera, and taking rides on horseback, and all that.

  But when men get to talking about their fathers, and their sisters, and to act as if they were sure of me, I’m just like Sylphine — I want to be off. You know, Harry, I think it’s a very serious thing, this being married. It’s dreadful! I don’t want to be a woman grown. I wish I could always be a girl, and live just as I have lived, and have plenty more girls come and see me, and have fun. I haven’t been a bit happy lately, not a bit; and I never was unhappy before in my life.”

  “Well, why don’t you write to Mr. Clayton, and break it all off, if you feel so about it?”

  “Well, why don’t I? I don’t know. I’ve had a great mind to do it; but I’m afraid I should feel worse than I do now. He’s coming just like a great dark shadow over my life, and everything is beginning to feel so real to me! I don’t want to take up life in earnest. I read a story, once, about Undine; and, do you know, Harry, I think I feel just as Undine did, when she felt her soul coming in her?”

  “And is Clayton Knight Heldebound?” said Harry, smiling.

  “I don’t know. What if he should be? Now, Harry, you see the fact is that sensible men get their heads turned by such kind of girls as I am; and they pet us, and humor us. But then, I’m afraid they ‘re thinking, all the while, that their turn to rule is coming, by and by. They marry us because they think they are going to make us over; and what I’m afraid of is, I never can be made over. Don’t think I was cut out right in the first place; and there never will be much more of me than there is now. And he’ll be comparing me with his pattern sister; and I sha’n’t be any the more amiable for that. Now, his sister is what folks call highly educated, you know, Harry. She understands all about literature, and everything. As for me, I’ve just cultivation enough to appreciate a fine horse — that’ s the extent. And yet I’m proud. I wouldn’t wish to stand second, in his opinion, even to his sister. So, there it is. That’s the way with us girls! We are always wanting what we know we ought not to have, and are not willing to take the trouble to get.”

  “Miss Nina, if you’ll let me speak my mind out frankly, now, I want to offer one piece of advice. Just be perfectly true and open with Mr. Clayton; and if he and Mr. Carson should come together, just tell him frankly how the matter stands. You are a Gordon, and they say truth always runs in the Gordon blood; and now, Miss Nina, you are no longer a schoolgirl, but a young lady at the head of the estate.”

  He stopped, and hesitated.

  “Well, Harry, you needn’t stop. I understand you — got a few grains of sense left, I hope, and haven’t got so many friends that I can afford to get angry with you for nothing.”

  “I suppose,” said Harry thoughtfully, “that your aunt will be well enough to be down to the table. Have you told her how matters stand?”

  “Who? Aunt Loo? Catch me telling her anything! No, Harry, I’ve got to stand all alone. I haven’t any mother, and I haven’t any sister; and Aunt Loo is worse than nobody, because it’s provoking to have somebody round that you feel might take
an interest, and ought to, and don’t care a red cent for you. Well, I declare, if I’m not much, — if I’m not such a model as Miss Clayton, there, — how could any one expect it, when I have just come up by myself, first at the plantation, here, and then at that French boarding-school? I tell you what, Harry, boarding-schools are not what they ‘re cried up to be. It’s good fun, no doubt, but we never learnt anything there. That is to say, we never learnt it internally, but had it just rubbed on to us outside. A girl can’t help, of course, learning something; and I’ve learnt just what I happened to like and couldn’t help, and a deal that isn’t of the most edifying nature besides.”

  Well! we shall see what will come!

  CHAPTER VIII

  OLD TIFF

  “I SAY, Tiff, do you think he will come to-night?”

  “Laws, laws, missis, how can Tiff tell? I’s been a-gazin’ out de do’. Don’t see nor hear nothin’.”

  “It’s so lonesome! — so lonesome! — and the nights so long!”

  And the speaker, an emaciated, feeble little woman, turned herself uneasily on the ragged pallet where she was lying, and twirling her slender fingers nervously, gazed up at the rough, unplastered beams above.

  The room was of the coarsest and rudest cast. The hut was framed of rough pine logs, filled between the crevices with mud and straw; the floor made of rough-split planks, unevenly jointed together; the window was formed by some single panes arranged in a row where a gap had been made in one of the logs. At one end was a rude chimney of sticks, where smouldered a fire of pine-cones and brushwood, covered over with a light coat of white ashes. On the mantel over it was a shelf, which displayed sundry vials, a cracked teapot and tumbler, some medicinal-looking packages, a turkey’s wing, much abridged and defaced by frequent usage, some bundles of dry herbs, and lastly a gayly painted mug of coarse crockery ware, containing a bunch of wild-flowers. On pegs, driven into the logs, were arranged different articles of female attire, and divers little coats and dresses, which belonged to smaller wearers, with now and then soiled and coarse articles of man’s apparel.

  The woman, who lay upon a coarse chaff pallet in the corner, was one who once might have been pretty. Her skin was fair, her hair soft and curling, her eyes of a beautiful blue, her hands thin and transparent as pearl. But the deep, dark circles under the eyes, the thin, white lips, the attenuated limbs, the hurried breathing, and the burning spots in the cheek told that, whatever she might have been, she was now not long for this world.

  Beside her bed was sitting an old negro, in whose close-curling wool age had begun to sprinkle flecks of white. His countenance presented, physically, one of the most uncomely specimens of negro features; and would have been positively frightful, had it not been redeemed by an expression of cheerful kindliness which beamed from it. His face was of ebony blackness, with a wide, upturned nose, a mouth of portentous size, guarded by clumsy lips, revealing teeth which a shark might have envied. The only fine feature was his large black eyes, which, at the present, were concealed by a huge pair of plated spectacles, placed very low upon his nose, and through which he was directing his sight upon a child’s stocking, that he was busily darning. At his foot was a rude cradle, made of a gum-tree log, hollowed out into a trough, and wadded by various old fragments of flannel, in which slept a very young infant. Another child, of about three years of age, was sitting on the negro’s knee, busily playing with some pine cones and mosses.

  The figure of the old negro was low and stooping; and he wore, pinned round his shoulders, a half-handkerchief or shawl of red flannel, arranged much as an old woman would have arranged it. One or two needles, with coarse, black thread dangling to them, were stuck in on his shoulder; and as he busily darned on the little stocking, he kept up a kind of droning intermixture of chanting and talking to the child on his knee.

  “So, ho, Teddy! — bub dar! — my man! — sit still! — cause yer ma’s sick, and sister’s gone for medicine. Dar, Tiff’ll sing to his little man.

  ‘Christ was born in Bethlehem,

  Christ was born in Bethlehem,

  And in a manger laid.’

  Take car, dar! — dat ar needle scratch yer little fingers!

  —— poor little fingers! Ah, be still, now! — play wid yer pretty tings, and see what yer pa’ll bring ye!”

  “Oh, dear me! — well!” said the woman on the bed, “I shall give up!”

  “Bress de Lord, no, missis!” said Tiff, laying down the stocking, and holding the child to him with one hand, while the other was busy in patting and arranging the bedclothes. “No use in givin’ up! Why, Lord bress you, missis, we’ll be all up right agin in a few days. Work has been kinder pressin’, lately, and chil’n’s clothes ain’t quite so ‘speckable; but den I’s doin’ heaps o’ mendin’. See dat ar!” said he, holding up a slip of red flannel, resplendent with a black patch, “dat ar hole won’t, go no furder — and it does well enough for Teddy to wear rollin’ round de do’, and such like times, to save his bettermost. And de way I’s put de yarn in dese yer stockings ain’t slow. Den I’s laid out to take a stitch in Teddy’s shoes; and dat ar hole in de kiverlet, dat ar’ll be stopped ‘fore morning. Oh, let me alone! — he! he! he! — Ye didn’t keep Tiff for nothing, missis — ho, ho, ho!” And the black face seemed really to become unctuous with the oil of gladness, as Tiff proceeded in his work of consolation.

  “Oh, Tiff, Tiff! you’re a good creature! But you don’t know. Here I’ve been lying alone day after day, and he off, nobody knows where! And when he comes, it’ll be only a day, and he’s off; and all he does don’t amount to anything — all miserable rubbish brought home and traded off for other rubbish. Oh, what a fool I was for being married! Oh, dear! girls little know what marriage is! I thought it was so dreadful to be an old maid, and a pretty thing to get married! But, oh, the pain, and worry, and sickness, and suffering I’ve gone through! —— always wandering from place to place, never settled; one thing going after another, worrying, watching, weary, —— and all for nothing, for I am worn out, and I shall die!”

  “Oh, Lord, no!” said Tiff earnestly. “Lor, Tiff’ll make ye some tea, and give it to ye, ye poor lamb! It’s drefful hard, so ’tis; but times’ll mend, and massa’ll come round and be more settled, like, and Teddy will grow up and help his ma; and I’m sure dere isn’t a pearter young un dan dis yer puppet!” said he, turning fondly to the trough where the little fat, red mass of incipient humanity was beginning to throw up two small fists, and to utter sundry small squeaks, to intimate his desire to come into notice.

  “Lor, now,” said he, adroitly depositing Teddy on the floor, and taking up the baby, whom he regarded fondly through his great spectacles; “stretch away, my pretty! stretch away! ho-e-ho! Lor, if he hasn’t got his mammy’s eye, for all dis worl’! Ah, brave! See him, missis!” said he, laying the little bundle on the bed by her. “Did ye ever see a peartier young un? He, he, he! Dar, now, his mammy should take him, so she should! and Tiff’ll make mammy some tea, so he will!” And Tiff, in a moment, was on his knees, carefully laying together the ends of the burned sticks, and blowing a cloud of white ashes, which powdered his woolly head and red shawl like snowflakes, while Teddy was busy in pulling the needles out of some knitting-work which hung in a bag by the fire.

  Tiff, having started the fire by blowing, proceeded very carefully to adjust upon it a small, black porringer of water, singing, as he did so, —

  “‘My way is dark and cloudy,

  So it is, so it is;

  My way is dark and cloudy,

  All de day.’”

  Then rising from his work, he saw that the poor, weak mother had clasped the baby to her bosom, and was sobbing very quietly. Tiff, as he stood there, with his short, square, ungainly figure, his long arms hanging out from his side like bows, his back covered by the red shawl, looked much like a compassionate tortoise standing on its hind legs. He looked pitifully at the sight, took off his glasses and wiped his eyes, and lifted up his voice in an
other stave: —

  “‘But we’ll join de forty tousand, by and by,

  So we will, so we will.

  We’ll join de forty tousand, upon de golden shore,

  And our sorrows will be gone forevermore, more, more.’

  “Bress my soul, Mas’r Teddy! now us been haulin’ out de needles from Miss Fanny’s work! dat ar ain’t purty, now! Tiff’ll be ‘shamed of ye, and ye do like dat when yer ma’s sick! Don’t ye know ye must be good, else Tiff won’t tell ye no stories! Dar, now, sit down on dis yere log; dat ar’s just the nicest log! plenty o’ moss on it yer can be a-pickin’ out! Now, yer sit still dar, and don’t be interruptin’ yer ma.”

  The urchin opened a wide, round pair of blue eyes upon Tiff, looking as if he were mesmerized, and sat, with a quiet, subdued air, upon his log, while Tiff went fumbling about in a box in the corner. After some rattling, he produced a pine knot, as the daylight was fading fast in the room, and driving it into a crack in another log which stood by the chimney-corner, he proceeded busily to light it, muttering, as he did so, —

  “Want to make it more cheerful like.”

  Then he knelt down and blew the coals under the little porringer, which, like pine coals in general, always sulked and looked black when somebody was not blowing them. He blew vigorously, regardless of the clouds of ashes which encircled him, and which settled even on the tips of his eyelashes, and balanced themselves on the end of his nose.

  “Bress de Lord, I’s dreadful strong in my breff! Lord, dey might have used me in blacksmissin’! I’s kep dis yer chimney a-gwine dis many a day. I wonder, now, what keeps Miss Fanny out so long?”