Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe

by Harriet Beecher Stowe

  “Dem’s fustrate for scarecrows, anyhow!” muttered Tiff.

  “Now, what,” said Cripps,—”Sue, what do you think I gave for these?”

  “I don’t know,” said she faintly.

  “Well, I gave fifteen dollars for the whole box! And there ain’t one of these,” said he, displaying the most singular specimen on his hand, “that isn’t worth from two to five dollars. I shall clear, at least, fifty dollars on that box.”

  Tiff, at this moment, turned to his frying-pan, and bent over it, soliloquizing as he did so, —

  “Anyway, I’s found out one ting, — where de women gets dem roosts of bonnets dey wars at camp-meetings. Laws, dey’s enough to spile a work of grace, dem ar! If I was to meet one of dem ar of a dark night in a graveyard, I should tink I was sent for — not the pleasantest way of sending, neither. Poor missis! — looking mighty faint! — Don’t wonder!—’Nough to scarr a weakly woman into fits!”

  “Here, Tiff, help me to open this box. Hold the light, here. Durned if it don’t come off hard! Here’s a lot of shoes and boots I got of the same man. Some on ‘em’s mates, and some ain’t; but then, I took the lot cheap. Folks don’t always warr both shoes alike. Might like to warr an odd one, sometimes, ef it’s cheap. Now, this yer parr of boots is lady’s gaiters, all complete, ‘cept there’s a hole in the lining down by the toe; body ought to be careful about putting it on, else the foot will slip between the outside and the lining. Anybody that bears that in mind — just as nice a pair of gaiters as they’d want! Bargain, there, for somebody — complete one, too. Then I’ve got two or three old bureau drawers that I got cheap at auction; and I reckon some on ’em will fit the old frame that I got last year. Got ’em for a mere song.”

  “Bless you, massa, dat ar old bureau I took for de chicken-coop! Turkeys’ chickens hops in lively.”

  “Oh, well, scrub it up—’twill answer just as well. Fit the drawers in. And now, old woman, we will sit down to supper,” said he, planting himself at the table, and beginning a vigorous onslaught on the fried chicken, without invitation to any other person present to assist him.

  “Missis can’t sit up at the table,” said Tiff. “She’s done been sick ever since de baby was born.” And Tiff approached the bed with a nice morsel of chicken which he had providently preserved on a plate, and which he now reverently presented on a board, as a waiter, covered with newspaper.

  “Now, do eat, missis; you can’t live on looking, no ways you can fix it. Do eat while Tiff gets on de baby’s nightgown.”

  To please her old friend, the woman made a feint of eating, but while Tiff’s back was turned to the fire, busied herself with distributing it to the children, who had stood hungrily regarding her, as children will regard what is put on to a sick mother’s plate.

  “It does me good to see them eat,” she said apologetically once, when Tiff, turning round, detected her in the act.

  “Ah, missis, maybe! but you’ve got to eat for two, now. What dey eat ain’t going to dis yer little man, here. Mind dat ar.”

  Cripps apparently bestowed very small attention on anything except the important business before him, which he prosecuted with such devotion that very soon coffee, chicken, and dodgers had all disappeared. Even the bones were sucked dry, and the gravy wiped from the dish.

  “Ah, that’s what I call comfortable!” said he, lying back in his chair. “Tiff, pull my boots off! and hand out that ar demijohn. Sue, I hope you’ve made a comfortable meal,” he said incidentally, standing with his back to her, compounding his potation of whiskey and water; which having drank, he called up Teddy, and offered him the sugar at the bottom of the glass. But Teddy, being forewarned by a meaning glance through Tiff’s spectacles, responded, very politely, —

  “No, I thank you, pa. I don’t love it.”

  “Come here, then, and take it off like a man. It’s good for you,” said John Cripps.

  The mother’s eyes followed the child wishfully; and she said faintly, “Don’t John! — don’t!” And Tiff ended the controversy by taking the glass unceremoniously out of his master’s hand.

  “Laws bless you, massa, can’t be bodered with dese yer young ones dis yer time of night! Time dey’s all in bed, and dishes washed up. Here, Tedd,” seizing the child, and loosening the buttons of his slip behind, and drawing out a rough trundle-bed, “you crawl in dere, and curl up in your nest; and don’t you forget your prars, honey, else maybe you’ll never wake up again.”

  Cripps had now filled a pipe with tobacco of the most villainous character, with which incense he was perfuming the little apartment.

  “Laws, massa, dat ar smoke ain’t good for missis,” said Tiff. “She done been sick to her stomach all day.”

  “Oh, let him smoke! I like to have him enjoy himself,” said the indulgent wife. “But, Fanny, you had better go to bed, dear. Come here and kiss me, child; good-night, — good-night!”

  The mother held on to her long, and looked at her wishfully; and when she had turned to go, she drew her back, and kissed her again, and said, “Good-night, dear child, good-night!”

  Fanny climbed up a ladder in one corner of the room, through a square hole, to the loft above.

  “I say,” said Cripps, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and looking at Tiff, who was busy washing the dishes, “I say it’s kind of peculiar that gal keeps sick so. Seemed to have good constitution when I married her. I’m thinking,” said he, without noticing the gathering wrath in Tiff’s face, “I’m a-thinking whether steamin’ wouldn’t do her good. Now, I got a most dreadful cold when I was up at Raleigh — thought I should have given up; and there was a steam-doctor there. Had a little kind of machine, with kettle and pipes, and he put me in a bed, put in the pipes, and set it a-going. I thought, my soul, I should have been floated off; but it carried off the cold, complete. I’m thinking if something of that kind wouldn’t be good for Mis’ Cripps.”

  “Laws, massa, don’t go for to trying it on her! She is never no better for dese yer things you do for her.”

  “Now,” said Cripps, not appearing to notice the interruption, “these yer stove-pipes, and the teakettle, — I shouldn’t wonder if we could get up a steam with them!”

  “It’s my private ‘pinion, if you do, she’ll be sailing out of the world,” said Tiff. “‘What’s one man’s meat is another one’s pisin,’ my old mis’s used to say. Very best thing you can do for her is to let her alone. Dat ar is my ‘pinion.”

  “John,” said the little woman, after a few minutes, “I wish you’d come here, and sit on the bed.”

  There was something positive, and almost authoritative, in the manner in which this was said, which struck John as so unusual, that he came with a bewildered air, sat down, and gazed at her with his mouth wide open.

  “I’m so glad you’ve come home, because I have had things that I’ve wanted to say to you! I’ve been lying here thinking about it, and I have been turning it over in my mind. I’m going to die soon, I know.”

  “Ah! bah! Don’t be bothering a fellow with any of your hysterics!”

  “John, John! it isn’t hysterics! Look at me! Look at my hand! look at my face! I’m so weak, and sometimes I have such coughing spells, and every time it seems to me as if I should die. But it ain’t to trouble you that I talk. I don’t care about myself, but I don’t want the children to grow up and be like what we’ve been. You have a great many contrivances; do, pray, contrive to have them taught to read, and make something of them in the world.”

  “Bah! what’s the use? I never learnt to read, and I’m as good a fellow as I want. Why, there’s plenty of men round here making their money, every year, that can’t read or write a word. Old Hubell, there, up on the Shad plantation, has hauled in money, hand over hand, and he always signs his mark. Got nine sons — can’t a soul of them read or write, more than I. I tell you, there’s nothing ever comes of this yer larning. It’s all a sell — a regular Yankee hoax! I’ve always got cheated by them damn reading, writin
g Yankees, whenever I’ve traded with ‘em. What’s the good, I want to know! You was teached how to read when you was young — much good it’s ever done you!”

  “Sure enough! Sick day and night, moving about from place to place, sick baby crying, and not knowing what to do for it no more than a child! Oh, I hope Fanny will learn something! It seems to me, if there was some school for my children to go to, or some church, or something — now, if there is any such place as heaven, I should like to have them get to it.”

  “Ah! bah! Don’t bother about that! When we get keeled up, that will be the last of us! Come, come, don’t plague a fellow any more with such talk! I’m tired, and I’m going to sleep.” And the man, divesting himself of his overcoat, threw himself on the bed, and was soon snoring heavily in profound slumber.

  Tiff, who had been trotting the baby by the fire, now came softly to the bedside, and sat down.

  “Miss Sue,” he said, “it’s no ‘count talking to him! I don’t mean nothing dis’pectful, Miss Sue, but de fac is, dem dat isn’t born gentlemen can’t be ‘spected fur to see through dese yer things like us of de old families. Law, missis, don’t you worry! Now, jest leave dis yer matter to old Tiff! Dere never wasn’t anything Tiff couldn’t do, if he tried. He! he! he! Miss Fanny, she done got de letters right smart; and I know I’ll come it round mas’r, and make him buy de books for her. I’ll tell you what’s come into my head, to-day. There’s a young lady come to de big plantation, up dere, who’s been to New York getting edicated, and I’s going for to ask her about dese yer things. And about de chil’en’s going to church, and dese yer things, why, preaching, you know, is mazin’ unsartain round here; but I’ll keep on de lookout, and do de best I can. Why, Lord, Miss Sue, I’s bound for the land of Canaan, myself, the best way I ken; and I’m sartain I sha’n’t go without taking the chil’en along with me. Ho! ho! ho! Dat’s what I sha’n’t! De chil’en will have to be with Tiff, and Tiff will have to be with the chil’en, wherever dey is! Dat’s it! He! he! he!”

  “Tiff,” said the young woman, her large blue eyes looking at him, “I have heard of the Bible. Have you ever seen one, Tiff?” —

  “Oh yes, honey, dar was a big Bible that your ma brought in the family when she married; but dat ar was tore up to make wadding for de guns, one thing or another, and dey never got no more. But I’s been very ‘serving, and kept my ears open in a camp-meeting, and such places, and I’s learnt right smart of de things that’s in it.”

  “Now, Tiff, can you say anything?” said she, fixing her large, troubled eyes on him.

  “Well, honey, dere’s one thing the man said at de last camp-meeting. He preached ‘bout it, and I couldn’t make out a word he said, ‘cause I ain’t smart about preaching like I be about most things. But he said dis yer so often that I couldn’t help ‘member it. Says he, it was dish yer way: ‘Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’”

  “Best, rest, rest!” said the woman thoughtfully, and drawing a long sigh. “Oh, how much I want it! Did he say that was in the Bible?”

  “Yes, he said so; and I spects, by all he said, it’s de good man above dat says it. It always makes me feel better to think on it. It ‘peared like it was jist what I was wanting to hear.”

  “And I, too!” she said, turning her head wearily, and closing her eyes. “Tiff,” she said, opening them, “where I’m going, maybe I shall meet the one who said that, and I’ll ask him about it. Don’t talk to me more, now. I’m getting sleepy. I thought I was better a little while after he came home, but I’m more tired yet. Put the baby in my arms — I like the feeling of it. There, there; now give me rest — please do!” and she sank into a deep and quiet slumber.

  Tiff softly covered the fire, and sat down by the bed, watching the flickering shadows as they danced upward on the wall, listening to the heavy sighs of the pine-trees and the hard breathing of the sleeping man. Sometimes he nodded sleepily, and then, recovering, rose, and took a turn to awaken himself. A shadowy sense of fear fell upon him; not that he apprehended anything, for he regarded the words of his mistress only as the forebodings of a wearied invalid. The idea that she could actually die, and go anywhere, without him to take care of her, seemed never to have occurred to him. About midnight, as if a spirit had laid its hand upon him, his eyes flew wide open with a sudden start. Her thin, cold hand was lying on his; her eyes, large and blue, shone with a singular and spiritual radiance.

  “Tiff,” she gasped, speaking with difficulty, “I’ve seen the one that said that, and it’s all true, too! and I’ve seen all why I’ve suffered so much. He — He — He is going to take me! Tell the children about Him!” There was a fluttering sigh, a slight shiver, and the lids fell over the eyes forever.

  CHAPTER IX

  THE DEATH

  DEATH is always sudden. However gradual may be its approaches, it is, in its effects upon the survivor, always sudden at last. Tiff thought, at first, that his mistress was in a fainting-fit, and tried every means to restore her. It was affecting to see him chafing the thin, white, pearly hands, in his large, rough, black paws; raising the head upon his arm, and calling in a thousand tones of fond endearment, pouring out a perfect torrent of loving devotion on the cold, unheeding ear. But then, spite of all he could do, the face settled itself, and the hands would not be warmed; the thought of death struck him suddenly, and throwing himself on the floor by the bed, he wept with an exceeding loud and bitter cry. Something in his heart revolted against awakening that man who lay heavily breathing by her side. He would not admit to himself, at this moment, that this man had any right in her, or that the sorrow was any part of his sorrow. But the cry awoke Cripps, who sat up bewildered in bed, clearing the hair from his eyes with the back of his hand.

  “Tiff, what the durned are you howling about?”

  Tiff got up in a moment, and swallowing down his grief and his tears, pointed indignantly to the still figure on the bed.

  “Dar! dar! Wouldn’t b’lieve her last night! Now what you think of dat ar? See how you look now! Good Shepherd hearn you abusing de poor lamb, and he’s done took her whar you’ll never see her again!”

  Cripps had, like coarse, animal men generally, a stupid and senseless horror of death; — he recoiled from the lifeless form, and sprang from the bed with an expression of horror.

  “Well, now, who would have thought it?” he said. “That I should be in bed with a corpse! I hadn’t the least idea!”

  “No, dat’s plain enough, you didn’t! You’ll believe it now, won’t you? Poor little lamb, lying here suffering all alone! I tell you, when folks have been sick so long, dey has to die to make folks believe anything ails ‘em!”

  “Well, really,” said Cripps, “this is really — why, it ain’t comfortable! darned if it is! Why, I’m sorry about the gal! I meant to steam her up, or done something with her. What’s we to do now?”

  “Pretty likely you don’t know! Folks like you, dat never tends to nothing good, is always flustered when de Master knocks at de do’! I knows what to do, though. I’s boun’ to get up de crittur, and go up to de old plantation, and bring down a woman and do something for her, kind of decent. You mind the chil’en till I come back.” Tiff took down and drew on over his outer garment a coarse, light, woolen coat, with very long skirts and large buttons, in which he always arrayed himself in cases of special solemnity. Stopping at the door before he went out, he looked over Cripps from head to foot, with an air of patronizing and half-pitiful contempt, and delivered himself as follows: —

  “Now, mas’r, I’s gwine up, and will be back quick as possible; and now do pray be decent, and let dat ar whiskey alone for one day in your life, and ‘member death, judgment, and ‘ternity. Just act, now, as if you’d got a streak of something in you such as a man ought for to have who is married to one of de very fustest families in old Virginny.’Flect, now, on your latter end; maybe will do your poor old soul some good; and don’t you go for to waking up the chil’en before
I gets back. They’ll learn de trouble soon enough.”

  Cripps listened to this oration with a stupid, bewildered stare, gazing first at the bed, and then at the old man, who was soon making all the speed he could towards Canema.

  Nina was not habitually an early riser, but on this morning she had awaked with the first peep of dawn, and finding herself unable to go to sleep again, she had dressed herself, and gone down to the garden. She was walking up and down in one of the alleys, thinking over the perplexities of her own affairs, when her ear was caught by the wild and singular notes of one of those tunes commonly used among the slaves as dirges. The words “She ar dead and gone to heaven” seemed to come floating down upon her; and though the voice was cracked and strained, there was a sort of wildness and pathos in it, which made a singular impression in the perfect stillness of everything around her. She soon observed a singular-looking vehicle appearing in the avenue.

  This wagon, which was no other than the establishment of Cripps, drew Nina’s attention, and she went to the hedge to look at it. Tiff’s watchful eye immediately fell upon her, and driving up to where she was standing, he climbed out upon the ground, and lifting his hat, made her a profound obeisance, and “hoped de young lady was bery well, dis morning.”

  “Yes, quite well, thank you, uncle,” said Nina, regarding him curiously.

  “We’s in ‘fliction to our house!” said Tiff solemnly. “Dere’s been a midnight cry dere, and poor Miss Sue (dat’s my young missis), she’s done gone home.”

  “Who is your mistress?”

  “Well, her name was Seymour ‘fore she married, and her ma come from de Virginny Peytons, — great family, dem Peytons! She was so misfortunate as to get married, as gals will, sometimes,” said Tiff, speaking in a confidential tone. “The man wa’n’t no ‘count, and she’s had a drefful hard way to travel, poor thing! and dere she’s a-lying at last stretched out dead, and not a woman nor nobody to do de least thing; and please, missis, Tiff corned for to see if de young lady wouldn’t send a woman for to do for her — getting her ready for a funeral.”