A few weeks pass over, and the equity of Graspum's claim is questioned: his character for honour being doubted, gives rise to much comment. The whole thing is denounced-proclaimed a concerted movement to defraud the rightful creditors. And yet, knowing the supremacy of money over law in a slave state, Graspum's power, the revenge his followers inflict, and their desperate character, not one dare come forward to test the validity of the debt. They know and fear the fierce penalty: they are forced to fall back,—to seize his person, his property, his personal effects.
In this dilemma, Marston repairs to the city, attempts to make an arrangement with his creditors, singularly fails; he can effect nothing. Wherever he goes his salutation meets a cold, measured response; whisper marks him a swindler. The knife stabs deep into the already festered wound. Misfortune bears heavily upon a sensitive mind; but accusation of wrong, when struggling under trials, stabs deepest into the heart, and bears its victim suffering to the very depths of despair.
To add to this combination of misfortunes, on his return to the plantation he found it deserted,—a sheriff's keeper guarding his personal effects, his few remaining negroes seized upon and marched into the city for the satisfaction of his debts. Clotilda has been seized upon, manacled, driven to the city, committed to prison. Another creditor has found out the hiding-place of the children; directs the sheriff, who seizes upon them, like property of their kind, and drags them to prison. Oh, that prison walls were made for torturing the innocent!
Marston is left poor upon the world; Ellen Juvarna is in the hands of a resurrectionist; Nicholas-a bright boy he has grown-is within the dark confines of a prison cell, along with Clotilda and Annette. Melancholy broods over the plantation now. The act of justice,—the right which Marston saw through wrong, and which he had intended to carry out,—is now beyond his power. Stripped of those comforts he had enjoyed, his offspring carried off as trophies of avarice,—perhaps for sale to some ruffian who would set a price upon their beauty,—he sits down, sick at heart, and weeps a child's tears. The mansion, so long the scene of pleasure and hospitality, is like a deserted barrack;-still, gloomy, cold, in the absence of familiar faces. No servant comes to call him master,—Dandy and Enoch are gone; and those familiar words, so significant of affection between master and slave, "Glad to see ye home, mas'r," no longer sounded in his ears. Even his overseer has become alarmed, and like the rest levied for arrears of wages.
There is nothing for Marston but to give up all,—to leave the home of his childhood, his manhood, his happier days. He is suddenly reminded that there is virtue in fortitude; and, as he gazes round the room, the relics of happier days redouble his conviction of the evil he has brought upon himself by straying from the paths of rectitude. Indeed, so sudden was his fall from distinction, that the scene around him seemed like a dream, from which he had just awoke to question its precipitancy. "A sheriff is here now, and I am a mere being of sufferance," he says, casting a moody glance around the room, as if contemplating the dark prospect before him. A few moments' pause, and he rises, walks to the window, looks out upon the serene scene spread out before the mansion. There is the river, on which he has spent so many pleasant hours, calmly winding its way through deep green foliage mellowed by the moonlight. Its beauties only remind him of the past. He walks away,—struggles to forget, to look above his trials. He goes to the old side-board that has so long given forth its cheer; that, too, is locked! "Locked to me!" he says, attempting to open its doors. A sheriff's lock hangs upon them. Accustomed to every indulgence, each check indicated a doubt of his honour, wounding his feelings. The smaller the restraint the deeper did it pierce his heart. While in this desponding mood, vainly endeavouring to gain resolution to carry him through, a gentle rap is heard at the door. Who can it be at this hour? he questions to himself. No servant is near him; servants have all been led into captivity for the satisfaction of debts. He approaches the door and opens it himself, looking cautiously into the corridor. There, crouched in a niche, alternately presenting fear and joy,—fear lest he be seen by the enemy, and joy to see his master,—is a dark figure with the familiar face of Daddy Bob,—Bob of the old plantation. The old, faithful servant puts out his wrinkled hand nervously, saying, "Oh, good mas'r!" He has looked up to Marston with the same love that an affectionate child does to a kind parent; he has enjoyed mas'r's warm welcome, nurtured his confidence, had his say in directing the affairs of the plantation, and watched the frailties that threatened it.
"Why, Daddy Bob! Can it be you?" Marston says, modulating his voice, as a change comes over his feelings.
"Dis is me, mas'r; it is me," again says the old man. He is wet with the night dew, but his heart is warm and affectionate. Marston seizes his hand as if to return the old man's gratitude, and leads him into the room, smiling. "Sit down, Bob, sit down!" he says, handing him a chair. The old servant stands at the chair hesitatingly, doubting his position. "Fear nothing, Bob; sit down. You are my best friend," Marston continues. Bob takes a seat, lays his cap quietly upon the floor, smiles to see old mas'r, but don't feel just right because there's something wrong: he draws the laps of his jacket together, covers the remnant of a shirt. "Mas'r, what be da' gwine to do wid de old plantation? Tings, Bob reckon, b'nt gwine straight," he speaks, looking at Marston shyly. The old slave knew his master's heart, and had waited for him to unfold its beatings; but the kind heart of the master yielded to the burden that was upon it, and never more so than when moved by the strong attachment evinced by the old man. There was mutual sympathy pourtrayed in the tenderest emotions. The one was full of grief, and, if touched by the word of a friend, would overflow; the other was susceptible of kindness, knew something had befallen his master, and was ready to present the best proofs of his attachment.
"And how did you get here, my old faithful?" inquires Marston, drawing nearer to him.
"Well, mas'r, ye see, t'ant just so wid nigger what don' know how tings is! But, Bob up t' dese tings. I sees Buckra, what look as if he hab no rights on dis plantation, grab'n up all de folks. And Lor,' mas'r, old Bob could'nt leave mas'r no how. An, den, when da' begins to chain de folks up-da' chain up old Rachel, mas'r!-Old Bob feel so de plantation war'nt no-whare; and him time t'be gwine. Da'h an't gwine t' cotch old Bob, and carry 'm way from mas'r, so I jist cum possum ober dem-stows away yander, down close in de old corn crib,—"
"And you eluded the sheriff to take care of me, did you, Daddy?" interrupts Marston, and again takes the old man's hand.