awhile. “One minnit you am libin’ an’ de nex’ you am trablin’ ’long de
road to Jurdan, an’ you can’t he’p yo’self to save yo’ life. You can’t
stop, you can’t sot down, you can’t turn back. You jes’ seem to be drawed
along like you was standin’ on a slidin’ sidewalk run on undergroun’
cables. But de road is buterful. Flowers bloom all aroun’ you. Birds
sing in de sunshine on gold trees, an’ fishes swim in lakes of melted
di’monds. Inste’d of bein’ outdoors an’ breathin’ air, you ’peer to be
movin’ along under de bright roof ob a cut-glass house, or in a big
bottle ob rarerfied perfume, wid de sun a blazin’ stopper in de roof.
“I didn’t kno’ whar I wus gwine to, an’ I didn’t keer—all I know’ wus I
wus gwine, thang Gord!
“But, bimeby, everthing stop whar two roads met, an’ I know’d one of ’em
went to heab’n, but I cudn’t say which one to save my life. I got down on
my knees, an’ prayed fur light, but no light cum, an’ ’stid of it I heurd
all de little birds singin’ in de gold trees all aroun’ me:
“‘If you foller the road of sorrer an’ sin,
An’ don’t pray fur light in de wurl’ you am in,
No use fur to pray in de nex’.’
“Dat mos’ par’lyze me, boss, an’ I’d a gi’n ennything ef I hadn’t spent
so much time aroun’ race-tracks whilst I wus alive an’ had spent mo’ of
it lookin’ for dis heah track, an’ tryin’ to fin’ out which road to take.
Dar dey bofe lay, jes’ alike, shinin’ in de glow of eternity. An’ yit de
very silence seem ter speak in thunder-tones, an’ de stillness was louder
dan de noise of battle. It all depended on de path I tuck.
“Bimeby, I thort of Ole Marster’s little boy dat I seed die so long ago,
an’ dat I useter nuss an’ carry in my arms, an’ of all de little chillun
I seed bohn one day, an’ die de nex’, an’ I got down on my knees in de
golden dust ob dat ’ar road an’ I look fur ter see if dar was enny baby
tracks dar, fur I knowed whar de baby tracks wus, dat wus de road dat
leads to heab’n.”
The old man stopped, and I saw him brush away a tear. He had said
something as great as Shakespeare, and I, myself, had to take a turn
around the room to stop before the picture of a little curly-head over
the mantel, and listen again for the prattle of a laughter which began
one spring with a bird’s note and ended with the first snow in a new-made
grave.
When I came back, the old man was laughing. Tears—smiles—twins that dwell
in the secret chambers of the heart, and they join hands so quickly at
times!
“Bimeby,” he went on, “I look up de road, an’ heah cum ole Kunnel
Ketchum, er-splittin’ de dust ob de golden road, an’ a-moppin’ his ole
bald head wid a red bandanna handkerchief, an er-lookin’ es pi’us in
death as he was sancterfied in life. Now, boss, you kno’ de Kunnel was
one ob dese here prayin’ lawyers—dat you kin always safely brand as De
Debbil’s Own—an’ he died jes’ ’fo’ I did, an’ he wus awful smart an’
awful slick, an’ whilst I didn’t hab much idee he knowed enny mo’ ’bout
de road to heab’n dan I did, I was bankin’ on his ’bility to find it out
fust.
“‘Hello, Wash,’ sezee, ‘which way you gwine?’
“Sez I: ‘Kunnel, I’m cogertatin’ on which ob dese heah roads leads to
heab’n.’
“‘Oh,’ sez he, ‘I kin show you which road ter take. I dun bin up dar
an’ file my brief wid Jedge Peter at de gate, but dar wus some leetle
irregularerties in de pleadings, an’ I’ve come back to answer his demur.’
“Den he laugh, an’ say: ‘Wash, de ole feller don’t kno’ a little bit o’
law, an’ hit’s de easiest thing in de wurl’ to wuck him ef you’ll only
do es I say. Now, when I went up an’ presented him my church papers, an’
tole ’im who I wus, deac’n an’ all dat, he ’lowed he nurver had larned
to read English an’ he throwed my papers over a bluff, whar I seed some
smoke risin’ an’ swellin’ sorter like de smoke ob a passin’ freight
engine, an’ den he look at me an’ ax if I wus ridin’ or walkin’? Sez I,
“Sir, I am walkin.” “Dat settles it,” sez he, “nobody erfoot will urver
git in dis gait, and es fur dat artomobeel crowd,” sez he, “dey go on
to hell widout stoppin’, fur dey carry de scent of hell erlong wid ’em,
ennyhow. No, sah, Kunnel,” sez he, “you gotter ride a hoss to git into
heah. We need ’em to pull de cherriots in heaben”—an’ de Kunnel look wise
an’ stroke his chin-whiskers.
“‘Now, Wash,’ he went on, soft-like, ‘I’ve got a plan my color’d frien’
dat ull fix ole Peter an’ let us bofe in. I kno’ de road—I’ve bin dar
befo’, so you be de hoss an’ I’ll be de rider, an’ Peter will throw open
de gate, an’ let us bofe in. Dey’s nuffin’ lak a leetle brains, Wash—a
leetle brains in dis wurl’ an’ de nex’.’
“Wal, boss, dat all look mighty conniv’rous ter me, an’ es I had been all
my life a-totin’ de burdens ob de white man, it ’peered mighty nachul
to keep it up. So I got down on my all-fo’s, de Kunnel he mounted me,
an’ I started up de pike in a jog trot. But I hadn’t gone fur befo’ de
ole Kunnel punch me in de side wid his heels, yanked my mouf nearly off
wid de gallus bridle an’ de shoestring bit he fixed up fur me befo’ he
started, an’ yelled out:
“‘Change dat gait, you ole fool, do you think I would ride into heab’n on
a trottin’ hoss when I c’u’d ride a easy pacer?’
“I seed de pint, an’ shifted.
“‘Ah, dat’s better,’ sez he, ‘an mo’ restful.’
“At de gate Marse Peter stop us, an’ say: ‘Am you ridin’ or walkin’ suh?’
“‘Ridin’ dis time, yo’ Honoh,’ sey de Kunnel.
“‘Good,’ sez Peter, a-glancin’ at me, ‘but I don’t like de looks ob dat
swayback scrub you’re ridin’, so I’ll jes’ let you hitch ’im to de fence,
but you kin walk in!’
“An’ de ole Kunnel, he hitch me to de fence sho’ ’nuff, an’ walked in
widout battin’ his eye or sayin’ much obleeged, an’ dar I wus champin’
a shoestring bit, tied to de fence ob heab’n, wid a gallus line, an’
dodgin’ a hoss-fly es big as a turkey gobbler dat wus buzzin’ aroun’ over
de bluff nigh-by.
“Peter look at me a long time, sorter smilin’ an’ sorter mad, an den he
sez: ‘Thort you’d fool me, did you? Wal, for dis decepshun, I’ll turn you
into a sho’ nuff hoss,’ and befo’ I c’u’d say scat, boss, I wus a black
Hal pacer, wid two white feet, a star, snip, black mane and tail, so
help me Gord, an’ dat ’ar hoss-fly es big es a turkey was buzzin’ aroun’
tryin’ to bore a hole in me.
“Gimme anurver dram, boss.”
I thought he was entitled to it.
“But dat wa’n’t all. F’um dat day on dey didn’t do nuffin’ but use me on
dat road, carryin’ folks up to de gate, but nurver gittin’ in myse’f.
An’ dey wucked me ’twell I almos’ drapped dead ag’in. An’ I carried Jews
an’ Turks an’ Chinese, an’ eb’ry kind o’ man dat urver libbed, ’twell de
golden pike wus a pile ob brass, an’ de sun was a furnace ob fiah, an’ me
de hoss, a-doin’ all de totin’.
“An’ ebry day ole Peter ’u’d lead me to de bluff an’ let me look ober on
de pit down below. An’ dar I seed folks I nurver dreamed ’u’d be dar,
in dis wurl’, an’ I failed ter see udders dat I thort ’u’d be dar on de
hottes’ gridiron. Dar wus heathens a-wonderin’ what it all meant, an’
Christians still ’sputin’ on baptism an’ santerfercashun, an’ ev’ry one
ob ’em, boss, a-holdin’ a fat Afercan heathen ’twixt him an’ de fiah.
Greeks, Turks, niggers, Jews, Spanyards—all dar, boss. Dar wus doctors,
still a-lyin’ an’ lookin’ wise, an’ when de yudders called fur water
de debbil had ’em to dose ’em wid quinine an’ calermel, or cut open
de reel bad men huntin’ fur de ’pendix. Lawyers? Boss, if hell only
had a bookcase an’ a dirty carpet, cuspedores an’ a sweatin’ lot ob
bad-smellin’ jurors, you’d a-thort it wus some ord’nary co’te-house wid a
fiah attachment. In one corner dey had penned off a lot ob ole wimmens,
all talkin’ an’ argyin’ at onct, an’ I ax Peter whut dey wus, an’ he sed
dey wus de muthers ob de wives ob men, an’ dey had to be penned off dar
ter keep ’em frum runnin’ de place an’ bossin’ it deyselves.
“Dey wus all dar, boss—all but de babies, as I wus tellin’ you. Nurver
did I heah de wail ob a little one come up frum de pit, nur de lisp ob
a lullerby turned into moan. Fur de sweetes’ nurse dat eber a baby had,
had sed, whilst He was on earth, ‘De little chillun I’ll take keer of
them’—an’ dey had all gone to Him.
“Day arter day I seed dis; day arter day I carried nations on my back
from de partin ob de two ways to de gate whar Peter stood, ’till I prayed
to die ag’in.
“An’ one day, when I thort I c’u’dn’t stan’ it no longer, dar come along
a smilin’, quiet man, wid a kind look in his eyes. An’ dey tole him to
mount me an’ ride me up to de hill. But he looked me all ober, my puffed
legs an’ sore feet an’ sweat-caked sides an’ drawn flank, an’ he said:
‘No—no—I wouldn’t ride into heab’n on the miz’zry ob a dumb beast.’
“An’ he fotch me some water to squench my thirt, an’ he tuck off de
saddle an’ bathe my back, an’ he led me slowly up de hill. An’ when we
come to de gate, Peter looked at ’im pow’ful ’stonished, an’ sed:
“‘Who am you, suh, dat w’u’d choose ter walk ter heab’n when you mout
ride?’
“An’ den de man look at ’im quiet lak, an’ say, ‘I am nuffin heah, my
Lord, an’ it matters not whut my name am. Call me one dat had no creed,
an’ harmed no man, an’ lubbed all things, Lord, yea, eben de beasts of
de fiel’s an’ de birds ob de air an’ de wurm dat creepeth. An’ so loving
them, I would not ride eben to heaben’s gate on de miz’zry ob enny beast
that Gord has made.’
“An’ den dar cum a burst ob music de lak of which no man eber heurd
befo’, an’ a buterful gate on a ribber I nurver seed befo’ was flung
wide open, an’ a voice sed: ‘Righteousness an’ truth hab met toguther.
Whatsoever you did unto one ob dese you do it also unto me.’
“An’ Peter waved his han’ an’ de man was clothed in white an’ light, an’
went in de glory gate—de onlies’ one ob dem all dat went in, an’ I seed
dat yudder gate dat ole Kunnel Ketchum an’ all went in wusn’t heab’n at
all, but jus a side entrance to hell—an’ es he went in he waved his han’
at me’ an’ sed: ‘Go back ag’in to earth an’ learn to lub all things dat
Gord hes made, an’ yo’ na’bur as yo’se’f,’ an’ befo’ I knowed it I stood
in my grabe-clothes in de woods of Bigby, lookin’ fust at de grabe at my
feet an’ den at de skies above me, an’ wonderin’ whut hed happen sence I
died.”
The queer turn the old man gave to his story set me to thinking, and the
hidden lesson touched me so greatly I could not reply. To throw off its
weirdness, I finally said:
“Well, what had become of the widder?”
“I tole you I wus dead nigh six weeks. My wife, she’d marri’d ag’in,
thank Gord, whilst I wus dead!”
The Ghost, Cassandra
BY J. MADISON SHEPPARD
The servants—overhearing the eager, excited footman’s message to the
young mistress—had gathered hurriedly upon the rear porch to inspect
the new arrival; cook, kitchen-maid, butler, flanked on one side by the
parlor-maids, and on the other by a small errand boy, who peeped in
open-mouthed wonder from beneath the elbow of the waiting footman.
The new arrival was a beautiful white mare. She had quickly thrown her
head upward, and now stood at gaze—regarding them. Alert, ardent, with
a slight distinguishable tremor of expectancy, but no trace of fear in
either posture or regard—merely bright inquiry.
“She was the incarnation of the Arab of romance;” lithe, delicately
tapering limbs, satin skin shimmering in the sunlight, pink nostrils
flaring wide from her quick breath, eyes glowing with intelligence, and,
withal, a thing of beauty, standing, as it were, transfixed in passionate
silence.
When the mistress of the house at last came down the great wide stairway,
the group fell back forming a semi-circle, leaving her face to face with
the bright object of interest.
“So that is the horse,” she said, in faint astonishment, which, however,
grew gradually into an expression of pure admiration and wonder; for the
beauty she beheld was little short of marvelous.
She turned suddenly to the servants with a perplexed gesture. “Is the
brougham at the door?” she asked. The footman signified that it was.
“Tell Thomas to come here.” The coachman a moment later had fixed his
eyes upon the newcomer that had attracted the group. At length, his
decorous gravity gave way to a smile of distinct pleasure, expressive of
the praise that seemed to tremble upon his lips; but, he remained silent,
a martyr to his training, his very features admirably correct.
“Is that a well-bred horse, Thomas?” demanded the young mistress.
“It certainly is, ma’am, if looks count for anything,” replied Thomas.
“Very well bred?”
“I’m sure ma’am, the creature must be perfectly so; I’ve never seen
anything so fine ma’am, ’pon my word,” he continued, the swelled veins of
his forehead betraying his stifled enthusiasm.
“Do you mean by that, Thomas, you have never seen that horse before?”
Thomas hesitated.
“Say what you wish to say, Thomas,” prompted the young mistress, with a
hasty glance at his face.
“Thanky, ma’am. Well, you know, ma’am, that your lawyer, sometime last
fall, had the poor master’s trainer sell off some of the horses from his
stable. I’m sure, ma’am, that this is the one the trainer complained so
much of selling, but Mr. Grannan had offered a big price, and the lawyer
made him sell her.”
She had already stepped forward to caress the eager, gazing animal,
timidly, for she could not resist the earnest, entreating look it
bestowed, but, when Thomas spoke the word “master,” she drew back sharply
and stood motionless.
“Never fear, ma’am,” said the coachman, “she won’t harm, ma’am.”
“So, it’s Mr. Grannan’s horse,” she repeated coldly; and then, hastily
turning, she passed through the house to the front door, which the boy,
anticipating her intention, with much dignity now held open. A moment
later she had descended the steps, and was in her brougham with Thomas
upon the box, and the austere footman gazing expectant at the window.
“To my lawyer’s office,” she said, calmly.
II
“The spring sunshine gilded the tops of the park trees. Here and there
the branches of the tall elms spread their tinted green; while the maples
and chestnuts glowed in almost the full glory of their new leaves.”
Scarlet blossoms, on the otherwise apparently naked shrubs bedded in
the green lawns, facades of the brown stone mansions and glass-fronted
shops, could be seen everywhere, on either side of the drive.
The scenes through which she now passed—looking upon, yet seeing
dimly—aroused within her a miserable consciousness that the memory of her
husband, who had once so much loved these very scenes, had also faded
with the spring gladness into an amazing dimness.
So Grannan had sent her the horse! In the first year of her widowhood she
had, by chance, met Grannan. It was on the occasion of the anniversary
of her twenty-second birthday. She had a relative—an old aunt—who had
visited her from San Francisco. She knew Grannan in her home there,
and, meeting him in the city had invited him to her house to dine. In
the beginning of the second year of her widowhood, Grannan had offered
himself; but, the look that she had then given him, froze the declaration
of love upon his lips, and caused him to feel and know the utter
hopelessness of his offer. She had not seen him since then. And now, just
at the end of the second year of widowhood, he had offered her the gift.
She had, at first, intended to keep it. Her husband had been intensely
devoted to horses, and she, through his influence had cultivated a
fondness she had always had for them, and which had steadily increased;
but, the words of Thomas caused her to dismiss any idea she might have
entertained toward harboring the gift.
The brougham stopped in front of the lawyer’s office. Presently that
gentleman stepped forward and greeted her at the window. He soon verified
the truthfulness of the statement of Thomas concerning the sale, adding
that, despite the vehement protests of the trainer, he had deemed it
unwise to reject the very extraordinary offer of Mr. Grannan.
Mr. Grannan, though, he continued, was known as an exceptionally fine
judge of horses, and enjoyed a most enviable reputation among horsemen
for the prodigious success his skill had achieved for him.
She informed him of her determination now, to absent herself from the
city for perhaps an unusual time, and requested that all necessary
letters of credit should be at once prepared and forwarded to her.
Then, signaling the footman and designating the cathedral, she bade the
attorney adieu.
III
Walter Grannan, who was conversing with some of his fellow-members at the
club, which was situated on a corner near the cathedral, was now coming
hastily forward towards her, just as she had alighted from her brougham
and ordered it not to await her, saying, she would walk home.
“It is very fortunate—at least for me,” he said. “I did so want to see
you.”
“I am going away to-morrow, and—of course it’s about the horse,” she
said, pleasantly.
He smiled as he noted the charm of her face. “I am to hope; then, that
you will accept her?”
“Oh, but I just can’t,” she said, “while I must thank you so much for
asking me.”
In a moment she was sorry almost that she had said it. His expression
touched her; and, though she could not satisfy herself why she should
care—what were the expressions of men’s faces to her?—still, the twit was
there. She felt it keenly as she now gazed steadfastly ahead, as they
walked slowly and silently along in the direction of the marble church.
“I also am decided to go away to-morrow,” she said, at length, in a quiet
tone.
Nothing was said in reply.
The great spire of the cathedral towered above her. The tones of the
organ came throbbing from within. A funeral cortege entered. There was a
coffin, piled high with wreaths of flowers. There the same dread pomp and
circumstance of death that was attendant upon her husband. She shuddered
as she turned aside her head.
Yes! Yes! She would go—go to-morrow. She must go! In her nervousness her
handkerchief dropped from her hand.
As Grannan bent forward to pick it up, he observed a single white
flower that had fallen from the wreaths piled upon the coffin, and
gathered this in his hand also. He started to offer it to her; but,
observing the thoughtful, troubled look upon her face, refrained. They
had now stopped; and, a moment later when in a fit of abstraction
he was attempting to pinion the flower to the lapel of his coat, she
involuntarily seized his hand.
“What is it?” he asked.
Her face crimsoned as she instantly withdrew her hand, and struggled for
composure. “Why—er, it’s bad luck,” she exclaimed.
“What’s bad luck?” asked he, with that peculiar tone of voice indicating
that there was no answer for his query.
“Oh, nothing; silliness, mere nonsense,” she said, betraying signs of
her agitation which Grannan, however, failed to discover. “And now,” she
continued, “I must say good-bye, for you are going away, you say, and I
must thank you, oh, I can’t say how much, for your offer of the beautiful
horse.”
“And, do you really mean that you will not accept my gift?” he said,
slowly.
She bit her lip and bent her eyes downward, while she moved the point of
her shoe restlessly upon the stone paving.
“O, I might manage,” she at length began, hesitatingly, “if only to
gratify your whim, to keep it, for a while; but—”
“You see,” he interrupted, “I wanted you to have something to remind—”
“Good-bye,” she repeated, smiling as she gave him her hand. “So you
really go away to-morrow?”
“At once,” he said, gravely, as he pressed the hand she was now
withdrawing from his own, and turned away.
She paused within the vestibuled entrance of the cathedral in what proved
to be a vain endeavor to calm the turbulency of her feelings. The fingers
of her gloved hand were still deadened by the pressure from which she had
just released them. Her eyes had even mastered her will, and now sought
with the intensity of eagerness, the dim outlines of a figure that was
now lost amid the throng, now faintly visible, with its downcast head and
slowly receding step. At last it vanished.
The unsteady, subdued, solemn tones of the great organ within again
rolled tumultuously upon her. She stood struggling, as it were, with the
overwhelming waves of sound. Both her eyes and memory seemed now to focus
upon a receding past.
The dead face of her husband drifted from out the vacancy, so real that
she started, stopped, then started again, slowly descending the steps.
She turned her face homeward. Unconscious of the tide of restless
passers-by, and of the noise that roared imprisoned by the walls of the
high buildings on either side of the street, she turned abstractedly from
the square, lost in the depths of her meditations.
She was thinking of her husband. Thinking of a day on the race-course;
the day upon which she had first met him. Of how she had then dreamed
of his wonderful personality, and afterwards learned how easily and
completely it had swayed her own. Of how untiring, faultlessly devotional
had been his constant care for her, and of how precisely perfect and
pleasureable had been their married life.
She grew desperate now, and upbraided herself distressingly to think that
already he should have become to her “nothing more vital than a memory.”
Yes, after all, she would go. She would go to the scene where she had
first met him, to San Francisco; her husband’s stable of horses was now
there.
As she entered leisurely the door of her home, and was met by her maid in
the hall, who relieved her of her wraps, she made known her intention of
leaving on the morrow, and gave instructions to her to have everything in
readiness for their departure. She then went from the rear porch of the
house in the direction of the coachman’s quarters, to notify Thomas to
make preparations desired. This, she had persuaded herself, was her real
reason for going to the locality set apart for the horses; but, was it?
No sooner had Thomas been found than the very first question asked him
was pertaining to the welfare of his charge. A few moments later, it was
she who was gently caressing the milk-white, deer-head of the mare, with
her soft hands, now stroking the shiny neck, now encircling it within her
arms, while the warm breath from the pink nostrils fanned at intervals
her fair brow, sending a-whirl some truant lock of her wavy hair.
“Thomas,” she now said, turning a face full of inquiry upon the
coachman, who had stood with a look of amazement, gazing upon the
manifest interest and affection of the young mistress, “what is her name?”
“Well, ma’am,” he replied, assuming the air now of one who feels the
importance of being the proud possessor of some rare bit of information,
“ever since she played in the paddock, three years ago now, by her
mother’s side, and the master would come and take her little head in his
hands, just as you have, ma’am, and pinch her cheeks, and laugh at her
odd pranks, he called her Cassandra.”
“Cassandra!” she repeated. “Then he must have loved her?”
“Oh, indeed he did, ma’am, she was his favorite, and the trainer knew it,
too.”
“Thomas, we start for San Francisco in the morning. You are to go, and
have in your especial care, Cassandra. When you have arrived there
deliver her again into the hands of the trainer, with instructions that
the best of attention be shown her.”
“Thanky, ma’am,” said Thomas. “I’m proud of my charge, ma’am, indeed I
am, for she’s a plum picture.”
IV
Five weeks passed. With her aunt beside her, and with Thomas upon the
box, the mistress was sweeping through a bright avenue in the far Western
city. The sky had forgotten the storm of the day before, and the splendor
of a noonday sun now slept upon its bosom. Nature was smiling, but the
smile was not wholly in accord with the feelings of the mistress. A
restless, fitful mood had settled upon her in the early morning, and she
had ordered the drive, as she now frequently did, to the race course.
Her aunt, strange to say, was not a very garrulous old lady, and the
dark, foreboding thoughts which persistently crept into the mind of the
mistress, so perplexed her that she appeared dull. Since her husband’s
death she had acquired the habit of pursuing at will her train of
thought, and now she could not easily break it, even in the presence of
others. Her thoughts now, as they had been much of late, were associated
with the little “Cassandra.” She was sorely vexed with the chiding she at
times administered to herself for the strong, though, perhaps, strange
attachment she felt to be growing dally within her.
Was she then destined, as the very name would imply, to fall in love with
Cassandra? Was she indeed to be fascinated, lured to what had at first
appeared to her the very shores of sin, “by the light of such wondrous
eyes?” Involuntarily she recalled the words of “Ouida;” “There are no
eyes that speak more truly, none on earth that are so beautiful as the
eyes of the horse—dark as a gazelle’s, soft as a woman’s, brilliant as
stars, a little dreamy and mournful, infinitely caressing when they look
at those they love.”