For, after all, he loves the Southerner better
than the slave; and fears him more also. What if the Southern
aristocrat, who lords it over him as the panther does over the ox,
should transfer (as he has threatened many a time) the cowhide from
the negro's loins to his? No; we must free ourselves! And there lives
one woman, at least, who, having gained her freedom, knows how to use
it in eternal war against all tyrants. Oh, I could go down, I think at
moments, down to New Orleans itself, with a brain and lips of fire,
and speak words--you know how I could speak them--which would bring me
in a week to the scourge, perhaps to the stake. The scourge I could
endure. Have I not felt it already? Do I not bear its scars even now,
and glory in them; for they were won by speaking as a woman should
speak? And even the fire?--Have not women been martyrs already?
and could not I be one? Might not my torments madden a people into
manhood, and my name become a war-cry in the sacred fight? And yet,
oh my friend, life is sweet!--and my little day has been so dark and
gloomy!--may I not have one hour's sunshine, ere youth and vigour are
gone, and my swift-vanishing Southern womanhood wrinkles itself
up into despised old age? Oh, counsel me,--help me, my friend, my
preserver, my true master now, so brave, so wise, so all-knowing;
under whose mask of cynicism lies hid (have I not cause to know it?)
the heart of a hero.
"MARIE"
If Miss Heale could have watched Tom's face as he read, much more
could she have heard his words as he finished, all jealousy would have
passed from her mind: for as he read, the cynical smile grew sharper
and sharper, forming a fit prelude for the "Little fool!" which was
his only comment.
Pages:
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170