Part 4

“Why, evah sence ’Lias tuk it into his haid to be a cyahpenter an’ Jim ’cided to go ’long an’ lu’n to be a blacksmif, some o’ dese hyeah othah young people’s been tryin’ to do somep’n’.”

“All dey wanted was a staht.”

“Well, now will you b’lieve me, dat no-’count Tom Johnson done opened a fish sto’, an’ he has de boys an’ men bring him dey fish all de time. He give ’em a little somep’n’ fu’ dey ketch, den he go sell ’em to de white folks.”

“Lawd, how long!”

“An’ what you think he say?”

“I do’ know, sis’.”

“He say ez soon ’z he git money enough, he gwine to dat school whah ’Lias an’ Jim gone an’ lu’n to fahm scientific.”

“Bless de Lawd! Well, ’um, I don’ put nothin’ pas’ de young folks now.”

Mt. Hope had at last awakened. Something had come to her to which she might aspire,—something that she could understand and reach. She was not soaring, but she was rising above the degradation in which Harold Dokesbury had found her. And for her and him the ordeal had passed.

THE COLONEL’S AWAKENING

THE COLONEL’S AWAKENING

It was the morning before Christmas. The cold winter sunlight fell brightly through the window into a small room where an old man was sitting. The room, now bare and cheerless, still retained evidences of having once been the abode of refinement and luxury. It was the one open chamber of many in a great rambling old Virginia house, which in its time had been one of the proudest in the county. But it had been in the path of the hurricane of war, and had been shorn of its glory as a tree is stripped of its foliage. Now, like the bare tree, dismantled, it remained, and this one old man, with the aristocratic face, clung to it like the last leaf.

He did not turn his head when an ancient serving-man came in and began laying the things for breakfast. After a while the servant spoke: “I got a monst’ous fine breakfus’ fu’ you dis mo’nin’, Mas’ Estridge. I got fresh aigs, an’ beat biscuits, an Lize done fried you a young chicken dat’ll sholy mek yo’ mouf worter.”

“Thank you, Ike, thank you,” was the dignified response. “Lize is a likely girl, and she’s improving in her cooking greatly.”

“Yes, Mas’ Estridge, she sho is a mighty fine ooman.”

“And you’re not a bad servant yourself, Ike,” the old man went on, with an air of youthful playfulness that ill accorded with his aged face. “I expect some day you’ll be coming around asking me to let you marry Lize, eh! What have you got to say to that?”

“I reckon dat’s right, mastah, I reckon dat’s mighty nigh right.”

“Well, we shall see about it when the time comes; we shall see about it.”

“Lawd, how long!” mumbled the old servant to himself as he went on about his work. “Ain’t Mas’ Bob nevah gwine to git his almanec straight? He been gwine on dis way fu’ ovah twenty yeahs now. He cain’t git it thoo’ his haid dat time been a-passin’. Hyeah I done been ma’ied to Lize fu’ lo dese many yeahs, an’ we’ve got ma’ied chillum, but he still think I’s a-cou’tin’ huh.”

To Colonel Robert Estridge time had not passed and conditions had not changed for a generation. He was still the gallant aristocrat he had been when the war broke out,—a little past the age to enlist himself, but able and glad to give two sons to the cause of the South. They had gone out, light-hearted and gay, and brave in their military trappings and suits of gray. The father had watched them away with moist eyes and a swelling bosom. After that the tide of war had surged on and on, had even rolled to his very gates, and the widowed man watched and waited for it to bring his boys back to him. One of them came. They brought him back from the valley of the Shenandoah, and laid him in the old orchard out there behind the house. Then all the love of the father was concentrated upon the one remaining son, and his calendar could know but one day and that the one on which his Bob, his namesake and his youngest, should return to him. But one day there came to him the news that his boy had fallen in the front of a terrific fight, and in the haste of retreat he had been buried with the unknown dead. Into that trench, among the unknown, Colonel Robert Estridge had laid his heart, and there it had stayed. Time stopped, and his faculties wandered. He lived always in the dear past. The present and future were not. He did not even know when the fortunes of war brought an opposing host to his very doors. He was unconscious of it all when they devoured his substance like a plague of locusts. It was all a blank to him when the old manor house was fired and he was like to lose his possessions and his life. When his servants left him he did not know, but sat and gave orders to the one faithful retainer as though he were ordering the old host of blacks. And so for more than a generation he had lived.

“Hope you gwine to enjoy yo’ Christmas Eve breakfus’, Mas’ Estridge,” said the old servant.

“Christmas Eve, Christmas Eve? Yes, yes, so it is. To-morrow is Christmas Day, and I’m afraid I have been rather sluggish in getting things ready for the celebration. I reckon the darkies have already begun to jubilate and to shirk in consequence, and I won’t be able to get a thing done decently for a week.”

“Don’t you bother ’bout none o’ de res’, Mas’ Estridge; you kin ’pend on me—I ain’t gwine to shu’k even ef ’t is Christmus.”

“That’s right, Ike. I can depend upon you. You’re always faithful. Just you get things done up right for me, and I’ll give you that broadcloth suit of mine. It’s most as good as new.”

“Thanky, Mas’ Bob, thanky.” The old Negro said it as fervently as if he had not worn out that old broadcloth a dozen years ago.

“It’s late and we’ve got to hurry if we want things prepared in time. Tell Lize that I want her to let herself out on that dinner. Your Mas’ Bob and your Mas’ Stanton are going to be home to-morrow, and I want to show them that their father’s house hasn’t lost any of the qualities that have made it famous in Virginia for a hundred years. Ike, there ain’t anything in this world for making men out of boys like making them feel the debt they owe to their name and family.”

“Yes, suh, Mas’ Bob an’ Mas’ Stant sholy is mighty fine men.”

“There ain’t two finer in the whole country, sir,—no, sir, not in all Virginia, and that of necessity means the whole country. Now, Ike, I want you to get out some of that wine up in the second cellar, and when I say some I mean plenty. It ain’t seen the light for years, but it shall gurgle into the glasses to-morrow in honour of my sons’ home-coming. Good wine makes good blood, and who should drink good wine if not an Estridge of Virginia, sir, eh, Ike?”

The wine had gone to make good cheer when a Federal regiment had lighted its campfires on the Estridge lawn, but old Ike had heard it too often before and knew his business too well to give any sign.

“I want you to take some things up to Miss Clarinda Randolph to-morrow, too, and I’ve got a silver snuffbox for Thomas Daniels. I can’t make many presents this year. I’ve got to devote my money to the interest of your young masters.”

There was a catch in the Negro’s voice as he replied, “Yes, Mas’ Estridge, dey needs it mos’, dey needs it mos’.”

The old colonel’s spell of talking seldom lasted long, and now he fell to eating in silence; but his face was the face of one in a dream. Ike waited on him until he had done, and then, clearing the things away, slipped out, leaving him to sit and muse in his chair by the window.

“Look hyeah, Lize,” said the old servant, as he entered his wife’s cabin a little later. “Pleggoned ef I didn’t come purt’ nigh brekin’ down dis mo’nin’.”

“Wha’ ’s de mattah wif you, Ike?”

“Jes’ a-listenin’ to ol’ Mas’ a-sittin’ dah a-talkin’ lak it was de ol’ times,—a-sendin’ messages to ol’ Miss Randolph, dat’s been daid too long to talk about, an’ to Mas’ Tom Daniels, dat went acrost de wateh ruther ’n tek de oaf o’ ’legiance.”

“Oomph,” said the old lady, wiping her eyes on her cotton apron.

“Den he expectin’ Mas’ Bob an’ Mas’ Stant home to-morrer. ’Clah to goodness, when he say dat I lak to hollahed right out.”

“Den you would ’a’ fixed it, wouldn’t you? Set down an’ eat yo’ breakfus’, Ike, an’ don’t you nevah let on when Mas’ Estridge talkin’, you jes’ go ’long ’bout yo’ wuk an’ keep yo’ mouf shet, ’ca’se ef evah he wake up now he gwine to die right straight off.”

“Lawd he’p him not to wake up den, ’ca’se he ol’, but we needs him. I do’ know whut I’d do ef I didn’t have Mas’ Bob to wuk fu’. You got ol’ Miss Randolph’s present ready fu’ him?”

“Co’se I has. I done made him somep’n’ diffunt dis yeah.”

“Made him somep’n’ diffunt—whut you say, Lize?” exclaimed the old man, laying his knife and fork on his plate and looking up at his wife with wide-open eyes. “You ain’t gwine change afteh all dese yeahs?”

“Yes. I jes’ pintly had to. It’s been de same thing now fu’ mo’ ’n twenty yeahs.”

“Whut you done made fu’ him?”

“I’s made him a comfo’t to go roun’ his naik.”

“But, Lize, ol’ Miss Cla’indy allus sont him gloves knit wif huh own han’. Ain’t you feared Mas’ Estridge gwine to ’spect?”

“No, he ain’t gwine to ’spect. He don’t tek no notice o’ nuffin’, an’ he jes’ pintly had to have dat comfo’t fu’ his naik, ’ca’se he boun’ to go out in de col’ sometime er ruther an’ he got plenty gloves.”

“I’s feared,” said the old man, sententiously, “I’s mighty feared. I wouldn’t have Mastah know we been doin’ fu’ him an’ a-sendin’ him dese presents all dis time fu’ nuffin’ in de worl’. It ’u’d hu’t him mighty bad.”

“He ain’t foun’ out all dese yeahs, an’ he ain’t gwine fin’ out now.” The old man shook his head dubiously, and ate the rest of his meal in silence.

It was a beautiful Christmas morning as he wended his way across the lawn to his old master’s room, bearing the tray of breakfast things and “ol’ Miss Randolph’s present,”—a heavy home-made scarf. The air was full of frosty brightness. Ike was happy, for the frost had turned the persimmons. The ’possums had gorged themselves, and he had one of the fattest of them for his Christmas dinner. Colonel Estridge was sitting in his old place by the window. He crumbled an old yellow envelope in his hand as Ike came in and set the things down. It looked like the letter which had brought the news of young Robert Estridge’s loss, but it could not be, for the old man sitting there had forgotten that and was expecting the son home on that day.

Ike took the comforter to his master, and began in the old way: “Miss Cla’iny Randolph mek huh comperments to you, Mas’ Bob, an’ say—” But his master had turned and was looking him square in the face, and something in the look checked his flow of words. Colonel Estridge did not extend his hand to take the gift. “Clarinda Randolph,” he said, “always sends me gloves.” His tone was not angry, but it was cold and sorrowful. “Lay it down,” he went on more kindly and pointing to the comforter, “and you may go now. I will get whatever I want from the table.” Ike did not dare to demur. He slipped away, embarrassed and distressed.

“Wha’ ’d I tell you?” he asked Lize, as soon as he reached the cabin. “I believe he done woke up.” But the old woman could only mourn and wring her hands.

“Well, nevah min’,” said Ike, after his first moment of sad triumph was over. “I guess it wasn’t the comfo’t nohow, ’ca’se I seed him wif a letteh when I went in, but I didn’t ’spicion nuffin’ tell he look at me an’ talk jes’ ez sensible ez me er you.”

It was not until dinner-time that Ike found courage to go back to his master’s room, and then he did not find him sitting in his accustomed place, nor was he on the porch or in the hall.

Growing alarmed, the old servant searched high and low for him, until he came to the door of a long-disused room. A bundle of keys hung from the keyhole.

“Hyeah’s whah he got dat letteh,” said Ike. “I reckon he come to put it back.” But even as he spoke, his eyes bulged with apprehension. He opened the door farther, and went in. And there at last his search was ended. Colonel Estridge was on his knees before an old oak chest. On the floor about him were scattered pair on pair of home-knit gloves. He was very still. His head had fallen forward on the edge of the chest. Ike went up to him and touched his shoulder. There was no motion in response. The black man lifted his master’s head. The face was pale and cold and lifeless. In the stiffening hand was clenched a pair of gloves,—the last Miss Randolph had ever really knit for him. The servant lifted up the lifeless form, and laid it upon the bed. When Lize came she would have wept and made loud lamentations, but Ike checked her. “Keep still,” he said. “Pray if you want to, but don’t hollah. We ought to be proud, Lize.” His shoulders were thrown back and his head was up. “Mas’ Bob’s in glory. Dis is Virginia’s Christmas gif’ to Gawd!”

THE TRIAL SERMONS ON BULL-SKIN

THE TRIAL SERMONS ON BULL-SKIN

The congregation on Bull-Skin Creek was without a pastor. You will probably say that this was a deficiency easily remedied among a people who possess so much theological material. But you will instantly perceive how different a matter it was, when you learn that the last shepherd who had guided the flock at Bull-skin had left that community under a cloud. There were, of course, those who held with the departed minister, as well as those who were against him; and so two parties arose in the church, each contending for supremacy. Each party refused to endorse any measure or support any candidate suggested by the other; and as neither was strong enough to run the church alone, they were in a state of inactive equipoise very gratifying to that individual who is supposed to take delight in the discomfort of the righteous.

It was in this complicated state of affairs that Brother Hezekiah Sneedon, who was the representative of one of the candidates for the vacant pastorate, conceived and proposed a way out of the difficulty. Brother Sneedon’s proposition was favourably acted upon by the whole congregation, because it held out the promise of victory to each party. It was, in effect, as follows:

Each faction—it had come to be openly recognised that there were two factions—should name its candidate, and then they should be invited to preach, on successive Sundays, trial sermons before the whole congregation, the preacher making the better impression to be called as pastor.

“And,” added Brother Sneedon, pacifically, “in ordah dat dis little diffunce between de membahs may be settled in ha’mony, I do hope an’ pray dat de pahty dat fin’s itse’f outpreached will give up to de othah in Christun submission, an’ th’ow in all deir might to hol’ up de han’s of whatever pastor de Lawd may please to sen’.”

[Illustration: BROTHER HEZEKIAH SNEEDON.]

Sister Hannah Williams, the leader of the opposing faction, expressed herself as well pleased with the plan, and counselled a like submission to the will of the majority. And thus the difficulty at Bull-skin seemed in a fair way to settlement. But could any one have read that lady’s thoughts as she wended her homeward way after the meeting, he would have had some misgivings concerning the success of the proposition which she so willingly endorsed. For she was saying to herself,—

“Uh huh! ol’ Kiah Sneedon thinks he’s mighty sma’t, puttin’ up dat plan. Reckon he thinks ol’ Abe Ma’tin kin outpreach anything near an’ fur, but ef Brothah ’Lias Smith don’t fool him, I ain’t talkin’.”

And Brother Sneedon himself was not entirely guiltless of some selfish thought as he hobbled away from the church door.

“Ann,” said he to his wife, “I wunner ef Hannah Williams ca’culates dat ’Lias Smith kin beat Brother Abe Ma’tin preachin’, ki yi! but won’t she be riley when she fin’s out how mistaken she is? Why, dey ain’t nobody ’twixt hyeah an’ Louisville kin beat Brothah Abe Ma’tin preachin’. I’s hyeahed dat man preach ’twell de winders rattled an’ it seemed lak de skies mus’ come down anyhow, an’ sinnahs was a-fallin’ befo’ de Wo’d lak leaves in a Novembah blas’; an’ she ’lows to beat him, oomph!” The “oomph” meant disgust, incredulity, and, above all, resistance.

The first of the momentous Sundays had been postponed two weeks, in order, it was said, to allow the members to get the spiritual and temporal elements of the church into order that would be pleasing to the eyes of a new pastor. In reality, Brother Sneedon and Sister Williams used the interval of time to lay their plans and to marshal their forces. And during the two weeks previous to the Sunday on which, by common consent, it had been agreed to invite the Reverend Elias Smith to preach, there was an ominous quiet on the banks of Bull-Skin,—the calm that precedes a great upheaval, when clouds hang heavy with portents and forebodings, but silent withal.

But there were events taking place in which the student of diplomacy might have found food for research and reflection. Such an event was the taffy-pulling which Sister Williams’ daughters, Dora and Caroline, gave to the younger members of the congregation on Thursday evening. Such were the frequent incursions of Sister Williams herself upon the domains of the neighbours, with generous offerings of “a taste o’ my ketchup” or “a sample o’ my jelly.” She did not stop with rewarding her own allies, but went farther, gift-bearing, even into the camp of the enemy himself.

It was on Friday morning that she called on Sister Sneedon. She found the door ajar and pushed it open, saying, “You see, Sis’ Sneedon, I’s jes’ walkin’ right in.”

“Oh, it’s you, Sis’ Williams; dat’s right, come in. I was jes’ settin’ hyeah sawtin’ my cyahpet rags, de mof do seem to pestah ’em so. Tek dis cheer”—industriously dusting one with her apron. “How you be’n sence I seen you las’?”

“Oh, jes’ sawt o’ so.”

“How’s Do’ an’ Ca’line?”

“Oh, Ca’line’s peart enough, but Do’s feelin’ kind o’ peekid.”

“Don’t you reckon she grow too fas’?”

“’Spec’ dat’s about hit; dat gal do sutny seem to run up lak a weed.”

“It don’t nevah do ’em no good to grow so fas’, hit seem to tek away all deir strengf.”

“Yes, ’m, it sholy do; gals ain’t whut dey used to be in yo’ an’ my day, nohow.”

“Lawd, no; dey’s ez puny ez white folks now.”

“Well, dem sholy is lovely cyahpet rags—put’ nigh all wool, ain’t dey?”

“Yes, ma’am, dey is wool, evah speck an’ stitch; dey ain’t a bit o’ cotton among ’em. I ain’t lak some folks; I don’t b’lieve in mixin’ my rags evah-which-way. Den when you gits ’em wove have de cyahpet wah in holes, ’cause some’ll stan’ a good deal o’ strain an’ some won’t; yes, ’m, dese is evah one wool.”

“An’ you sholy have be’n mighty indust’ous in gittin’ ’em togethah.”

“I’s wo’ked ha’d an’ done my level bes’, dat’s sho.”

“Dat’s de mos’ any of us kin do. But I mustn’t be settin’ hyeah talkin’ all day an’ keepin’ you f’om yo’ wo’k. Why, la! I’d mos’ nigh fu’got what I come fu’—I jes’ brung you ovah a tas’e o’ my late greens. I knows how you laks greens, so I thought mebbe you’d enjoy dese.”

“Why, sho enough; now ain’t dat good o’ you, Sis’ Williams? Dey’s right wa’m, too, an’ tu’nip tops—bless me! Why, dese mus’ be de ve’y las’ greens o’ de season.”

“Well, I reely don’t think you’ll fin’ none much latah. De fros’ had done teched dese, but I kin’ o’ kivered ’em up wif leaves ontwell dey growed up wuf cuttin’.”

“Well, I knows I sholy shell relish dem.” Mrs. Sneedon beamed as she emptied the dish and insisted upon washing it for her visitor to take home with her. “Fu’,” she said, by way of humour, “I’s a mighty po’ han’ to retu’n nice dishes when I gits ’em in my cu’boa’d once.”

Sister Williams rose to go. “Well, you’ll be out to chu’ch Sunday to hyeah Broth’ ’Lias Smith; he’s a powahful man, sho.”

“Dey do tell me so. I’ll be thah. You kin ’pend on me to be out whenevah thah’s to be any good preachin’.”

“Well, we kin have dat kin’ o’ preachin’ all de time ef we gits Broth’ ’Lias Smith.”

“Yes, ’m.”

“Dey ain’t no ’sputin’ he’ll be a movin’ powah at Bull-Skin.”

“Yes, ’m.”

“We sistahs’ll have to ban’ togethah an’ try to do whut is bes’ fu’ de chu’ch.”

“Yes, ’m.”

“Co’se, Sistah Sneedon, ef you’s pleased wif his sermon, I suppose you’ll be in favoh o’ callin’ Broth’ ’Lias Smith.”

“Well, Sis’ Williams, I do’ know; you see Hezekier’s got his hea’t sot on Broth’ Abe Ma’tin fum Dokesville; he’s mighty sot on him, an’ when he’s sot he’s sot, an’ you know how it is wif us women when de men folks says dis er dat.”

Sister Williams saw that she had overshot her mark. “Oh, hit’s all right, Sis’ Sneedon, hit’s all right. I jes’ spoke of it a-wunnerin’. What we women folks wants to do is to ban’ togethah to hol’ up de han’ of de pastah dat comes, whoms’ever he may be.”

“Dat’s hit, dat’s hit,” assented her companion; “an’ you kin ’pend on me thah, fu’ I’s a powahful han’ to uphol’ de ministah whoms’ever he is.”

“An’ you right too, fu’ dey’s de shepuds of de flock. Well, I mus’ be goin’—come ovah.”

“I’s a-comin’—come ag’in yo’se’f, good-bye.”

As soon as her visitor was gone, Sister Sneedon warmed over the greens and sat down to the enjoyment of them. She had just finished the last mouthful when her better half entered. He saw the empty plate and the green liquor. Evidently he was not pleased, for be it said that Brother Sneedon had himself a great tenderness for turnip greens.

“Wha’d you git dem greens?” he asked.

“Sistah Hannah Williams brung ’em ovah to me.”

“Sistah Hannah—who?” ejaculated he.

“Sis’ Williams, Sis’ Williams, you know Hannah Williams.”