“O little hearts! that throb and beat
With such impatient, feverish heat,
Such limitless and strong desires!”
LONGFELLOW.
Tom found, however, when he told the incident to the people who were
assembled in Aunt Margaret’s cabin when he came in at night, that it
created quite a sensation. The idea of any one of them being sent
for into the master’s library was a wonder, and Tom found himself a
lion among them. He did not feel the least elated, however. He only
feared, when he came to think of it, that his master’s discovery of his
knowledge would lead to his dismissal, and he had felt as if he was
just beginning to gain the friendship of his fellow-workers which he
so much wished to have. Therefore it was with rather a grave face and
sober step that he walked in the gathering twilight toward the mansion.
Aunt Dinah was standing on the back porch, throwing corn and feed to
the chickens, who, having grown tame from long acquaintance, were
crowding close around her, in order to get each one a full share of the
evening meal.
Tom came up and touched his cap. “Auntie,” said he, “has Mr. Sutherland
finished his supper?”
Now Aunt Dinah was crabbed, and she determined, when she saw him
coming, that she would send him off rather quicker than he came, but
the touched cap and voice of respect went to just the right place in
her heart. “Sure, honey, he’s done supper,” she said. “What did you
want with him?”
“He bade me come up after tea,” replied Tom, “and he said you would
show me the way to the library.” Tom rose higher in Aunt Dinah’s regard
immediately. In her own words, “If marster wanted one of them field
hands in the lib’ry, it meant sumthin’, sure enough.”
Therefore, with a little smoothing touch to her apron, she led the way
through the matted hall, and knocked at one of the doors which opened
from it. “This is the library,” she said, and so left him.
A little girl came and opened the door--a sweet-looking, black-eyed
child of about seven years old--and held it open as he stepped in. Mr.
Sutherland lifted his eyes from a bundle of papers, and seeing who it
was, said, “Ah! here you are. Just sit down a few minutes and I shall
be able to attend to you.”
Tom seated himself quietly, glad of the few minutes given him to
examine the pretty room. Called a library out of compliment, it was
more like a tiny drawing-room, so many little things of elegance were
gathered here. The taste of the owner had full play, and showed itself
rather too fond of gilt and bright colors, but at the same time toned
down by a few Parian figures and antique vases, which showed where the
wife had been at work. Tom looked at her, after his survey of the room,
with eyes which certainly did not lack admiration. A delicate, fair
woman, with the languid manner characteristic of her countrywomen, but
with an air of refinement and culture resting upon every move of her
hand and turn of her head. A vision of beauty such as Tom had never
seen before. The little girl who had opened the door for him was seated
at her mother’s feet, very industriously engaged in undressing a large
doll, and at the same time singing softly to herself--
“Jesus loves me--this I know,
For the Bible tells me so.”
There she would stop, hum the remainder of the tune, and then go back
to the beginning again. Tom wondered whether she knew the rest of
the verse, and was longing to tell her, when his master called him,
and he ceased to listen. “Tom,” said he, “I find you can write much
better than I can--(my education was neglected somehow)” he added
in parenthesis, moving uneasily in his chair, with a glance at his
wife--“and I have much trouble in making the merchants comprehend the
accounts. I thought perhaps you might know how to decipher them, and in
that case I thought I would employ you to copy them, spending say an
hour every evening. Of course you will be paid,” he added.
Mrs. Sutherland looked up from her delicate work, and eyed the boy as
he bent over the papers Mr. Sutherland laid before him.
“Can this boy read?” she asked, indolently.
“Yes,” replied her husband.
“What does he do about the place?”
“He is a field hand,” he replied.
“He had better confine his attention to corn and cotton than serve you
as an amanuensis. You are spoiling the hands,” she added, impatiently.
Tom’s eyes never wandered from his paper, but he lost not a word, and
the firm set of lips showed him no indifferent listener.
“Can you read these?” asked the master with no reply to his wife’s
observation.
“Yes, sir, I think so.”
“Well, then, let me hear them.”
[Illustration: Tom made a Clerk.
_Freed-Boy in Alabama._ Page 49.]
So Tom read aloud the month’s report of the number of hands employed,
the wages of each, the amount of work performed and the expenses
of the place. It was all correctly done, and then the two fell to
work--the master arranging the books for Tom’s future work, and the
boy copying. There was nothing very elegant about the writing, but
it was a round, even hand, very plain and distinct. Yet as he wrote
Tom was troubled. He wondered if his Master knew that these business
affairs were all fully understood by him. Mr. Sutherland’s books were
very simple, and, with Tom’s late knowledge of arithmetic, very easily
understood. He wondered if his master realized that one of his field
hands comprehended all the business of the plantation.
By and by, when for a few minutes both came to a standstill, Tom spoke:
“Mr. Sutherland, do you know that I understand all this work I am
copying.”
“Do you mean to tell me you understand the losses and gains during the
month?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Sutherland looked annoyed and perplexed, and his wife laughed and
remarked that he had better take her advice and send the boy back to
his cotton.
“I would not care, Bertha,” he replied, “if I were only sure I could
trust the boy.”
“Of what are you afraid, Mr. Sutherland?” asked Tom, with a little fire
in his eyes.
“Only of your reporting the state of affairs at Aunt Margaret’s
gatherings,” he replied.
“I shall not do that, sir,” said Tom, firmly.
“But the question is,” said Mr. Sutherland, “whether I can trust your
word.”
Tom’s eyes certainly flashed fire for a moment; all his old spirit of
unrestrained passion ran through him, sending the blood throbbing all
over his body, trembling on his lips, dancing in his eyes, gathering on
his forehead, and causing the fingers that held the pen to close upon
it like a vice. This lasted for a minute, and then remembering his love
for the Lord Jesus, and at the same time that the master could not know
how well he could be trusted, the fingers relaxed their grasp, the brow
cleared, the lips unbent and formed a smile, and the eyes dropped.
“I hope I may be trusted, sir. Will you try me?” he asked, quietly.
“Yes, I will,” replied Mr. Sutherland, who had watched the play of
feature, and understood a little, although not half, of the boy’s
thought.
So they fell to work again--the little battle over and the victory won,
and a battle-song of triumph in Tom’s heart, for “he that ruleth his
own spirit is greater than he that taketh a city.”
By and by, when the minutes had made an hour and more, the books were
closed. The master’s little girl had come round near her father’s
chair, and stood there holding on to the arm of the chair, swinging
to and fro, and singing, “Jesus loves me,” as Tom and Mr. Sutherland
finished the evening’s work with arrangements to resume it at the same
hour on the morrow.
Then Tom turned to the little girl:
“Miss Lillie, do you know the rest of that verse?” he asked.
“No,” she replied, stopping short; “do you?”
“Yes,” replied Tom; “I know all the hymn.”
“Well, then, sing it,” she demanded.
Tom looked toward Mrs. Sutherland, but her eyes were turned away, so he
looked down into the waiting face upturned toward him, and softly and
gently gave the sweet words:
“Jesus loves me--this I know,
For the Bible tells me so;
Little ones to him belong;
They are weak, but he is strong.
Yes, Jesus loves me.
“Jesus loves me--he who died:
Heaven’s gate to open wide;
He will wash away my sin,
Let his little child come in.
Yes, Jesus loves me.
“Jesus loves me--he will stay
Close beside me all the way;
If I love him when I die,
He will take me home on high.
Yes, Jesus love me.”
She had kept her black eyes fixed upon his face throughout the hymn,
and when he had finished, seeing his earnestness, she asked:
“Do _you_ love Jesus?”
How it startled him! He glanced quickly toward the two listeners, but
Mrs. Sutherland had not changed her position, and the master’s eyes
were on the floor and his face unreadable.
It was a pity they were not looking at him, for as his eyes came back
to the questioner and saw how she was awaiting his reply, all the new
love and allegiance flashed back upon him, and his reply was given with
a smile that was worth seeing.
“Oh yes, I love the Lord Jesus.”
Then he rose and moved toward the door, but his bare feet on the carpet
made no sound. He stopped at the threshold and waited for a word, but
none came; so he said: “Good-evening, Mr. and Mrs. Sutherland.” The
mistress dismissed him with a little bow, without raising her head, and
the master roused and replied,
“Ah! going? Well, good-night. I’ll see you to-morrow.”
So Tom went out into the night, clear and beautiful, with innumerable
stars shining down out of heaven, and the rich earth lying in the
beauty of its early spring dress all about him. Down at the quarters he
could see sparkling lights from the fires which the open doors left in
view. From the little log-barn, long ago out of use, came the voices of
the people who were holding a meeting there. He listened a moment, but
he could not catch the words, so he walked nearer, and stopped beneath
the tree where he had read his precious letters, and there the words
came distinctly to his ear, borne to him by the sweet evening breeze:
“My good Lord’s been here,
Has been here, has been here:
My good Lord’s been here,
And blessed my soul, and gone.
Seeker, where were you
When my good Lord was here?”
“My good Lord’s been here,” said Tom softly to himself, and then
he kneeled down and thanked God humbly and gratefully both for the
opportunity he had given him, and also for this night’s victory. No
pride of the task assigned him entered his mind; and when, after
curious questioning in Aunt Margaret’s cabin as to the result of his
visit to the mansion, he told them that Mr. Sutherland wanted some
writing done by him, he had no pride in the announcement; and when
he saw, as he could not help seeing, how he rose immediately in the
estimation of his questioners, he was very glad, only because it might
help in his work for Jesus.
It was Tom’s plan to start a little Sunday-school after a while. He
felt very timid about it, and although he had taken no decided step in
the matter, he had gradually won his way to the hearts of the people on
the place, and by frequent acts of kindness was becoming rather popular
among them. As I said before, this was very dangerous. He might forget
for whom he was working, and learn to think only of himself. This
could not be yet, however, for he still looked to Jesus for help and
strength, and while he did so he was secure.
As soon as it was noised abroad that the master needed Tom’s services
to write for him every night, the respect for Tom increased, and put
him in the way of more work. The people who, like Tom, had come to the
plantation for the summer, came to him to have letters written and
messages sent to their absent friends, so Tom’s hands began to be quite
full; and always intent as he was upon his work for Jesus, he would
send a message or a bit of advice or counsel to the friends of those
for whom he wrote, and so his influence became widespread. How much
pleasure he took in answering the two letters which had brought him so
much comfort was best known to himself, but his face was brighter and
his step lighter for days afterward.
There was one face, however, which was steadily set against his
growing popularity from the first. This was Jimmy, his school-mate
in Huntsville and his room-mate here. After a few evenings, he gave
up study and withdrew himself from his friend more and more. He knew
almost as much as Tom, but he cared nothing at all about it, except
to be envious of his friend’s position. “I can write as well as he,”
he would often say, but when asked to send a letter, he would always
refuse. So he continually boasted of the amount he knew, but would
never show his knowledge. Their rooming together had been pleasant at
first, but of late there had been scarcely a word between them. Jimmy
shunned him on every occasion, and when forced into his company would
say sneering things with regard to Tom’s “great learning,” as he called
it. Yet still Tom was uniformly kind and polite, and when those around
would silence Jimmy in some one of his insolent speeches, his replies
came always mild and gentle. This conduct gained for him more friends
and more kindly attention to the words he spoke for Jesus than anything
else could have done. It does not take learned minds to know when those
around them live according to their profession.
Not a word of all this reached Martha; and when, months after, he told
her of the struggle of these days, she knew that only the strength
given him from above had enabled him to bear it. No, the letters that
came as a piece of freshness and unbounded pleasure to Martha were full
of whatever Tom could find of love and cheer to put in them. Of his
efforts in the work for Jesus he told her, with a longing to do more,
but there was no mention of trials or difficulties, and the letters
were read and put carefully away with just the feeling of joy and
thankfulness which Tom had striven for when he wrote them.
[Illustration]