Aunt Phillis's Cabin Part 8

"'The deacon did not even give me a nod until he had scrutinized the condition of the horse and chaise, and then he said, 'How are you?'

"'Not a screw loose in me, or the horse and chaise either, for I had two girls with me, and I'm courting one of them for a quarter, so I drove very carefully. I am in a hurry now, tell me what I am to pay you?'

"'Twelve and a half cents,' said the deacon, slowly raising his spectacles from his nose.

"'No!' said I. 'Twelve and a half cents! Why, I have had the horse all day.'

"'That is my price,' said the deacon.

"'For a horse and chaise, all day?' said I. 'Why, deacon, do charge me something that I aint ashamed to pay you.'

"'That is my regular price, and I can't charge you any more.'

"I remonstrated with him, and tried to persuade him to take twenty-five cents--but, no. I appealed to Mrs. White; she said the 'deacon hadn't ought to take more than the horse and chaise was worth.' However, I induced him to take eighteen and three-quarter cents, but he was uneasy about it, and said he was afraid he was imposing on me.

"The next morning I was awakened at day-dawn--there was a man, they said, who wanted to see me on pressing business, and could not wait. I dressed in a hurry, wondering what was the cause of the demand for college-students. I went down, and there stood the deacon, looking as if his last hour were come. 'Mr. Abel,' he said, 'I have pa.s.sed a dreadful restless night, and I couldn't stand it after the day broke--here's your six and a quarter cents--I hadn't ought to have charged you more than my usual price.' I was angry at the old fellow for waking me up, but I could not help laughing, too."

"''Twas very ugly of you, Mr. Abel, to persuade me to take so much,' said he; 'you're welcome to the horse and chaise whenever you want it, but twelve and a half cents is my usual price.'"

"Now," said Mr. Hubbard, "he is like the Portuguese devils; when they are good, they are too good--I should distrust that man."

"He is close to a farthing," said Abel, "but he is as honest as the day.

Why he has the reputation of a saint. Harriet says she wishes he wore a long-tailed coat instead of a short jacket, so that she could hang on and get to heaven that way."

"My sister saw Mrs. White not long ago, and complimented her on her new bonnet being so very becoming to her. 'Now I want to know!' said Mrs.

White; 'why I thought it made me look like a fright.'

"'But what made you get a black one,' said Harriet, 'why did you not get a dark green or a brown one?'

"'Why, you see,' said Mrs. White, 'the deacon's health is a failin'; he's dreadful low in the top knots lately, and I thought as his time might come very soon, I might as well get a black one while I was a getting. We're all born to die, Miss Harriet; and the deacon is dwindlin' away.'"

The young men laughed, and Arthur said "What will he do with his money?

Mrs. White will not wear the black bonnet long if she have twenty thousand dollars; she can buy a new bonnet and a new husband with that."

"No danger," said Abel, "Deacon White has made his will, and has left his wife the interest of five thousand dollars; at her death the princ.i.p.al goes, as all the rest, to aid some benevolent purpose.

"But there are the letters; what a bundle for you, Arthur! That is the penalty of being engaged. Well I must wait for the widow White, I guess she'll let me have the use of the horse and chaise, at any rate."

Mr. Hubbard arose to go, and Arthur handed him his newspaper. "That is a valuable doc.u.ment, sir, but there is one still more so in your library here; it is a paper published the same month and year of the Declaration of Independence, in which are advertised in the New England States negroes for sale! Your fathers did not think we were all born free and equal it appears."

"We have better views now-a-days, said Mr. Hubbard; the Rev. Mr. H. has just returned from a tour in the Southern States, and he is to lecture to-night, won't you go and hear him?"

"Thank you, no," said Arthur. "I have seen some of this reverend gentleman's statements, and his friends ought to advise him to drop the reverend for life. He is a fit subject for an asylum, for I can't think a man in his senses would lie so."

"He is considered a man of veracity," said Mr. Hubbard, "by those who have an opportunity of knowing his character."

"Well, I differ from them," said Arthur, "and shall deprive myself of the pleasure of hearing him. Good evening, sir."

"Wouldn't he be a good subject for tar and feathers, Arthur? They'd stick, like grim death to a dead n.i.g.g.e.r," said Abel.

"He is really such a fool," said Arthur, "that I have no patience with him; but you take your usual nap, and I will read my letters."

CHAPTER VII.

We will go back to the last evening at Exeter, when we left Mr. Weston to witness the result of Bacchus's attendance at the barbecue. There were other hearts busy in the quiet night time. Alice, resisting the offers of her maid to a.s.sist her in undressing, threw herself on a lounge by the open window. The night air played with the curtains, and lifted the curls from her brow. Her bloom, which of late had been changeful and delicate, had now left her cheek, and languid and depressed she abandoned herself to thought.

So absorbed was she, that she was not aware any one had entered the room, until her mother stood near, gently reproving her for thus exposing herself to the night air. "Do get up and go to bed," she said. "Where is Martha?"

"I did not want her," said Alice; "and am now going to bed myself. What has brought you here?"

"Because I felt anxious about you," said Mrs. Weston, "and came, as I have often before, to be a.s.sured that you were well and enjoying repose. I find you still up; and now, my daughter, there is a question I have feared to ask you, but can no longer delay it. By all the love that is between us, by the tie that should bind an only child to a widowed mother, will you tell me what are the thoughts that are oppressing you? I have been anxious for your health, but is there not more cause to fear for your happiness?"

"I am well enough, dear mother," said Alice, with some irritation of manner, "Do not concern yourself about me. If you will go to bed, I will too."

"You cannot thus put me off," said Mrs. Weston. "Alice, I charge you, as in the presence of G.o.d, to tell me truly: do you love Walter Lee?"

"It would be strange if I did not," said Alice, in a low voice. "Have we not always been as brother and sister?"

"Not in that sense, Alice; do not thus evade me. Do you love him with an affection which should belong to your cousin, to whom you are solemnly engaged, who has been the companion of your childhood, and who is the son of the best friend that G.o.d ever raised up to a widow and a fatherless child?"

Alice turned her head away, and after a moment answered, "Yes, I do, mother, and I cannot help it." But on turning to look at her mother, she was shocked at the expression of agony displayed on her countenance. Her hand was pressed tightly over her heart, her lips quivered, and her whole person trembled. It was dreadful to see her thus agitated; and Alice, throwing her arms around her mother exclaimed, "What is it, dearest mother? Be not look so deathlike. I cannot bear to see you so."

Oh! they speak falsely who say the certainty of evil can be better borne than suspense. Watcher by the couch of suffering, sayest thou so? Now thou knowest there is no hope, thy darling must be given up. There is no mistaking that failing pulse, and that up-turned eye. A few hours ago, there was suspense, but there was hope; death was feared, but not expected; his arm was outstretched, but the blow was not descending; now, there is no hope.

Mrs. Weston had long feared that all was not well with Alice--that while her promise was given to one, her heart had wandered to another; yet she dreaded to meet the appalling certainty; now with her there is no hope. The keen anguish with which she contended was evident to her daughter, who was affrighted at her mother's appearance. So much so, that for the first time for months she entirely forgot the secret she had been hiding in her heart.

The young in their first sorrow dream there are none like their own. It is not until time and many cares have bowed us to the earth, that we look around, beholding those who have suffered more deeply than ourselves.

Accustomed to self-control, Mrs. Weston was not long in recovering herself; taking her daughter's hand within her own, and looking up in her fair face, "Alice," she said, "you listened with an unusual interest to the details of suffering of one whom you never saw. I mean Walter Lee's mother; she died.

I can tell you of one who has suffered, and lived.

"It is late, and I fear to detain you from your rest, but something impels me that I cannot resist. Listen, then, while I talk to you of myself. You are as yet almost unacquainted with your mother's history."

"Another time, mother; you are not well now," said Alice.

"Yes, my love, now. You were born in the same house that I was; yet your infancy only was pa.s.sed where I lived until my marriage. I was motherless at an early age; indeed, one of the first remembrances that I recall is the bright and glowing summer evening when my mother was carried from our plantation on James River to the opposite sh.o.r.e, where was our family burial-ground. Can I ever forget my father's uncontrolled grief, and the sorrow of the servants, as they followed, dressed in the deepest mourning.

I was terrified at the solemn and dark-looking bier, the black plumes that waved over it, and all the dread accompaniments of death. I remember but little for years after this, save the continued gloom of my father, and his constant affection and indulgence toward me, and occasionally varying our quiet life by a visit to Richmond or Was.h.i.+ngton.

"My father was a sincere and practical Christian. He was averse to parting with me; declaring, the only solace he had was in directing my education, and being a.s.sured of my happiness.

"My governess was an accomplished and amiable lady, but she was too kind and yielding. I have always retained the most grateful remembrance of her care. Thus, though surrounded by good influences, I needed restraint, where there was so much indulgence. I have sometimes ventured to excuse myself on the ground that I was not taught that most necessary of all lessons: the power of governing myself. The giving up of my own will to the matured judgment of others.

"The part of my life that I wish to bring before you now, is the year previous to my marriage. Never had I received an ungentle word from my father; never in all my waywardness and selfwill did he harshly reprove me.

He steadily endeavored to impress on my mind a sense of the constant presence of G.o.d. He would often say, 'Every moment, every hour of our lives, places its impress on our condition in eternity. Live, then, as did your mother, in a state of waiting and preparation for that account which we must all surely give for the talents entrusted to our care.' Did I heed his advice? You will hardly believe me, Alice, when I tell you how I repaid his tenderness. I was the cause of his death."

"It could never be, mother," said Alice, weeping, when she saw the tears forcing their way down her mother's cheek. "You are excited and distressed now. Do not tell me any more to-night, and forget what I told you."