After Phillis left Mrs. Weston's room, she was on her way to her cabin,
when she noticed Aunt Peggy sitting alone at the door. She was rather a
homebody; yet she reproached herself with having neglected poor old Peggy,
when she saw her looking so desolate and dejected. She thought to pay her a
visit, and bidding her good evening, sat down on the door-step. "Time old
people were in bed, Aunt Peggy," said she; "what are you settin up for, all
by yourself?"
"Who's I got to set up wid me?" said Aunt Peggy.
"Why don't you go to bed, then?" asked Phillis.
"Can't sleep, can't sleep," said Aunt Peggy; "aint slep none dese two,
three nights; lays awake lookin at de moon; sees people a lookin in de
winder at me, people as I aint seen since I come from Guinea; hears strange
noises I aint never heard in dis country, aint never hearn sence I come
from Guinea."
"All notions," said Phillis. "If you go to sleep, you'll forget them all."
"Can't go to sleep," said Aunt Peggy; "somefin in me won't sleep; somefin I
never felt afore. It's in my bones; mebbe Death's somewhere in the
neighborhood."
"I reckon you're sick, Aunt Peggy," said Phillis; "why didn't you let me
know you wasn't well?"
"Aint sick, I tell you," said Aunt Peggy, angrily; "nothin the matter wid
me. 'Spose you think there's nothin bad about, 'cep what comes to me."
Phillis was astonished at her words and manner, and looked at her intently.
Most of the servants on the plantation stood in awe of Aunt Peggy. Her
having been brought from Africa, and the many wonders she had seen there;
her gloomy, fitful temper; her tall frame, and long, skinny hands and arms;
her haughty countenance, and mass of bushy, white hair. Phillis did not
wonder most people were afraid of her. Besides, Peggy was thought to have
the power of foresight in her old age. The servants considered her a sort
of witch, and deprecated her displeasure. Phillis had too much sense for
this; yet there was one thing that she had often wondered at; that was,
that Aunt Peggy cared nothing about religion. When employed in the family,
she had been obliged to go sometimes to church: since she had been old, and
left to follow her own wishes, she had never gone. Miss Janet frequently
read the Bible, and explained it to her. Alice, seated on a low stool by
the old woman's side, read to her scenes in the life of Christ, upon which
servants love to dwell. But as far as they could judge, there were no good
impressions left on her mind. She never objected, but she gave them no
encouragement. This Phillis had often thought of; and now as she sat with
her, it occurred to her with overwhelming force. "Death's about somewhere,"
said Aunt Peggy. "I can't see him, but I feels him. There's somefin here
belongs to him; he wants it, and he's gwine to have it."
"'Pears to me," said Phillis, "Death's always about. Its well to be ready
for him when he 'comes; 'specially we old people."
"Always ole people," said Aunt Peggy, "you want to make out that Death's
always arter ole people. No such thing. Look at the churchyard, yonder. See
any little graves thar? Plenty. Death's always arter babies; 'pears like he
loves 'em best of all."
"Yes," said Phillis, "young people die as well as old, but 'taint no harm
to be ready. You know, Aunt Peggy, we aint never ready till our sins is
repented of, and our souls is washed in the blood of Jesus. People ought
to think of that, old and young, but they don't."
"Death loves young people," said Aunt Peggy; "always arter 'em. See how he
took young Mr. William Jones, thar, in town, and he healthy and strong, wid
his young bride; and his father and mother old like me. See how he took
little George Mason, not long ago, that Uncle Geoffrey used to bring home
wid him from town, setting on de horse, before him. Didn't touch his ole
grandmother; she's here yet. Tell you, Death loves 'em wid de red cheeks
and bright eyes."
Phillis did not reply, and the old woman talked on as if to herself.
"Thinks thar's nothin bad but what comes to niggers; aint I had nuff
trouble widout Death. I aint forgot de time I was hauled away from home.
Cuss him, 'twas a black man done it; he told me he'd smash my brains out if
I made a sound. Dragged along till I come to de river; thar he sold me. I
was pushed in long wid all de rest of 'em, crying and howlin--gwine away
for good and all. Thar we was, chained and squeezed together; dead or live,
all one. Tied me to a woman, and den untied me to fling her into de
sea--dead all night, and I tied to her. Come long, cross de great sea; more
died, more flung to de sharks. No wonder it thundered and lightened, and de
waves splashed in, and de captain prayed. Lord above! de captain prayed,
when he was stealin and murderin of his fellow-creeturs. We didn't go down,
we got safe across. Some went here, some went thar, and I come long wid de
rest to Virginny. Ever sence, workin and slavin; ever sence, sweatin and
drivin; workin all day, workin all night."
"You never worked a bit in the night time, Aunt Peggy," said Phillis; "and
you know it."
"Worked all time," said Aunt Peggy, "niggers aint made for nothin else.
Now, kase Death's somewhar, wantin somefin, thinks it must be me."
"I didn't say 'twas you, Aunt Peggy," said Phillis.
"Wants somefin," said Aunt Peggy. "Tell you what, Phillis," and she
laughed, "wants Miss Alice."
"What's come over you?" said Phillis, looking at her, terrified. "There's
nothing the matter with Miss Alice but a headache."
"Headache!" said Aunt Peggy, "that's all?" and she laughed again. "Think I
didn't see her yesterday? Whars the red cheeks?--white about her lips,
black about her eyes; jist like Mistis when she was gwine fast, and de
young baby on her arm. Death wants Miss Alice--aint arter me."
"Aint you ashamed to talk so about Miss Alice, when she's always coming to
you, bringing you something, and trying to do something for you?" said
Phillis. "You might as well sit here and talk bad of one of the angels
above."
"Aint talking bad of her," said Aunt Peggy; "aint wishin her no harm. If
there is any angels she's as good as any of 'em; but it's her Death's
arter, not me; look here at my arms--stronger than yourn--" and she held
out her sinewy, tough arm, grasping her cane, to go in the house.
Phillis saw she was not wanted there, and looking in to be assured that
Nancy (Aunt Peggy's grand-daughter, who lived with her to take care of
her,) was there, went home and thought to go to bed. But she found no
disposition to sleep within her. Accustomed, as she was, to Aunt Peggy's
fault finding, and her strange way of talking, she was particularly
impressed with it to-night. 'Twas so strange, Phillis thought, that she
should have talked about being stolen away from Guinea, and things that
happened almost a hundred years ago. Then her saying, so often that, "Death
was about." Phillis was no more nervous than her iron tea-kettle, but now
she could not feel right. She sat down by the door, and tried to compose
herself. Every one on the plantation was quiet; it seemed to her the night
got brighter and brighter, and the heavens more crowded with stars than she
had ever seen them. She looked at her children to see if they all were
well, and then gave a glance at old Bacchus, who was snoring loud enough to
wake the dead. She shook him heartily and told him to hush his clatter, but
she might as well have told a twenty-four pounder to go off without making
a noise. Then she sat down again and looked at Alice's window, and could
not avoid seeing Aunt Peggy's house when she turned in that direction; thus
she was reminded of her saying, "Death was about and arter somefin."
Wondering what had come over her, she shut the door and laid down without
undressing herself.
She slept heavily for several hours, and waked with the thought of Aunt
Peggy's strange talk pressing upon her. She determined not to go to bed
again, but opened the door and fixed the old rush-bottomed chair within it.
Bacchus, always a very early riser, except on Sunday, was still asleep;
having had some sharp twinges of the rheumatism the day before, Phillis
hoped he might sleep them off; her own mind was still burdened with an
unaccountable weight. She was glad to see the dawning of "another blue
day."
Before her towered, in their majestic glory, Miss Janet's favorite
mountains, yet were the peaks alone distinctly visible; the twilight only
strong enough to disclose the mass of heavy fog that enveloped them. The
stars had nearly all disappeared, those that lingered were sadly paling
away. How solemn was the stillness! She thought of the words of Jacob,
"Surely God is here!"--the clouds were flying swiftly beneath the arch of
Heaven, as if from God's presence. Many thoughts were suggested to her by
the grandeur of the scene, for my reader must remember, that an admiration
of the glories of nature is not unfrequently a characteristic of an
uneducated mind. Many verses of Scripture occurred to her, "From the rising
of the sun, unto the going down of the same, the Lord's name be praised.
The Lord is high above all nations, and his glory above the heavens. Who is
like unto the Lord our God, who dwelleth on high? Who humbleth himself to
behold the things that are in Heaven, and in the earth." The soul of the
slave-woman rejoiced in the Lord, her Maker and her Redeemer.
Gradually a soft light arose above the mountains; the fog became
transparent through its influence. A red hue gilded the top of the mist,
and slowly descended toward it, as it sank away. All the shadows of the
night were disappearing, at the command once given, "Let there be light,"
and re-obeyed at the birth of every day. Phillis's heart warmed with
gratitude to God who had given to her a knowledge of himself. She thought
of her many mercies, her health, her comforts, and the comparative
happiness of each member of her family; of the kindness of her master and
the ladies; all these considerations affected her as they never had before,
for gratitude and love to God ever inspires us with love and kindness to
our fellow creatures.
Her thoughts returned to Alice, but all superstitious dread was gone; Aunt
Peggy's strange wanderings no longer oppressed her; her mind was in its
usual healthy state. "The good Lord is above us all," she said, "and Miss
Alice is one of his children." She saw the house door open, and William
coming toward her on his way to the stable. It was without any agitation
that she asked what was the matter? "Miss Alice is very sick," said
William, "and I am going for the doctor."
"I am glad I happened to be here," said Phillis, "may be they want me."
"You better not go in now," said William, "for she's asleep. Miss Anna
told me to walk very easy, for she would not have her waked for all the
world."
So Phillis, seeing Aunt Peggy's door open, thought she would step over and
find out if the old lady had slept off her notions.
Aunt Peggy's cabin had two rooms, in one of which, she and her
granddaughter slept, in the other Nancy cooked and washed, and occupied
herself with various little matters. Nancy had been up a short time and was
mixing some Indian bread for their breakfast. She looked surprised, at
having so early a visitor.
"How is your grandmother, child?" said Phillis; "did she sleep well?"
"Mighty well," said Nancy. "She aint coughed at all as I heard, since she
went to bed."
"Well, I'm glad to hear it," said Phillis, "for I thought she was going to
be sick, she was so curious last night."
"She didn't complain, any way," said Nancy, going on with her breadmaking,
so Phillis got up to go home. As she passed the door of the other room, she
could but stop to look in at the hard, iron features of the old creature,
as she lay in slumber. Her long black face contrasted most remarkably with
the white pillow on which it was supported, her hair making her head look
double its actual size, standing off from her ears and head. One long black
arm lay extended, the hand holding to the side of the bed. Something
impelled Phillis to approach. At first she thought of her grumbling
disposition, her bitter resentment for injuries, most of which were
fanciful, her uncompromising dislike to the servants on the plantation. She
almost got angry when she thought "the more you do for her, the more she
complains." Then she recalled her talk the night before; of her being torn
away from her mother, and sold off, tied to a dead woman, and the storm and
the sharks; a feeling of the sincerest pity took the place of her first
reflections, and well they did--for the next idea--Phillis' knees knocked
together, and her heart beat audibly, for what was before her?
What but death! with all his grimness and despair, looking forth from the
white balls that were only partially covered with the dark lids--showing
his power in the cold hands whose unyielding grasp had closed in the
struggle with him. Setting his seal on brow and lips, lengthening the
extended form, that never would rouse itself from the position in which the
mighty conqueror had left it, when he knew his victory was accomplished.
What but death, indeed! For the heart and the pulse were still forever, and
the life that had once regulated their beatings, had gone back to the Giver
of life.
The two slave women were alone together. She who had been, had gone with
all her years, her wrongs, and her sins, to answer at the bar of her Maker.
The fierce and bitter contest with life, the mysterious curse, the dealings
of a God with the children of men. Think of it, Oh! Christian! as you gaze
upon her. The other slave woman is with the dead. She is trembling, as in
the presence of God. She knows he is everywhere, even in the room of death.
_She_ is redeemed from the slavery of sin, and her regenerate soul looks
forward to the rest that remaineth to the people of God. She "submits
herself to an earthly master," knowing that the dispensation of God has
placed her in a state of servitude. Yet she trusts in a Heavenly Master
with childlike faith, and says, "May I be ready when he comes and calls for
me."
Phillis was perfectly self-possessed when she went back to the kitchen.
"Nancy," she said, "didn't you think it was strange your grandmother slept
so quiet, and laid so late this morning? She always gets up so early."
"I didn't think nothin about it," said Nancy, "for I was 'sleep myself."
"Well there's no use putting it off," said Phillis. "I might as well tell
you, first as last. She's dead."
"Dead, what do you mean?" said Nancy.
"I mean she's dead," said Phillis, "and cold, and very likely has been so,
for most of the night. Don't be frightened and make a noise, for Miss Alice
is very sick, and you're so near the house."
Nancy went with her to the other room. A child would have known there was
no mistake about death's being there, if the idea had been suggested to it.
Nancy was in a moment satisfied that such was the case, but she shed very
few tears. She was quite worn out taking care of the old woman, and the
other servants were not willing to take their turns. They said they
"couldn't abide the cross, ill-natured old thing."
Phillis went home for a few moments, and returned to perform the last
offices. All was order and neatness under her superintendence; and they who
avoided the sight of Aunt Peggy when alive, stood with a solemn awe beside
her and gazed, now that she was dead.
All but the children. Aunt Peggy was dead! She who had been a kind of
scarecrow in life, how terrible was the thought of her now! The severest
threat to an unruly child was, "I will give you to Aunt Peggy, and let her
keep you." But to think of Aunt Peggy in connection with darkness, and
silence, and the grave, was dreadful indeed. All day the thought of her
kept them awed and quiet; but as evening drew on, they crept close to their
mothers' side, turning from every shadow, lest she should come forth from
it. Little Lydia, deprived of Miss Janet's company in consequence of
Alice's sickness, listened to the pervading subject of conversation all
day, and at night dreamed that the old woman had carried her off to the top
of the highest of the mountains that stood before them; and there she sat
scowling upon her, and there, they were to be forever.
When the next afternoon had come, and the body was buried, and all had
returned from the funeral, Phillis locked up the vacant cabin. Nancy was
to be employed in the house, and sleep in the servants' wing. Then Phillis
realized that death had been there, and she remembered once more, Aunt
Peggy's words, "He's arter somefin, wants it, and he's gwine to have it;
but it ain't me."
There is one thing concerning death in which we are apt to be sceptical,
and that is, "Does he want me?"