Breaking up.
The time for the departure of the Garies having been fixed, all in the
house were soon engaged in the bustle of preparation. Boxes were packed
with books, pictures, and linen; plate and china were wrapped and swaddled,
to prevent breakage and bruises; carpets were taken up, and packed away;
curtains taken down, and looking-glasses covered. Only a small part of the
house was left in a furnished state for the use of the overseer, who was a
young bachelor, and did not require much space.
In superintending all these arrangements Mrs. Garie displayed great
activity; her former cheerfulness of manner had entirely returned, and Mr.
Garie often listened with delight to the quick pattering of her feet, as
she tripped lightly through the hall, and up and down the long stairs. The
birds that sang about the windows were not more cheerful than herself, and
when Mr. Garie heard her merry voice singing her lively songs, as in days
gone by, he experienced a feeling of satisfaction at the pleasant result of
his acquiescence in her wishes. He had consented to it as an act of justice
due to her and the children; there was no pleasure to himself growing out
of the intended change, beyond that of gratifying Emily, and securing
freedom to her and the children. He knew enough of the North to feel
convinced that he could not expect to live there openly with Emily, without
being exposed to ill-natured comments, and closing upon himself the doors
of many friends who had formerly received him with open arms. The virtuous
dignity of the Northerner would be shocked, not so much at his having
children by a woman of colour, but by his living with her in the midst of
them, and acknowledging her as his wife. In the community where he now
resided, such things were more common; the only point in which he differed
from many other Southern gentlemen in this matter was in his constancy to
Emily and the children, and the more than ordinary kindness and affection
with which he treated them. Mr. Garie had for many years led a very retired
life, receiving an occasional gentleman visitor; but this retirement had
been entirely voluntary, therefore by no means disagreeable; but in the new
home he had accepted, he felt that he might be shunned, and the reflection
was anything but agreeable. Moreover, he was about to leave a place
endeared to him by a thousand associations. Here he had passed the whole of
his life, except about four years spent in travelling through Europe and
America.
Mr. Garie was seated in a room where there were many things to recall days
long since departed. The desk at which he was writing was once his
father's, and he well remembered the methodical manner in which every
drawer was carefully kept; over it hung a full-length portrait of his
mother, and it seemed, as he gazed at it, that it was only yesterday that
she had taken his little hand in her own, and walked with him down the long
avenue of magnolias that were waving their flower-spangled branches in the
morning breeze, and loading it with fragrance. Near him was the table on
which her work-basket used to stand. He remembered how important he felt
when permitted to hold the skeins of silk for her to wind, and how he would
watch her stitch, stitch, hour after hour, at the screen that now stood
beside the fire-place; the colours were faded, but the recollection of the
pleasant smiles she would cast upon him from time to time, as she looked up
from her work, was as fresh in his memory as if it were but yesterday. Mr.
Garie was assorting and arranging the papers that the desk contained, when
he heard the rattle of wheels along the avenue, and looking out of the
window, he saw a carriage approaching.
The coachman was guiding his horses with one hand, and with the other he
was endeavouring to keep a large, old-fashioned trunk from falling from the
top. This was by no means an easy matter, as the horses appeared quite
restive, and fully required his undivided attention. The rather unsteady
motion of the carriage caused its inmate to put his head out of the window,
and Mr. Garie recognized his uncle John, who lived in the north-western
part of the state, on the borders of Alabama. He immediately left his desk,
and hastened to the door to receive him.
"This is an unexpected visit, but none the less pleasant on that account,"
said Mr. Garie, his face lighting up with surprise and pleasure as uncle
John alighted. "I had not the least expectation of being honoured by a
visit from you. What has brought you into this part of the country?
Business, of course? I can't conceive it possible that you should have
ventured so far from home, at this early season, for the mere purpose of
paying me a visit."
"You may take all the honour to yourself this time," smilingly replied
uncle John, "for I have come over for your especial benefit; and if I
accomplish the object of my journey, I shall consider the time anything but
thrown away."
"Let me take your coat; and, Eph, see you to that trunk," said Mr. Garie.
"You see everything is topsy-turvy with us, uncle John. We look like
moving, don't we?"
"Like that or an annual house-cleaning," he replied, as he picked his way
through rolls of carpet and matting, and between half-packed boxes; in
doing which, he had several narrow escapes from the nails that protruded
from them on all sides. "It's getting very warm; let me have something to
drink," said he, wiping his face as he took his seat; "a julep--plenty of
brandy and ice, and but little mint."
Eph, on receiving this order, departed in great haste in search of Mrs.
Garie, as he knew that, whilst concocting one julep, she might be
prevailed upon to mix another, and Eph had himself a warm liking for that
peculiar Southern mixture, which liking he never lost any opportunity to
gratify.
Emily hurried downstairs, on hearing of the arrival of uncle John, for he
was regarded by her as a friend. She had always received from him marked
kindness and respect, and upon the arrival of Mr. Garie's visitors, there
was none she received with as much pleasure. Quickly mixing the drink, she
carried it into the room where he and her husband were sitting. She was
warmly greeted by the kind-hearted old man, who, in reply to her question
if he had come to make them a farewell visit, said he hoped not: he trusted
to make them many more in the same place.
"I'm afraid you won't have an opportunity," she replied. "In less than a
week we expect to be on our way to New York.--I must go," continued she,
"and have a room prepared for you, and hunt up the children. You'll
scarcely know them, they have grown so much since you were here. I'll soon
send them," and she hurried off to make uncle John's room comfortable.
"I was never more surprised in my life," said the old gentleman, depositing
the glass upon the table, after draining it of its contents--"never more
surprised than when I received your letter, in which you stated your
intention of going to the North to live. A more ridiculous whim it is
impossible to conceive--the idea is perfectly absurd! To leave a fine old
place like this, where you have everything around you so nice and
comfortable, to go north, and settle amongst a parcel of strange Yankees!
My dear boy, you must give it up. I'm no longer your guardian--the law
don't provide one for people of thirty years and upwards--so it is out of
my power to say you shall not do it; but I am here to use all my powers of
persuasion to induce you to relinquish the project."
"Uncle John, you don't seem to understand the matter. It is not a whim, by
any means--it is a determination arising from a strict sense of duty; I
feel that it is an act of justice to Emily and the children. I don't
pretend to be better than most men; but my conscience will not permit me to
be the owner of my own flesh and blood. I'm going north, because I wish to
emancipate and educate my children--you know I can't do it here. At first I
was as disinclined to favour the project as you are; but I am now convinced
it is my duty, and, I must add, that my inclination runs in the same
direction."
"Look here, Clarence, my boy," here interrupted uncle John; "you can't
expect to live there as you do here; the prejudice against persons of
colour is much stronger in some of the Northern cities than it is amongst
us Southerners. You can't live with Emily there as you do here; you will be
in everybody's mouth. You won't be able to sustain your old connections
with your Northern friends--you'll find that they will cut you dead."
"I've looked at it well, uncle John. I've counted the cost, and have made
up my mind to meet with many disagreeable things. If my old friends choose
to turn their backs on me because my wife happens to belong to an oppressed
race, that is not my fault. I don't feel that I have committed any sin by
making the choice I have; and so their conduct or opinions won't influence
my happiness much."
"Listen to me, Clary, for a moment," rejoined the old gentleman. "As long
as you live here in Georgia you can sustain your present connection with
impunity, and if you should ever want to break it off, you could do so by
sending her and the children away; it would be no more than other men have
done, and are doing every day. But go to the North, and it becomes a
different thing. Your connection with Emily will inevitably become a matter
of notoriety, and then you would find it difficult to shake her off there,
as you could here, in case you wanted to marry another woman."
"Oh, uncle, uncle, how can you speak so indifferently about my doing such
an ungenerous act; to characterize it in the very mildest terms. I feel
that Emily is as much my wife in the eyes of God, as if a thousand
clergymen had united us. It is not my fault that we are not legally
married; it is the fault of the laws. My father did not feel that my mother
was any more his wife, than I do that Emily is mine."
"Hush, hush; that is all nonsense, boy; and, besides, it is paying a very
poor compliment to your mother to rank her with your mulatto mistress. I
like Emily very much; she has been kind, affectionate, and faithful to you.
Yet I really can't see the propriety of your making a shipwreck of your
whole life on her account. Now," continued uncle John, with great
earnestness, "I hoped for better things from you. You have talents and
wealth; you belong to one of the oldest and best families in the State.
When I am gone, you will be the last of our name; I had hoped that you
would have done something to keep it from sinking into obscurity. There is
no honour in the State to which you might not have aspired with a fair
chance of success; but if you carry out your absurd determination, you will
ruin yourself effectually."
"Well; I shall be ruined then, for I am determined to go. I feel it my duty
to carry out my design," said Mr. Garie.
"Well, well, Clary," rejoined his uncle, "I've done my duty to my brother's
son. I own, that although I cannot agree with you in your project, I can
and do honour the unselfish motive that prompts it. You will always find me
your friend under all circumstances, and now," concluded he, "it's off my
mind."
The children were brought in and duly admired; a box of miniature
carpenter's tools was produced; also, a wonderful man with a string through
his waist--which string, when pulled, caused him to throw his arms and legs
about in a most astonishing manner. The little folks were highly delighted
with these presents, which, uncle John had purchased at Augusta; they
scampered off, and soon had every small specimen of sable humanity on the
place at their heels, in ecstatic admiration of the wonderful articles of
which they had so recently acquired possession. As uncle John had
absolutely refused all other refreshment than the julep before mentioned,
dinner was ordered at a much earlier hour than usual. He ate very heartily,
as was his custom; and, moreover, persisted in stuffing the children (as
old gentlemen will do sometimes) until their mother was compelled to
interfere to prevent their having a bilious attack in consequence. Whilst
the gentlemen were sitting over their desert, Mr. Garie asked his uncle, if
he had not a sister, with whom there was some mystery connected.
"No mystery," replied uncle John. "Your aunt made a very low marriage, and
father cut her off from the family entirely. It happened when I was very
young; she was the eldest of us all; there were four of us, as you
know--your father, Bernard, I, and this sister of whom we are speaking. She
has been dead for some years; she married a carpenter whom father employed
on the place--a poor white man from New York. I have heard it said, that he
was handsome, but drunken and vicious. They left one child--a boy; I
believe he is alive in the North somewhere, or was, a few years since."
"And did she never make any overtures for a reconciliation?"
"She did, some years before father's death, but he was inexorable; he
returned her letter, and died without seeing or forgiving her," replied
uncle John.
"Poor thing; I suppose they were very poor?"
"I suppose they were. I have no sympathy for her. She deserved her fate,
for marrying a greasy mechanic, in opposition to her father's commands,
when she might have connected herself with any of the highest families in
the State."
The gentlemen remained a long while that night, sipping their wine, smoking
cigars, and discussing the probable result of the contemplated change.
Uncle John seemed to have the worst forebodings as to the ultimate
consequences, and gave it as his decided opinion, that they would all
return to the old place in less than a year.
"You'll soon get tired of it," said he; "everything is so different there.
Here you can get on well in your present relations; but mark me, you'll
find nothing but disappointment and trouble where you are going."
The next morning he departed for his home; he kissed the children
affectionately, and shook hands warmly with their mother. After getting
into the carriage, he held out his hand again to his nephew, saying:--
"I am afraid you are going to be disappointed; but I hope you may not. Good
bye, good bye--God bless you!" and his blue eyes looked very watery, as he
was driven from the door.
That day, a letter arrived from Savannah, informing them that the ship in
which they had engaged passage would be ready to sail in a few days; and
they, therefore, determined that the first instalment of boxes and trunks
should be sent to the city forthwith; and to Eph was assigned the
melancholy duty of superintending their removal.
"Let me go with him, pa," begged little Clarence, who heard his father
giving Eph his instructions.
"Oh, no," replied Mr. Garie; "the cart will be full of goods, there will be
no room for you."
"But, pa, I can ride my pony; and, besides, you might let me go, for I
shan't have many more chances to ride him--do let me go."
"Oh, yes, massa, let him go. Why dat ar chile can take care of his pony all
by hissef. You should just seed dem two de oder day. You see de pony felt
kinder big dat day, an' tuck a heap o' airs on hissef, an' tried to trow
him--twarn't no go--Massa Clary conquered him 'pletely. Mighty smart boy,
dat," continued Eph, looking at little Clarence, admiringly, "mighty smart.
I let him shoot off my pistol toder day, and he pat de ball smack through
de bull's eye--dat boy is gwine to be a perfect Ramrod."
"Oh, pa," laughingly interrupted little Clarence; "I've been telling him of
what you read to me about Nimrod being a great hunter."
"That's quite a mistake, Eph," said Mr. Garie, joining in the laugh.
"Well, I knowed it was suffin," said Eph, scratching his head; "suffin with
a rod to it; I was all right on that pint--but you'r gwine to let him go,
ain't yer, massa?"
"I suppose, I must," replied Mr. Garie; "but mind now that no accident
occurs to young Ramrod."
"I'll take care o' dat," said Eph, who hastened off to prepare the horses,
followed by the delighted Clarence.
That evening, after his return from Savannah, Clarence kept his little
sister's eyes expanded to an unprecedented extent by his narration of the
wonderful occurrences attendant on his trip to town, and also of what he
had seen in the vessel. He produced an immense orange, also a vast store of
almonds and raisins, which had been given him by the good-natured steward.
"But Em," said he, "we are going to sleep in such funny little places; even
pa and mamma have got to sleep on little shelves stuck up against the wall;
and they've got a thing that swings from the ceiling that they keep the
tumblers and wine-glasses in--every glass has got a little hole for itself.
Oh, it's so nice!"
"And have they got any nice shady trees on the ship?" asked the wondering
little Em.
"Oh, no--what nonsense!" answered Clarence, swelling with the importance
conferred by his superior knowledge. "Why, no, Em; who ever heard of such a
thing as trees on a ship? they couldn't have trees on a ship if they
wanted--there's no earth for them to grow in. But I'll tell you what
they've got--they've got masts a great deal higher than any tree, and I'm
going to climb clear up to the top when we go to live on the ship."
"I wouldn't," said Em; "you might fall down like Ben did from the tree, and
then you'd have to have your head sewed up as he had."
The probability that an occurrence of this nature might be the result of
his attempt to climb the mast seemed to have considerable weight with
Master Clarence, so he relieved his sister's mind at once by relinquishing
the project.
The morning for departure at length arrived. Eph brought the carriage to
the door at an early hour, and sat upon the box the picture of despair. He
did not descend from his eminence to assist in any of the little
arrangements for the journey, being very fearful that the seat he occupied
might be resumed by its rightful owner, he having had a lengthy contest
with the sable official who acted as coachman, and who had striven
manfully, on this occasion, to take possession of his usual elevated
station on the family equipage. This, Eph would by no means permit, as he
declared, "He was gwine to let nobody drive Massa dat day but hissef."
It was a mournful parting. The slaves crowded around the carriage kissing
and embracing the children, and forcing upon them little tokens of
remembrance. Blind Jacob, the patriarch of the place, came and passed his
hands over the face of little Em for the last time, as he had done almost
every week since her birth, that, to use his own language, "he might see
how de piccaninny growed." His bleared and sightless eyes were turned to
heaven to ask a blessing on the little ones and their parents.
"Why, daddy Jake, you should not take it so hard," said Mr. Garie, with an
attempt at cheerfulness. "You'll see us all again some day."
"No, no, massa, I'se feared I won't; I'se gettin' mighty old, massa, and
I'se gwine home soon. I hopes I'll meet you all up yonder," said he,
pointing heavenward. "I don't 'spect to see any of you here agin."
Many of the slaves were in tears, and all deeply lamented the departure of
their master and his family, for Mr. Garie had always been the kindest of
owners, and Mrs. Garie was, if possible, more beloved than himself. She was
first at every sick-bed, and had been comforter-general to all the
afflicted and distressed in the place.
At last the carriage rolled away, and in a few hours they reached Savannah,
and immediately went on board the vessel.