"Don't talk any more now," I said, chafing them in mine, while I
wondered perplexedly how I should get him home. Presently he spoke
again:
"But de papehs is all right, seh. I hilt on to 'um, sho'. Dey--dey
couldn't git 'um nohow, wid all de smahtniss," he said, with feeble
triumph. "Dey's right yeah in my wescut pocket." Then he added, with a
sudden change of tone: "But I'd like to go home, Mist' Dunkin; Ailse'll
be oneasy 'bout me."
I had to leave him with the boy while I went for a doctor and a vehicle,
neither of which was easy to be had, but finally a milk-wagon was
pressed into service, and although the mob had gathered together again,
and were besieging the depot, yet, after some delay, we succeeded in
conveying him to his home. I saw him safe in bed, his hurt dressed;
then, after bestowing a reward upon the colored boy, who had rendered me
such efficient service, I left him in charge of the doctor and his wife.
The latter was a small, plump yellow woman, with large, gentle black
eyes, and the soft voice so often found among Virginia "house" servants.
After watching her as she assisted the surgeon to dress the wound, I
came to the conclusion all of her talents were by no means "bound up in
napkins," and I went home assured my faithful old messenger was left in
very capable hands.
Next morning, directly after breakfast, I sallied forth to inquire
concerning his condition. After passing along the crowded thoroughfares,
where everybody was occupied with the riot, it was a relief to find
myself turning into the obscure little street where he lived.
"Here, at least, everything seems peaceful enough," I said, aloud, as I
approached the house. I was just in the act of placing my foot on the
one door-step, when the door was thrown violently open, and a tall black
woman bounced out, colliding with me as she passed, her superior
momentum thrusting me backward across the narrow pavement into the
street. She was too excited to heed my exclamation of astonishment. I
don't think she saw me, even, for she turned immediately and faced some
one standing in the doorway, whom I now perceived to be Ailse, looking
dreadfully frightened.
"_Good_-mornin', Mis' Wheatley," said the Amazon, with withering
sarcasm; "_good_-mornin', madam. I _think_ you'll know it the nex' time
I darkens your doors, I _think_ you will. Served me right, though, we'en
I _demeaned_ myself to come; I might 'a' knowed what treatment I'd
'eceive from _you_. Ef I hadn't ben boun' by solemn class-rules to pay
some 'tention to Brother Wheatley's immortal soul "--these words were
uttered at the very top of her voice--"you wouldn't 'a' caught _me_
comin'; but I'll never come ag'in, never; so make yourself easy, Mis'
Wheatley."
A shade of relief passed over Ailse's features as this assurance was
repeated, and I coming forward at this moment, the representative of the
church militant betook herself off, while I entered and spoke to Ailse,
who, fairly dazed, sank into a chair, and stared me helplessly in the
face. There was a moment's silence, when she suddenly rose and offered
me a seat, remarking, as she did so, that "Sisteh Ma'y Ann Jinkins
ca'in' on so" made her forget her manners.
"What is the matter?" said I.
"I dunno, seh, 'cep'n' she's mad 'cause docteh won't leave heh stay and
talk to Mist' Wheatley; _he_ made heh go, an' I s'pose hit kindeh put
heh out."
"What was she doing?"
"Talkin', seh; jiss talkin' and prayin'."
"And exciting the man into a fever," said the doctor, entering at that
moment. "I came here half an hour ago," he continued, turning to me,
"and found this woman--who really is a good nurse--turned out of her
husband's room by that termagant who has just gone, and whom I found in
the act of preparing the man for death, _she_ having decided his hours
on earth were numbered; in fact, I actually chanced in upon a species of
commendatory prayer, which, if continued another half hour--and I have
every reason to think it would have been--would almost inevitably have
ended the man's life."
"I suppose I had better not see him this morning, then," said I.
"Oh, yes; _you_ can see him; he's doing well now, and if he doesn't talk
too much, I think the sight of a cheerful face will do him good," and I
left him giving some directions to Ailse, while I proceeded up-stairs to
the room where Thomas lay. He was awake, so I walked up to his bedside,
and asked him how he felt.
"I'm tollubul, thankee, seh; de medicine makes me kind o' sleepy, that's
all."
I seated myself beside him, there was a moment or two of silence, then
he asked, fretfully:
"Whai--whaih's Ailse? I like to see the 'oman 'roun'; s'haint got no
speshul great gif', but she's kind o' handy wen a body's sick."
"You don't seem to care so much for gifted women in a sick-room,
Thomas?" I remarked, somewhat mischievously, after I had summoned his
wife from down-stairs.
"Well, naw, seh," a little shamefacedly. "Not so much. You see, seh,
dey--dey's mos' too much fu' a body, sich times. Dey _will_ talk, you'se
dey will, an' 'livah 'scouhcis, an' a sick man he hain't got de strenth
to--to supplicate in kine, an' hit kind o' mawtifies him, seh."
Once more there followed a silence, when I asked:
"Thomas, why didn't you give up those papers to the mob, when they
attacked you last night? Your retaining them might have cost you your
life. I didn't mean you to endanger your life for them."
He smiled slightly, as his glance met mine.
"I dunno, seh," he replied, with his old reflective air. "You tole me
mos' pehticaleh to hole on to 'um, an' 'twouldn't be doin' my duty
faithful to let 'um go 's long ez I could hole on to 'um."
"But suppose they had killed you?"
"Well, Mist' Dunkin, ef dey had, I hope I'd been ready to go. I ben
tryin' to lead a godly an' Chris'chun life, ez Scripcheh sez, fu' fawty
yeahs, now, an' I hope I'd a foun' dyin' grace at de las'. You see, seh,
thing hoped me mos' was de thoughts of a tex' Bro' Moss preached on las'
Sund'y; 'peached like hit hep' on jinglin' in my hade all time dey was
jawin' an' fightin' with me."
"What text was it?" I asked.
But he was almost asleep, and his wife signalled me not to wake him. So
I was stealing away toward the door, when he opened his eyes and
murmured, drowsily:
"De tex', oh yes, seh. I fo'got--'twas a Scripcheh tex'--'Be thou
faithful unto--'"
He then turned over, settling himself comfortably in his pillows, and in
a moment dropped asleep.
In due course of time, he made his appearance in the office again, being
anxious to "resume his duties," he said. But that blow on the head has
proved to be a serious affair, affecting the old man's memory
permanently, and giving a violent shock to his system, from which it
will never entirely recover. He is no longer the clear-headed messenger
he was, when he was wont to assert--no idle boast either--that he could
"fetch an' cai' eq'il to any man." Now and then, in these latter days,
he confuses things a little, always suffering the keenest mortification
when he discovers his mistakes. As I said in the beginning, he is still
our office-boy and messenger, although a smart young mulatto is hired to
come betimes, make things tidy, and leave before the old man gets down,
so his feelings mayn't be hurt. He sometimes remarks on our being the
"cleanis' gentlemun in de wueld," but we contrive that no whisper of the
real state of the case ever reaches his ear, and he is allowed to sweep
and dust a little to satisfy his mind.