University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
THE DILEMMA.

In order to understand the occasion which hurried Harry
home, we must go back to Canema. Nina, after taking her
letters from the hands of Tomtit, as we have related, ran
back with them into Mrs. Nesbit's room, and sat herself
down to read them. As she read, she evidently became
quite excited and discomposed, crumpling a paper with her
little hand, and tapping her foot impatiently on the carpet.

“There, now, I 'm sure I don't know what I shall do, Aunt
Nesbit!” addressing her aunt, because it was her out-spoken
habit to talk to any body or thing which happened
to be sitting next to her. “I 've got myself into a pretty
scrape now!”

“I told you you 'd get into trouble, one of these days!”

“O, you told me so! If there 's anything I hate, it is to
have anybody tell me `I told you so!' But, now, aunt,
really, I know I 've been foolish, but I don't know what
to do. Here are two gentlemen coming together, that I
would n't have meet each other here for the world; and I
don't know really what I had better do.”

“You 'd better do just as you please, as you always do,
and always would, ever since I knew you,” said Aunt Nesbit,
in a calm, indifferent tone.

“But, really, aunt, I don't know what 's proper to do in
such a case.”

“Your and my notions of propriety, Nina, are so different,
that I don't know how to advise you. You see the
consequences, now, of not attending to the advice of your

friends. I always knew these flirtations of yours would
bring you into trouble.” And Aunt Nesbit said this with
that quiet, satisfied air with which precise elderly people
so often edify their thoughtless young friends under difficulties.

“Well, I did n't want a sermon, now, Aunt Nesbit; but,
as you 've seen a great deal more of the world than I have,
I thought you might help me a little, just to tell me whether
it would n't be proper for me to write and put one of these
gentlemen off; or make some excuse for me, or something.
I 'm sure I never kept house before. I don't want to do
anything that don't seem hospitable; and yet I don't want
them to come together. Now, there, that 's flat!”

There was a long pause, in which Nina sat vexed and
coloring, biting her lips, and nestling uneasily in her seat.

Mrs. Nesbit looked calm and considerate, and Nina began
to hope that she was taking the case a little to heart.

At last the good old lady looked up, and said, very quietly,
“I wonder what time it is.”

Nina thought she was debating the expediency of sending
some message; and therefore she crossed the room with
great alacrity, to look at the old clock in the entry.

“It 's half-past two, aunt!” and she stood, with her lips
apart, looking at Mrs. Nesbit for some suggestion.

“I was going to tell Rosa,” said she, abstractedly, “that
that onion in the stuffing does not agree with me. It rose
on my stomach all yesterday morning; but it 's too late
now.”

Nina actually stamped with anger.

“Aunt Nesbit, you are the most selfish person I ever saw
in my life!”

“Nina, child, you astonish me!” said Aunt Nesbit, with
her wonted placidity. “What 's the matter?”

“I don't care!” said Nina, “I don't care a bit! I don't
see how people can be so! If a dog should come to me
and tell me he was in trouble, I think I should listen to him,
and show some kind of interest to help him! I don't care

how foolish anybody has been; if they are in trouble, I 'd
help them, if I could; and I think you might think enough
of it to give me some little advice!”

“O, you are talking about that affair, yet?” said her
aunt. “Why, I believe I told you I did n't know what to
advise, did n't I? Should n't give way to this temper,
Nina; it 's very unladylike, besides being sinful. But,
then, I don't suppose it 's any use for me to talk!” And
Aunt Nesbit, with an abused air, got up, walked quietly to
the looking-glass, took off her morning cap, unlocked her
drawer, and laid it in; took out another, which Nina could
not see differed a particle from the last, held it up thoughtfully
on her hand, and appeared absorbed in the contemplation
of it, — while Nina, swelling with a mixture of anger
and mortification, stood regarding her as she leisurely picked
out each bow, and finally, with a decorous air of solemnity,
arranged it upon her head, patting it tenderly down.

“Aunt Nesbit,” she said, suddenly, as if the words hurt
her, “I think I spoke improperly, and I 'm very sorry for it.
I beg your pardon.”

“O, it 's no matter, child; I did n't care about it. I 'm
pretty well used to your temper.”

Bang went the door, and in a moment Nina stood in the
entry, shaking her fist at it with impotent wrath.

“You stony, stiff, disagreeable old creature! how came
you ever to be my mother's sister?” And, with the word
mother, she burst into a tempest of tears, and rushed violently
to her own chamber. The first object that she saw
was Milly, arranging some clothes in her drawer; and, to her
astonishment, Nina rushed up to her, and, throwing her
arms round her neck, sobbed and wept, in such tumultuous
excitement, that the good creature was alarmed.

“Laws bless my soul, my dear little lamb! what 's the
matter? Why, don't! Don't, honey! Why, bless the
dear little soul! bless the dear precious lamb! who 's been
a hurting of it?” And, at each word of endearment, Nina's

distress broke out afresh, and she sobbed so bitterly that
the faithful creature really began to be frightened.

“Laws, Miss Nina, I hope there an't nothing happened
to you now!”

“No, no, nothing, Milly, only I am lonesome, and I want
my mother! I have n't got any mother! Dear me!” she
said, with a fresh burst.

“Ah, the poor thing!” said Milly, compassionately, sitting
down, and fondling Nina in her arms, as if she had been
a babe. “Poor chile! Laws, yes; I 'member your ma
was a beautiful woman!”

“Yes,” said Nina, speaking between her sobs, “the girls
at school had mothers. And there was Mary Brooks, she
used to read to me her mother's letters, and I used to feel
so, all the while, to think nobody wrote such letters to me!
And there 's Aunt Nesbit — I don't care what they say about
her being religious, she is the most selfish, hateful creature
I ever did see! I do believe, if I was lying dead and laid
out in the next room to her, she would be thinking what
she 'd get next for dinner!”

“O, don't, my poor lamb, don't!” said Milly, compassionately.

“Yes, I will, too! She 's always taking it for granted
that I 'm the greatest sinner on the face of the earth! She
don't scold me — she don't care enough about me to scold!
She only takes it for granted, in her hateful, quiet way, that
I 'm going to destruction, and that she can't help it, and
don't care! Supposing I 'm not good! — what 's to make me
good? Is it going to make me good for people to sit up so
stiff, and tell me they always knew I was a fool, and a flirt,
and all that? Milly, I 've had dreadful turns of wanting to
be good, and I 've laid awake nights and cried because I
was n't good. And what makes it worse is, that I think, if
Ma was alive, she could help me. She was n't like Aunt
Nesbit, was she, Milly?”

“No, honey, she was n't. I 'll tell you about your ma,
some time, honey.”

“The worst of it is,” said Nina, “when Aunt Nesbit
speaks to me in her hateful way, I get angry; then I speak
in a way that is n't proper, I know. O, if she only would
get angry with me back again! or if she 'd do anything in
the world but stand still, in her still way, telling me she is
astonished at me! That 's a lie, too; for she never was
astonished at anything in her life! She has n't life enough
to be!”

“Ah, Miss Nina, we must n't spect more of folks than
there is in them.”

“Expect? I don't expect!”

“Well, bless you, honey, when you knows what folks
is, don't let 's worry. Ye can't fill a quart-cup out of a
thimble, honey, no way you can fix it. There 's just whar
't is. I knowed your ma, and I 's knowed Miss Loo, ever
since she was a girl. 'Pears like they wan't no more alike
than snow is like sugar. Miss Loo, when she was a girl,
she was that pretty, that everybody was wondering after
her; but to de love, dat ar went arter your ma. Could n't
tell why it was, honey. 'Peared like Miss Loo wan't
techy, nor she wan't one of your bursting-out sort, scolding
round. 'Peared like she 'd never hurt nobody; and yet
our people, they could n't none of dem bar her. 'Peared
like nobody did nothing for her with a will.”

“Well, good reason!” said Nina; “she never did anything
for anybody else with a will! She never cared for
anybody! Now, I 'm selfish; I always knew it. I do a
great many selfish things; but it 's a different kind from
hers. Do you know, Milly, she don't seem to know she is
selfish? There she sits, rocking in her old chair, so sure
she 's going straight to heaven, and don't care whether
anybody else gets there or not!”

“O laws, now, Miss Nina, you 's too hard on her. Why,
look how patient she sits with Tomtit, teaching him his
hymns and varses.”

“And you think that 's because she cares anything about
him? Do you know she thinks he is n't fit to go to heaven,

and that if he dies he' ll go to the bad place. And yet, if
he was to die to-morrow, she 'd talk to you about clear-starching
her caps! No wonder the child don't love her!
She talks to him just as she does to me; tells him she
don't expect anything of him — she knows he 'll never
come to any good; and the little wretch has got it by heart,
now. Do you know that, though I get in a passion with
Tom, sometimes, and though I 'm sure I should perish sitting
boring with him over those old books, yet I really
believe I care more for him than she does? And he knows
it, too. He sees through her as plain as I do. You 'll
never make me believe that Aunt Nesbit has got religion.
I know there is such a thing as religion; but she has n't got
it. It is n't all being sober, and crackling old stiff religious
newspapers, and boring with texts and hymns, that makes
people religious. She is just as worldly-minded as I am,
only it 's in another way. There, now, I wanted her to
advise me about something, to-day. Why, Milly, all girls
want somebody to talk with; and if she 'd only showed
the least interest in what I said, she might scold me and
lecture me as much as she 'd a mind to. But, to have her
not even hear me! And when she must have seen that I was
troubled and perplexed, and wanted somebody to advise
me, she turned round so cool, and began to talk about the
onions and the stuffing! Got me so angry! I suppose she
is in her room, now, rocking, and thinking what a sinner I
am!”

“Well, now, Miss Nina, 'pears though you 've talked
enough about dat ar; 'pears like it won't make you feel
no better.”

“Yes it does make me feel better! I had to speak to
somebody, Milly, or else I should have burst; and now I
wonder where Harry is. He always could find a way for
me out of anything.”

“He is gone over to see his wife, I think, Miss Nina.”

“O, too bad! Do send Tomtit after him, right away.
Tell him that I want him to come right home, this very

minute — something very particular. And, Milly, you just
go and tell Old Hundred to get out the carriage and horses,
and I 'll go over and drop a note in the post-office, myself.
I won't trust it to Tomtit; for I know he 'll lose it.”

“Miss Nina,” said Milly, looking hesitatingly, “I 'spect
you don't know how things go about round here; but the
fact is, Old Hundred has got so kind of cur'ous, lately,
there can't nobody do nothing with him, except Harry.
Don't 'tend to do nothing Miss Loo tells him to. I 's feared
he 'll make up some story or other about the horses; but
he won't get 'em out — now, mind, I tell you, chile!”

“He won't! I should like to know if he won't, when I
tell him to! A pretty story that would be! I 'll soon teach
him that he has a live mistress — somebody quite different
from Aunt Loo!”

“Well, well, chile, perhaps you 'd better go. He would n't
mind me, I know. Maybe he 'll do it for you.”

“O, yes; I 'll just run down to his house, and hurry him
up.” And Nina, quite restored to her usual good-humor,
tripped gayly across to the cabin of Old Hundred, that
stood the other side of the house.

Old Hundred's true name was, in fact, John. But he had
derived the appellation by which he was always known,
from the extreme moderation of all his movements. Old
Hundred had a double share of that profound sense of the
dignity of his office which is an attribute of the tribe of
coachmen in general. He seemed to consider the horses
and carriage as a sort of family ark, of which he was the
high priest, and which it was his business to save from
desecration. According to his own showing, all the people
on the plantation, and indeed the whole world in general,
were in a state of habitual conspiracy against the family
carriage and horses, and he was standing for them, single-handed,
at the risk of his life. It was as much part
of his duty, in virtue of his office, to show cause, on every
occasion, why the carriage should not be used, as it is for
state attorneys to undertake prosecutions. And it was also

a part of the accomplishment of his situation to conduct his
refusal in the most decorous manner; always showing that
it was only the utter impossibility of the case which prevented.
The available grounds of refusal Old Hundred had
made a life-study, and had always a store of them cut and
dried for use, all ready at a moment's notice. In the first
place, there were always a number of impossibilities with
regard to the carriage. Either “it was muddy, and he was
laying out to wash it;” or else “he had washed it, and
could n't have it splashed;” or “he had taken out the
back curtain, and had laid out to put a stitch in it, one of
dese yer days;” or there was something the matter with
the irons. “He reckoned they was a little bit sprung.”
He “'lowed he 'd ask the blacksmith about it, some of these
yer times.” And, then, as to the horses the possibilities
were rich and abundant. What with strains, and loose
shoes, and stones getting in at the hoofs, dangers of all
sorts of complaints, for which he had his own vocabulary
of names, it was next to an impossibility, according to
any ordinary rule of computing chances, that the two
should be in complete order together.

Utterly ignorant, however, of the magnitude of the undertaking
which she was attempting, and buoyant with the
consciousness of authority, Nina tripped singing along,
and found Old Hundred tranquilly reclining in his tent-door,
watching through his half-shut eyes, while the afternoon
sunbeam irradiated the smoke which rose from the old pipe
between his teeth. A large, black, one-eyed crow sat
perching, with a quizzical air, upon his knee; and when
he heard Nina's footsteps approaching, cocked his remaining
eye towards her, with a smart, observing attitude, as if
he had been deputed to look out for applications while his
master dozed. Between this crow, who had received the
sobriquet of Uncle Jeff, and his master, there existed a
most particular bond of friendship and amity. This was
further strengthened by the fact that they were both
equally disliked by all the inhabitants of the place. Like

many people who are called to stand in responsible positions,
Old Hundred had rather failed in the humble virtues,
and become dogmatical and dictatorial to that degree that
nobody but his own wife could do anything with him. And
as to Jeff, if the principle of thievery could be incarnate, he
might have won a temple among the Lacedemonians. In
various skirmishes and battles consequent on his misdeeds,
Jeff had lost an eye, and had a considerable portion of the
feathers scalded off on one side of his head; while the remaining
ones, discomposed by the incident, ever after stood
up in a protesting attitude, imparting something still more
sinister to his goblin appearance. In another rencounter
he had received a permanent twist in the neck, which gave
him always the appearance of looking over his shoulder,
and added not a little to the oddity of the general effect.
Uncle Jeff thieved with an assiduity and skill which were
worthy of a better cause; and, when not upon any serious
enterprise of this kind, employed his time in pulling up
corn, scratching up newly-planted flower-seeds, tangling
yarn, pulling out knitting-needles, pecking the eyes of
sleeping people, scratching and biting children, and any
other little miscellaneous mischief which occurred to him.
He was invaluable to Old Hundred, because he was a
standing apology for any and all discoveries made on his
premises of things which ought not to have been there.
No matter what was brought to light, — whether spoons from
the great house, or a pair of sleeve-buttons, or a handkerchief,
or a pipe from a neighboring cabin, — Jeff was always
called up to answer. Old Hundred regularly scolded, on
these occasions, and declared he was enough to “spile the
character of any man's house.” And Jeff would look at
him comically over the shoulder, and wink his remaining
eye, as much as to say that the scolding was a settled
thing between them, and that he was n't going to take it at
all in ill part.

“Uncle John,” said Nina, “I want you to get the carriage

out for me, right away. I want to take a ride over
the cross run.”

“Laws bless you sweet face, honey, chile, I 's dreadful
sorry; but you can't do it dis yer day.”

“Can't do it! why not?”

“Why, bless you, chile, it an't possible, no way. Can't
have the carriage and hosses dis yer arternoon.”

“But I must go over to cross run to the post-office. I
must go this minute!”

“Law, chile, you can't do it! fur you can't walk, and
it 's sartain you can't ride, because dese yer hosses, nor dis
yer carriage, can't stir out dis yer arternoon, no way you
can fix it. Mout go, perhaps, to-morrow, or next week.”

“O, Uncle John, I don't believe a word of it! I want
them this afternoon, and I say I must have them!”

“No, you can't, chile,” said Old Hundred, in a tender,
condescending tone, as if he was speaking to a baby. “I
tell you dat ar is impossible. Why, bless your soul, Miss
Nina, de curtains is all off de carriage!”

“Well, put them on again, then!”

“Ah, Miss Nina, dat ar an't all. Pete was desperate
sick, last night; took with de thumps, powerful bad. Why,
Miss Nina, he was dat sick I had to be up with him most all
night!” And, while Old Hundred thus adroitly issued this
little work of fiction, the raven nodded waggishly at Nina,
as much as to say, “You hear that fellow, now!”

Nina stood quite perplexed, biting her lips, and Old Hundred
seemed to go into a profound slumber.

“I don't believe but what the horses can go to-day! I
mean to go and look.”

“Laws, honey, chile, ye can't, now; de do's is all locked,
and I 've got de key in my pocket. Every one of dem
critturs would have been killed forty times over 'fore now.
I think everybody in dis yer world is arter dem dar critturs.
Miss Loo, she 's wanting 'em to go one way, and
Harry 's allers usin' de critturs. Got one out, dis yer arter-noon,
riding over to see his wife. Don't see no use in his

riding round so grand, noway! Laws, Miss Nina, your
pa used to say to me, says he, `Uncle John, you knows
more about dem critturs dan I do; and, now I tell you what
it is, Uncle John — you take care of dem critturs; don't you
let nobody kill 'em for nothing.' Now, Miss Nina, I 's
always a walking in the steps of the colonel's 'rections.
Now, good, clar, bright weather, over good roads, I likes to
trot the critturs out. Dat ar is reasonable. But, den, what
roads is over the cross run, I want to know? Dem dere
roads is de most mis'ablest things you ever did see. Mud!
Hi! Ought for to see de mud down dar by de creek! Why,
de bridge all tared off! Man drowned in dat dar creek
once! Was so! It an't no sort of road for young ladies
to go over. Tell you, Miss Nina; why don' you let Harry
carry your letter over? If he must be ridin' round de
country, don't see why he could n't do some good wid his
ridin'. Why, de carriage would n't get over before ten
o'clock, dis yer night! Now, mine, I tell you. Besides,
it 's gwine fur to rain. I 's been feeling dat ar in my corns,
all dis yer morning; and Jeff, he 's been acting like the berry
debil hisself — de way he always does 'fore it rains. Never
knowed dat ar sign to fail.”

“The short of the matter is, Uncle John, you are determined
not to go,” said Nina. “But I tell you you shall
go! — there, now! Now, do you get up immediately, and
get out those horses!”

Old Hundred still sat quiet, smoking; and Nina, after reiterating
her orders till she got thoroughly angry, began, at
last, to ask herself the question, how she was going to carry
them into execution. Old Hundred appeared to have descended
into himself in a profound revery, and betrayed
not the smallest sign of hearing anything she said.

“I wish Harry would come back quick,” she said to herself,
as she pensively retraced her steps through the garden;
but Tomtit had taken the commission to go for him in his
usual leisurely way, spending the greater part of the afternoon
on the road.

“Now, an't you ashamed of yourself, you mean old nigger!”
said Aunt Rose, the wife of Old Hundred, who had
been listening to the conversation; “talking 'bout de creek,
and de mud, and de critturs, and lor knows what all, when
we all knows it 's nothing but your laziness!”

“Well,” said Old Hundred, “and what would come o'
the critturs if I was n't lazy, I want to know? Laziness!
it 's the berry best thing for the critturs can be. Where 'd
dem horses a been now, if I had been one of your highfelutin
sort, always driving round? Where 'd dey a been,
and what would dey a been, hey? Who wants to see hosses
all skin and bone? Lord! if I had been like some o' de
coachmen, de buzzards would have had the picking of dem
critturs, long ago!”

“I rally believe that you 've told dem dar lies till you
begin to believe them yourself!” said Rose. “Telling our
dear, sweet young lady about your being up with Pete all
night, when de Lord knows you laid here snoring fit to tar
de roof off!”

“Well, must say something! Folks must be 'spectful to
de ladies. Course I could n't tell her I would n't take de
critturs out; so I just trots out scuse. Ah! lots of dem
scuses I keeps! I tell you, now, scuses is excellent things.
Why, scuses is like dis yer grease that keeps de wheels
from screaking. Lord bless you, de whole world turns round
on scuses. Whar de world be if everybody was such fools
to tell the raal reason for everything they are gwine for to
do, or an't gwine fur to!”