Bab Bab 35 · The Tokens

. The Tokens

“And slight, withal, may be the things that bring

Back on the heart the weight which it would fling

Aside forever; it may be a sound,

A flower, the wind, the ocean, which shall wound,—

Striking the electric chain wherewith we’re darkly bound.”

_Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Can_. 4.

The sitting-room of Legree’s establishment was a large, long room, with

a wide, ample fireplace. It had once been hung with a showy and

expensive paper, which now hung mouldering, torn and discolored, from

the damp walls. The place had that peculiar sickening, unwholesome

smell, compounded of mingled damp, dirt and decay, which one often

notices in close old houses. The wall-paper was defaced, in spots, by

slops of beer and wine; or garnished with chalk memorandums, and long

sums footed up, as if somebody had been practising arithmetic there. In

the fireplace stood a brazier full of burning charcoal; for, though the

weather was not cold, the evenings always seemed damp and chilly in

that great room; and Legree, moreover, wanted a place to light his

cigars, and heat his water for punch. The ruddy glare of the charcoal

displayed the confused and unpromising aspect of the room,—saddles,

bridles, several sorts of harness, riding-whips, overcoats, and various

articles of clothing, scattered up and down the room in confused

variety; and the dogs, of whom we have before spoken, had encamped

themselves among them, to suit their own taste and convenience.

Legree was just mixing himself a tumbler of punch, pouring his hot

water from a cracked and broken-nosed pitcher, grumbling, as he did so,

“Plague on that Sambo, to kick up this yer row between me and the new

hands! The fellow won’t be fit to work for a week, now,—right in the

press of the season!”

“Yes, just like you,” said a voice, behind his chair. It was the woman

Cassy, who had stolen upon his soliloquy.

“Hah! you she-devil! you’ve come back, have you?”

“Yes, I have,” she said, coolly; “come to have my own way, too!”

“You lie, you jade! I’ll be up to my word. Either behave yourself, or

stay down to the quarters, and fare and work with the rest.”

“I’d rather, ten thousand times,” said the woman, “live in the dirtiest

hole at the quarters, than be under your hoof!”

“But you _are_ under my hoof, for all that,” said he, turning upon her,

with a savage grin; “that’s one comfort. So, sit down here on my knee,

my dear, and hear to reason,” said he, laying hold on her wrist.

“Simon Legree, take care!” said the woman, with a sharp flash of her

eye, a glance so wild and insane in its light as to be almost

appalling. “You’re afraid of me, Simon,” she said, deliberately; “and

you’ve reason to be! But be careful, for I’ve got the devil in me!”

The last words she whispered in a hissing tone, close to his ear.

“Get out! I believe, to my soul, you have!” said Legree, pushing her

from him, and looking uncomfortably at her. “After all, Cassy,” he

said, “why can’t you be friends with me, as you used to?”

“Used to!” said she, bitterly. She stopped short,—a word of choking

feelings, rising in her heart, kept her silent.

Cassy had always kept over Legree the kind of influence that a strong,

impassioned woman can ever keep over the most brutal man; but, of late,

she had grown more and more irritable and restless, under the hideous

yoke of her servitude, and her irritability, at times, broke out into

raving insanity; and this liability made her a sort of object of dread

to Legree, who had that superstitious horror of insane persons which is

common to coarse and uninstructed minds. When Legree brought Emmeline

to the house, all the smouldering embers of womanly feeling flashed up

in the worn heart of Cassy, and she took part with the girl; and a

fierce quarrel ensued between her and Legree. Legree, in a fury, swore

she should be put to field service, if she would not be peaceable.

Cassy, with proud scorn, declared she _would_ go to the field. And she

worked there one day, as we have described, to show how perfectly she

scorned the threat.

Legree was secretly uneasy, all day; for Cassy had an influence over

him from which he could not free himself. When she presented her basket

at the scales, he had hoped for some concession, and addressed her in a

sort of half conciliatory, half scornful tone; and she had answered

with the bitterest contempt.

The outrageous treatment of poor Tom had roused her still more; and she

had followed Legree to the house, with no particular intention, but to

upbraid him for his brutality.

“I wish, Cassy,” said Legree, “you’d behave yourself decently.”

“_You_ talk about behaving decently! And what have you been doing?—you,

who haven’t even sense enough to keep from spoiling one of your best

hands, right in the most pressing season, just for your devilish

temper!”

“I was a fool, it’s a fact, to let any such brangle come up,” said

Legree; “but, when the boy set up his will, he had to be broke in.”

“I reckon you won’t break _him_ in!”

“Won’t I?” said Legree, rising, passionately. “I’d like to know if I

won’t? He’ll be the first nigger that ever came it round me! I’ll break

every bone in his body, but he _shall_ give up!”

Just then the door opened, and Sambo entered. He came forward, bowing,

and holding out something in a paper.

“What’s that, you dog?” said Legree.

“It’s a witch thing, Mas’r!”

“A what?”

“Something that niggers gets from witches. Keeps ’em from feelin’ when

they ’s flogged. He had it tied round his neck, with a black string.”

Legree, like most godless and cruel men, was superstitious. He took the

paper, and opened it uneasily.

There dropped out of it a silver dollar, and a long, shining curl of

fair hair,—hair which, like a living thing, twined itself round

Legree’s fingers.

“Damnation!” he screamed, in sudden passion, stamping on the floor, and

pulling furiously at the hair, as if it burned him. “Where did this

come from? Take it off!—burn it up!—burn it up!” he screamed, tearing

it off, and throwing it into the charcoal. “What did you bring it to me

for?”

Sambo stood, with his heavy mouth wide open, and aghast with wonder;

and Cassy, who was preparing to leave the apartment, stopped, and

looked at him in perfect amazement.

“Don’t you bring me any more of your devilish things!” said he, shaking

his fist at Sambo, who retreated hastily towards the door; and, picking

up the silver dollar, he sent it smashing through the window-pane, out

into the darkness.

Sambo was glad to make his escape. When he was gone, Legree seemed a

little ashamed of his fit of alarm. He sat doggedly down in his chair,

and began sullenly sipping his tumbler of punch.

Cassy prepared herself for going out, unobserved by him; and slipped

away to minister to poor Tom, as we have already related.

And what was the matter with Legree? and what was there in a simple

curl of fair hair to appall that brutal man, familiar with every form

of cruelty? To answer this, we must carry the reader backward in his

history. Hard and reprobate as the godless man seemed now, there had

been a time when he had been rocked on the bosom of a mother,—cradled

with prayers and pious hymns,—his now seared brow bedewed with the

waters of holy baptism. In early childhood, a fair-haired woman had led

him, at the sound of Sabbath bell, to worship and to pray. Far in New

England that mother had trained her only son, with long, unwearied

love, and patient prayers. Born of a hard-tempered sire, on whom that

gentle woman had wasted a world of unvalued love, Legree had followed

in the steps of his father. Boisterous, unruly, and tyrannical, he

despised all her counsel, and would none of her reproof; and, at an

early age, broke from her, to seek his fortunes at sea. He never came

home but once, after; and then, his mother, with the yearning of a

heart that must love something, and has nothing else to love, clung to

him, and sought, with passionate prayers and entreaties, to win him

from a life of sin, to his soul’s eternal good.

That was Legree’s day of grace; then good angels called him; then he

was almost persuaded, and mercy held him by the hand. His heart inly

relented,—there was a conflict,—but sin got the victory, and he set all

the force of his rough nature against the conviction of his conscience.

He drank and swore,—was wilder and more brutal than ever. And, one

night, when his mother, in the last agony of her despair, knelt at his

feet, he spurned her from him,—threw her senseless on the floor, and,

with brutal curses, fled to his ship. The next Legree heard of his

mother was, when, one night, as he was carousing among drunken

companions, a letter was put into his hand. He opened it, and a lock of

long, curling hair fell from it, and twined about his fingers. The

letter told him his mother was dead, and that, dying, she blest and

forgave him.

There is a dread, unhallowed necromancy of evil, that turns things

sweetest and holiest to phantoms of horror and affright. That pale,

loving mother,—her dying prayers, her forgiving love,—wrought in that

demoniac heart of sin only as a damning sentence, bringing with it a

fearful looking for of judgment and fiery indignation. Legree burned

the hair, and burned the letter; and when he saw them hissing and

crackling in the flame, inly shuddered as he thought of everlasting

fires. He tried to drink, and revel, and swear away the memory; but

often, in the deep night, whose solemn stillness arraigns the bad soul

in forced communion with herself, he had seen that pale mother rising

by his bedside, and felt the soft twining of that hair around his

fingers, till the cold sweat would roll down his face, and he would

spring from his bed in horror. Ye who have wondered to hear, in the

same evangel, that God is love, and that God is a consuming fire, see

ye not how, to the soul resolved in evil, perfect love is the most

fearful torture, the seal and sentence of the direst despair?

“Blast it!” said Legree to himself, as he sipped his liquor; “where did

he get that? If it didn’t look just like—whoo! I thought I’d forgot

that. Curse me, if I think there’s any such thing as forgetting

anything, any how,—hang it! I’m lonesome! I mean to call Em. She hates

me—the monkey! I don’t care,—I’ll _make_ her come!”

Legree stepped out into a large entry, which went up stairs, by what

had formerly been a superb winding staircase; but the passage-way was

dirty and dreary, encumbered with boxes and unsightly litter. The

stairs, uncarpeted, seemed winding up, in the gloom, to nobody knew

where! The pale moonlight streamed through a shattered fanlight over

the door; the air was unwholesome and chilly, like that of a vault.

Legree stopped at the foot of the stairs, and heard a voice singing. It

seemed strange and ghostlike in that dreary old house, perhaps because

of the already tremulous state of his nerves. Hark! what is it?

A wild, pathetic voice, chants a hymn common among the slaves:

“O there’ll be mourning, mourning, mourning,

O there’ll be mourning, at the judgment-seat of Christ!”

“Blast the girl!” said Legree. “I’ll choke her.—Em! Em!” he called,

harshly; but only a mocking echo from the walls answered him. The sweet

voice still sung on:

“Parents and children there shall part!

Parents and children there shall part!

Shall part to meet no more!”

And clear and loud swelled through the empty halls the refrain,

“O there’ll be mourning, mourning, mourning,

O there’ll be mourning, at the judgment-seat of Christ!”

Legree stopped. He would have been ashamed to tell of it, but large

drops of sweat stood on his forehead, his heart beat heavy and thick

with fear; he even thought he saw something white rising and glimmering

in the gloom before him, and shuddered to think what if the form of his

dead mother should suddenly appear to him.

“I know one thing,” he said to himself, as he stumbled back in the

sitting-room, and sat down; “I’ll let that fellow alone, after this!

What did I want of his cussed paper? I b’lieve I am bewitched, sure

enough! I’ve been shivering and sweating, ever since! Where did he get

that hair? It couldn’t have been _that!_ I burnt _that_ up, I know I

did! It would be a joke, if hair could rise from the dead!”

Ah, Legree! that golden tress _was_ charmed; each hair had in it a

spell of terror and remorse for thee, and was used by a mightier power

to bind thy cruel hands from inflicting uttermost evil on the helpless!

“I say,” said Legree, stamping and whistling to the dogs, “wake up,

some of you, and keep me company!” but the dogs only opened one eye at

him, sleepily, and closed it again.

“I’ll have Sambo and Quimbo up here, to sing and dance one of their

hell dances, and keep off these horrid notions,” said Legree; and,

putting on his hat, he went on to the verandah, and blew a horn, with

which he commonly summoned his two sable drivers.

Legree was often wont, when in a gracious humor, to get these two

worthies into his sitting-room, and, after warming them up with

whiskey, amuse himself by setting them to singing, dancing or fighting,

as the humor took him.

It was between one and two o’clock at night, as Cassy was returning

from her ministrations to poor Tom, that she heard the sound of wild

shrieking, whooping, halloing, and singing, from the sitting-room,

mingled with the barking of dogs, and other symptoms of general uproar.

She came up on the verandah steps, and looked in. Legree and both the

drivers, in a state of furious intoxication, were singing, whooping,

upsetting chairs, and making all manner of ludicrous and horrid

grimaces at each other.

She rested her small, slender hand on the window-blind, and looked

fixedly at them;—there was a world of anguish, scorn, and fierce

bitterness, in her black eyes, as she did so. “Would it be a sin to rid

the world of such a wretch?” she said to herself.

She turned hurriedly away, and, passing round to a back door, glided up

stairs, and tapped at Emmeline’s door.