The woman in a short time returned with Scip. There was not a trace of fear or embarrassment in the negro's manner as he entered the room. Making a respectful bow, he bade us "good evening."
"Good evening, Scip," said the Colonel, rising and giving the black his hand; "let us be friends. Madam tells me I should forgive you, and I do."
"Aunt Lucy say ma'am am an angel, sar, and it am tru—it am tru, sar," replied the negro with considerable feeling.
The lady rose, also, and took Scip's hand, saying, "I not only forgive you, but I thank you for what you have done. I shall never forget it."
"You'se too good, ma'am; you'se too good to say dat," replied the darky, the moisture coming to his eyes; "but I meant nuffin' wrong—I meant nuffin' dis'specful to de Cunnel."
"I know you didn't, Scip; but we'll say no more about it;—good-by," said the Colonel.
Shaking hands with each one of us, the darky left the apartment.
One who does not know that the high-bred Southern gentleman considers the black as far below him as the horse he drives, or the dog he kicks, cannot realize the amazing sacrifice of pride which the Colonel made in seeking a reconciliation with Scip. It was the cutting off of his right hand. The circumstance showed the powerful influence held over him by the octoroon woman. Strange that she, his slave, cast out from society by her blood and her life, despised, no doubt, by all the world, save by him and a few ignorant blacks, should thus control a proud, self-willed, passionate man, and control him, too, only for good.
After the black had gone, I said to the Colonel, "I was much interested in old Lucy. A few more such instances of cheerful and contented old age, might lead me to think better of slavery."
"Such cases are not rare, sir. They show the paternal character of our 'institution.' We are forced to care for our servants in their old age."