He
will take from you that which the cholera would not deign to touch:
he has no more conscience than a cotton-press," says Marston,
reclining back in his chair, and calling the negro waiter.
The word conscience fell upon Maxwell's ear with strange effect. He
had esteemed Marston according to his habits-not a good test when
society is so remiss of its duties: he could not reconcile the touch
of conscience in such a person, nor could he realise the impulse
through which some sudden event was working a moral regeneration in
his mind. There was something he struggled to keep from notice. The
season had been unpropitious, bad crops had resulted; the cholera
made its appearance, swept off many of the best negroes, spread
consternation, nearly suspended discipline and labour. One by one
his negroes fell victims to its ravages, until it became
imperatively necessary to remove the remainder to the pine-woods.
Families might be seen here and there making their little
preparations to leave for the hills: the direful scourge to them was
an evil spirit, sent as a visitation upon their bad deeds. This they
sincerely believe, coupling it with all the superstition their
ignorance gives rise to. A few miles from the mansion, among the
pines, rude camps are spread out, fires burn to absorb the malaria,
to war against mosquitoes, to cook the evening meal; while, up
lonely paths, ragged and forlorn-looking negroes are quietly
wending their way to take possession.
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