THE TWO SLAVES—THE GLIMMER OF LIGHT.
From the time of Mrs. Wentworth's arrest and imprisonment, the old negro had paid every attention to the little boy left under her care. Knowing that she would be likely to receive punishment for having a white child living with her, she had made several efforts to see her master, but each time she called, both the Doctor and Emma were absent. She was thus compelled to wait until some opportunity offered to turn the little boy over to her master, who she knew would promptly give him a home while he remained unclaimed by his lawful guardians. In her visits to Dr. Humphries' house the old negro had met Elsy, and being pleased with the appearance of the girl, had contracted quite a friendship for her, and on every opportunity would hold a conversation with her. Having called several times without seeing her master or Emma, Elsy enquired if she had anything of consequence to impart to the Doctor, as, if she had, she would inform him on his return home.
"Yes, gal," replied the old woman, "I got a leetle boy at my cabin dat was lef dar by him mammy, and I want de boss to take him away and put him in a better place den my room."
"What chile is it, Auntie?" enquired Elsy.
"I do' know what de name is," answered the old woman, "but a lady cum to my cabin one night wid a berry sick gal chile and de leetle boy, and next day de gal die, and in de ebening some police come and take away de lady because 'she 'teal money,' and dey lef de dead chile and de libing one wid me."
"Goodness sakes, Auntie," interrupted Elsy, "what did you do wid de dead chile?"
"Why, gal, I bury her next mornin," replied the old woman, "and de leetle boy bin stayin wid me eber since; but I don't want to keep him, for dis nigger hab no right to hab white chile a keepin to herself."
"You better see de Doctor, den," Elsy observed. "When he come in I will tell him dat you want to see him patickler."
"Dat's a good gal," answered the old negro, "you tell him dat I want to see him, but don't tell him what I want him for—I rader tell him dat mysef."
"Berry well, Auntie," she replied, "de Doctor will come in about dinner time, and as soon as he is done eatin I will talk to him about it. But do you tink he will bring de chile home, yah, and take care ob him?"
"Ob course he will," said the old woman, "he neber see any body want but he get him plenty and take care ob him."
"What kind a chile is de one you had at your cabin?" asked Elsy.
"Jes de lubliest baby you eber seed in your life," answered the old negro. "He is one ob de best children I eber had taking care ob."
"Don't he cry none for his mudder," enquired Elsy.
"Ob course he cry plenty de first day," she replied, "but aterwards he behabe well, for I promise him dat he mammy will come back soon. He am a rale good chile, and I would lub to keep him wid me all time, but I 'fraid de police will get ater me for habin him."
"Dat's so," remarked Elsy, "but you can take care ob him a'ter you tell de boss—you can come here and stay."
"No, gal," she answered, "I can't leab me old cabin; I been libbing dar dese twelve years, and I got so used to it dat I can't sleep out ob it."
"Den I will take care ob de chile for you," said Elsy, "and you can come ebery now and den and see him."
"Dat's so," she, replied. "But tell me, gal," she continued, "whar you come from?"
"I come from New Orleans, Auntie," replied Elsy.
"What bring you to Jackson?" continued the old woman.
Elsy repeated the tale she had told Dr. Humphries and Alfred, and after she had concluded, the old woman clasped her hands as she exclaimed, "Sake alibe! what become ob your mistis and de childen?"
"I don't know, Auntie, but my New Orleans mass'r is here now, and I's been looking for dem."
"Why de lady and childen dat come to my cabin was from New Orleans too," observed the old negro.
"You say you don't know de name?" remarked Elsy.
"No, I forget," she answered; "but what name did your mistis hab?"
"Dey was name Wentworth," she replied.
"Wantworth—Wentworth," repeated the old woman. "No, dat don't sound like de name ob de lady, but may be I forget. What was de leetle gal name?" she added.
"Ella," replied Elsy.
"Dat's it," exclaimed the old negro, "dat's de berry name!"
"Den it was my mistis and her childen," answered Elsy, "and you say de police take her to prison for stealin."
"Yes, gal," she answered, "dey take her away from de dead body ob her chile and take her to prison for stealin."
"It ain't true," said Elsy, "my mistis is a born lady, and she wouldn't steal for anyting. I don't beliebe a word ob it."
"I don't beliebe neider," replied the old woman, "but for all dat, dey did carry her to prison because dey say she steal money."
"My poh mistis," remarked Elsy, bursting into tears, "I knowed dat some bad ting would happen to her—and I was in town so long and neber eben sawed her."
"Poh lady," observed the old negro, "she look bery bad and sorrowful like, aldough she didn't cry when de chile die; but she tan up by de bedside and look 'pon de dead face widout sayin' a word—it made me feel bad to see her."
"I must tell my master," said Elsy, "so dat he can go and take her out ob prison. It am a shame dat a lady like dat should be locked up in a prison, and Mr. Wentworth will soon take her out."
"You better not say anyting to your master about it, yet," observed the old woman. "See de Doctor and tell him; he will know what to do, and den he can tell de gemman all about it a'terwards."
"But you certain it am my mistis?" said Elsy.
"I ain't quite sure ob dat," she answered, "for de name sound different to de one I heard, and dats de reason I don't want you to say noting 'bout it till de Doctor enquire into de matter and find out. I must go now, gal," she added, "don't forget to tell de Doctor all 'bout it when he come home."
"I won't," replied Elsy.
The old woman then left the house and returned to her cabin, where she found the little boy amusing himself on the floor with some marbles.
Dr. Humphries, accompanied by Harry, returned home at the usual hour. After dinner Elsy requested him to speak to her for a few minutes—a request which he promptly complied with.
"Well, my good, girl, what do you wish with me?" he enquired.
"Oh! sir," she replied, "I hab found out whar my mistis is."
"You have," answered Dr. Humphries, rather astonished at the intelligence, "where is she?" he added.
"In prison, sah," she replied.
"In prison!" exclaimed the Doctor, "for what?"
"I don'no, sah," she replied, "but I hear it is for stealing."
"Who gave you the information?" asked Dr. Humphries.
"It was your ole slave what libs in de cabin, up town," answered Elsy.
"And how did she learn anything about Mrs. Wentworth?" enquired Dr. Humphries.
"My Mistis went dere wid her chil'en, sah, and her little daughter died in de ole woman's cabin."
"Good God!" exclaimed the Doctor, "and how was it that I have heard nothing about it until now?"
"It only was a few days ago," replied Elsy, "and Auntie come here ebery day, but you and Miss Emma was not at home ebery time, and she only tole me about it dis mornin."
"Are you certain that the woman who has been carried to jail is your Mistress?" asked Dr. Humphries.
"No sah," she answered, "Auntie say dat de name am different, but dat de name ob de leetle gal am de same."
"And the little boy you say has been under the care of the old woman ever since," remarked Dr. Humphries.
"Yes sah," Elsy replied, "but she want you to take him away from her, so dat he may be under a white pusson, and das de reason why she been here wantin' to see you bout it."
"Very well," said. Dr. Humphries, "I will attend to it this evening; in the meantime do you remain here and go with me to the cabin and see if the child is your Mistress'."
Elsy curtsied as she enquired, "Shall I tell my Master 'bout dis, sah?"
"No, no," replied the Doctor, "he must know nothing about it until I have arranged everything for his wife and removed her from prison. Be certain," he continued, walking to the door, "that you do not breathe a word about this until I have seen your Mistress and learned the reason of her imprisonment."
On returning to the parlor, where Harry and Emma were seated, Dr. Humphries called him aside and related what he had heard from Elsy. The young man listened attentively, and was very much shocked to hear of Mrs. Wentworth's being imprisoned for theft. He knew that Alfred was the soul of honor, and he could not conceive that the wife of his friend would be guilty of such an offense.
"It is impossible to believe such a thing," he said, after Dr. Humphries had concluded, "I cannot believe that the wife of such a man as Alfred Wentworth would commit an offense of such a nature; it must be some one else, and not Mrs. Wentworth."
"That we can find out this evening," observed the Doctor. "Let us first call at the cabin of my old slave and find out whether the child in her keeping is one of Mrs. Wentworth's children."
"How will we be able to discover," asked Harry. "It appears by your account that the boy is a mere infant, and he could hardly be expected to give an account of himself or his parents."
"I have removed any difficulty of that nature," replied Dr. Humphries, "Elsy will accompany us to the cabin, and she will easily recognize the child if he is the son of your friend."
"You are right," Harry remarked; and then continued, "I trust he may not be, for Alfred would almost go crazy at the knowledge that his wife was the inmate of a prison on the charge of robbery."
"I hope so myself, for the sake of your friend," said Doctor Humphries, "Mr. Wentworth appears to be quite a gentleman, and I should greatly regret his finding his wife in such an unfortunate position as the woman in prison is represented to be."
"I know the spirit of the man," remarked Harry, "he is sensitive to dishonor, no matter in what form or shape it may come, and the knowledge that his wife was charged with robbery would be a fearful blow to his pride, stern and unyielding as it is."
"If it is his wife, and she has committed a theft, I pity her, indeed; for I am sure if she is the lady her husband represents, nothing but the most dire necessity could have induced her to descend to crime."
"Ah, sir," replied Harry, "Heaven only knows if it is not through want. Alfred Wentworth feared that his wife was living in penury, for he knew that she was without adequate means. If she has unfortunately been allowed to suffer, and her children to want with her, what gratification is it for him to know that he was proving his loyalty to the South in a foreign prison while his wife and children were wanting bread to eat in our very midst?"
"It will indeed be a sad commentary on our patriotism," remarked Dr. Humphries. "God only knows how willing I should have been to serve the poor woman and her children had they applied to me for assistance."
"And I fervently wish that every heart in the State beat with the same feeling of benevolence that yours does," replied Harry. "However, this is no time to lament or regret what is inexorable; we must see the child, and afterwards the mother, for, no matter whether they are the family of Alfred Wentworth or not, the fact of their being the wife and child of a soldier entitles them to our assistance, and it is a debt we should always willingly pay to those who are defending our country."
"You are right, Harry, you are right," observed the Doctor, "and it is a debt that we will pay, if no one else does it. Do you return to Emma, now," he continued, "while I order the buggy to take us to the cabin."
Leaving Harry, Dr. Humphries went to the stable and ordered the groom to put the horse in the buggy. He was very much moved at the idea of a friendless woman being necessitated to steal for the purpose of feeding her children, and in his heart he sincerely wished she would not prove to be the wife of Alfred Wentworth. Harry's story of his friend's chivalrous conduct to him at Fort Donelson, as well as the high toned character evinced by Alfred during the few days acquaintance he had with him, had combined to procure a favorable opinion of the soldier by Dr. Humphries; at the same time, he could not conceive how any one could be so friendless in a land famed for the generous hospitalities of its people, as the South is; but he knew not, or rather he had never observed, that there were times when the eye of benevolence and the hand of charity were strangers to the unfortunate.
There are no people on the face of the earth so justly famed for their charitable actions as that of the Confederate States.—Before the unfortunate war for separation commenced, every stranger who visited their shores was received with a cordial welcome. The exile who had been driven from his home on account of the tyranny of the rulers of his native land, always found a shelter and protection from the warm hearts and liberal hands of the people of this sunny land; and though often times those who have received the aid and comfort of the South, shared its hospitalities, received protection from their enemies, and been esteemed as brothers, have turned like vipers and stung their generous host, still it passed it heedlessly and was ever ready to do as much in the future as it had done in the past. As genial as their native clime, as generous as mortals could ever be, those who sought the assistance of the people of the South would find them ready to accord to the deserving, all that they desired. It was indeed a glorious land; blooming with the loveliest blossoms of charity, flowing with the tears of pity for the unfortunate, and resplendent with all the attributes of mortal's noblest impulses. Gazing on the past, we find in the days of which we write no similitude with the days of the war. A greater curse than had fallen on them when war was waged on their soil, had fallen on the people of the South; all those chivalrous ideas which had given to her people a confidence of superiority over the North had vanished from the minds of those who had not entered the Army. It was in the "tented field" that could be found those qualities which make man the true nobility of the world. It is true that among those who remained aloof from active participation in the bloody contest were many men whose hearts beat with as magnanimous a pulsation as could be found in those of the patriots and braves of the battle-field; but they were only flowers in a garden of nature, filled with poisonous weeds that had twined themselves over the land and lifted up their heads above the purer plants, which, inhaling the tainted odor emitted by them, sickened and died, or if by chance they remained and bloomed in the midst of contamination, and eventually rose above until they soared over their poisonous companions, their members were too few to make an Eden of a desert, and they were compelled to see the blossoms of humanity perish before them unrewarded and uncared for, surfeited in the nauseous and loathsome exhalations of a cold and heartless world, without the hand of succor being extended or the pitying tear of earth's inhabitants being shed upon their untimely graves.
While they, the curse of the world, how was it with them? But one thought, one desire, filled their hearts; one object, one intention, was their aim. What of the speculator and extortioner of the South, Christian as well as Jew, Turk as well as Infidel! From the hour that the spirit of avarice swept through the hearts of the people, the South became a vast garden of corruption, in which the pure and uncorrupted were as pearls among rocks. From the hour that their fearful work after gain commenced, charity fled weeping from the midst of the people, and the demons of avarice strode triumphant over the land, heedless of the cries of the poverty stricken, regardless of the moanings of hungry children, blind to the sufferings it had occasioned and indifferent to the woe and desolation it had brought on the poor.
But all this was seen by God, and the voice of Eternity uttered a curse which will yet have effect. Even now as we write, the voice of approaching peace can be heard in the distance, for the waters on which our bark of State has been tossing for three years begins to grow calmer, while the haven of independence looms up before us, and as each mariner directs his gaze on the shore of liberty the mist which obscured it becomes dispelled, until the blessed resumption of happiness and prosperity once more presents itself, like a gleam of sunshine on a dark and cheerless road of life.
The eye of God is at last turned upon a suffering people. The past years of bloody warfare were not His work; He had no agency in stirring up the baser passions of mankind and imbuing the hands of men in each others blood, nor did He knowingly permit the poor to die of want and privation. He saw not all these, for the Eye which "seeth all things" was turned from the scene of our desolation, and fiends triumphed where Eternity was not, Hell reigned supreme where Heaven ruled not—Earth was but a plaything in the hands of Destiny. Philanthropy may deny it—Christianity will declare it heresy—man will challenge its truth, but it is no less true than is the universe a fact beyond doubt, and beyond the comprehension of mortals to discover its secrets.