"I had a room that looked on the garden. Harry was in early in the morning,—not too early for me. I was already some time dressed, had unscrewed my press, and was beginning to release my flowers, prizes of the day before. Harry knew better than to interrupt me, and I sat working away comfortably and leisurely while he stood at the open window. Without, not far off, an old man was dressing a border. The click, click, of his strokes, not very rapid and not very strong, made a pleasant accompaniment to the other pleasant sounds,—such as those of the birds, of the insects, and of a little unseen human swarm whose hum rose and fell at intervals. Suddenly, notes before which everything else seemed stilled to listen,—those of a clear, rich voice,—a woman's voice. It chanted a morning hymn. Every word was distinctly heard. The precision and purity of the tones told of careful training, and the simplicity of the delivery showed either high breeding or a fine artistic sense. Was the charm received through the ear to be heightened or dissolved by the eye? To judge whether there was anything worth getting up for, I looked at Harry. He had an expression—awe-struck shall I call it? Yes, but with a soft, delightful awe. I took my place beside him where he stood looking down into the garden, as James of Scotland looked down from the Tower, upon the fair vision flitting among the flowers, and wondered what name could be sweet enough to call it by,—only Harry was not wondering. It was I. 'Margarita!' he said, under his breath, and quickly, to prevent my question. And Margarita it ought to have been! All in white, soft white; fresh and cool as if a sea-shell had just opened to give her passage; her face of that lovely pallor which makes Northern roses seem rude. What two years could do, if this were little Maggie Harvey! The song was broken off abruptly, just when, recounting the blessings of the season, it had come to the opening flowers. The theme was continued, but the tone was changed. The poor old man, in spite of an immense pair of iron spectacles, with half a glass remaining in one of the eye-holes, had failed to distinguish a plant of price from the plebeian crowd that had shot up about it. There it lay on the ignoble heap, its wilted flowers witnessing against him! Behold our Maggie a Megæra! If half the promises she made the old offender were fulfilled, he never sinned again. But I don't believe they were:—
"'Words are like leaves; and where they most abound,
Much fruit beneath them is not often found.'
Jasper trembled under hers, though. Yet he still had thought for the honor of the family: he lifted his eyes meaningly to our window; she turned, perceived us; and you should have seen the shame on—Harry's face!"
Thursday, April 11, 1844.
Going home, we made a long circuit. We passed near Piney's plantation. The slaves were in the field. We stopped to look at them. They all seemed to work mechanically,—seemed all of the same low type. We could not have discerned any differences of character or capacity among them. But the overseer, who stood by, whip in hand, evidently distinguished shades of industry or reluctance.
"You see nothing of that at Harvey's," said the Doctor, as we walked on again. "You see nothing like it there," he repeated, as Harry did not reply.
"The force is there, whether we see it or not," said Harry. "Dr. Falter told us that his negroes never thought of running away. Presently we saw the bloodhounds."
"He said that the dogs were never used."