Part 3 (1/2)

St. C. Come, now, Marie, be gracious, and say something pretty to a fellow.

Mar. You 've been gone a fortnight beyond the time.

St. C. Well, you know I wrote you the reason.

Mar. Such a short, cold letter!

St. C. Dear me! the mail was just going, and it had to be that or nothing.

Mar. That 's just the way always; always something to make your journeys long, and letters short.

St. C. See here, now; here 's a present I got for you in New York.

Mar. A daguerreotype! What made you sit in such an awkward position?

St. C. Well, the position may be a matter of opinion; but what do you think of the likeness?

Mar. If you don't think anything of my opinion in one case, I suppose you would n't in another.

St. C. Hang to woman! [Aside.] Come, now, Marie, what do you think of the likeness? Don't be nonsensical!

Mar. It 's very inconsiderate of you, St. Clare, to insist on my talking and looking at things. You know I 've been lying all day with the sick-headache; and there 's been such a tumult made, ever since you came, I 'm half dead.

Oph. You 're subject to the sick-headache, ma'am?

Mar. Yes, I 'm a perfect martyr to it.

Oph. Juniper-berry tea is good for sick-headache; at least, Augustine, Deacon Abraham Perry's wife used to say so; and she was a great nurse.

St. C. I 'll have the first juniper-berries that get ripe in our garden by the lake brought in for that especial purpose. And now [rings the bell. Enter MAMMY], show this lady to her room. [To MARIE, offering her his arm.] Come, now--come--I 've got something for you in here--come.

[Exeunt ST. CLARE and MARIE.]

SCENE II.--A Parlor. A Breakfast Table. MARIE, ST. CLARE, EVA, OPHELIA.

St. Clare. And now, Marie, 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.

Marie. I'm sure she 's welcome. I think she 'll find one thing, if she does, and that is, that it 's we mistresses that are the slaves, down here.

St. C. O, certainly, she will discover that, and a world of wholesome truths beside, no doubt.

Mar. Talk about our keeping slaves, as if we did it for our convenience! I 'm sure, if we consulted that, we might let them all go at once.

Eva. What do you keep them for, mamma?

Mar. 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 w as plagued with.

St. C. O, come, Marie, you 've got the blues this morning. You know 't is n't so. There 's Mammy, the best creature living--what could you do without her?

Mar. Mammy is the best I ever knew; and yet Mammy, now, is selfish--dreadfully selfish; it 's the fault of the whole race.

St. C. Selfishness is a dreadful fault.

Mar. Well, now, there 's Mammy; I think it 's selfish of her to sleep so sound at 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.

Eva. Has n't she sat up with you a good many nights lately, mamma?

Mar. How should you know that? She 's been complaining, I suppose.

Eva. She did n't complain; she only told me what bad night you 'd had--so many in succession!

St. C. Why don't you let Jane or Rosa take her place a night or two and let her rest?

Mar. How can you propose it? St. Clare, you really are inconsiderate! So nervous as I am, the least breath disturbs me; and a strange hand about me would drive me absolutely frantic. If Mammy felt the interest in me she ought to, she 'd wake easier--of course she would. I 've heard of people who had such devoted servants, but it never was my luck. Now, Mammy has a sort of goodness; she 's smooth and respectful, but she 's selfish at heart. Now, she never will be done fidgeting and worrying about that husband of hers. You see, when I was married and came to live here, of course I had to bring her with me, and her husband my father could n't spare. He was a blacksmith, and, of course, very necessary; and I thought, and said at the time, that Mammy and he had better give each other up, as it was n't likely to be convenient for them ever to live together again. I wish now I 'd insisted on it, and married Mammy to somebody else; but I was foolish and indulgent, and did n't want to insist. I told Mammy at the time that she must n't ever expect to see him more than once or twice in her life again, for the air of father's place does n't agree with my health, and I can't go there; and I advised her to take up with somebody else; but no--she would n't. Mammy has a kind of obstinacy about her, in spots, that everybody don't see as I do.

Oph. Has she children?

Mar. Yes; she has two.

Oph. I suppose she feels the separation from them?

Mar. Well, of course, I could n't bring them. They were little, dirty things--I could n't have them about; and, besides, they took up too much of her time; but I believe that Mammy has always kept up a sort of sulkiness about this. She won't marry anybody else; and I do believe now, though she knows how necessary she is to me, and how feeble my health is, she would go back to her husband to-morrow, if she only could. I do, indeed; they are just so selfish, now, the best of them!

St. C. [Dryly.] It 's distressing to reflect upon.

Mar. Now, Mammy has always been a pet with me. I wish some of your northern servants could look at her closets of dresses--silks and muslins, and one real linen cambric, she has hanging there. I've worked sometimes whole afternoons, tr.i.m.m.i.n.g her caps, and getting her ready to go to a party. As to abuse, she don't know what it is. She never was whipped in her whole life. She has her strong coffee or her tea every day, with white sugar in it. It's abominable, to be sure; but St. Clare will have high life below stairs, and they, every one of them, live just as they please. The fact is, our servants are over-indulged. I suppose it is partly our fault that they are selfish, and act like spoiled children; but I've talked to St. Clare till I am tired.

St. C. And I, too.

[EVA goes to her mother, and puts her arms round her neck.] Mar. Well, Marie, what now?

Eva. Mamma, could n't I take care of you one night--just one? I know I should n't make you nervous, and I should n't sleep. I often lie awake nights, thinking---- Mar. O, nonsense, child--nonsense! You are such a strange child!

Eva. But may I, mamma? I think that Mammy is n't well. She told me her head ached all the time, lately.

Mar. O, that 's just one of Mammy's fidgets! Mammy is just like all the rest of them--makes such a fuss about every little headache or finger-ache; it 'll never do to encourage it--never! I 'm principled about this matter;-- [To MISS OPHELIA] you 'll find the necessity of it. If you encourage servants in giving way to every little disagreeable feeling, and complaining of every little ailment, you 'll have your hands full. I never complain myself; n.o.body knows what I endure. I feel it a duty to bear it quietly, and I do.

[MISS OPHELIA looks amazed, and ST. CLARE breaks out laughing.] Mar. [Putting her handkerchief to her eyes.] St. Clare always laughs when I make the least allusion to my ill-health. I only hope the day won't come when he 'll remember it.

St. C. Come, Eva, I'll take you down street with me.

[Exit ST. CLARE and EVA.] Mar. Now, that's just like St. Clare! He never realizes, never can, and never will, what I suffer, and have, for years. If I was one of the complaining sort, or ever made any fuss about my ailments, there would be some reason for it. Men do get tired, naturally, of a complaining wife. But I've kept things to myself, and borne, and borne, till St. Clare has got in the way of thinking I can bear anything. But it 's no use talking, cousin. Well, here are the keys of the linen closet, and I hope you 'll never let Jane or Rosa get hold of 'em or touch 'em. And I hope you 'll be very particular about the way they fold the pillow-cases; I believe I 'm foolishly particular, but I really have had a nervous headache for a week, from the way those girls fold pillow-cases, if they are not looked to. There 's two or three kinds of sheeting--you 'll observe them; I think it important to keep each kind by itself. And here are the keys of the store-room; you 'll find Dinah always will be running after them--I dare say she has half the things out in the kitchen now. Dinah 's a first-rate cook, and so she rules with a rod of iron--she knows her importance. She will insist on having everything she wants in the kitchen, and calling every five minutes for something; it tires me to death. But, then, what can one do? O!--there are the keys of some trunks of clothing in the blue chamber; they 'll have to be hung out and aired, I suppose. Dear knows what a state you 'll find them in; my poor head has n't allowed me to do anything these three months; and Rosa and Jane have always insisted on making one excuse or another to go to them. I s hould n't wonder if half the things had been worn out. And as to marketing, and all that, you must ask St. Clare; I 'm sure I don't know how that 's to be arranged. And now--O dear me! how my head does ache!--but--well--I believe I 've told you everything; so that, when my next sick turn comes on, you 'll be able to go forward entirely without consulting me; only about Eva--she requires watching.

Oph. She seems to be a good child, very; I never saw a better child.