Standing in the back door of Sheba's cabin one could see the red gables
of the old Chadwick house, rising above the dark pine-trees that
surrounded it. A wealthy city family by the name of Haven owned it now.
It was open only during the summer months. The roses that Mistress Alice
had set out with her own white hands years ago climbed all over the
front of the house, twining around its tall pillars, and hanging down in
festoons from its stately eaves. Cuttings from the same hardy plant had
been trained along the fences, around the tree-trunks and over
trellises, until the place had come to be known all around the country
as "Rosehaven."
Sheba always had steady employment when the place was open, for the
young ladies of the family kept her flat-irons busy with their endless
tucks and ruffles. She found a good market, too, for all the eggs she
could induce her buff cochins to lay, and all the berries that she
could make John Jay pick.
This bright June morning she stood in the door with a basket of fresh
eggs in her hand, looking anxiously across the fields to the gables of
Rosehaven, and grumbling to herself.
"Heah I done promise Miss Hallie these fresh aigs for her bufday cake,
an' no way to get 'em to her. I'll nevah get all these clothes done up
by night if I stop my i'onin', an' John Jay's done lit out again! little
black rascal!" She lifted up her voice in another wavering call. "John
Ja-a-y!" The beech woods opposite threw back the echo of her voice,
sweet and clear,--"Ja-a-y!"
"Heah I come, Mammy!" cried a panting voice. "I was jus' turnin' the
grine-stone for Uncle Billy."
She looked at him suspiciously an instant, then handed him the basket.
"Take these aigs ovah to Miss Hallie," she ordered, "and mind you be
quickah'n you was last time, or they might hatch befo' you get there."
"Law now, Mammy!" said John Jay, with a grin. He snatched at the basket,
impatient to be off, for while standing before her he had kept
scratching his right shoulder with his left hand; not that there was any
need to do so, but it gave him an excuse for holding together the jagged
edges of a great tear in his new shirt. He was afraid it might be
discovered before he could get away.
It was one of John Jay's peculiarities that in going on an errand he
always chose the most roundabout route. Now, instead of following the
narrow footpath that made a short cut through the cool beech woods, he
went half a mile out of his way, along the sunny turnpike.
[Illustration: Mars' Nat]
Mars' Nat stood outside his kitchen window, with his hands in his
pockets, giving orders to the colored boy within, who did his bachelor
housekeeping. Usually he had a joking word for old Sheba's grandson, but
this morning he took no notice of the little fellow loitering by with
such an appealing look on his face. John Jay had come past the toll-gate
with a hope of seeing the "Rev'und Gawge," as he called him. It had been
three weeks since the man had come home, and in that time John Jay's
interest in him had grown into a sort of hero-worship. There had been a
great deal of talk about him among the ignorant colored people.
Wonderful stories were afloat of his experiences at the North, of his
power as a preacher, and of the plans he had made to help his people. He
would have been surprised could he have known how he was discussed, or
how the stories grew as they travelled.
Those who had any claim whatever to a former acquaintance stopped at the
cottage to see him. Their interest and the little offerings of fruit or
flowers, which they often made their excuse for coming, touched him
greatly. To all who came he spoke freely of his hopes. Realizing that he
might have but the one opportunity, he talked as only a man can talk who
feels the responsibilities of a lifetime crowded into one short hour.
One by one they came and listened, and went away with a new expression
on their faces, and a new ambition in their hearts.
To all these people he was "Brothah Chadwick;" to the three old slaves
bound to him by ties almost as strong as those of kinship, he could
never be other than Jintsey's boy; but to two persons he was known as
the "Rev'und Gawge." Mars' Nat took to calling him that in a joking
way, but John Jay gave him the title almost with awe. It seemed to set
him apart in the child's reverent affection as one who had come up out
of great tribulation to highest honor. Old Sheba had not cuffed her
grandson to church every week in vain. He had heard a great deal about
white robes and palms of victory and "him that overcometh." By some
twist of his simple little brain the term Reverend had come to mean all
that to him, and much more. It meant not only some one set apart in a
priestly way, but some one who was just slipping down into the
mysterious valley of the shadow, with the shining of the New Jerusalem
upon his face.
As long as the cottage was in sight John Jay kept rolling his eyes
backward as he trudged along in the dust; but Mars' Nat was the only one
in view. Twice he stumbled and almost spilled the eggs. A little farther
along he concluded that he was tired enough to rest a while. So he sat
down on a log in a shady fence corner, and took a green apple from his
pocket. He rolled it around in his hands and over his face, enjoying its
tempting odor before he stuck his little white teeth into it. The first
bite was so sour that it drew his face all up into a pucker and made
his eyes water. He raised his hand to throw it away, but paused with his
arm in the air to listen. Somebody was playing on the organ in the
church a few rods up the hill.
It was a quaint little stone church, all overgrown with ivy, that the
Chadwicks had built generations ago. The high arched door was never
opened of late years, except at long intervals, when some one came out
from the city to hold services. But the side door was certainly ajar
now, for the saddest music that John Jay had ever heard in all his life
came trembling out on the warm summer air.
Forgetting all about his errand, he scrambled through the fence and up
the gently rising knoll. His bare feet made no noise as he tiptoed up
the steps and stood peering through the open door. It was dim and cool
inside, with only the light that could sift through the violet and amber
of the stained glass windows; but in one, the big one at the end, was
the figure of a snowy dove, with outstretched wings. Through this
silvery pane a long slanting ray of light, dazzling in its white
radiance, streamed across the keys of the organ and the man who played
them,--the Reverend George.
It threw a strange light on the upturned face,--a face black as ebony,
worn with suffering, but showing in every feature the refining touch of
a noble spirit. His mournful eyes seemed looking into another world,
while his fingers wandered over the keys with the musical instinct of
his race.
John Jay slipped inside and crouched down behind a tall pew. The only
music that he had been accustomed to was the kind that Uncle Billy
scraped from his fiddle and plunked on his banjo. It was the gay,
rollicking kind, that put his feet to jigging and every muscle in his
body quivering in time. This made him want to cry; yet it was so sweet
and deep and tender as it went rolling softly down the aisles, that he
forgot all about the eggs and Miss Hallie. He forgot that he was John
Jay. All he thought of was that upturned face with the strange unearthly
light in its dark eyes, and the melody that swept over him.
A spell of coughing seized the rapt musician. After it had passed, he
lay forward on the organ a while, with his head bowed on his arms. Then
he straightened himself up wearily, and began pushing the stops back
into their places.
The silence brought John Jay to his senses. He crawled along the aisle
and out of the door, blinkling like an owl as he came into the blinding
sunshine. Many experiences had convinced him that he was born under an
unlucky star. When he went leaping down the hill to the log where he had
left his basket, it was with the sickening certainty that some evil had
befallen the eggs. He was afraid to look for fear of finding a mass of
broken shells strewn over the ground. It was with a feeling of surprise
that he saw the white ends of the top layer of eggs peeping out of their
bed of bran, just as he had left them. With a sigh of relief he picked
up the basket; then whistling gaily as a mockingbird, he set out once
more in the direction of Rosehaven.