But a short interval of time elapsed after the passage of the warlike
host that swept through North Carolina, until there appeared upon the
scene the vanguard of a second army, which came to bring light and the
fruits of liberty to a land which slavery and the havoc of war had
brought to ruin. It is fashionable to assume that those who undertook
the political rehabilitation of the Southern States merely rounded out
the ruin that the war had wrought--merely ploughed up the desolate land
and sowed it with salt. Perhaps the gentler judgments of the future may
recognize that their task was a difficult one, and that wiser and
honester men might have failed as egregiously. It may even, in time, be
conceded that some good came out of the carpet-bag governments, as, for
instance, the establishment of a system of popular education in the
former slave States. Where it had been a crime to teach people to read
or write, a schoolhouse dotted every hillside, and the State provided
education for rich and poor, for white and black alike. Let us lay at
least this token upon the grave of the carpet-baggers. The evil they did
lives after them, and the statute of limitations does not seem to run
against it. It is but just that we should not forget the good.
Long, however, before the work of political reconstruction had begun, a
brigade of Yankee schoolmasters and schoolma'ams had invaded Dixie, and
one of the latter had opened a Freedman's Bureau School in the town of
Patesville, about four miles from Needham Green's cabin on the
neighboring sandhills.
It had been quite a surprise to Miss Chandler's Boston friends when she
had announced her intention of going South to teach the freedmen. Rich,
accomplished, beautiful, and a social favorite, she was giving up the
comforts and luxuries of Northern life to go among hostile strangers,
where her associates would be mostly ignorant negroes. Perhaps she might
meet occasionally an officer of some Federal garrison, or a traveler
from the North; but to all intents and purposes her friends considered
her as going into voluntary exile. But heroism was not rare in those
days, and Martha Chandler was only one of the great multitude whose
hearts went out toward an oppressed race, and who freely poured out
their talents, their money, their lives,--whatever God had given
them,--in the sublime and not unfruitful effort to transform three
millions of slaves into intelligent freemen. Miss Chandler's friends
knew, too, that she had met a great sorrow, and more than suspected that
out of it had grown her determination to go South.
When Cicely Green heard that a school for colored people had been
opened at Patesville she combed her hair, put on her Sunday frock and
such bits of finery as she possessed, and set out for town early the
next Monday morning.
There were many who came to learn the new gospel of education, which was
to be the cure for all the freedmen's ills. The old and gray-haired, the
full-grown man and woman, the toddling infant,--they came to acquire the
new and wonderful learning that was to make them the equals of the white
people. It was the teacher's task, by no means an easy one, to select
from this incongruous mass the most promising material, and to
distribute among them the second-hand books and clothing that were sent,
largely by her Boston friends, to aid her in her work; to find out what
they knew, to classify them by their intelligence rather than by their
knowledge, for they were all lamentably ignorant. Some among them were
the children of parents who had been free before the war, and of these
some few could read and one or two could write. One paragon, who could
repeat the multiplication table, was immediately promoted to the
position of pupil teacher.
Miss Chandler took a liking to the tall girl who had come so far to sit
under her instruction. There was a fine, free air in her bearing, a
lightness in her step, a sparkle in her eye, that spoke of good
blood,--whether fused by nature in its own alembic, out of material
despised and spurned of men, or whether some obscure ancestral strain,
the teacher could not tell. The girl proved intelligent and learned
rapidly, indeed seemed almost feverishly anxious to learn. She was
quiet, and was, though utterly untrained, instinctively polite, and
profited from the first day by the example of her teacher's quiet
elegance. The teacher dressed in simple black. When Cicely came back to
school the second day, she had left off her glass beads and her red
ribbon, and had arranged her hair as nearly like the teacher's as her
skill and its quality would permit.
The teacher was touched by these efforts at imitation, and by the
intense devotion Cicely soon manifested toward her. It was not a
sycophantic, troublesome devotion, that made itself a burden to its
object. It found expression in little things done rather than in any
words the girl said. To the degree that the attraction was mutual,
Martha recognized in it a sort of freemasonry of temperament that drew
them together in spite of the differences between them. Martha felt
sometimes, in the vague way that one speculates about the impossible,
that if she were brown, and had been brought up in North Carolina, she
would be like Cicely; and that if Cicely's ancestors had come over in
the Mayflower, and Cicely had been reared on Beacon Street, in the
shadow of the State House dome, Cicely would have been very much like
herself.
Miss Chandler was lonely sometimes. Her duties kept her occupied all
day. On Sundays she taught a Bible class in the schoolroom.
Correspondence with bureau officials and friends at home furnished her
with additional occupation. At times, nevertheless, she felt a longing
for the company of women of her own race; but the white ladies of the
town did not call, even in the most formal way, upon the Yankee
school-teacher. Miss Chandler was therefore fain to do the best she
could with such companionship as was available. She took Cicely to her
home occasionally, and asked her once to stay all night. Thinking,
however, that she detected a reluctance on the girl's part to remain
away from home, she did not repeat her invitation.
Cicely, indeed, was filling a double rôle. The learning acquired from
Miss Chandler she imparted to John at home. Every evening, by the light
of the pine-knots blazing on Needham's ample hearth, she taught John to
read the simple words she had learned during the day. Why she did not
take him to school she had never asked herself; there were several other
pupils as old as he seemed to be. Perhaps she still thought it necessary
to protect him from curious remark. He worked with Needham by day, and
she could see him at night, and all of Saturdays and Sundays. Perhaps it
was the jealous selfishness of love. She had found him; he was hers. In
the spring, when school was over, her granny had said that she might
marry him. Till then her dream would not yet have come true, and she
must keep him to herself. And yet she did not wish him to lose this
golden key to the avenues of opportunity. She would not take him to
school, but she would teach him each day all that she herself had
learned. He was not difficult to teach, but learned, indeed, with what
seemed to Cicely marvelous ease,--always, however, by her lead, and
never of his own initiative. For while he could do a man's work, he was
in most things but a child, without a child's curiosity. His love for
Cicely appeared the only thing for which he needed no suggestion; and
even that possessed an element of childish dependence that would have
seemed, to minds trained to thoughtful observation, infinitely pathetic.
The spring came and cotton-planting time. The children began to drop out
of Miss Chandler's school one by one, as their services were required at
home. Cicely was among those who intended to remain in school until the
term closed with the "exhibition," in which she was assigned a leading
part. She had selected her recitation, or "speech," from among half a
dozen poems that her teacher had suggested, and to memorizing it she
devoted considerable time and study. The exhibition, as the first of its
kind, was sure to be a notable event. The parents and friends of the
children were invited to attend, and a colored church, recently
erected,--the largest available building,--was secured as the place
where the exercises should take place.
On the morning of the eventful day, uncle Needham, assisted by John,
harnessed the mule to the two-wheeled cart, on which a couple of
splint-bottomed chairs were fastened to accommodate Dinah and Cicely.
John put on his best clothes,--an ill-fitting suit of blue jeans,--a
round wool hat, a pair of coarse brogans, a homespun shirt, and a bright
blue necktie. Cicely wore her best frock, a red ribbon at her throat,
another in her hair, and carried a bunch of flowers in her hand. Uncle
Needham and aunt Dinah were also in holiday array. Needham and John took
their seats on opposite sides of the cart-frame, with their feet
dangling down, and thus the equipage set out leisurely for the town.
Cicely had long looked forward impatiently to this day. She was going to
marry John the next week, and then her dream would have come entirely
true. But even this anticipated happiness did not overshadow the
importance of the present occasion, which would be an epoch in her life,
a day of joy and triumph. She knew her speech perfectly, and timidity
was not one of her weaknesses. She knew that the red ribbons set off her
dark beauty effectively, and that her dress fitted neatly the curves of
her shapely figure. She confidently expected to win the first prize, a
large morocco-covered Bible, offered by Miss Chandler for the best
exercise.
Cicely and her companions soon arrived at Patesville. Their entrance
into the church made quite a sensation, for Cicely was not only an
acknowledged belle, but a general favorite, and to John there attached a
tinge of mystery which inspired a respect not bestowed upon those who
had grown up in the neighborhood. Cicely secured a seat in the front
part of the church, next to the aisle, in the place reserved for the
pupils. As the house was already partly filled by townspeople when the
party from the country arrived, Needham and his wife and John were
forced to content themselves with places somewhat in the rear of the
room, from which they could see and hear what took place on the
platform, but where they were not at all conspicuously visible to those
at the front of the church.
The schoolmistress had not yet arrived, and order was preserved in the
audience by two of the elder pupils, adorned with large rosettes of red,
white, and blue, who ushered the most important visitors to the seats
reserved for them. A national flag was gracefully draped over the
platform, and under it hung a lithograph of the Great Emancipator, for
it was thus these people thought of him. He had saved the Union, but the
Union had never meant anything good to them. He had proclaimed liberty
to the captive, which meant all to them; and to them he was and would
ever be the Great Emancipator.
The schoolmistress came in at a rear door and took her seat upon the
platform. Martha was dressed in white; for once she had laid aside the
sombre garb in which alone she had been seen since her arrival at
Patesville. She wore a yellow rose at her throat, a bunch of jasmine in
her belt. A sense of responsibility for the success of the exhibition
had deepened the habitual seriousness of her face, yet she greeted the
audience with a smile.
"Don' Miss Chan'ler look sweet," whispered the little girls to one
another, devouring her beauty with sparkling eyes, their lips parted
over a wealth of ivory.
"De Lawd will bress dat chile," said one old woman, in soliloquy. "I
t'ank de good Marster I 's libbed ter see dis day."
Even envy could not hide its noisome head: a pretty quadroon whispered
to her neighbor:----
"I don't b'liebe she 's natch'ly ez white ez dat. I 'spec' she 's be'n
powd'rin'! An' I know all dat hair can't be her'n; she 's got on a
switch, sho 's you bawn."
"You knows dat ain' so, Ma'y 'Liza Smif," rejoined the other, with a
look of stern disapproval; "you _knows_ dat ain' so. You 'd gib yo'
everlastin' soul 'f you wuz ez white ez Miss Chan'ler, en yo' ha'r wuz
ez long ez her'n."
"By Jove, Maxwell!" exclaimed a young officer, who belonged to the
Federal garrison stationed in the town, "but that girl is a beauty." The
speaker and a companion were in fatigue uniform, and had merely dropped
in for an hour between garrison duty. The ushers had wished to give them
seats on the platform, but they had declined, thinking that perhaps
their presence there might embarrass the teacher. They sought rather to
avoid observation by sitting behind a pillar in the rear of the room,
around which they could see without attracting undue attention.
"To think," the lieutenant went on, "of that Junonian figure, those
lustrous orbs, that golden coronal, that flower of Northern
civilization, being wasted on these barbarians!" The speaker uttered an
exaggerated but suppressed groan.
His companion, a young man of clean-shaven face and serious aspect,
nodded assent, but whispered reprovingly,----
"'Sh! some one will hear you. The exercises are going to begin."
When Miss Chandler stepped forward to announce the hymn to be sung by
the school as the first exercise, every eye in the room was fixed upon
her, except John's, which saw only Cicely. When the teacher had uttered
a few words, he looked up to her, and from that moment did not take his
eyes off Martha's face.
After the singing, a little girl, dressed in white, crossed by ribbons
of red and blue, recited with much spirit a patriotic poem.
When Martha announced the third exercise, John's face took on a more
than usually animated expression, and there was a perceptible deepening
of the troubled look in his eyes, never entirely absent since Cicely had
found him in the woods.
A little yellow boy, with long curls, and a frightened air, next
ascended the platform.
"Now, Jimmie, be a man, and speak right out," whispered his teacher,
tapping his arm reassuringly with her fan as he passed her.
Jimmie essayed to recite the lines so familiar to a past generation of
schoolchildren:----
"I knew a widow very poor,
Who four small children had;
The eldest was but six years old,
A gentle, modest lad."
He ducked his head hurriedly in a futile attempt at a bow; then,
following instructions previously given him, fixed his eyes upon a large
cardboard motto hanging on the rear wall of the room, which admonished
him in bright red letters to
"ALWAYS SPEAK THE TRUTH,"
and started off with assumed confidence
"I knew a widow very poor,
Who"----
At this point, drawn by an irresistible impulse, his eyes sought the
level of the audience. Ah, fatal blunder! He stammered, but with an
effort raised his eyes and began again:
"I knew a widow very poor,
Who four"----
Again his treacherous eyes fell, and his little remaining
self-possession utterly forsook him. He made one more despairing
effort:----
"I knew a widow very poor,
Who four small"----
and then, bursting into tears, turned and fled amid a murmur of
sympathy.
Jimmie's inglorious retreat was covered by the singing in chorus of "The
Star-spangled Banner," after which Cicely Green came forward to recite
her poem.
"By Jove, Maxwell!" whispered the young officer, who was evidently a
connoisseur of female beauty, "that is n't bad for a bronze Venus. I 'll
tell you"----
"'Sh!" said the other. "Keep still."
When Cicely finished her recitation, the young officers began to
applaud, but stopped suddenly in some confusion as they realized that
they were the only ones in the audience so engaged. The colored people
had either not learned how to express their approval in orthodox
fashion, or else their respect for the sacred character of the edifice
forbade any such demonstration. Their enthusiasm found vent, however, in
a subdued murmur, emphasized by numerous nods and winks and suppressed
exclamations. During the singing that followed Cicely's recitation the
two officers quietly withdrew, their duties calling them away at this
hour.
At the close of the exercises, a committee on prizes met in the
vestibule, and unanimously decided that Cicely Green was entitled to the
first prize. Proudly erect, with sparkling eyes and cheeks flushed with
victory, Cicely advanced to the platform to receive the coveted reward.
As she turned away, her eyes, shining with gratified vanity, sought
those of her lover.
John sat bent slightly forward in an attitude of strained attention; and
Cicely's triumph lost half its value when she saw that it was not at
her, but at Miss Chandler, that his look was directed. Though she
watched him thenceforward, not one glance did he vouchsafe to his
jealous sweetheart, and never for an instant withdrew his eyes from
Martha, or relaxed the unnatural intentness of his gaze. The imprisoned
mind, stirred to unwonted effort, was struggling for liberty; and from
Martha had come the first ray of outer light that had penetrated its
dungeon.
Before the audience was dismissed, the teacher rose to bid her school
farewell. Her intention was to take a vacation of three months; but what
might happen in that time she did not know, and there were duties at
home of such apparent urgency as to render her return to North Carolina
at least doubtful; so that in her own heart her _au revoir_ sounded very
much like a farewell.
She spoke to them of the hopeful progress they had made, and praised
them for their eager desire to learn. She told them of the serious
duties of life, and of the use they should make of their acquirements.
With prophetic finger she pointed them to the upward way which they
must climb with patient feet to raise themselves out of the depths.
Then, an unusual thing with her, she spoke of herself. Her heart was
full; it was with difficulty that she maintained her composure; for the
faces that confronted her were kindly faces, and not critical, and some
of them she had learned to love right well.
"I am going away from you, my children," she said; "but before I go I
want to tell you how I came to be in North Carolina; so that if I have
been able to do anything here among you for which you might feel
inclined, in your good nature, to thank me, you may thank not me alone,
but another who came before me, and whose work I have but taken up where
_he_ laid it down. I had a friend,--a dear friend,--why should I be
ashamed to say it?--a lover, to whom I was to be married,--as I hope all
you girls may some day be happily married. His country needed him, and I
gave him up. He came to fight for the Union and for Freedom, for he
believed that all men are brothers. He did not come back again--he gave
up his life for you. Could I do less than he? I came to the land that he
sanctified by his death, and I have tried in my weak way to tend the
plant he watered with his blood, and which, in the fullness of time,
will blossom forth into the perfect flower of liberty."
She could say no more, and as the whole audience thrilled in sympathy
with her emotion, there was a hoarse cry from the men's side of the
room, and John forced his way to the aisle and rushed forward to the
platform.
"Martha! Martha!"
"Arthur! O Arthur!"
Pent-up love burst the flood-gates of despair and oblivion, and caught
these two young hearts in its torrent. Captain Arthur Carey, of the 1st
Massachusetts, long since reported missing, and mourned as dead, was
restored to reason and to his world.
It seemed to him but yesterday that he had escaped from the Confederate
prison at Salisbury; that in an encounter with a guard he had received a
wound in the head; that he had wandered on in the woods, keeping himself
alive by means of wild berries, with now and then a piece of bread or a
potato from a friendly negro. It seemed but the night before that he
had laid himself down, tortured with fever, weak from loss of blood, and
with no hope that he would ever rise again. From that moment his memory
of the past was a blank until he recognized Martha on the platform and
took up again the thread of his former existence where it had been
broken off.
* * * * *
And Cicely? Well, there is often another woman, and Cicely, all
unwittingly to Carey or to Martha, had been the other woman. For, after
all, her beautiful dream had been one of the kind that go by contraries.