University of Virginia Library

36. CHAPTER XXXVI.
EMMELINE AND CASSY.

Cassy entered the room, and found Emmeline sitting, pale
with fear, in the furthest corner of it. As she came in, the
girl started up nervously; but, on seeing who it was, rushed
forward, and catching her arm, said, “O, Cassy, is it you?
I 'm so glad you 've come! I was afraid it was —. O, you
don't know what a horrid noise there has been, down stairs,
all this evening!”

“I ought to know,” said Cassy, dryly. “I 've heard it
often enough.”

“O Cassy! do tell me, — could n't we get away from this
place? I don't care where, — into the swamp among the
snakes, — anywhere! Could n't we get somewhere away
from here?”

“Nowhere, but into our graves,” said Cassy.

“Did you ever try?”

“I've seen enough of trying, and what comes of it,” said
Cassy.

“I 'd be willing to live in the swamps, and gnaw the bark
from trees. I an't afraid of snakes! I 'd rather have one
near me than him,” said Emmeline, eagerly.

“There have been a good many here of your opinion,” said
Cassy; “but you could n't stay in the swamps, — you 'd be
tracked by the dogs, and brought back, and then — then —”

“What would he do?” said the girl, looking, with breathless
interest, into her face.

“What would n't he do, you 'd better ask,” said Cassy.
“He 's learned his trade well, among the pirates in the West
Indies. You would n't sleep much, if I should tell you
things I 've seen, — things that he tells of, sometimes, for good
jokes. I 've heard screams here that I have n't been able to
get out of my head for weeks and weeks. There 's a place
way out down by the quarters, where you can see a black,
blasted tree, and the ground all covered with black ashes.
Ask any one what was done there, and see if they will dare
to tell you.”

“O! what do you mean?”

“I won't tell you. I hate to think of it. And I tell you,
the Lord only knows what we may see to-morrow, if that
poor fellow holds out as he 's begun.”

“Horrid!” said Emmeline, every drop of blood receding
from her cheeks. “O, Cassy, do tell me what I shall
do!”

“What I 've done. Do the best you can, — do what you
must, — and make it up in hating and cursing.”

“He wanted to make me drink some of his hateful brandy,”
said Emmeline; “and I hate it so —”

“You 'd better drink,” said Cassy. “I hated it, too; and
now I can't live without it. One must have something; —
things don't look so dreadful, when you take that.”

“Mother used to tell me never to touch any such thing,”
said Emmeline.

“Mother told you!” said Cassy, with a thrilling and bitter
emphasis on the word mother. “What use is it for
mothers to say anything? You are all to be bought and paid
for, and your souls belong to whoever gets you. That 's the

way it goes. I say, drink brandy; drink all you can, and
it 'll make things come easier.”

“O, Cassy! do pity me!”

“Pity you! — don't I? Have n't I a daughter, — Lord
knows where she is, and whose she is, now, — going the way
her mother went, before her, I suppose, and that her children
must go, after her! There 's no end to the curse — forever!”

“I wish I 'd never been born!” said Emmeline, wringing
her hands.

“That 's an old wish with me,” said Cassy. “I 've got
used to wishing that. I 'd die, if I dared to,” she said, looking
out into the darkness, with that still, fixed despair which
was the habitual expression of her face when at rest.

“It would be wicked to kill one's self,” said Emmeline.

“I don't know why, — no wickeder than things we live and
do, day after day. But the sisters told me things, when I was
in the convent, that make me afraid to die. If it would only
be the end of us, why, then —”

Emmeline turned away, and hid her face in her hands.

While this conversation was passing in the chamber, Legree,
overcome with his carouse, had sank to sleep in the room
below. Legree was not an habitual drunkard. His coarse,
strong nature craved, and could endure, a continual stimulation,
that would have utterly wrecked and crazed a finer one.
But a deep, underlying spirit of cautiousness prevented his
often yielding to appetite in such measure as to lose control
of himself.

This night, however, in his feverish efforts to banish from
his mind those fearful elements of woe and remorse which
woke within him, he had indulged more than common; so
that, when he had discharged his sable attendants, he fell
heavily on a settle in the room, and was sound asleep.

O! how dares the bad soul to enter the shadowy world of
sleep? — that land whose dim outlines lie so fearfully near to
the mystic scene of retribution! Legree dreamed. In his
heavy and feverish sleep, a veiled form stood beside him, and
laid a cold, soft hand upon him. He thought he knew who
it was; and shuddered, with creeping horror, though the face
was veiled. Then he thought he felt that hair twining
round his fingers; and then, that it slid smoothly round his
neck, and tightened and tightened, and he could not draw his
breath; and then he thought voices whispered to him, —
whispers that chilled him with horror. Then it seemed to
him he was on the edge of a frightful abyss, holding on and
struggling in mortal fear, while dark hands stretched up, and
were pulling him over; and Cassy came behind him laughing,
and pushed him. And then rose up that solemn veiled figure,
and drew aside the veil. It was his mother; and she turned
away from him, and he fell down, down, down, amid a confused
noise of shrieks, and groans, and shouts of demon
laughter, — and Legree awoke.

Calmly the rosy hue of dawn was stealing into the room.
The morning star stood, with its solemn, holy eye of light,
looking down on the man of sin, from out the brightening
sky. O, with what freshness, what solemnity and beauty, is
each new day born; as if to say to insensate man, “Behold!
thou hast one more chance! Strive for immortal glory!”
There is no speech nor language where this voice is not
heard; but the bold, bad man heard it not. He woke with
an oath and a curse. What to him was the gold and purple,
the daily miracle of morning! What to him the sanctity
of that star which the Son of God has hallowed as his own
emblem? Brute-like, he saw without perceiving; and, stumbling

forward, poured out a tumbler of brandy, and drank
half of it.

“I 've had a h—l of a night!” he said to Cassy, who just
then entered from an opposite door.

“You 'll get plenty of the same sort, by and by,” said she,
dryly.

“What do you mean, you minx?”

“You 'll find out, one of these days,” returned Cassy, in
the same tone. “Now, Simon, I 've one piece of advice to
give you.”

“The devil, you have!”

“My advice is,” said Cassy, steadily, as she began adjusting
some things about the room, “that you let Tom alone.”

“What business is 't of yours?”

“What? To be sure, I don't know what it should be.
If you want to pay twelve hundred for a fellow, and use him
right up in the press of the season, just to serve your own
spite, it 's no business of mine. I 've done what I could for
him.”

“You have? What business have you meddling in my
matters?”

“None, to be sure. I 've saved you some thousands of
dollars, at different times, by taking care of your hands, —
that 's all the thanks I get. If your crop comes shorter into
market than any of theirs, you won't lose your bet, I suppose?
Tompkins won't lord it over you, I suppose, — and
you 'll pay down your money like a lady, won't you? I
think I see you doing it!”

Legree, like many other planters, had but one form of
ambition, — to have in the heaviest crop of the season, — and
he had several bets on this very present season pending in

the next town. Cassy, therefore, with woman's tact, touched
the only string that could be made to vibrate.

“Well, I 'll let him off at what he 's got,” said Legree;
“but he shall beg my pardon, and promise better fashions.”

“That he won't do,” said Cassy.

“Won't, — eh?”

“No, he won't,” said Cassy.

“I 'd like to know why, Mistress,” said Legree, in the
extreme of scorn.

“Because he 's done right, and he knows it, and won't say
he 's done wrong.”

“Who a cuss cares what he knows? The nigger shall say
what I please, or —”

“Or, you 'll lose your bet on the cotton crop, by keeping
him out of the field, just at this very press.”

“But he will give up, — course, he will; don't I know
what niggers is? He 'll beg like a dog, this morning.”

“He won't, Simon; you don't know this kind. You may
kill him by inches, — you won't get the first word of confession
out of him.”

“We 'll see; — where is he?” said Legree, going out.

“In the waste-room of the gin-house,” said Cassy.

Legree, though he talked so stoutly to Cassy, still sallied
forth from the house with a degree of misgiving which was
not common with him. His dreams of the past night, mingled
with Cassy's prudential suggestions, considerably affected
his mind. He resolved that nobody should be witness of his
encounter with Tom; and determined, if he could not subdue
him by bullying, to defer his vengeance, to be wreaked in a
more convenient season.

The solemn light of dawn — the angelic glory of the morning-star
— had looked in through the rude window of the

shed where Tom was lying; and, as if descending on that
star-beam, came the solemn words, “I am the root and
offspring of David, and the bright and morning star.” The
mysterious warnings and intimations of Cassy, so far from
discouraging his soul, in the end had roused it as with
a heavenly call. He did not know but that the day of
his death was dawning in the sky; and his heart throbbed
with solemn throes of joy and desire, as he thought that
the wondrous all, of which he had often pondered, — the
great white throne, with its ever radiant rainbow; the white-robed
multitude, with voices as many waters; the crowns,
the palms, the harps, — might all break upon his vision before
that sun should set again. And, therefore, without shuddering
or trembling, he heard the voice of his persecutor, as he
drew near.

“Well, my boy,” said Legree, with a contemptuous kick,
“how do you find yourself? Did n't I tell yer I could larn
yer a thing or two? How do yer like it, — eh? How did yer
whaling agree with yer, Tom? An't quite so crank as ye
was last night. Ye could n't treat a poor sinner, now, to a
bit of a sermon, could ye, — eh?”

Tom answered nothing.

“Get up, you beast!” said Legree, kicking him again.

This was a difficult matter for one so bruised and faint;
and, as Tom made efforts to do so, Legree laughed brutally.

“What makes ye so spry, this morning, Tom? Cotched
cold, may be, last night.”

Tom by this time had gained his feet, and was confronting
his master with a steady, unmoved front.

“The devil, you can!” said Legree, looking him over.
“I believe you have n't got enough yet. Now, Tom, get

right down on yer knees and beg my pardon, for yer shines
last night.”

Tom did not move.

“Down, you dog!” said Legree, striking him with his
riding-whip.

“Mas'r Legree,” said Tom, “I can't do it. I did only
what I thought was right. I shall do just so again, if ever
the time comes. I never will do a cruel thing, come what
may.”

“Yes, but ye don't know what may come, Master Tom. Ye
think what you 've got is something. I tell you 't an't anything,
— nothing 't all. How would ye like to be tied to a tree,
and have a slow fire lit up around ye; — would n't that be
pleasant, — eh, Tom?”

“Mas'r,” said Tom, “I know ye can do dreadful things;
but,” — he stretched himself upward and clasped his hands,
— “but, after ye 've killed the body, there an't no more ye
can do. And O, there 's all ETERNITY to come, after that!”

Eternity, — the word thrilled through the black man's
soul with light and power, as he spoke; it thrilled through
the sinner's soul, too, like the bite of a scorpion. Legree
gnashed on him with his teeth, but rage kept him silent; and
Tom, like a man disenthralled, spoke, in a clear and cheerful
voice,

“Mas'r Legree, as ye bought me, I 'll be a true and faithful
servant to ye. I 'll give ye all the work of my hands,
all my time, all my strength; but my soul I won't give up
to mortal man. I will hold on to the Lord, and put his
commands before all, — die or live; you may be sure on 't.
Mas'r Legree, I an't a grain afeard to die. I 'd as soon die
as not. Ye may whip me, starve me, burn me, — it 'll only
send me sooner where I want to go.”

“I 'll make ye give out, though, 'fore I 've done!” said
Legree, in a rage.

“I shall have help,” said Tom; “you 'll never do it.”

“Who the devil 's going to help you?” said Legree,
scornfully.

“The Lord Almighty,” said Tom.

“D—n you!” said Legree, as with one blow of his fist
he felled Tom to the earth.

A cold soft hand fell on Legree's, at this moment. He
turned, — it was Cassy's; but the cold soft touch recalled his
dream of the night before, and, flashing through the chambers
of his brain, came all the fearful images of the night-watches,
with a portion of the horror that accompanied them.

“Will you be a fool?” said Cassy, in French. “Let him
go! Let me alone to get him fit to be in the field again.
Is n't it just as I told you?”

They say the alligator, the rhinoceros, though enclosed
in bullet-proof mail, have each a spot where they are vulnerable;
and fierce, reckless, unbelieving reprobates, have
commonly this point in superstitious dread.

Legree turned away, determined to let the point go for the
time.

“Well, have it your own way,” he said, doggedly, to
Cassy.

“Hark, ye!” he said to Tom; “I won't deal with ye
now, because the business is pressing, and I want all my
hands; but I never forget. I 'll score it against ye, and
sometime I 'll have my pay out o' yer old black hide, — mind
ye!”

Legree turned, and went out.

“There you go,” said Cassy, looking darkly after him;

“your reckoning 's to come, yet! — My poor fellow, how
are you?”

“The Lord God hath sent his angel, and shut the lion's
mouth, for this time,” said Tom.

“For this time, to be sure,” said Cassy; “but now you 've
got his ill will upon you, to follow you day in, day out, hanging
like a dog on your throat, — sucking your blood, bleeding
away your life, drop by drop. I know the man.”