SEVEN HUNDRED PEOPLE.
"Do you think that was a proper thing to do, Daisy?" my
governess asked when she released me.
"What thing, ma'am?" I asked.
"To tear about alone on that great grey pony."
"Yes, ma'am," I said.
"You think it _was_ proper?" said Miss Pinshon, coolly. "Whom
had you with you?"
"Nobody was riding with me."
"Your cousin was there?"
"No, ma'am."
"Who then?"
"I had Uncle Darry. I was only riding up and down the dell."
"The coachman! And were you riding up and down through the
quarters all the afternoon?"
"No, ma'am."
"What were you doing the rest of the time?"
"I was going about " I hesitated.
"About where?"
"Through the place there."
"The quarters? Well, you think it proper amusement for your
mother's daughter? You are not to make companions of the
servants, Daisy. You are not to go to the quarters without my
permission, and I shall not give it frequently. Now get
yourself ready for tea."
I did feel as if Preston's prophecy were coming true and I in
a way to be gradually petrified; some slow, chill work of that
kind seemed already to be going on. But a little thing soon
stirred all the life there was in me. Miss Pinshon stepped to
the door which led from her room into mine, unlocked it, took
out the key, and put it on her own side of the door. I sprang
forward at that, with a word, I do not know what; and my
governess turned her lustrous, unmoved eyes calmly upon me. I
remember now how deadening their look was, in their very
lustre and moveless calm. I begged, however, for a reversal of
her last proceeding; I wanted my door locked sometimes, I
said.
"You can lock the other door."
"But I want both locked."
"I do not. This door remains open, Daisy. I must come in here
when I please. Now make haste and get ready."
I had no time for anything but to obey. I went down stairs, I
think, like a machine; my body obeying certain laws, while my
mind and spirit were scarcely present. I suppose I behaved
myself as usual; save that I would have nothing to do with
Preston, nor would I receive anything whatever at the table
from his hand. This, however, was known only to him and me. I
said nothing; not the less every word that others said
fastened itself in my memory. I was like a person dreaming.
"You have just tired yourself with mounting that wild thing,
Daisy," said my aunt Gary.
"Wild!" said Preston. "About as wild as a tame sloth."
"I always heard that was very wild indeed," said Miss Pinshon.
"The sloth cannot be tamed, can it?"
"Being stupid already, I suppose not," said Preston.
"Daisy looks pale at any rate," said my aunt.
"A little overdone," said Miss Pinshon. "She wants regular
exercise; but irregular exercise is very trying to any but a
strong person. I think Daisy will be stronger in a few weeks."
"What sort of exercise do you think will be good for her,
ma'am?" Preston said, with an expression out of all keeping
with his words, it was so fierce.
"I shall try different sorts," my governess answered,
composedly. "Exercise of patience is a very good thing, Master
Gary. I think gymnastics will be useful for Daisy, too. I
shall try them."
"That is what I have often said to my sister," said aunt Gary.
"I have no doubt that sort of training would establish Daisy's
strength more than anything in the world. She just wants that,
to develop her and bring out the muscles."
Preston almost groaned; pushed his chair from the table, and I
knew sat watching me. I would give him no opportunity, for my
opportunity I could not have then. I kept quiet till the
ladies moved; I moved with them; and sat all the evening
abstracted in my own meditations, without paying Preston any
attention; feeling indeed very old and grey, as no doubt I
looked. When I was ordered to bed, Miss Pinshon desired I
would hold no conversation with anybody. Whereupon Preston
took my candle and boldly marched out of the room with me.
When we were upstairs, he tried to make me disobey my orders.
He declared I was turning to stone already; he said a great
many hard words against my governess; threatened he would
write to my father; and when he could not prevail to make me
talk, dashed off passionately and left me. I went trembling
into my room. But my refuge there was gone. I had fallen upon
evil times. My door must not be locked, and Miss Pinshon might
come in any minute. I could not pray. I undressed and went to
bed; and lay there, waiting, all things in order, till my
governess looked in. Then the door was closed, and I hear her
steps moving about in her room. I lay and listened. At last
the door was softly set open again; and then after a few
minutes the sound of regular slow breathing proclaimed that
those wide-open black eyes were really closed for the night. I
got up, went to my governess's door and listened. She was
sleeping profoundly. I laid hold of the handle of the door and
drew it towards me; pulled out the key softly, put it in my
own side of the lock and shut the door. And after all I was
afraid to turn the key. The wicked sound of the lock might
enter those sleeping ears. But the door was closed; and I went
to my old place, the open window. It was not my window at
Melbourne, with balmy summer air, and the dewy scent of the
honeysuckle coming up, and the moonlight flooding all the
world beneath me. But neither was it in the regions of the
North. The night was still and mild, if not balmy; and the
stars were brilliant; and the evergreen oaks were masses of
dark shadow all over the lawn. I do not think I saw them at
first; for my look was up to the sky, where the stars shone
down to greet me, and where it was furthest from all the
troubles on the surface of the earth; and with one thought of
the Friend up there, who does not forget the troubles of even
His little children, the barrier in my heart gave way, my
tears gushed forth; my head lay on the windowsill at Magnolia,
more hopelessly than in my childish sorrow it had ever lain at
Melbourne. I kept my sobs quiet; I must; but they were deep,
heart-breaking sobs, for a long time.
Prayer got its chance after a while. I had a great deal to
pray for; it seemed to my child's heart now and then as if it
could hardly bear its troubles. And very much I felt I wanted
patience and wisdom. I thought there was a great deal to do,
even for my little hands; and promise of great hindrance and
opposition. And the only one pleasant thing I could think of
in my new life at Magnolia, was that I might tell of the truth
to those poor people who lived in the negro quarters.
Why I did not make myself immediately ill, with my night's
vigils and sorrow, I cannot tell; unless it were that great
excitement kept off the effects of chill air and damp.
However, the excitement had its own effects; and my eyes were
sadly heavy when they I opened the next morning to look at
Margaret lighting my fire.
"Margaret," I said, "shut Miss Pinshon's door, will you?"
She obeyed, and then turning to look at me, exclaimed that I
was not well.
"Did you say you could not read, Margaret?" was my answer.
"Read"! no, missis, Guess readin' aint no good for servants.
Seems like Miss Daisy aint lookin' peart, this mornin'."
"Would you _like_ to read?"
"Reckon don't care about it, Miss Daisy. Where'd us get books,
most likely?"
I said I would get the books; but Margaret turned to the fire
and made me no answer. I heard her mutter some ejaculation.
"Because, Margaret, don't you know," I said, raising myself on
my elbow, "God would like to have you learn to read, so that
you might know the Bible and come to heaven."
"Reckon folks aint a heap better that knows the Bible," said
the girl. "Pears as if it don't make no difference. Aint
nobody good in _this_ place, 'cept uncle Darry."
In another minute I was out of bed and standing before the
fire, my hand on her shoulder. I told her I wanted _her_ to be
good too, and that Jesus would make her good, if she would let
Him. Margaret gave me a hasty look and then finished her fire
making; but to my great astonishment, a few minutes after, I
saw that the tears were running down the girl's face. It
astonished me so much that I said no more; and Margaret was as
silent; only dressed me with the greatest attention and
tenderness.
"Ye want your breakfast bad, Miss Daisy," she remarked then in
a subdued tone; and I suppose my looks justified her words.
They created some excitement when I went down stairs. My aunt
exclaimed; Miss Pinshon inquired; Preston inveighed, at things
in general. He wanted to get me by myself, I knew; but he had
no chance. Immediately after breakfast Miss Pinshon took
possession of me.
The day was less weary than the day before, only I think
because I was tired beyond impatience or nervous excitement.
Not much was done; for though I was very willing I had very
little power. But the multiplication table, Miss Pinshon said,
was easy work; and at that and reading and writing, the
morning crept away. My hand was trembling, my voice was faint;
my memory grasped nothing so clearly as Margaret's tears that
morning, and Preston's behaviour the preceding day. My cheeks
were pale of course. Miss Pinshon said we would begin to set
that right with a walk after dinner.
The walk was had; but with my hand clasped in Miss Pinshon's I
only wished myself at home all the way. At home again, after a
while of lying down to rest, I was tried with a beginning of
calisthenics. A trial it was to me. The exercises, directed
and overseen by Miss Pinshon, seemed to me simply intolerable;
a weariness beyond all other weariness. Even the
multiplication table I liked better. Miss Pinshon was tired
perhaps herself at last. She let me go.
It was towards the end of the day. With no life left in me for
anything, I strolled out into the sunshine; aimlessly at
first; then led by a secret inclination I hardly knew or
questioned, my steps slowly made their way round by the avenue
to the stables. Darry was busy there as I had found him
yesterday. He looked hard at me as I came up; and asked me
earnestly how I felt that afternoon? I told him I was tired;
and then I sat down, on a huge log which lay there and watched
him at his work. By turns I watched the sunlight streaming
along the turf and lighting the foliage of the trees on the
other side of the dell; looking in a kind of dream, as if I
were not Daisy nor this Magnolia in any reality. I suddenly
started and awoke to realities as Darry began to sing
"My Father's house is built on high,
Far, far above the starry sky;
And though like Lazarus sick and poor,
My heavenly mansion is secure.
I'm going home,
I'm going home,
I'm going home
To die no more!
To die no more
To die no more
I'm going home
To die no more!"
The word "home" at the end of each line was dwelt upon in a
prolonged sonorous note. It filled my ear with its melodious,
plaintive breath of repose; it rested and soothed me. I was
listening in a sort of trance, when another sound at my side
both stopped the song and quite broke up the effect. It was
Preston's voice. Now for it. He was all ready for a fight; and
I felt miserably battered and shaken and unfit to fight
anything.
"What are you doing here, Daisy?"
"I am doing nothing," I said.
"It is almost tea-time. Hadn't you better be walking come,
before Medusa comes looking out for you?"
I rose up, and bade uncle Darry good night.
"Good night, missis!" he said heartily "and de morning dat
hab no night, for my dear little missis, by'm by."
I gave him my hand, and walked on.
"Stuff!" muttered Preston, by my side.
"You will not think it 'stuff' when the time comes," I said,
no doubt very gravely. Then Preston burst out.
"I only wish aunt Felicia was here! You will spoil these
people, Daisy, that's one thing; or you would if you were
older. As it is, you are spoiling yourself."
I made no answer. He went on with other angry and excited
words, wishing to draw me out perhaps; but I was in no mood to
talk to Preston in any tone but one. I went steadily and
slowly on, without even turning my head to look at him. I had
hardly life enough to talk to him in that tone.
"Will you tell me what is the matter with you?" he said, at
last, very impatiently.
"I am tired, I think."
"Think? Medusa is stiffening the life out of you. _Think_ you
are tired! You are tired to death; but that is not all. What
ails you?"
"I do not think anything ails me."
"What ails _me_, then? What is the matter? what makes you act
so? Speak, Daisy you must speak!"
I turned about and faced him, and I know I did not speak then
as a child, but with a gravity befitting fifty years.
"Preston, did you strike Uncle Darry yesterday?"
"Pooh!" said Preston. But I stood and waited for his answer.
"Nonsense, Daisy!" he said again.
"What is nonsense?"
"Why, _you_. What are you talking about?"
"I asked you a question."
"A ridiculous question. You are just absurd."
"Will you please to answer it?"
"I don't know whether I will. What have you to do with it?"
"In the first place, Preston, Darry is not your servant."
"Upon my word!" said Preston. "But, yes, he is; for mamma is
regent here now. He must do what I order him, anyhow."
"And then, Preston, Darry is better than you, and will not
defend himself; and somebody ought to defend him; and there is
nobody but me."
"Defend himself!" echoed Preston.
"Yes. You insulted him yesterday."
"Insulted him!"
"You know you did. You know, Preston, some men would not have
borne it. If Darry had been like some men, he would have
knocked you down."
"Knock me down!" cried Preston. "The sneaking old scoundrel!
He knows that I would shoot him if he did."
"I am speaking seriously, Preston. It is no use to talk that
way."
"I am speaking very seriously," said my cousin. "I would shoot
him, upon my honour."
"Shoot him!"
"Certainly."
"What right have you to shoot a man for doing no worse than
you do? I would _rather_ somebody would knock me down, than do
what you did yesterday!" And my heart swelled within me.
"Come, Daisy, be a little sensible!" said Preston, who was in
a fume of impatience. "Do you think there is no difference
between me and an old nigger?"
"A great deal of difference," I said. "He is old and good; and
you are young, and I wish you were as good as Darry. And then
he can't help himself without perhaps losing his place, no
matter how you insult him. I think it is cowardly."
"Insult!" said Preston. "Lose his place! Heavens and earth,
Daisy! are you such a simpleton?"
"You insulted him very badly yesterday. I wondered how he bore
it of you; only Darry is a Christian."
"A fiddlestick!" said Preston impatiently. "He knows he must
bear whatever I choose to give him; and therein he is wiser
than you are."
"Because he is a Christian," said I.
"I don't know whether he is a Christian or not; and it is
nothing to the purpose. I don't care what he is."
"Oh, Preston! he is a good man he is a servant of God; he
will wear a crown of gold in heaven; and you have dared to
touch him!"
"Why, hoity toity!" said Preston. "What concern of mine is all
that! All I know is, that he did not do what I ordered him."
"What did you order him?"
"I ordered him not to show you the saddle I had got for you,
till I was there. I was going to surprise you. I am provoked
at him!"
"I am surprised " I said. But feeling how little I prevailed
with Preston, and being weak in body as well as mind, I could
not keep back the tears. I began to walk on again, though they
blinded me.
"Daisy, don't be foolish. If Darry is to wear two crowns in
the other world, he is a servant in this, all the same; and he
must do his duty."
"I asked for the saddle " I said.
"Why, Daisy, Daisy!" Preston exclaimed "don't be such a
child. You know nothing about it. I didn't touch Darry to hurt
him."
"It was a sort of hurt that if he had not been a Christian he
would have made you sorry for."
"He knows I would shoot him if he did," said Preston coolly.
"Preston, don't speak so!" I pleaded.
"It is the simple truth. Why shouldn't I speak it?"
"You do not mean that you would do it?" I said, scarce opening
my eyes to the reality of what he said.
"I give you my word, I do! If one of these black fellows laid
a hand on me I would put a bullet through him, as quick as a
partridge."
"But then you would be a murderer " said I. The ground seemed
taken away from under my feet. We were standing still now, and
facing each other.
"No, I shouldn't," said Preston. "The law takes better care of
us than that."
"The law would hang you," said I.
"I tell you, Daisy, it is no such thing! Gentlemen have a
right to defend themselves against the insolence of these
black fellows."
"And have not the black fellows a right to defend themselves
against the insolence of gentlemen?" said I.
"Daisy? you are talking the most unspeakable non- sense," said
Preston, quite put beyond himself now. "_Don't_ you know any
better than that? These people are our servants they are our
property we are to do what we like with them; and of course
the law must see that we are protected, or the blacks and the
whites could not live together."
"A man may be your servant, but he cannot be your property," I
said.
"Yes, he can! They are our property, just as much as the land
is; our goods, to do what we like with. Didn't you know that?"
"Property is something that you can buy and sell," I answered.
"And we sell these people, and buy them too, as fast as we
like."
"_Sell_ them!" I echoed, thinking of Darry.
"Certainly."
"And who would buy them?"
"Why, all the world; everybody. There has been nobody sold off
the Magnolia estate, I believe, in a long time; but nothing is
more common, Daisy; everybody is doing it everywhere, when he
has got too many servants, or when he has got too few."
"And do you mean," said I, "that Darry and Margaret and
Theresa and all the rest here, have been _bought?_"
"No; almost all of them have been born on the place."
"Then it is not true of these," I said.
"Yes, it is; for their mothers and fathers were bought. It is
the same thing."
"Who bought them?" I asked hastily.
"Why! our mothers, and grandfather and great-grandfather."
"_Bought_ the fathers and mothers of all these hundreds of
people?" said I, a slow horror creeping into my veins, that
yet held childish blood, and but half comprehended.
"Certainly ages ago," said Preston. "Why, Daisy, I thought
you knew all about it."
"But who sold them first?" said I, my mind in its utter
rejection of what was told me, seeking every refuge from
accepting it. "Who sold them at first?"
"Who first? Oh, the people that brought them over from Africa,
I suppose; or the people in their own country that sold them
to _them_."
"They had no right to sell them," I said.
"Can't tell about that," said Preston. "We bought them. I
suppose we had a right to do that."
"But if the fathers and mothers were bought," I insisted,
"that gives us no right to have their children."
"I would like you to ask aunt Felicia or my uncle Randolph
such a question," said Preston. "Just see how they would like
the idea of giving up all their property! Why you would be as
poor as Job, Daisy."
"The land would be here all the same."
"Much good the land would do you, without people to work it."
"But other people could be hired as well as these," I said,
"if any of these wanted to go away."
"No they couldn't. White people cannot bear the climate nor do
the work. The crops cannot be raised without coloured labour."
"I do not understand," said I, feeling my child's head
puzzled. "Maybe none of our people would like to go away?"
"I dare say they wouldn't," said Preston carelessly. "They are
better off here than on most plantations. Uncle Randolph never
forbids his hands to have meat; and some planters do."
"Forbid them to have meat!" I said in utter bewilderment.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"They think it makes them fractious, and not so easy to
manage. Don't you know, it makes a dog savage to feed him on
raw meat? I suppose cooked meat has the same effect on men."
"But don't they get what they choose to eat?"
"Well, I should think not!" said Preston. "Fancy their asking
to be fed on chickens and pound cake. That is what they would
like."
"But cannot they spend their wages for what they like?"
"Wages!" said Preston.
"Yes," said I.
"My dear Daisy," said Preston, "you are talking of what you
just utterly don't understand; and I am a fool for bothering
you with it. Come! let us make it up and be friends."
He stooped to kiss me, but I stepped back.
"Stop," I said. "Tell me can't they do what they like with
their wages?"
"I don't think they have wages enough to 'do what they like'
exactly," said Preston. "Why, they would 'Iike' to do nothing.
These black fellows are the laziest things living. They would
'like' to lie in the sun all day long."
"What wages does Darry have?" I asked.
"Now, Daisy, this is none of your business. Come, let us go
into the house and let it alone."
"I want to know, first," said I.
"Daisy, I never asked. What have I to do with Darry's wages?"
"I will ask himself," I said; and I turned about to go to the
stables.
"Stop, Daisy," cried Preston. "Daisy, Daisy! you are the most
obstinate Daisy that ever was, when once you have taken a
thing in your head. Daisy, what have you to do with all this.
Look here these people don't want wages."
"Don't want wages!" I repeated.
"No; they don't want them. What would they do with wages? they
have everything they need given them already; their food and
their clothing and their houses. They do not want anything
more."
"You said they did not have the food they liked," I objected.
"Who does?" said Preston. "I am sure I don't, not more than
one day in seven, on an average."
"But don't they have any wages at all?" I persisted. "Our
coachman at Melbourne had thirty dollars a month; and Logan
had forty dollars, and his house and garden. Why shouldn't
Darry have wages too? Don't they have any wages at all,
Preston?"
"Why, yes! they have plenty of corn bread and bacon, I tell
you; and their clothes. Daisy, they _belong_ to you, these
people do."
Corn bread and bacon was not much like chickens and pound
cake, I thought; and I remembered our servants at Melbourne
were very, very differently dressed from the women I saw about
me here; even in the house. I stood bewildered and pondering.
Preston tried to get me to go on.
"Why shouldn't they have wages?" I asked at length, with lips
which I believe were growing old with my thoughts.
"Daisy, they are your servants; they _belong_ to you. They have
no right to wages. Suppose you had to pay all these creatures
seven hundred of them as you pay people at Melbourne; how
much do you suppose you would have left to live upon
yourselves? What nonsense it is to talk!"
"But they work for us," I said.
"Certainly. There would not be anything for any of us if they
didn't. Here, at Magnolia, they raise rice crops and corn, as
well as cotton; at our place we grow nothing but cotton and
corn."
"Well, what pays them for working?"
"I told you! they have their living and clothing and no care;
and they are the happiest creatures the sun shines on."
"Are they willing to work for only that?" I asked.
"Willing!" said Preston.
"Yes," said I, feeling myself grow sick at heart.
"I fancy nobody asks them that question. They have to work, I
reckon, whether they like it or no."
"You said they _like_ to lie in the sun. What makes them work?"
"Makes them!" said Preston, who was getting irritated as well
as impatient. "They get a good flogging if they do not work
that is all. They know, if they don't do their part, the lash
will come down; and it don't come down easy."
I suppose I must have looked as if it had come down: on me.
Preston stopped talking and began to take care of me; putting
his arm round me to support my steps homeward. In the verandah
my aunt met us. She immediately decided that I was ill, and
ordered me to go to bed at once. It was the thing of all
others I would have wished to do. It saved me from the
exertion of trying to hold myself up and of speaking and
moving and answering questions. I went to bed in dull misery,
longing to go to sleep and forget all my troubles of mind and
body together; but while the body vested, the mind would not.
That kept the consciousness of its burden; and it was that,
more than any physical ail, which took away my power of
eating, and created instead a wretched sort of half nausea,
which made even rest unrefreshing. As for rest in my mind and
heart, it seemed at that time as if I should never know it
again. Never again! I was a child I had but vague ideas
respecting even what troubled me; nevertheless I had been
struck, where may few children be struck! in the very core and
quick of my heart's reverence and affection. It had come home
to me that papa was somehow doing wrong. My father was in my
childish thought and belief, the ideal of chivalrous and high-
bred excellence; and _papa_ was doing wrong. I could not turn
my eyes from the truth; it was before me in too visible a
form. It did not arrange itself in words, either; not at
first; it only pressed upon my heart and brain that seven
hundred people on my father's property were injured, and by
his will, and for his interests. Dimly the consciousness came
to me; slowly it found its way and spread out; its details
before me; bit by bit one point after another came into my
mind to make the whole good; bit by bit one item after another
came in to explain and be explained and to add its quota of
testimony; all making clear and distinct and dazzling before
me the truth which at first it was so hard to grasp. And this
is not the less true because my childish thought at first took
everything vaguely and received it slowly. I was a child and a
simple child; but once getting hold of a clue of truth, my
mind never let it go. Step by step, as a child could, I
followed it out. And the balance of the golden rule, to which
I was accustomed, is an easy one to weigh things in; and even
little hands can manage it.
For an hour after they put me to bed my heart seemed to grow
chill from minute to minute; and my body, in curious sympathy,
shook as if I had an ague. My aunt and Miss Pinshon came and
went and were busy about me; making me drink negus and putting
hot bricks to my feet. Preston stole in to look at me; but I
gathered that neither then nor afterwards did he reveal to any
one the matter of our conversation the hour before. "Wearied"
"homesick" "feeble" "with no sort of strength to bear
anything" they said I was. All true, no doubt; and yet I was
not without powers of endurance, even bodily, if my mind gave
a little help. Now the trouble was, that all such help was
wanting. The dark figures of the servants came and went too,
with the others; came and stayed; Margaret and Mammy Theresa
took post in my room, and when they could do nothing for me,
crouched by the fire and spent their cares and energies in
keeping that in full blast. I could hardly bear to see them;
but I had no heart to speak even to ask that they might be
sent away, or for anything else; and I had a sense besides
that it was a gratification to them to be near me; and to
gratify any one of the race I would have borne a good deal of
pain.
It smites my heart now, to think of those hours. The image of
them is sharp and fresh as if the time were but last night. I
lay with shut eyes, taking in as it seemed to me, additional
loads of trouble with each quarter of an hour; as I thought
and thought and put one and another thing together, of things
past and present, to help my understanding. A child will carry
on that process fast and to far-off results; give her but the
key and set her off on the track of truth with a sufficient
impetus. My happy childlike ignorance and childlike life was
in a measure gone; I had come into the world of vexed
questions, of the oppressor and the oppressed, the full and
the empty, the rich and the poor. I could make nothing at all
of Preston's arguments and reasonings. The logic of expediency
and of consequences carried no weight with me, and as little
the logic of self-interest. I sometimes think a child's vision
is clearer, even in worldly matters, than the eyes of those
can be who have lived long among the fumes and vapours which
rise in these low grounds. Unless the eyes be washed day by
day in the spring of truth, and anointed with unearthly
ointment. The right and the wrong, were the two things that
presented themselves to my view; and oh, my sorrow and
heartbreak was, that papa was in the wrong. I could not
believe it, and yet I could not get rid of it. There were
oppressors and oppressed at the world; and he was one of the
oppressors. There is no sorrow that a child can bear, keener
and more gnawingly bitter than this. It has a sting all its
own, for which there is neither salve nor remedy; and it had
the aggravation, in my case, of the sense of personal
dishonour. The wrong done and the oppression inflicted were
not the whole; there was besides the intolerable sense of
living upon other's gains. It was more than my heart could
bear.
I could not write as I do, I could not recall these thoughts
and that time, if I had not another thought to bring to bear
upon them; a thought which at that time I was not able to
comprehend. It came to me later with its healing, and I have
seen and felt it more clearly as I grew older. I see it very
clearly now. I had not been mistaken in my childish notions of
the loftiness and generosity of my father's character. He was
what I had thought him. Neither was I a whit wrong in my
judgment of the things which it grieved me that he did and
allowed. But I saw afterwards how he, and others, had grown up
and been educated in a system and atmosphere of falsehood,
till he failed to perceive that it was false. His eyes had
lived in the darkness till it seemed quite comfortably light
to him; while to a fresh vision, accustomed to the sun, it was
pure and blank darkness, as thick as night. He followed what
others did and his father had done before him, without any
suspicion that it was an abnormal and morbid condition of
things they were all living in; more especially without a
tinge of misgiving that it might not be a noble, upright and
dignified way of life. But I, his little unreasoning child,
bringing the golden rule of the gospel only to judge of the
doings of hell, shrank back and fell to the ground, in my
heart, to find the one I loved best in the world concerned in
them.
So when I opened my eyes that night, and looked into the blaze
of the firelight, the dark figures that were there before it
stung me with pain every time; and a every soft word and
tender look on their faces and I had many a one, both words
and looks racked my heart in a way that was strange for a
child. The negus put me to sleep at last, or exhaustion did; I
think the latter, for it was very late; and the rest of that
night wore away.
When I awoke, the two women were there still, just as I had
left them when I went to sleep. I do not know if they sat
there all night, or if they had slept on the floor by my side;
but there they were, and talking softly to one another about
something that caught my attention. I bounced out of bed
though I was so weak I remember I reeled as I went from my bed
to the fire and steadied myself by laying my a hand on Mammy
Theresa's shoulder. I demanded of Margaret _what_ she had been
saying? The women both started, with expressions of surprise,
alarm, and tender affection, raised by my ghostly looks, and
begged me to get back into bed again. I stood fast, bearing on
Theresa's shoulder.
"What was it?" I asked.
" 'Twarn't nothin', Miss Daisy, dear!" said the girl.
"Hush! Don't tell me that," I said. "Tell me what it was
tell me what it was. Nobody shall know; you need not be
afraid; nobody shall know." For I saw a cloud of hesitation in
Margaret's face.
" 'Twarn't nothin', Miss Daisy only about Darry."
"What about Darry?" I said, trembling.
"He done went and had a praise-meetin'," said Theresa; "and he
knowed it war agin the rules; he knowed that. 'Course he did.
Rules mus' be kep'."
"Whose rules?" I asked.
"Laws, honey, 'taint 'cording to rules for we coloured folks
to hold meetin's no how. 'Course, we's ought to 'bey de rules;
dat's clar."
"Who made the rules?"
"Who make 'em? Mass' Ed'ards he make de rules on dis
plantation. Reckon Mass' Randolph, he make 'em a heap
different."
"Does Mr. Edwards make it a rule that you are not to hold
prayer-meetings?"
"Can't spec' for to have everyt'ing jus' like de white folks,"
said the old woman. "We's no right to 'spect it. But Uncle
Darry, he sot a sight by his praise-meetin'. He's cur'ous, he
is. S'pose Darry's cur'ous."
"And does anybody say that you shall not have prayer-
meetings?"
"Laws, honey! What's we got to do wid praise-meetin's or any
sort o' meetin's? We'se got to work. Mass' Ed'ards, he say dat
de meetin's dey makes coloured folks onsettled; and dey don't
hoe de corn good if dey has too much prayin' to do."
"And does he forbid them then? Doesn't he let you have prayer-
meetings?"
" 'Taint Mr. Edwards alone, Miss Daisy," said Margaret,
speaking low. "It's agin the law for us to have meetin's
anyhow 'cept we get leave, and say what house it shall be,
and who's a comin', and what we'se a comin' for. And it's no
use asking Mr. Edwards, 'cause he don't see no reason why
black folks should have meetin's."
"Did Darry have a prayer-meeting without leave?" I asked.
" 'Twarn't no count of a meetin'!" said Theresa, a little touch
of scorn, or indignation, coming into her voice; "and Darry,
he war in his own house prayin'. Dere warn't nobody dere, but
Pete and ole 'Liza, and Maria cook, and dem two Johns dat come
from de lower plantation. Dey couldn't get a strong meetin'
into Uncle Darry's house; 'taint big enough to hold 'em."
"And what did the overseer do to Darry?" I asked.
"Laws, Miss Daisy," said Margaret, with a quick look at the
other woman, "he didn't do nothin' to hurt Darry; he only
want to scare de folks."
"Dey's done scared " said Theresa under her breath.
"What is it?" I said, steadying myself by my hold on Theresa's
shoulder, and feeling that I must stand till I had finished my
enquiry how did he know about the meeting? and what did he
do to Darry? Tell me! I must know. I must know, Margaret."
" 'Spect he was goin' through the quarters, and he heard Darry
at his prayin'," said Margaret. "Darry, he don't mind to keep
his prayers secret, he don't," she added with a half laugh.
" 'Spect nothin' but they'll bust the walls o' that little
house some day."
"Dey's powerful!" added Theresa. "But he warn't prayin' no
harm; he was just prayin', 'Dy will be done, on de eart' as it
be in de heaven' Pete, he tell me. Darry warn't saying
not'ing he just pray 'Dy will be done.'!"
"Well?" I said, for Margaret kept silent.
"And de oberseer, he say leastways he swore, he did, dat
his will should be what is done on dis plantation, and he
wouldn't have no such work. He say, dere's nobody to come
togedder after it be dark, if it's two or t'ree, 'cept dey
gets his leave, Mass' Ed'ards, he say; and dey won't get it."
"But what did he do to Darry?" I could scarcely hold myself on
my feet by this time.
"He whipped him, I reckon," said Margaret in a low tone, and
with a dark shadow crossing her face, very different from its
own brown duskiness.
"He don't have a light hand, Mass' Ed'ards," went on Theresa;
"and he got a sharp new whip. De second stripe, Pete, he
tell me, he tell me dis evenin' and it war wet; and it war
wet enough before he got through. He war mad, I reckon;
certain Mass' Ed'ards, he war mad."
"_Wet?_" said I.
"Laws, Miss Daisy," said Margaret, " 'tain't nothin'. Them
whips, they draws the blood easy. Darry, he don't mind."
I have a recollection of the girl's terrified face, but I
heard nothing more. Such a deadly sickness came over me that
for a minute I must have been near fainting; happily it took
another turn amid the various confused feelings which
oppressed me, and I burst into tears. My eyes had not been wet
through all the hours of the evening and night; my heartache
had been dry. I think I was never very easy to move to tears,
even as a child. But now, well for me perhaps, some element of
the pain I was suffering found the unguarded point or broke
up the guard. I wept as I have done very few times in my life.
I had thrown myself into Mammy Theresa's lap, in the weakness
which could not support itself, and in an abandonment of grief
which was careless of all the outside world; and there I lay,
clasped in her arms and sobbing. Grief, horror, tender
sympathy, and utter helplessness, striving together; there was
nothing for me at that moment but the woman's refuge and the
child's remedy of weeping. But the weeping was so bitter, so
violent, and so uncontrollable that the women were frightened.
I believe they shut the doors, to keep the sound of my sobs
from reaching other ears; for when I recovered the use of my
senses I saw that they were closed.
The certain strange relief which tears do bring, they gave to
me. I cannot tell why. My pain was not changed, my
helplessness was not done away; yet at least I had washed my
causes of sorrow in a flood of heart drops, and cleansed them
so somehow from any personal stain. Rather, I was perfectly
exhausted. The women put me to bed, as soon as I would let
them; and Margaret whispered an earnest, "Do, don't, Miss
Daisy, don't say nothin' about the prayer-meetin'!" I shook
my head; I knew better than to say anything about it.
All the better not to betray them, and myself, I shut my eyes,
and tried to let my face grow quiet. I had succeeded, I
believe, before my aunt Gary and Miss Pinshon came in. The two
stood looking at me; my aunt in some consternation, my
governess reserving any expression of what she thought. I
fancied she did not trust my honesty. Another time I might
have made an effort to right myself in her opinion; but I was
past that and everything now. It was decided by my aunt that I
had better keep my bed as long as I felt like doing so.
So I lay there during the long hours of that day. I was glad
to be still, to keep out of the way in a corner, to hear
little and see nothing of what was going on; my own small
world of thoughts was enough to keep me busy. I grew utterly
weary at last of thinking, and gave it up, so far as I could;
submitting passively, in a state of pain sometimes dull and
sometimes acute, to what I had no power to change or remedy.
But my father had, I thought; and at those times my longing
was unspeakable to see him. I was very quiet all that day, I
believe, in spite of the rage of wishes and sorrows within me;
but it was not to be expected I should gain strength. On the
contrary, I think I grew feverish. If I could have laid down
my troubles in prayer! but at first, these troubles, I could
not. The core and root of them being my father's a share in
the rest. And I was not alone; and I had a certain
consciousness that if I allowed myself to go to my little
Bible for help, it would unbar my self-restraint with its
sweet and keen words, and I should give way again before
Margaret and Theresa; and I did not wish that.
"What shall we do with her?" said my aunt Gary, when she came
to me towards the evening. "She looks like a mere shadow. I
never saw such a change in a child in four weeks never!"
"Try a different regimen to-morrow, I think," said my
governess, whose lustrous black eyes looked at me sick,
exactly as they had looked at me well.
"I shall send for a doctor, if she isn't better," said my
aunt. "She's feverish now."
"Keeping her bed all day," said Miss Pinshon.
"Do you think so?" said my aunt.
"I have no doubt of it. It is very weakening."
"Then we will let her get up to-morrow, and see how that will
do."
They had been gone half an hour, when Preston stole in and
came to the side of my bed, between me and the firelight.
"Come, Daisy, let us be friends!" he said. And he was stooping
to kiss me; but I put out my hand to keep him back.
"Not till you have told Darry you are sorry," I said.
Preston was angry instantly, and stood upright.
"Ask pardon of a servant!" he said. "You would have the world
upside down directly."
I thought it was upside down already; but I was too weak and
downhearted to say so.
"Daisy, Daisy!" said Preston "And there you lie, looking
like a poor little wood flower that has hardly strength to
hold up its head; and with about as much colour in your
cheeks. Come, Daisy, kiss me, and let us be friends."
"If you will do what is right " I said.
"I will always," said Preston; "but this would be wrong, you
know." And he stooped again to kiss me. And again I would not
suffer him.
"Daisy, you are absurd," said Preston, vibrating between pity
and anger, I think, as he looked at me. "Darry is a servant,
and accustomed to a servant's place. What hurt you so much,
did not hurt him a bit. He knows where he belongs."
"You don't," said I.
"What?"
"Know anything about it." I remember I spoke very feebly. I
had hardly energy left to speak at all. My words must have
come with a curious contrast between the meaning and the
manner.
"Know anything, about what, Daisy? You are as oracular and as
immoveable as one of Egypt's monuments; only they are very
hard, and you are very soft, my dear little Daisy! and
they are very brown, according to all I have heard, and you
are as white as a wind-flower. One can almost see through you.
What is it I don't know anything about?"
"I am so tired, Preston!"
"Yes, but what is it I don't know anything about?"
"Darry's place and yours," I said.
"His place and mine! His place is a servant's, I take it,
belonging to Rudolf Randolph, of Magnolia. I am the unworthy
representative of an old Southern family, and a gentleman.
What have you to say about that?"
"He is a servant of the Lord of lords," I said; "and his
Master loves him. And He has a house of glory preparing for
him, and a crown of gold, and a white robe, such as the King's
children wear. And he will sit on a throne himself by and by.
Preston, where will _you_ be?"
These words were said without the least heat of manner
almost languidly; but they put Preston in a fume. I could not
catch his excitement in the least; but I saw it. He stood up
again, hesitated, opened his mouth to speak and shut it
without speaking, turned and walked away and came back to me.
I did not wait for him then.
"You have offended one of the King's children," I said; "and
the King is offended."
"Daisy!" said Preston, in a sort of suppressed fury, "one
would think you had turned Abolitionist; only you never heard
of such a thing."
"What is it?" said I, shutting my eyes.
"It is just the meanest and most impudent shape a Northerner
can take; it is the lowest end of creation, an Abolitionist
is; and a Yankee is pretty much the same thing."
"Dr. Sandford is a Yankee," I remarked.
"Did you get it from _him?_" Preston asked fiercely.
"What?" said I, opening my eyes.
"Your nonsense. Has he taught you to turn Abolitionist?"
"I have not _turned_ at all," I said. "I wish you would. It is
only the people who are in the wrong that ought to turn."
"Daisy," said Preston, "you ought never to be away from aunt
Felicia and my uncle. Nobody else can manage you. I don't know
what you will become or what you will do, before they get
back."
I was silent; and Preston, I suppose, cooled down. He waited
awhile, and then again begged that I would kiss and be
friends. "You see, I am going away to- morrow morning, little
Daisy."
"I wish you had gone two days ago," I said.
And my mind did not change, even when the morning came.