"At last he told me if I did n't 'bey him, he'd whip me nigh 'bout to death. I told him he might kill me, but I wouldn't never do it, no how. So when I's in the field one day, he tuck and whipped me--I didn't call it whippin'--I called it beatin'. He tied my hands with his hand'chief, and pulled my coat off o' the waist; and then he beat me till I couldn't hardly stand. He struck me over the head mos'ly, and tried to knock me down with the b.u.t.t end o' his bull-whip. My head was cut in a heap o' places, whar the scars is on it yit.

"I reckon he wouldn't 'a' give me so much, but I tried to fight him at first, and he had to call two o' the men to help him tie me. By that time he got so mad that he jist went 'cordin' to his own mercy.

I knowed I's in his power, but I's determined to die in the cause.

"The other people was all in sight, and he made out like he's beatin'

me 'bout my work; but he told me it's all bekase I would'nt 'bey him.

"When he done beatin' he curse me powerful, and say, if I ever tole this yer to ma.s.s'r, or to any person else so it would get to him, he'd give me a heap more; and if that didn't do, he'd shoot me.

"I was determined he shouldn't never conquer me, no how; but he was that mean, I was feared he mought kill me sly; so I never said nothin' 'bout it, to n.o.body but Peter. He came home a Sunday, and when he's sittin' by me, he sort o' put his arm 'round me. 'Oh!' says I, 'don't put yer arm thar, you hurt my back!'

" 'What's the matter o' yer back?' says he.

" ''Oh, it's mighty sore whar ole Bill Simms done beat me,' says I, 'but don't you tell n.o.body, for if he finds out I done tol' the tale, he'll kill me, sure.'

"Peter felt mighty bad when I told him what I got the beatin'

for--'peared like, he could 'a' gone right out and killed ole Bill Simms on the spot. He never liked him, no how--they had a fallin'

out, afore, when he was overseein' for Mars Levi Gist.

"But 'twasn't no use gittin' mad 'bout it, nor tellin' ma.s.s'r nuther; bekase he allers say if any person come to him with complaints 'bout the oversee's, he'd give em worse, hisself.

"The next Sunday, Simms come up afore my house and spoke to Peter, whar was a standin' in the door.

"Peter answered him mighty low, and that made him mad, bekase he 'lowed I done told him how I been 'bused. 'Seems to me,' says he, 'you're gettin' mighty grand. You're too great a gentleman to speak to a white person with respect. Never mind, I'll do you a kindness some o' these days. I owe you something this long time.'

" 'Well,' says Peter, 'that debt never will be paid till the judgment day.'

"I tremble every minute, for I 'lowed I should have to take more next day; but I reckon he thought how 't wasn't no use, for he never said nuthin' to me 'bout it no more.

"I had a heap o' misery in my head all the time for two weeks arter I tuck that beatin', and then I got right sick, and they said I's out o'

my senses for a week. They sent for the doctor, but I didn't know nuthin' 'bout it, and he said I'd tuck some mighty hard blows on the head. He left medicine, and missus, she stay by me all the time.

She sent for Peter to come-- she reckoned I'd know him--but 'twasn't no use. They all 'lowed I's gwine to die; and then Peter, he told 'em all 'bout what done make me sick.

"Ma.s.s'r was mighty mad. 'Why the devil didn't she tell me this afore?' says he.

" 'Bekase,' says Peter, 'she knowed your rule, that you don't keer how hard an oversee' beat, your servants, if they comes to you, they shall git worse.'

"Ma.s.s'r felt mighty bad then, but he 'lowed I might knowed he'd protect me in that.

"I reckon I shouldn't never got well, if they all hadn't tuck such good care o' me. When I got so I could talk, ma.s.s'r ax me why I never told him what a beatin' old Simms done give me.

" 'What I come to you for,' says I, 'you allers told us never to do that, without we wanted more. If I'd 'lowed 'twould done any good I'd 'a' come to you, sir, mons's quick.'

"Soon as I's able to walk from the bed to the fire, ma.s.s'r come in to see me, and brought old Simms with him. Then he axed me 'bout that beatin' right afore him, and I told it to his face. 'Twas so true, he couldn't deny it. Ma.s.s'r cursed him mightily, and told him he should pay my doctor's bill, and pay for everyday whar I was sick. I never knowed 'bout the payin' whether he done it or not, but ma.s.s'r drove him off the place, and he never come on it agin.

"I see him twice after that. The first time we's all gwine to meetin'.

I see him comin', and says I, 'Thar comes the devil; I ain't gwine to look at him.' So I pulled my bonnet down over my face and when he come 'long, and say how d'y' to the rest, I never look up.

"The next time I met old Simms, look like he's the picter o' Death.

He been mighty sick, and jist got able to ride out.

"That thar was the last o' his ridin'. He took a 'lapse arter that, and then he died in a mighty short time.

"When I heard he's dead, I's so glad! My heart couldn't help from shoutin', though it oughten't."

CHAPTER XV.

DEATH OF A KIND MASTER.

THE sunshine of prosperity beamed steadily upon the peaceful home of Mr. and Mrs. Gist. Gradually their worldly substance increased; and the dearer treasures of their hearts were multiplied.

The Spring of 1830, when she had waked the delicate flowers of the forest, came noiselessly on, and with careful hand, unfolded the rosebuds that climbed on the porch.

Near the half-open door sat the young husband and his still beautiful wife. Not a line of care or sorrow had stolen across their foreheads; not a shade of coldness or distrust had fallen on their hearts. Their children sported before them--two lovely girls and a brave boy, the youngest, and the pet of all.

Ah! came no whispering voice to bid them prize these golden moments? Entered no dread of change into all the plans they formed together? None! The sweet Spring smiled on them from without--the parching Summer drought she never heralds.

They were planning a visit to Kentucky. It was five years since they had enjoyed the hospitalities of that endeared home of other days; and the beloved parent, from whom they had been so long severed, were growing old. Yes; they would go to Lexington.

On a bright May morning a few weeks after, the family carriage rolled away from the door, with its precious burden of gentle trusting hearts. Tears gathered in dark eyes that gazed fondly after the travvellers; and fond adieus to loving favorites were tossed back by tiny hands.

"'Pears like," sobbed Aunt Ceely, "somethin's gwine happen. I's had mighty bad dreams dese las' nights."

"Oh! you's allers a dreamin'; reckon yer dreams aint much 'count,"

replied a cheerful girl at her side.

"I reckon nuthin' aint gwine hurt dem, no how; dey's been to Kaintucky 'fore dis," said another, who, though sad herself, would fain dispel Aunt Ceely's gloom.

The old woman turned towards the kitchen, and her croaking was soon forgotten. But when at night she smoked her pipe before her kitchen door, the shadow of impending ill darkened her heart.

Summer came with its heat, and wearying toil, and September pa.s.sed away, and still the house was closed. Now and then, for a few hours the windows were thrown open, that the fresh air of morning might wander through the deserted rooms. But it would not tarry long; for it missed the merry children, to whose radiant eyes and blooming cheeks it had been wont to lend a deeper glow.

So, after kissing lovingly each little couch, and chair, and scattered toy, the soft air flew away, to dally with the summer leaves that danced at its approach.

Early in October, new life seemed to have awakened on the plantation. The laborers stepped more briskly out at morning, and the house servants went bustling through the lonely rooms, "clarin'

up, and putting things to rights for Missus."

There were no gloomy faces now--no dark foreboding of approaching woe; Aunt Ceely herself forgot her dreams, she was so busy planning a nice supper, such as she knew suited "Mars Levi when he come home hongry."

The last day of September was the time appointed for the family to leave Lexington, and though the summer had pa.s.sed most pleasantly in the society of valued friends, yet not one of the little group wished to remain longer.

On the day previous to their intended departure, a few friends sat down with them to a farewell dinner, at the house of an uncle of Mr. Gist.

The party were in fine spirits, albeit a shadow of regret that they were so soon to part, did now and then steal over them. Plans of future re-unions, however, were proposed, and promises of more frequent visits interchanged.

"What is it?" whispers with bloodless lips, the beautiful young wife, as her husband sways towards her, and she sees that his face is ashy pale. Quickly his friends spring to his a.s.sistance. They bear him from the table, and support him in their arms upon, the sofa.

Ah! they saw not the Death Angel, as with white wings he approached, and gently sealed those loving eyes and stilled that throbbing heart. No! they saw him not. They did not know how vain were all their agonized endeavors to restore the warm breath to that manly form. "He has only fainted--give him air!"

Vain hope! The warm hands grow rigid--cold. The features become fixed. Can it be he is dead?

G.o.d pity thee! fond wife--and grant thee tears--that thy young heart break not.