It came to pass as George had said. One cold, rainy day when the wind
rustled the fallen leaves and sighed through all the bare branches, he
came haltingly up to the end of his lonely pilgrimage. It was given to
little John Jay to hold his hand and look into his eyes as Death swung
up the bar and bade him pass on.
A wondering smile flitted across the beloved face; then that mysterious
silence that bars all sight and speech fell between the freed spirit
hastening up the eternal highway and the trembling boy left sobbing
behind.
Mars' Nat turned away with tears in his eyes and looked out of the
window. "Through thick and thin, he's the one soul who loved me and
believed in me," he said, in a half whisper. "His poor, black hands
have upheld the old family standards and ideals far more faithfully than
mine, both in his slavery and his freedom."
Because of this there was no grave made for George in the forsaken
shadow of Brier Crook church. He was given a place on the hill, beside
the Chadwicks, whose name he had borne unsullied, and to whose honor he
had been proudly loyal.
"That was a gran' funeral occasion, sis' Sheba," exclaimed Aunt Susan,
as she took off the rusty crape veil that had served at the funerals of
two generations. "I reckon every cul'ud person around heah was present.
Three ministahs a helpin', an' fo'teen white families sendin' flowahs
with their cards on isn't to be seen every day in the yeah. I wouldn't
have missed it for anything."
"No, indeed," answered Mammy, with a mournful shake of the head. "Dyin'
would be somethin' to look forwa'ds to if we could all hope for such a
buryin' as that. But I'm beat about John Jay. He do seem so onfeelin'.
He loved that man bettah than anything on this yearth, an' I s'posed
he'd take his death mighty hard; but what you reckon he said to me this
mawnin'. I was i'onin' my black aidged handkerchief to take, when he
says to me, sezee, 'What you want to put on mo'nin' for Rev'und Gawge
for? He said to tell you all that he jus' gone through the toll-gate.'"
"You don't tell me!" exclaimed Aunt Susan. "That sut'n'ly sounds
on-natchel in a chile like him."
"Yes," continued Mammy, "I haven't seen him shed a tear. He jus' wandahs
around the yard, same as if nothin' had happened, and nevah says a word
about it."
[Illustration: Sat alone by the church steps]
She did not know how many times he slipped away from the other children
and sat alone by the church steps, where he had so often listened to
George's vesper melodies. She did not know what mournful cadences of
memory thrilled him, as he rocked himself back and forth among the dead
weeds, with his arms around his knees and his head bowed on them. She
knew nothing of the music that had sung wordless longings into his
simple child-heart until it awakened answering voices of a deathless
ambition. So her surprise knew no bounds when he came slowly into the
cabin one evening, and asked if he might be allowed to start to
school the following week.
"Law, chile!" she answered. "They isn't any school for cul'ud folks
less'n a mile an' a half away, an' besides, you hasn't clothes fitten to
wear. The scholars would all laugh at you."
Still he persisted. "What put such a notion in yo' head, anyhow?" she
demanded.
John Jay turned his face aside, and busied himself with taking another
reef in his suspenders. "The Rev'und Gawge wanted me to go," he said, in
a low tone. "Besides, how can I know what all's in the books he done
left me 'thout I learn to read?"
"That's so," assented Mammy, looking proudly at the shelves now
ornamenting one corner of the little cabin with George's well-worn
school-books. Most of the volumes were upside down, because her
untutored eyes knew no better than to replace them so, when she took
them out to dust them with loving care. They were George's greatest
treasures, and she allowed no one to touch them, not even John Jay, to
whom they had been left.
"What does a little niggah like him want of schoolin'," she had once
said to Uncle Billy, when he had proposed sending the boy to school to
keep him out of mischief. "Why, that John Jay he hasn't got any mo' mind
than a grasshoppah. All he knows how to do is jus' to keep on a jumpin'.
No, brer Billy, it would be a pure waste of good education to spend it
on anybody like him."
John Jay had always cheerfully agreed with this opinion, which she never
hesitated to express in his hearing. He had had no desire to give up his
unlettered liberty until that day on the haymow when he had his
awakening. Having heard Mammy's opinion so often, it was no wonder that
he kept his head turned bashfully aside, and stumbled over his words
when he timidly made his request. It was the sight of George's books
that gave him courage to persist, and it was the sight of the books that
decided Mammy's answer. She could remember the time when Jintsey's boy
had been almost as light-headed and light-hearted as John Jay; so it was
not past belief that even John Jay might settle down in time.
The thought that he might some day be able to read the books that George
had pored over, and that, possibly, some time in the far future he
might be fitted to preach the gospel George had proclaimed, aroused all
her grandmotherly pride. Some fragment of a half-forgotten sermon
floated through her mind as she looked on the ragged little fellow
standing before her.
"The mantle of the prophet 'Lijah done fell on his servant 'Lisha," she
muttered under her breath. "What if the mantle of Gawge Chadwick have
been left to my poah Ellen's boy, 'long with them books?"
John Jay was balancing himself on one foot, while he drew the toes of
the other along a crack in the floor between the puncheons, anxiously
awaiting her decision. Not knowing what was passing through her mind, he
was not prepared for the abrupt change in both her speech and manner. He
almost lost his balance when she suddenly gave her consent; but,
regaining it quickly, he tumbled through the door, giving vent to his
delight in a series of whoops that made Mammy's head ring, and brought
her to the door, scolding crossly.
A few minutes later, a dusky little figure crept through the gloaming,
and rustled softly through the leaves lying on the path. Resting his
arms on the fence, he looked across the dim fields to the darkly
outlined tree-tops of the hill beyond.
"I wondah if he knows that I'm keepin' my promise," he whispered. "I
wondah if he knows I'm tryin' to follow him."
Over the churchyard hill the new moon swung its slender crescent of
light, and into its silvery wake there trembled out of the darkness a
shining star.
* * * * *
The roadside ditches are covered with ice, these cold winter mornings.
The ruts in the muddy pike are frozen as hard as stone. John Jay
shuffles along in his big shoes on his way to school, out at the toes
and out at his elbows; but there is a broad smile all over his bright
little face. Wherever he can find a strip of ice to slide across, he
goes with a rush and a whoop. Sometimes there is only a raw turnip and a
piece of corn pone in his pocket for dinner. His feet and fingers are
always numb with cold by the time he reaches the school house, but his
eyes still shine, and his whistle never loses its note of cheeriness.
There are whippings and scoldings in the schoolhouse, just as there have
always been whippings and scoldings in the cabin; for no sooner is he
thawed out after his long walk, than he begins to be the worry of his
teacher's life, as he was the torment of Mammy's. It is not that he
means to make trouble. Despite his many blunders into mischief, he is
always at the head of his class, for he has a motive for hard study that
the other pupils know nothing of.
Every evening Bud and Ivy watch for his home-coming with eager faces
flattened against the cabin window, lit up by the red glare of the
sunset. They see him come running up the road, snapping his cold
fingers, and turning occasional handsprings into the snow-drifts in the
fence corners.
Just before he comes whistling up the path with his face twisted into
all sorts of ugly grimaces to make them laugh, he stops at the gate a
moment. Do they wonder what he always sees across those snowy fields, as
he stands and looks away towards Mars' Nat's cottage and the white
churchyard on the hill?
Ah, Bud and Ivy have not had their awakening; but the little brother and
sister are not the only ones who fail to see more than the surface of
John Jay's nature. Under the bubbles of his gay animal spirits runs the
deep current of a strong purpose, and in these moments he is keeping
silent tryst with a memory. He thinks of his promise, and his heart goes
out to his Reverend George on the other side of the toll-gate.
THE END.
[Illustration: Tollgate (down)]
* * * * * * *
Transcriber's notes:
Page 51 Briar Crook church changed to Brier Crook church for
consistency.
All other spelling as found in original.
Descriptions added to illustrations without captions.