[Illustration: 9061]
HE Warren homestead was in a turmoil of excitement over Helen's return.
The ex-slaves of the family for miles around had assembled to celebrate
the occasion in quite the ante-bellum fashion. The men and grown boys
sat about the front lawn and on the steps of the long veranda and talked
of the day Helen was born, of her childhood, of her beauty and numerous
conquests, away from them, and of the bare possibility of her deigning
to accept the hand of some one of her powerful and wealthy suitors.
In her own chamber, a great square room with many windows, Helen, tall,
graceful, with light-brown eyes and almost golden hair, was receiving
the women and girls. She had brought a present suitable for each of
them, as they knew she would, and the general rejoicing was equal to
that of an old-time Georgia Christmas.
“You are all here,” Helen smiled, as she looked about the room, “except
Mam' Linda. Is she not well?”
“Yessum, she's well as common,” Jennie, a yellow house-maid, said, “as
well as she been since Pete had dat scrimmage wid de White Caps. Missie,
you gwine notice er gre't change in Mam' Lindy. Since dat turrible
night, while she seem strong in de body, she looks powerful weak in
de face en sperit. Unc' Lewis is worried about 'er. She des set in er
cottage do' en rock back an' fo'th all day long. You done heard 'bout dat
lambastin', 'ain't you, Missie?”
“Yes, my father wrote me about it,” Helen replied, an expression of
sympathetic pain on her well-featured face, “but he didn't tell me that
mammy was taking it so hard.”
“He was tryin' ter keep you fum worryin',” Jennie said, observantly.
“Marster knowed how much sto' you set by yo' old mammy. He was de
maddest man you ever laid eyes on dat night, but he couldn't do nothin',
fer it was all over, en dem white trash done skedaddle back whar dey
come fum.”.
“And was Pete so much to blame?” Helen asked, her voice shaking.
“Blame fer de company he been keepin', Missie--dat's all; but what you
gwine ter do wid er strappin' young nigger growin' up? It des like it
was in de old day fo' de war. De niggers had to have deir places ter
meet an' cut up shines. Dey been done too much of it at Ike Bowen's. De
white folks dat lived round dar couldn't sleep at night. It was one long
shindig or a fist-cuff scrap fum supper till daylight.”
“Well, I wish Mam' Linda would come to see me,” Helen said. “I'm anxious
about her. If she isn't here soon I'll go to her.”
“She's comin' right on, Missie,” another negro girl said, “but she tol'
Unc' Lewis she was gwine ter wait till we all cleared out. She say you
her baby, en she ain't gwine ter be bothered wid so many, when she see
you de fust time after so long.”
“That's exactly like her,” Helen smiled. “Well, you all must go now,
and, Jennie, tell her I am dying to see her.”
The room was soon cleared of its chattering and laughing throng, and
Linda, supported by her husband, a stalwart mulatto, came from her
cottage behind the house and went up to Helen's room. She was short,
rather portly, about half white, and for that reason had a remarkably
intelligent face which bore the marks of a strong character. Entering
the room, after sharply enjoining her husband to wait for her in the
hall, she went straight up to Helen and laid her hand on the young
lady's head.
“So I got my baby back once mo',” she said, tenderly.
“Yes, I couldn't stay away, Mammy,” Helen said, with an indulgent smile.
“After all, home is the sweetest place on earth--but you mustn't stand
up; get a chair.”
The old woman obeyed, slowly placing the chair near that of her mistress
and sitting down. “I'm glad you got back, honey,” she said. “I loves all
my white folks, but you is my baby, en I never could talk to de rest of
um lak I kin ter you. Oh, honey, yo' old mammy has had lots en lots er
trouble!”
“I know, Mammy, father wrote me about it, and I've heard more since I
got here. I know how you love Pete.”
Linda folded her arms on her breast and leaned forward till her elbows
rested on her knees. Helen saw a wave of emotion shake her whole body
as she straightened up and faced her with eyes that seemed melting in
grief. “Honey,” she said, “folks said when de law come en give we all
freedom dat de good day was at hand. It was ter be a time er plenty en
joy fer black folks; but, honey, never while I was er slave did I had
ter suffer what I'm goin' thoo now. In de old time marster looked after
us; de lash never was laid on de back er one o' his niggers. No white
pusson never dared to hit one of us, en yit now in dis day er glorious
freedom, er whole gang of um come in de dead er night en tied my child
wid ropes en tuck turn about lashin' 'im. Honey, sometimes I think dey
ain't no Gawd fer a pusson wid one single streak er black blood in 'im.
Ef dey is er Gawd fer sech es me, why do He let me pass thoo what been
put on me? I heard dat boy's cryin' half er mile, honey, en stood in de
flo' er my house en couldn't move, listenin' en listenin' ter his
screams en dat lash failin' on 'im. Den dey let 'im loose en he come
runnin' erlong de street ter find me--ter find his mammy, honey--his
mammy who couldn't do nothin' fer 'im. En dar right at my feet he fell
over in er faint. I thought he was dead en never would open his eyes
ergin.”
“And I wasn't here to comfort you!” Helen said, in a tearful tone of
self-reproach. “You were alone through it all.”
“No, I wasn't, honey. Thank de Lawd, dar is some er de right kind er
white folks left. Marse Carson Dwight heard it all fum his room en come
over. He raised Pete up en tuck 'im in an' laid 'im on de baid. He tuck 'im
up in his arms, honey, young marster did, en set to work to bring 'im to.
An' after de po' boy was easy en ersleep en de doctor gone off, Marse
Carson come ter me en tuck my hand. 'Mam' Lindy,' he said, es pale as ef
he'd been sick er long time, 'dis night's work has give me some'n' ter
think erbout. De best white men in de Souf won't stan' fer dis. Sech
things cayn't go on forever. Ef I go to de Legislature I'll see dat dey
gwine ter pass laws ter pertect you faithful old folks.”
“Carson said that?” Helen's voice was husky, her glance averted.
“Yes, en he was dead in earnest, honey; he wasn't des talkin' ter
comfort me. I know, kase I done hear suppen else dat happened since
den.”
“What was that?” Helen asked.
“Why, dey say dat Marse Carson went straight down-town en tried ter find
somebody dat was in de mob. He heard Dan Willis was among 'em--you know
who he is, honey. He's er bad, desp'rate moonshine man. Well, Marse
Carson spoke his mind about 'im, an' dared 'im out in de open. Unc'
Lewis said Mr. Garner an' all Marse Carson's friends tried to stop
'im, kase it would go dead agin 'im in his 'lection, but Marse Carson
wouldn't take back er word, en was so mad he couldn't hold in. En dat
another hard thing to bear, honey,” Linda went on. “Des think, Marse
Carson cayn't even try to help er po' old woman lak me widout ruinin'
his own chances.”
“Is it as serious as that?” Helen asked, with deep concern.
“Yes, honey, he never kin win his race lessen he act diffunt. Dey say
dat man Wiggin is laughin' fit ter kill hisse'f over de way he got de
upper hold. I told Marse Carson des t'other day he mustn't do dat way,
but he laughed in my face in de sweet way he always did have. 'Ef dey
vote ergin me fer dat, Mam' Lindy,' he say, 'deir votes won't be worth
much.' Marse Carson is sho got high principle, honey. His pa think he
ain't worth much, but _he's_ all right. You mark my words, he's gwine
ter make a gre't big man--he gwine ter do dat kase he's got er tender
heart in 'im, an ain't afeard of anything dat walk on de yeath. He may
lose dis one 'lection, but he'll not stop. I know young white men, thoo
en thoo, en I never y it seen er better one.”
[Illustration: 0067]
“Have you--have you seen him recently?” Helen asked, surprised at the
catch in her voice.
“Oh yes, honey,” the old woman said, plaintively; “seem lak he know how
I'm sufferin', en he been comin' over often en talkin' ter me'n Lewis.
Seem lak he's so sad, honey, here late. Ain't you seed 'im yit, honey?”
“No, he hasn't been over,” Helen replied, rather awkwardly. “He will
come, though; he and I are good friends.”
“You gwine find 'im changed er lot, honey,” the old woman said. “Do you
know, I don't believe he ever got over Marse Albert's death. He warn't
ter blame 'bout dat, honey, dough I do believe he feel dat way. Seem lak
we never kin fetch up Marse Albert's name widout Marse Carson git sad.
One night here late when Lewis was talkin' 'bout when yo' pa went off
en fetched young master home, Marse Carson hung his head en say: 'Mam'
Lindy, I wish dat time could be go over ergin. I would act so diffunt.
I never seed whar all dem scrapes was leadin' to. But it learned me a
lesson, Mam' Lindy.'”
“That's it,” Helen said, bitterly, as if to herself; “he survived. He
has profited by the calamity, but my poor, dear brother--” She went no
further, for her voice broke and her eyes filled with tears.
“Don't think erbout dat, honey,” old Linda said, consolingly. “You got
yo' one great trouble lak I has, but you is at home wid we all now, en
you must not be sad.”
“I don't intend to be, Mammy,” Helen said, wiping her eyes on her
handkerchief. “We are going to try to do something to keep Pete out of
trouble. Father thinks it is his associates that are to blame. We must
try in future to keep him away from bad company.”
“Dat what I want ter do, honey,” the old woman said, “en ef I des had
somewhar ter send 'im so he could be away fum dis town I'd be powerful
glad.”