Of all the beating hearts on the plantation, none thrilled with such a commingling of delight and grief at the return of Vina and her family, as did that of a maiden named Susanna.

She was a bright mulatto, the daughter of "Aunt Patsey," who for the last few years, had taken charge of the young children. Susanna was a quiet well-behaved girl, that had been raised on the place, and ever since they were children, young Peter and herself had loved each other. But when his father went away, and left to his family the a.s.surance that if he lived they should be free. Peter determined to obey his counsel; and so the union of the devoted pair was postponed for an indefinite period.

Now that their great effort to achieve their liberty had failed, the young man's heart would whisper that perhaps his father would consider his request no longer binding. Yet he kept these thoughts hid deep in his own breast, for he saw that in his mother's heart, all hope of freedom was not yet extinct.

But the masters watchful eye had long noticed their attachment, and, imagining that if Peter had a wife he would be less likely to ran off again, he determined that now they should be married. No favorable opportunity however occurred for him to urge the matter, until the crop was laid by in August; when, according to his annual custom, he gave his slaves a barbacue. Then he determined that the marriage should take place.

The long trench was duly prepared with its bed of glowing coals, over which were roasting numerous pigs and chickens, with the flesh of sheep and oxen in abundance. Peter was aiding in the preparation of the feast, when he was summoned into the presence of his master.

"How would you like to marry Susanna, boy?"

"I don't care about marryin' any body now, Sir."

"But Susanna says she loves you, and you ought to have her."

"No , Sir, I don't care about marryin' without my people's willin'."

"It's no matter about your mother, boy, I give you leave, and you needn't ask her anything about it. Go and dress yourself."

"I've got nothin' to dress in."

"Well, go and put on clean clothes, any how, and then come back to me."

Peter went to his mother's cabin. For a time he hesitated, but his master's command was absolute, and he had bid him hasten. His long-years' love for Susanna was not silent, but that voice he knew how to quell at duty's bidding. His mother, he could not bear to vex her.

Half undecided what course would be the wisest, he dressed mechanically in clean working-clothes. (He had a suit of Sunday clothes which he had bought himself, but these he would not wear to please his master) His toilette completed, he sat down again to think. He could not long defer his decision, for his master would be as angry at his delay, as if he should refuse obedience to his orders; so at last, scarcely knowing whether he was doing right or wrong, he left the cabin, and approached the spot where he had left McKiernan.

Susanna, having previously received an order from her master to dress and come to him, was already there.

One of their fellow-slaves, a preacher, named William Handy was now called to marry them; and in a few minutes they were marching around the field at the head of a troop of their young companions, who with gay songs and merry laughter were celebrating the marriage of their friends.

Vina soon heard what had occurred; but she was one of the cooks, and she continued quietly to baste the meat, though every moment her wrath was rising higher. Levin stood by her side, and he, too, was indignant. Soon the master approached. "Why don't you march with the others?" said he to Vina.

"I aint a soldier," replied she, "and I don't know nuthin' about marchin'."

"Why, what is the matter with you?"

"Nuthin' more'n common; and things that's common yer is shockin'

to strangers."

"What's that? Say that again."

She repeated her words. "There's not a plantation in a million o'

miles whar thar's such works as thar is yar."

"Better mind how you talk, girl, or I'll give you a slap."

"I don't keer what you do. I would n't keer if you killed him and me too. You've done made a heap o' matches, and none of 'em never prospered, no how."

"Oh, I was so mad!" she says, "every time I looked down, 'peared like I could see sparks o' fire a comin' out o' my eyes. Then he went to the house and told the missus I was powerful mad. She 'lowed he ought to be ashamed o' himself, kase she said he'd done me mean, and she did n't blame me if I was mad. Well, he said, when they wanted to marry, n.o.body should n't hinder 'em. He'd marry 'em hisself when he liked."

The young people lived in the cabin with Aunt Patsey, and for some time the current of their lives flowed calmly on. After about a year, a little boy was folded to Susanna's breast--a fine, "peart,"

healthy child. She named him Edmund; and he soon became very dear to the hearts of all his kindred. But Vina now that the tide which had whelmed her in despair had fallen, lived in hourly expectation of a summons to her husband; and she was sad at the advent of this little one. She, too, loved the baby dearly; but she knew it formed another tie to bind the young father fast to slave-land.

When little Edmund was a few months old, he was seized with whooping-cough, and then he needed his mother's care. But she was forced to go each morning to the field; and though Aunt Patsey was not heedless of her little grandchild, yet she had so many children to look after that she could not always watch him.

So he took cold, and then his cough became worse; and week after week, he continued to grow weaker, till it was plain that he could live but little longer.

Oh! how his mother longed to stay in and nurse him for the last few days! But in vain she begged this privilege of the overseer--and when, in her sorrow she sought her mistress, who had seen four of her own little ones laid in the grave, the lady sharply bade her "Go out to work." "It's no use," said she, "for you to stay in--you don't know how to take care of children--if you did, your baby never would have been so bad."

A week later, a messenger was sent to the field to bid Peter and his wife come and see the last of their child; and, first obtaining permission of the overseer, they hastened to the cabin. The baby did not know them now--and though the young mother fondly kissed his lips, and breathed his name in tenderest accents, she could awake no answering smile. A fierce convulsion shook his little frame--it pa.s.sed--the child was dead.

Fond mother, who hast watched thy little one by day and night, until the angels bore him from thy arms, rememberest thou the anguish of that hour? What torture would have rent thy heart if thou hadst seen him wasting-- dying, and all for lack of care -- thou wast forced to toil for the gain of a remorseless tyrant! G.o.d pity the mother who is doomed to live--a slave!

"Ah, well," said the mistress, when they told her that Susanna's child was dead--"it will be better off. My life is nearly worried out of me by sick children, and I am sure I wouldn't care if they were all dead. It is just as well for Susanna, for it never would have done her any good if it had lived."

Early in the spring of 1854, another son was born unto them, and this they called Peter. Vina had now come down from the Island, and had resumed the office of general nurse, which she had filled for many years; and when little Peter was five weeks old, the master asked her if she thought Susanna was well enough to go out.

"No, Sir," replied she, "she aint over and above strong, no how, and she oughtent to go out when the weather's so bad."

"Well, if you think so, I will give her another week."

But the overseer was "pushed," and before three days, Susanna was sent out to the field. A heavy rain came on soon after, which was followed by a chilling wind.

"Please, Sir," said the young mother, "may I go to the house? I'm mighty cold, and my side aches powerful."

"No, no; you used to be smart enough, but now you're always complaining, and getting to be no account. Go 'long to your work."

A week longer she labored, but by that time she became so very ill that they could force her to go out no more. The doctor was called, but he could do but little to relieve her.

Month after month she lay in the cabin a patient sufferer, and watched with a mother's interest the growth of her little Peter. Poor baby, he was weak and sickly, and she often wished that she might take him with her to that better land, where there is neither toil, nor pain, nor sorrow.

"Don't stay long," said Susanna, as she saw Peter going out of the cabin one Sunday morning in August, "it's lonesome when you're gone."

He returned and sat down by her side. All day she talked sweetly to him of that blest home to which she was hastening; for "Susanna was a religious girl," and her long, lonely days of sickness she had spent in thinking of the happy land above. "I'm gwine away from you now, Peter," said she, "but I shall leave our little baby with you. You'll take good care of him for my sake--won't you? O Peter, you'll be lonesome when I'm gone, but you must think I'm happy; and it wont be long before you'll come too."

Her eyes grew very bright as she thus strove to comfort her sorrowing young husband; but when the sun went down her eyelids closed--she had gone home.

CHAPTER x.x.xVI.

"THEY TAKE GOOD CARE OF THEIR PROPERTY.".

FOR more than two years after her return from "dat dar jaunt to de Norf," Vina remained upon the island. Sometimes both of her sons were with her there; but Catharine was kept constantly upon the home place.

"Well, girl," said her master, some months after her return, "do you remember the road you travelled when that rascal carried you all off ?"

"Yes, Sir," replied Vina, "I remember every inch I went; and I could go over it again with my eyes shot."