TIME AND CHANGE.
Time and change! Why add the latter word? Doth not the former include
all? Doth not time sadly overcome all things?
And this Time, which, according to Sir Thomas Brown, sitteth on a
sphinx, and looketh into Memphis and old Thebes, which reclineth on a
pyramid, gloriously triumphing, making puzzles of Titanian erections,
and turning old glories into dreams--or something to that effect. This
old Father Time, so much abused, misused, has given ten years to
Kennons, ten years to Philip and his second wife in the far away homes
of the Mussulman, ten years to the little Althea, who has bloomed into a
beautiful girl of fourteen, beneath the roof of her loving guardians,
John and Juliet Temple.
Ten years! and the fiery war of words has been followed by the deadlier
fire of arms; civil war has raged over the sunny South, destroyed loving
homes, mutilated fair forms, blotted out countless lives, and sent
multitudes of souls unshriven before their Maker; but thanks be to God,
riveted bonds have been broken and the slave hath been set free! Grand
as was the sacrifice, infinite was the gain.
"I thought," said Amy, when she stood on her mount of Pisgah, rolling up
her melancholy eyes to the heaven, whence her deliverance had come, "I
thought it would come some time, to our children, or our children's
children, but not in my time, and to me! Moses was in de wilderness
forty years; for what should I tink dat de Lord would gib us our liberty
sooner'n to his own faithful servant? And we to have our'n in four
years! But I knew it would come some time, sure as was a God in heaven.
Hadn't we been prayin' and prayin', an' beseechin', an' how could de
Lord stan' de prayers of such 'pressed, trodden people as we? Bress de
Lord, O my soul, an' all dat is in me!"
Thousands like Amy sang their songs of deliverance. And like her, they
arose from the sad waters of their Babylon, took their harps from the
willows, seeking out joyfully new ways to lands of promise.
Those persons who had been kind, nay, even moderately just to their
servants, were not at once abandoned. Some for months, some for years,
were still faithfully served for hire. As a rule, however, the freed
people scattered; but they went not far from their life-long homes. An
innate love for early scenes and associations kept them where they might
occasionally visit familiar persons and places.
Duncan Lisle was now a grave man of fifty. Threads of silver shone in
his dark hair, but his tall form was erect and graceful as ever. He had
become, in manner and speech, exceedingly reserved; his countenance wore
almost habitually a melancholy, thoughtful expression. There were
times, however, when his still attractive face lighted up with the old
smile; and that smile revealed a gentle, noble spirit, still retaining
its freshness unchafed by the carking cares and vexatious trials to
which he had been daily subject. While to some men association with so
peculiar and trying a nature as Rusha Thornton's might have brought
moroseness and all unloveliness, Duncan Lisle, like the philosopher of
hemlock fame, had turned his wife's shrewishness into a coat of armor,
within which he preserved his soul serene, contemplative, and peaceful.
This is saying very much for Duncan Lisle.
During the stormy period to which we have just referred, when the nation
was in her throes of anguish, Mr. Lisle remained loyal to the
Government. Aside from reason, common-sense, and humanity, he had seen
more than enough in his wife's treatment of servants to disgust him with
slavery. Though he took no active part, and, except when occasion
required, preserved his usual reticence upon this subject also, he was
nevertheless heart and soul upon the one side.
It is needless to observe that his wife was upon the other extreme. The
idea of slavery was grateful to her intolerant nature. For herself she
acknowledged no superior. The very God Almighty of Heaven she never took
into _her_ account. Had she been Lucifer among the angels, she too would
have rebelled. Had she been daughter of Servius Tullius, she would have
ridden over the dead body of her father. The golden rule was for others
to practice, not for her; its Divine Author, the God-Man, was beyond her
comprehension; His teachings fit but for underlings and slaves. Though
scorning and hating the slave, she clung to slavery as if it were her
life's blood. She poured forth all the venom of her nature upon the
Northern foe, which was aiming to seize this petted horror from her
grasp. She recalled often the tyrant's wish; like him would have given
worlds had the subjects of Yankeedom but a single neck, that she might
sever the Gorgonian head at one happy stroke.
She went almost wild upon the subject, and was the more violent that she
could not draw her husband into her views. It was not enough that he
should listen with apparent patience to her harangues, she demanded his
verbal assent to her opinions. His silence, his attempts at evasion,
provoked her equally as his firmly expressed disapproval. Nothing could
satisfy her.
The marching of soldiers came even upon the grounds of Kennons. At times
the noise and smoke of battle filled the atmosphere, as had the direful
cholera thirty years before.
Rusha Lisle would have turned Kennons into an hospital for Southern
soldiers. Even when her husband, hiding for his life, was hunted and
dogged by rebel soldiers, her hand fed them with food; _her_ hand that
was never known to be stretched forth in charity to the deserving; nay,
the roof, forbidden by prowling rebels to shelter its master, was
proffered to his enemies by its dishonored mistress.
When tried beyond reason, Duncan Lisle arose in his wrath and asserted
his mastery. Well might any true woman have quailed before that
uprising, but not Rusha Thornton Lisle. A woman weaker-minded would
have packed her silver, gathered her valuables, and fled to Thornton
Hall, where she might harbor her dear rebels _ad infinitum_. This
strong-minded woman well knew that by such a course of action she would
be pleasing everybody but herself. She was not so fond of conferring
happiness, nor so capable of self-sacrifice. So she continued to wage
war within her household, more constantly vexatious to her husband, more
tyrannous to her servants.
What added to Mrs. Lisle's bitterness was the conduct of her son. At the
opening of hostilities, he had joined a rebel company, inflated with the
idea that in a few weeks, or months at farthest, the Northern "mudsills"
would be overwhelmed and out of sight. No one, except his mother, had
talked louder and faster than himself. With his single hand he could
slay a dozen of the cowardly Yankees.
After all this bravado, at the first smell of gunpowder, Thornton Rush
threw down his firearms in a panic and ran as if from a sweeping tempest
of fire and brimstone. Sleeping by day in hollow logs, traveling by
night with haste and stealth, he made his way to the hated Northern
lines, went as fast as cars could carry him to New York city, and, on a
flying steamer, sneaked to Europe. There, once landed, he wrote his
mother a letter. She had thought him dead, and mourned him proudly, as
for a hero fallen for his country. She half read his letter, and threw
it into the fire. Not dead, but a poltroon, a coward! She stamped her
foot with contempt. _Her_ son to lack courage?--_her_ son a deserter
from his post? She, woman as she was, would have gone into battle with
the courage of a Caesar, the constancy of a Hannibal; but this son of
hers, in whose veins flowed the cowardly northern blood, what could she
expect of him, the son of Jude Rush?--and she curled her lip with
contempt for both father and son. She ceased to mention his name, and
revealed to no one that he still lived. Moreover, she disdained
answering his letter, even had she not destroyed his written, but unread
address and fictitious name.
Hubert Lisle, too, had volunteered, but it was to his country, and he
was contending bravely, steadfastly, in the Northern ranks. Only good
reports came back to Kennons of Ellice's brave son. This was galling to
Rusha's pride; but it refuted silently her assertion that courage flowed
not in Northern blood, for Hubert's mother had been a Northerner.
This young man, at the firing of Sumter, had passed his twenty-first
year. He had graduated with honor from school and college, and was on
the eve of embarking for Paris, where he was to pursue his medical
studies. The call of his country stayed his uplifted foot, and placed in
his not unwilling hand weapons of metal other than implements of
dissection.
For three years Hubert was on active duty, when he became one of the
unlucky prisoners at Salisbury. At the end of three months he was
amongst the exchanged, and emerged from that infamous place such a
walking skeleton as might have scared a ghost. Being unable to reenter
the service, after several weeks recruiting in the hospital, he was
permitted to visit Kennons.
That was a harder place for him than Salisbury. If it were not so trite,
we would say he had fallen from Scylla upon Charybdis; or, if it were
not vulgar, we might assert him to have fallen from the frying-pan into
the fire; we will simply say, that not finding his father's wife at all
agreeable, and having a remote suspicion that she might be tempted to
put something that was not pure Java into his coffee, he left, after a
few days, for the more congenial city where his college days had been
spent.
The civil war, then, had come to a close. Men had fought bravely on
either side. It is idle to assert that all the courage and gallantry was
with one or with the other. Both Northerner and Southerner fought like
men. Right conquered, and the South yielded gracefully enough. The
humiliation of her proud spirit was sufficient for her to bear; taunts
and sneers should have been spared her.
Mr. Fuller was still overseer at Kennons, and had managed with Mr. Lisle
to retain a majority of the field-hands at a fair salary.
Of the house-servants, Amy and Chloe, being well advanced in years,
offered to remain for the sake of their master. He, knowing what it must
have cost them to make this resolve, and touched by their devotion,
counselled them to leave at least the house. On the farthest corner of
his plantation he would give them a few acres, build them a cabin,
where, with their youngest children, they could live comfortably. This
proposal they received with joy; they would be near the dear master,
while removed from the authority of the mistress.
As to Rusha's servants, at the first announcement of freedom, every one
went out from her presence forever, so soon as they could gather their
wretched wardrobes into shape for departure. The most of them wore their
all away, and that was sufficiently scanty. All went, we say. No, Kizzie
remained. She was now a poor old woman of seventy. While watching the
others depart, she sat down upon a rickety bench, folded her bony
fingers over her knees, and cried silently. She was thinking. It would
be hard either way, to go out among strangers, or to stay where her life
had been so sorry and hopeless. She believed, on the whole, she would
stay.
She did not like to leave her little cabin, where she had suffered so
much, and where, after all, she had had her crumbs of comfort. How could
she sleep out of her own bed, whose pillows were now ever adorned with
her own article of luxury--ruffled pillow-slips? How could she leave
that household god which stood day and night by her bedside, the cradle
that had rocked her children? Should she find elsewhere a patch of
ground for her darling pinks?
Besides, had there not been deep in her heart a hope that some time one
of her boys--Joe, perhaps--might be led to seek his mother? How should
he find her if she went out none knowing whither? Yes, she would stay.
Miss Rusha was glad of her resolution. She had hired a stranger for
cook, and Kizzie, though now somewhat decrepit, could do her many a
service. But it was not in this woman's nature to acknowledge a
kindness; she acted and spoke as if she were doing this old servant a
great favor by allowing her to remain.
It was but a few days ere Mrs. Lisle, who was now more than ever hasty
in temper, raised her hand against Kizzie. Kizzie's eyes flashed, and
she answered her mistress with angry words. This was more than Mrs.
Lisle could bear, and she struck her a blow.
"A free woman to be whipped like a slave," thought Kizzie; "that time
has gone by;" and she threatened to leave.
"Go whenever you please," said the lady.
But Kizzie could not go, and did not. She had borne so much, she might
endure a little more.
Her pertinacity in staying induced Mrs. Lisle to throw off all
restraint. She believed nothing would force her to leave, and fell back
to her former mode of treatment of this pitiable woman. There came a
limit, however, to Kizzie's endurance. She packed up her few goods,
firmly resolved to see her mistress' face no more. She would stay a few
days at Amy's and Chloe's, and then go farther. She would have taken up
her abode altogether with them, as Mr. Lisle advised, only that she and
those amiable women had not been the best of friends. Kizzie had been
too solitary and brooding to form a pleasant companion. At the last
moment she might again have hesitated had she not already sent her
parcels ahead of her by a chance black man.
Having cast a last lingering look about her cabin, she leaned over her
cradle, which she wet with her tears. Then going into the sunlight, she
bent down over her patch of pinks, which were now in fullest fragrance.
She had fallen on her knees, bowing over, and burying her wrinkled face
in the rich mass of bloom and beauty.
Kizzie's heart had not broken over the cradle, nor was it doomed to
break over her beloved blossoms. A man's step startled her. Raising her
head, a tall, dignified military officer of color met her view. He
approached her close, looking steadily at her with those smiling,
pleasant eyes which Kizzie had never forgotten, could never forget, were
they in her Joe of fourteen, or in this fine looking officer. Her heart
said--"It is my Joe; my baby Joe," but her lips could not syllable a
word.
"Mother," said the trembling, glad voice, though so deep and heavy, "you
still love your pinks, mother, do you still love your Joe?"
Ah, what a meeting was that! The wonder is that Kizzie survived it.
Sorrow, grief, had not killed, neither did joy.
When Joe told his mother he had come for her to accompany him North, she
proposed taking her pinks, earth and all.
"O no mother, I have a house and garden of my own; you shall have a
place for your pinks as large as you wish."
The old woman looked up at him questioningly. Before she could speak he
said:
"I see what you wish to know, yes, I am married." "And have a baby Joe"
too, he would have added, only that he had resolved his mother should be
taken by surprise in the visible knowledge of her grandchild.
It was not now difficult for Kizzie to leave her old home; and as she
journeyed northward astonished by new scenes, she learned from Joe his
history since their painful separation.
He had grieved so for his mother that his new master thought it best to
part with him in a neighboring State. He had fallen into good hands; he
had learned to read and write. At the breaking out of the war he had
deserted his master and escaped North. Here he had enlisted as a
soldier, and after much active service had been raised to rank of
Lieutenant in his company. He had found time to marry a runaway
slave-girl, whom he sent North. He and she were both prudent and
industrious, and when the war was over had means to purchase them a
comfortable home. He had always been determined to revisit his mother.
The visit had been doubly pleasant, since he had fought for her liberty
and his own.
When Kizzie arrived at her son's home, and was introduced to his wife
and the unsuspected baby, she was again speechless. But her silent
prayer was that her years might be lengthened out to the number of
Methuseleh's, in order long to enjoy this unaccustomed happiness.