CHAPTER XI.
THE PRACTICAL TEST.
THE hens cackled drowsily in the barn-yard of the white Marvyn-house;in the blue June-afternoon sky sported great sailing islands of cloud,whose white, glistening heads looked in and out through the greenapertures of maple and blossoming apple-boughs; the shadows of thetrees had already turned eastward, when the one-horse waggon of Mrs.Katy Scudder appeared at the door, where Mrs. Marvyn stood, with apleased, quiet welcome in her soft brown eyes. Mrs. Scudder herselfdrove, sitting on a seat in front,—while the Doctor, apparelled in themost faultless style, with white wrist-ruffles, plaited shirt-bosom,immaculate wig, and well-brushed coat, sat by Mary’s side, serenelyunconscious how many feminine cares had gone to his getting-up. Hedid not know of the privy consultations, the sewings, stitchings, andstarchings, the ironings, the brushings, the foldings and unfoldingsand timely arrangements, that gave such dignity and respectability tohis outer man, any more than the serene moon rising tranquilly behind apurple mountain-top troubles her calm head with treatises on astronomy;it is enough for her to shine,—she thinks not how or why.
There is a vast amount of latent gratitude to women lying undevelopedin the hearts of men, which would come out plentifully, if they onlyknew what they did for them. The Doctor was so used to being welldressed, that he never asked why. That his wig always sat straight, andeven around his ample forehead, not facetiously poked to one side, norassuming rakish airs, unsuited to clerical dignity, was entirely owingto Mrs. Katy Scudder. That his best broadcloth coat was not illustratedwith shreds and patches, fluff and dust, and hanging in ungainlyfolds, was owing to the same. That his long silk stockings never hada treacherous stitch allowed to break out into a long running ladderwas due to her watchfulness; and that he wore spotless ruffles on hiswrists or at his bosom was her doing also. The Doctor little thought,while he, in common with good ministers generally, gently traduced theScriptural Martha and insisted on the duty of heavenly abstractedness,how much of his own leisure for spiritual contemplation was due to theMartha-like talents of his hostess. But then, the good soul had it inhim to be grateful, and would have been unboundedly so, if he had knownhis indebtedness,—as, we trust, most of our magnanimous masters wouldbe.
Mr. Zebedee Marvyn was quietly sitting in the front summer parlour,listening to the story of two of his brother church-members, betweenwhom some difficulty had arisen in the settling of accounts: JimBigelow, a small, dry, dapper little individual, known as generaljobber and factotum, and Abram Griswold, a stolid, wealthy,well-to-do farmer. And the fragments of conversation we catch are notuninteresting, as showing Mr. Zebedee’s habits of thought and mode oftreating those who came to him for advice.
‘I could ’ave got along better, if he’d ’a’ paid me regular everynight,’ said the squeaky voice of little Jim;—‘but he was allersputtin’ me off till it come even change, he said.’
‘Well, ’t’aint always handy,’ replied the other; ‘one doesn’t like tobreak into a five-pound note for nothing; and I like to let it run tillit comes even change.’
‘But, brother,’ said Mr. Zebedee, turning over the great Bible thatlay on the mahogany stand in the corner, ‘we must go to the law and tothe testimony,’—and, turning over the leaves, he read from Deuteronomyxxiv.:—
‘Thou shalt not oppress an hired servant that is poor and needy,whether he be of thy brethren or of thy strangers that are in thy landwithin thy gates. At his day thou shalt give him his hire, neithershall the sun go down upon it; for he is poor, and setteth his heartupon it: lest he cry against thee unto the Lord, and it be sin untothee.’
‘You see what the Bible has to say on the matter,’ he said.
‘Well, now, Deacon, I rather think you’ve got me in a tight place,’said Mr. Griswold, rising; and turning confusedly round, he saw theplacid figure of the Doctor, who had entered the room unobserved inthe midst of the conversation, and was staring with that look of calm,dreamy abstraction which often led people to suppose that he heard andsaw nothing of what was going forward.
All rose reverently; and while Mr. Zebedee was shaking hands withthe Doctor, and welcoming him to his house, the other two silentlywithdrew, making respectful obeisance.
Mrs. Marvyn had drawn Mary’s hand gently under her arm and taken herto her own sleeping-room, as it was her general habit to do, that shemight show her the last book she had been reading, and pour into herear the thoughts that had been kindled up by it.
Mrs. Scudder, after carefully brushing every speck of dust from theDoctor’s coat and seeing him seated in an arm-chair by the open window,took out a long stocking of blue-mixed yarn which she was knitting forhis winter-wear, and, pinning her knitting-sheath on her side, was soontrotting her needles contentedly in front of him.
The ill-success of the Doctor’s morning attempt at enforcing histheology in practice rather depressed his spirits. There was a nobleinnocence of nature in him which looked at hypocrisy with a puzzled andincredulous astonishment. How a man _could_ do so and be so was to hima problem at which his thoughts vainly laboured. Not that he was in theleast discouraged or hesitating in regard to his own course. When hehad made up his mind to perform a duty, the question of success no moreentered his thoughts than those of the granite boulder to which we havebefore compared him. When the time came for him to roll, he did rollwith the whole force of his being;—where he was to land was not hisconcern.
Mildly and placidly he sat with his hands resting on his knees, whileMr. Zebedee and Mrs. Scudder compared notes respecting the relativeprospects of corn, flax, and buckwheat, and thence passed to thedoings of Congress and the last proclamation of General Washington,pausing once in a while, if, peradventure, the Doctor might take up theconversation. Still he sat dreamily eyeing the flies as they fizzeddown the panes of the half-open window.
‘I think,’ said Mr. Zebedee, ‘the prospects of the Federal party werenever brighter.’
The Doctor was a stanch Federalist, and generally warmed to thisallurement; but it did not serve this time.
Suddenly drawing himself up, a light came into his blue eyes, and hesaid to Mr. Marvyn,—
‘I’m thinking, Deacon, if it is wrong to keep back the wages of aservant till after the going down of the sun, what those are to do whokeep them back all their lives.’
There was a way the Doctor had of hearing and seeing when he lookedas if his soul were afar off, and bringing suddenly into presentconversation some fragment of the past on which he had been leisurelyhammering in the quiet chambers of his brain, which was sometimes quitestartling.
This allusion to a passage of Scripture which Mr. Marvyn was readingwhen he came in, and which nobody supposed he had attended to, startledMrs. Scudder, who thought, mentally, ‘Now for it!’ and laid down herknitting-work, and eyed her cousin anxiously. Mrs. Marvyn and Mary,who had glided in and joined the circle, looking interested; and aslight flush rose and overspread the thin cheeks of Mr. Marvyn, and hisblue eyes deepened in a moment with a thoughtful shadow, as he lookedinquiringly at the Doctor, who proceeded:—
‘My mind labours with this subject of the enslaving of the Africans,Mr. Marvyn. We have just been declaring to the world that all men areborn with an inalienable right to liberty. We have fought for it, andthe Lord of Hosts has been with us; and can we stand before Him, withour foot upon our brother’s neck?’
A generous, upright nature is always more sensitive to blame thananother,—sensitive in proportion to the amount of its reverencefor good,—and Mr. Marvyn’s face flushed, his eye kindled, and hiscompressed respiration showed how deeply the subject moved him. Mrs.Marvyn’s eyes turned on him an anxious look of inquiry. He answered,however, calmly:—
‘Doctor, I have thought of the subject myself. Mrs. Marvyn has latelybeen reading a pamphlet of Mr. Thomas Clarkson’s on the slave-trade,and she was saying to me only last night, that she did not see but theargument extended equally to holding slaves. One thing, I confess,stumbles me:—Was there not an express permission gi
ven to Israel to buyand hold slaves of old?’
‘Doubtless,’ said the Doctor; ‘but many permissions were given to themwhich were local and temporary; for if we hold them to apply to thehuman race, the Turks might quote the Bible for making slaves of us, ifthey could,—and the Algerines have the Scripture all on their side,—andour own blacks, at some future time, if they can get the power, mightjustify themselves in making slaves of us.’
‘I assure you, sir,’ said Mr. Marvyn, ‘if I speak, it is not to excusemyself. But I am quite sure my servants do not desire liberty, andwould not take it, if it were offered.’
‘Call them in and try it,’ said the Doctor. ‘If they refuse, it istheir own matter.’
There was a gentle movement in the group at the directness of thispersonal application; but Mr. Marvyn replied, calmly,—
‘Cato is up at the eight-acre lot, but you may call in Candace. Mydear, call Candace, and let the Doctor put the question to her.’
Candace was at this moment sitting before the ample fireplace in thekitchen, with two iron kettles before her, nestled each in its bed ofhickory coals, which gleamed out from their white ashes like sleepy,red eyes, opening and shutting. In one was coffee, which she wasburning, stirring vigorously with a pudding-stick,—and in the other,puffy dough-nuts, in shapes of rings, hearts, and marvellous twists,which Candace had such a special proclivity for making, that Mrs.Marvyn’s table and closets never knew an intermission of their presence.
‘Candace, the Doctor wishes to see you,’ said Mrs. Marvyn.
‘Bress his heart!’ said Candace, looking up, perplexed. ‘Wants tosee me, does he? Can’t nobody hab me till dis yer coffee’s done; aminnit’s a minnit in coffee;—but I’ll be in dereckly,’ she added, ina patronising tone. ‘Missis, you jes’ go ‘long in, an’ I’ll be dardereckly.’
A few moments after Candace joined the group in the sitting-room,having hastily tied a clean white apron over her blue linseyworking-dress, and donned the brilliant Madras which James had latelygiven her, and which she had a barbaric fashion of arranging so as togive to her head the air of a gigantic butterfly. She sunk a dutifulcurtsy, and stood twirling her thumbs, while the Doctor surveyed hergravely.
‘Candace,’ said he, ‘do you think it right that the black race shouldbe slaves to the white?’
The face and air of Candace presented a curious picture at this moment;a sort of rude sense of delicacy embarrassed her, and she turned adeprecating look, first on Mrs. Marvyn and then on her master.
‘Don’t mind us, Candace,’ said Mrs. Marvyn; ‘tell the Doctor the exacttruth.’
Candace stood still a moment, and the spectators saw a deeper shadowroll over her sable face, like a cloud over a dark pool of water, andher immense person heaved with her laboured breathing.
_Candace receives her Freedom._
_Page 107._
Sampson Low, Son & Co. April 25th, 1859]
‘Ef I must speak I must,’ she said. ‘No,—I neber did tink ’twas right.When General Washington was here, I hearn ’em read de Declaration obIndependence and Bill o’ Rights; an’ I tole Cato den, says I, “Ef datar’ true, you an’ I are as free as anybody.” It stands to reason.Why, look at me,—I a’n’t a critter. I’s neider huffs nor horns. I’sa reasonable bein’,—a woman,—as much a woman as anybody,’ she said,holding up her head with an air as majestic as a palm-tree;—‘an’Cato,—he’s a man born free an’ equal, ef dar’s any truth in what youread,—dat’s all.’
‘But, Candace, you’ve always been contented and happy with us, have younot?’ said Mr. Marvyn.
‘Yes, Mass’r,—I ha’n’t got nuffin to complain of in dat matter. Icouldn’t hab no better friends ’n you an’ Missis.’
‘Would you like your liberty, if you could get it, though?’ said Mr.Marvyn. ‘Answer me honestly.’
‘Why, to be sure I should! Who wouldn’t? Mind ye,’ she said, earnestlyraising her black, heavy hand, ‘’ta’n’t dat I want to go off, or wantto shirk work; but I want to _feel free_. Dem dat isn’t free has nuffinto give to nobody;—dey can’t show what dey would do.’
‘Well, Candace, from this day you are free,’ said Mr. Marvyn, solemnly.
Candace covered her face with both her fat hands, and shook andtrembled, and, finally, throwing her apron over her head, made adesperate rush for the door, and threw herself down in the kitchen in aperfect tropical torrent of tears and sobs.
‘You see,’ said the Doctor, ‘what freedom is to every human creature.The blessing of the Lord will be on this deed, Mr. Marvyn. “The stepsof a just man are ordered by the Lord, and he delighteth in his way.”’
At this moment, Candace reappeared at the door, her butterfly turbansomewhat deranged with the violence of her prostration, giving awhimsical air to her portly person.
‘I want ye all to know,’ she said, with a clearing-up snuff, ‘dat it’smy will ’an pleasure to go right on doin’ my work jes’ de same; an’,Missis, please, I’ll allers put three eggs in de crullers, now; an’I won’t turn de wash-basin down in de sink, but hang it jam-up on denail; an’ I won’t pick up chips in a milkpan, ef I’m in ever so big ahurry;—I’ll do eberyting jes’ as ye tells me. Now you try me and see efI won’t!’
Candace here alluded to some of the little private wilfulnesses whichshe had always obstinately cherished as reserved rights, in pursuingdomestic matters with her mistress.
‘I intend,’ said Mr. Marvyn, ‘to make the same offer to your husband,when he returns from work to night.’
‘Laus, Mass’r,—why, Cato he’ll do jes’ as I do,—dere a’n’t no kind o’need o’ askin’ him. ’Course he will.’
A smile passed round the circle, because between Candace and herhusband there existed one of those whimsical contrasts which onesometimes sees in married life. Cato was a small-built, thin,softly-spoken negro, addicted to a gentle chronic cough; and, though afaithful and skilful servant, seemed, in relation to his better half,much like a hill of potatoes under a spreading apple-tree. Candace heldto him with a vehement and patronizing fondness, so devoid of conjugalreverence as to excite the comments of her friends.
‘You must remember, Candace,’ said a good deacon to her one day, whenshe was ordering him about at a catechizing, ‘you ought to give honourto your husband; the wife is the weaker vessel.’
‘_I_ de weaker vessel?’ said Candace, looking down from the tower ofher ample corpulence on the small, quiet man whom she had been fledgingwith the ample folds of a worsted comforter, out of which his littlehead and shining bead-eyes looked much like a blackbird in a nest,—‘_I_de weaker vessel? Umph!’
A whole-woman’s-rights’ convention could not have expressed more in aday than was given in that single look and word. Candace considereda husband as a thing to be taken care of,—a rather inconsequent andsomewhat troublesome species of pet, to be humoured, nursed, fed,clothed, and guided in the way that he was to go,—an animal thatwas always losing of buttons, catching colds, wearing his best coatevery day, and getting on his Sunday hat in a surreptitious mannerfor week-day occasions; but she often condescended to express it asher opinion that he was a blessing, and that she didn’t know what sheshould do if it wasn’t for Cato. In fact, he seemed to supply her thatwhich we are told is the great want in woman’s situation,—an object inlife. She sometimes was heard expressing herself very energetically indisapprobation of the conduct of one of her sable friends, named JinnyStiles, who, after being presented with her own freedom, worked severalyears to buy that of her husband, but became afterwards so disgustedwith her acquisition that she declared she would, ‘neber buy anodernigger.’
‘Now Jinny don’t know what she’s talkin’ about,’ she would say. ‘S’posehe does cough and keep her awake nights, and take a little too muchsometimes, a’n’t he better’n no husband at all? A body wouldn’t seem tohab nuffin to lib for, ef dey hadn’t an ole man to look arter. Men isnate’lly foolish about some tings,—but dey’s good deal better’n nuffin.’
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nbsp; And Candace, after this condescending remark, would lift off with onehand a brass kettle in which poor Cato might have been drowned, and flyacross the kitchen with it as if it were a feather.