"It's not the leaving me, Bob; you may be taken from me. You are worth but little, 'tis true, and yet you may be sold from me to a bad master. If the slave-dealers run you off, you can let me know, and I will prosecute them," returned Marston.
"Ah! mas'r; dat's just whar de blunt is-in de unsartainty! How I gwane to let mas'r know, when mas'r no larn nigger to read," he quickly responded. There is something in his simple remark that Marston has never before condescended to contemplate,—something the simple nature of the negro has just disclosed; it lies deeply rooted at the foundation of all the wrongs of slavery. Education would be valuable to the negro, especially in his old age; it would soften his impulses rather than impair his attachment, unless the master be a tyrant fearing the results of his own oppression. Marston, a good master, had deprived the old man of the means of protecting himself against the avarice of those who would snatch him from freedom, and while his flesh and blood contained dollars and cents, sell him into slavery. Freedom, under the best circumstances, could do him little good in his old age; and yet, a knowledge of the wrong rankled deep in Marston's feelings: he could relieve it only by giving Daddy Bob and Harry their freedom if they would accept it.
Relinquishing Daddy's hand, he commanded him to go and bring him Annette and Nicholas. "Bring them," he says, "without the knowledge of their mothers." Bob withdrew, hastened to the cabins in the yard to fulfil the mission. Poor things, thought Marston; they are mine, how can I disown them? Ah, there's the point to conquer-I cannot! It is like the mad torrents of hell, stretched out before me to consume my very soul, to bid me defiance. Misfortune is truly a great purifier, a great regenerator of our moral being; but how can I make the wrong right?-how can I live to hope for something beyond the caprice of this alluring world? My frailties have stamped their future with shame.
Thus he mused as the children came scampering into the room. Annette, her flaxen curls dangling about her neck, looking as tidy and bright as the skill of Clotilda could make her, runs to Marston, throws herself on his knee, fondles about his bosom, kisses his hand again and again. She loves him,—she knows no other father. Nicholas, more shy, moves slowly behind a chair, his fingers in his mouth the while. Looking through its rounds wistfully, he shakes his head enviously, moves the chair backwards and forwards, and is too bashful to approach Annette's position.
Marston has taken Annette in his arms, he caresses her; she twirls her tiny fingers through his whiskers, as if to play with him in the toying recognition of a father. He is deeply immersed in thought, smooths her hair, walks to the glass with her in his arms, holds her before it as if to detect his own features in the countenance of the child. Resuming his seat, he sets her on one knee, calls Nicholas to him, takes him on the other, and fondles them with an air of kindness it had never before been their good fortune to receive at his hands. He looked upon them again, and again caressed them, parted their hair with his fingers. And as Annette would open her eyes and gaze in his, with an air of sweetest acknowledgment, his thoughts seemed contending with something fearful. He was in trouble; he saw the enemy brooding over the future; he heaved a sigh, a convulsive motion followed, a tear stealing down his cheek told the tale of his reflections.
"Now, Daddy;" he speaks, directing himself to old Bob, who stands at the door surprised at Marston's singular movements, "you are my confidant, what do you think the world-I mean the people about the district, about the city-would say if they knew these were mine? You know, Bob,—you must tell me straight out, do they look like me?-have they features like mine?" he inquires with rapid utterance.
"Mas'r, Bob don' like to say all he feels," meekly muttered the old man.
"There is the spot on which we lay the most unholy blot; and yet, it recoils upon us when we least think. Unfortunate wretches bear them unto us; yet we dare not make them our own; we blast their lives for selfish ends, yield them to others, shield ourselves by a misnomer called right! We sell the most interesting beings for a price,—beings that should be nearest and dearest to our hearts."
The old slave's eyes glistened with excitement; he looked on astonished, as if some extraordinary scene had surprised him. As his agitation subsided, he continued, "Mas'r, I bin watch 'im dis long time. Reckon how nobody wouldn't take 'em fo'h nobody else's-fo'h true! Dar ain't no spozin' bout 'em, 'e so right smart twarn't no use to guise 'em: da'h just like old Boss. Mas'r, nigger watch dem tings mighty close; more close den Buckra, cos' Buckra tink 'e all right when nigger tink 'e all wrong."
Marston is not quite content with this: he must needs put another question to the old man. "You are sure there can be no mistaking them for mine?" he rejoins, fixing his eyes upon the children with an almost death-like stare, as Daddy leads them out of the room. The door closes after them, he paces the room for a time, seats himself in his chair again, and is soon absorbed in contemplation. "I must do something for them-I must snatch them from the jaws of danger. They are full of interest-they are mine; there is not a drop of negro blood in their veins, and yet the world asks who are their mothers, what is their history? Ah! yes; in that history lies the canker that has eaten out the living springs of many lives. It is that which cuts deepest. Had I known myself, done what I might have done before it was too late, kindness would have its rewards; but I am fettered, and the more I move the worse for them. Custom has laid the foundation of wrong, the law protects it, and a free government tolerates a law that shields iniquities blackening earth." In this train of thought his mind wandered. He would send the children into a free state, there to be educated; that they may live in the enjoyment of those rights with which nature had blest them. The obstacles of the law again stared him in the face; the wrong by which they were first enslaved, now forgotten, had brought its climax.