“I’ll have the first juniper-berries that
get ripe in our garden by the lake brought in for
that special purpose,” said St. Clare, gravely
pulling the bell as he did so; “meanwhile, cousin,
you must be wanting to retire to your apartment, and
refresh yourself a little, after your journey.
Dolph,” he added, “tell Mammy to come here.”
The decent mulatto woman whom Eva had caressed so
rapturously soon entered; she was dressed neatly,
with a high red and yellow turban on her head, the
recent gift of Eva, and which the child had been arranging
on her head. “Mammy,” said St. Clare,
“I put this lady under your care; she is tired,
and wants rest; take her to her chamber, and be sure
she is made comfortable,” and Miss Ophelia disappeared
in the rear of Mammy.
Tom’s Mistress and Her Opinions
“And now, Marie,” said St. Clare, “your
golden days are dawning. Here is our practical,
business-like New England cousin, who will take the
whole budget of cares off your shoulders, and give
you time to refresh yourself, and grow young and handsome.
The ceremony of delivering the keys had better come
off forthwith.”
This remark was made at the breakfast-table, a few
mornings after Miss Ophelia had arrived.
“I’m sure she’s welcome,”
said Marie, leaning her head languidly on her hand.
“I think she’ll find one thing, if she
does, and that is, that it’s we mistresses that
are the slaves, down here.”
“O, certainly, she will discover that, and a
world of wholesome truths besides, no doubt,”
said St. Clare.
“Talk about our keeping slaves, as if we did
it for our convenience,” said Marie.
“I’m sure, if we consulted that,
we might let them all go at once.”
Evangeline fixed her large, serious eyes on her mother’s
face, with an earnest and perplexed expression, and
said, simply, “What do you keep them for, mamma?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure, except
for a plague; they are the plague of my life.
I believe that more of my ill health is caused by them
than by any one thing; and ours, I know, are the very
worst that ever anybody was plagued with.”
“O, come, Marie, you’ve got the blues,
this morning,” said St. Clare. “You
know ’t isn’t so. There’s Mammy,
the best creature living,—what could you
do without her?”
“Mammy is the best I ever knew,” said
Marie; “and yet Mammy, now, is selfish—dreadfully
selfish; it’s the fault of the whole race.”
“Selfishness is a dreadful fault,”
said St. Clare, gravely.
“Well, now, there’s Mammy,” said
Marie, “I think it’s selfish of her to
sleep so sound nights; she knows I need little attentions
almost every hour, when my worst turns are on, and
yet she’s so hard to wake. I absolutely
am worse, this very morning, for the efforts I had
to make to wake her last night.”
“Hasn’t she sat up with you a good many
nights, lately, mamma?” said Eva.
