I have paused much before writing this chapter. I have taken up my pen and laid it down an hundred times, with the task unfulfilled—the duty unaccomplished. A nervous sensation, a chill of the heart, have restrained my pen—yet the record must be made.
I have that to tell, from which both body and soul shrink. Upon me a fearful office has been laid! I would that others, with colder blood and less personal interest, could make this disclosure; but it belongs to my history; nay, is the very nucleus from which all my reflections upon the institution of slavery have sprung. Reader, did you ever have a wound—a deep, almost a mortal wound—whereby your life was threatened, which, after years of nursing and skilful surgical treatment, had healed, and was then again rudely torn open? This is my situation. I am going to tear open, with a rude hand, a deep wound, that time and kind friends have not availed to cure. But like little, timid children, hurrying through a dark passage, fearing to look behind them, I shall hasten rapidly over this part of my life, never pausing to comment upon the terrible facts I am recording. "I have placed my hand to the ploughshare, and will not turn back."
Let me recall that fair and soft evening, in the early September, when Henry and I, with hand clasped in hand, sat together upon the little balcony. How sweet-scented was the gale that fanned our brows! The air was soft and balmy, and the sweet serenity of the hour was broken only by that ever-pleasant music of the gently-roaring falls! Fair and queenly sailed the uprisen moon, through a cloudless sea of blue, whilst a few faint stars, like fire-flies, seemed flitting round her.
Long we talked of the happiness that awaited us on the morrow. Henry had arranged to meet his master, Mr. Graham, on that day, and make the final payment.
"Dearest, I lack but fifty dollars of the amount," he said, as he laid his head confidingly on my shoulder.
"Ten of which I can give you."
"And the remaining forty I will make up," said Miss Nancy as she stepped out of the door, and, placing a pocket-book in Henry's hand, she added, "there is the amount, take it and be happy."
Whilst he was returning thanks, I went to get my contribution. Drawing from my trunk the identical ten-dollar note that good Mr. Trueman had given me, I hastened to present it to Henry, and make out the sum that was to give us both so much joy.
"Here, Henry," I exclaimed, as I rejoined them, "are ten dollars, which kind Mr. Trueman gave me."
Miss Nancy sighed deeply. I turned around, but she said with a smile: