you' seat an' let me speak fo' de las' time to Zion Baptis' Chu'ch?"
It was impossible to refuse a hearing. Brother Morrow shuffled into a
lower seat.
"My people,"--a vague, incomprehensible thrill of apprehension and
magnetic fascination stirred the attentive faces, all save the widow
Macklin's; hers was bent on her own withered, toil-crooked hands while
she prayed,--"I want to say, first, that I nev' did aim to keep _on_
hu'tin' you' feelin's. But I am 'bleeged to save you' souls. You-all
know how my po' husban' toiled an' prayed. Thar's ol' people who loved
him an' followed his teachin's, but they went to their reward, an' he
was lef' with a generation of young niggers who feared neither God nor
man nor the grand jury--lying, stealing, with no more morals than pigs
an' no great cleaner. It broken my po' ol' man's heart, so he hadn't no
strength to stand the breast complaint, so he died. The last night I
heard him praying for you, an' I come to him. When he looked up at me I
knowed I couldn't hold him; I knowed he ain't never again goin' look up
at me with the light in his eyes an' the love in his smile like he
looked then. An' I sayd to him, 'Silas, honey, don' you worry 'bout that
there wuthless flock of yours. _I'll_ save 'em. I know the way. I sho'
do!' An' he believed me; because of his believing me his end was peace.
So you see, my people, I am 'bleeged to save you. I tol' him I know the
way; I do know it. You' pastor, who is a saint in heaven, done used
always the ways of gentleness. He preached the love of God, an' you
swallered it down, smiling and happy; an' it ain't done you-all no mo'
good than stick candy does do a person that done taken poison an' needs
wahm water an' mustard. What you-all needed didn't be'n loving kindness,
but the terrors of the law, an' not _strained_, neider. An' if it takes
the las' day of my pilgrimage, you'll git 'em till you _begin_ to repent
an' show works _meet_ for repentence. But when you _begin_ to repent,
the word of mercy will come. 'Cause when the prodigal son be'n a _long
way off_, his father come a-runnin' to him. Now, hark to me: I went this
evening to the cunnel. He explained to me about the Baptis'
dis-_cip_-line." (A ripple of excitement in the audience.) "In
consequence, this chu'ch will hereayfter be the _Methodis'_ Zion Chu'ch.
That is why I am speaking fo' the las' time to Zion _Baptis'_ Chu'ch.
Ayfter to-night there won't be no Zion Baptis' Chu'ch. There ain't no
great differ_ence_ in doctrine, an' the dis-_cip_-line is more
convenient. Any brother or sister desiring it, an' not in danger of
catching col', can be immersed. The cunnel an' I done talked this over;
an' he done rented this chu'ch-house to _me_. If the congregation ain't
satisfied, they got to take to the woods. I also got one word mo' to
say: it is that the work of grace in this community is a right smart
hampered by the evil doings of Sister Susannah Coffin."
Susannah and her husband were both on their feet, both ready to speak;
but something in the attitude of the figure on the platform to which the
long lines of the mourning-veil gave a strange suggestion of sibylline
dignity, held speech away from them. Solemnly and not with any anger,
Sister Humphreys' eyes searched the eyes of the man and woman before
her, while the spectators held their breath. "Wherefo' it is bettah
ever' way," she said slowly, "that both her an' her husband go out from
us fo'evermo'. Bruddah Coffin, the cunnel has got another blacksmith,
an' you ain't got no mo' reason fo' stayin' on longer. And as fo' you,
_Sister_--"
"I won't go!" shrilled Susannah, hysterically weeping; it was with no
pretense now. "You cayn't fo'ce me!"
"You _will_ go, _Sister_, fo' you don' wanter lose the young man you got
now. You will go; an' you will take him along of you; an' you will go
_so far_ he cayn't heah no word of my sermons. Go in peace."
Susannah faced about, writhing between fear and rage. "You cowards! you
ornery, pusillanimous cowards!" she flung back at the gaping black
faces. "You putt on dog when she ain't heah, but minute she lif's her
han', you cayn't make a riffle! Ba-h-h! S-sh!" she hissed at them like a
cat or a snake. "Come on, you fool nigger!" she jeered, pulling at her
bewildered husband's collar; and in this sorry fashion, but still with
her head high, she left Zion for ever.
"An' now," concluded Sister Esmeralda Humphreys sedately, "let us all
try fo' to lead a bettah life. I shall preach nex' Sunday on the
_Seventh_ Commandment, an' all them that feels they have broke that
commandment is at free liberty to stay away. I shall expec' to see all
the res' of you, even if 'tis fallin' weader. Let us all sing befo' we
go:
"'Blest be the tie that binds
Our hearts in Christian love;
The fellowship of kindred minds
Is like to that above.'"
Brother Moore arose. "Sist' Humphreys," he announced, "you got de right
kin' o' gospil light in you. I cayn't jine in the singin' 'cause since I
got my store teef I ain't be'n able to cyar' a chune; but I want to do
sumfin de wuk er grace; an' I got up to say dat de nex' socherble
gatherin' I'll donate de lemons."
"Dis meetin' accep's with t'anks," shouted Brother Morrow. "Now, le's
show our beloved pastor the clouds is swep' away! _All_ sing!"
And never had so noble a burst of melody wakened the echoes along the
moonlit road as that which made the colonel outside turn, smiling, in
his saddle.
"She didn't need me," he mused. "Well, so much the better. I reckon they
need a good despot, and they've got one, all right."
THE REAL THING
The club had gone, save only the guest of the afternoon and a few
friends of the hostess, who lingered to congratulate her. It had been a
most successful meeting. The guest who had spoken was the president of a
southern club. The hearers were warm in their praises of the leisurely
music of her southern voice, the charm of her southern manner, so simple
and direct and sympathetic, her beauty, her grace, even of the finish of
her toilet. She had handled a weighty subject with a light touch (it was
the child labor of the south), and her husband being a very large
manufacturer, she had spoken out of experience as well as theory.
Moreover, she had shown a luminous common sense and a tolerant humor
such as did not always brighten such serious themes; and not only the
earnest students of the club, but the more flippant members, were
aroused to an unusual and captivated attention. Now they were loath to
let her go; pressing about, tarrying amid the teacups, and only
reluctantly faring forth as the maids appeared to remove the wreckage
of the feast. The hostess sank, weary but elated, into a chair by Miss
Clymer, the secretary, as the last silken skirt rustled away. Mrs.
Waite, the president, who was dallying with socialism, had evidently
introduced her new pet to the visitor, who listened politely.
"After all," suggested Mrs. Clymer, more from the amiable design of
steering the conversation within safe limits than out of any craving to
exploit her own views, "after all, do we really know _how_ these people
feel? Is there one of us, for example, who ever had an intimate friend
among them, a woman who worked with her hands?"
"Madelaide Dunbar told me once," remarked the youngest club member,
"that she was fonder of her maid than of most of her friends."
"Which maid?" inquired another. "The one who took her pearl necklace?"
"Nobody took those pearls; Madelaide hid them herself, and forgot all
about it, and then found them in her soiled-handkerchief bag! But it
wasn't that one. This one had a little wave to her nose and her eyes
were near together."
"Is she with Madelaide now?"
"I think she married. Madelaide was buying teaspoons the other day, and
asking for rather light weight--maybe they were for her wedding
present."
The South Carolinian smothered a smile. "Madelaide doesn't exactly
count," said the hostess.
A new voice took up the theme, a sweet, rather diffident voice, to
which, nevertheless, the circle listened with an attention that was
almost distinction. She who spoke had been born in the little
mid-Western city, and there she had spent her early youth, but she had
married a rich man of the East, and was only a visitor to-day. The
Ridgelys were people of importance; and Constance Ridgely, the only
child, who never went to parties with boys, and only paid visits with
her mother, and finally disappeared into vistas of fashion and intimacy
with the peerage, was a person of mark. The more, that no splendid
transformation had altered her affection for the town, or her gentle,
almost shy modesty of manner. She flushed slightly now as she spoke.
"The best, the dearest girl friend I ever had, used to work with her
hands," said she.
The sudden silence was almost the dumbness of dismay; but the hostess
sprang nimbly to the rescue with a murmur of "How picturesque!"
"Why, of course," cried Mrs. Clymer. "I wish you would tell us of it.
You mean Nannie, don't you?"
The Southerner leaned slightly forward, with a look of interest.
"It is so long ago," said Mrs. Curtis, who had been Constance Ridgely,
"but something has made me think of Nannie all the afternoon. My
friendship with Nannie began almost thirty years ago, when Miss Arthur
kept the Pleasant Street kindergarten next to No. 3. The school was a
dear; but I remember so well the odd mixture of admiration and dread I
felt for the big, tumultuous public school. The boys used to make faces
at us, but they were so daring and they turned somersaults so nimbly!
And I was devoured with curiosity regarding the little girls who came to
school without their nurses. I thought it must be grand! One little girl
I singled out. She used to wear a red jersey and a red tam-o'-shanter.
She wasn't precisely pretty--according to my childish, wax-dolly
standard of beauty--but there was something fascinating in the way her
silky mop of brown hair flung itself to the wind, in the flash of her
brown eyes and her white teeth and the feather-down lightness of her
motions. She was as reckless of her frock as her bones--I was trained to
be very careful of both. The fearless rush with which she would slide
down the high bank or skin up a tree to the very awful, oscillating
top--I can't describe the awesome joy of seeing her! And she was so gay;
she had the sweetest, merriest laugh in the world. I loved it. Ah, how
many times did I glue my demure little face, which hid so many wild
fancies, to a certain knot-hole in that high, high fence of Miss
Arthur's, which all our mothers praised because it protected our
privacy, watching the boys and girls, and _my_ girl run out to recess!
And, oh, the blow it was when the hour of recess at the kindergarten was
changed! Because the No. 3 boys stole Bennie Olmstead's roller skates,
and there was a combat, in which our injured and innocent boys were no
match for the wicked No. 3's; and Miss Betty, who attended to minor
matters of our physical comfort, being only the third kindergartner, who
was learning and received no salary, and of course had most of the
drudgery, washed at least four bloody noses and one bitten ear, and put
butchers' brown paper on half a dozen bruises, while the little girls
wept for sympathy and Bennie howled for his skates! I wept, too; but it
was because I could never any more look through the knot-hole for
Nannie. I knew her name, because I heard it so often. And then, in the
midst of my dejection, I met her. It was by accident. Tina had come for
me in the carriage, but Harland, having an errand at the harness shop,
had sent her on ahead, and we two were waiting for him on the
curb-stone. Of a sudden we heard an appalling outcry of canine yelps and
boyish yells, and I saw a sickening sight, a wretched little dog with a
tin can tied to his tail, which clattered against the bricks of the
sidewalk as he bounded; and in the can a huge fire-cracker spitting
fire! For sheer terror lest I should see the catastrophe, I covered up
my face. And _then_ I heard my Nannie's voice, 'Here, doggie! Here, poor
doggie!' I let my little coward hands drop. I saw her welcome the
terrified beast to the shelter of her skirts, while with one swift curve
she plucked out the hissing red stick and hurled it with admirable
certainty of aim straight at the pursuers. As they scampered away, she
told them what she thought of them. Before they could rally, Harland
came to the rescue with the carriage; and Tina pushed both of us into
it. It was one of those double phaetons which we all used to have then.
I don't know whether Tina's mercy would have included the dog; but he
included himself with a flying leap into Nannie's lap."
"And that was how you met Nancy?" said Mrs. Clymer. "You took her home,
didn't you, and found her conversation on the way very entertaining?"
"Entrancing. She was full of thrilling knowledge of the world. She went
to school all alone. Her father was a carpenter, and she had a hatchet
and a plane and a brace and bit all her very own. Her mother was dead,
but she lived with her aunty, and she invited us most politely to get
out and see her aunty, and her papa's shop in the back yard. 'We got a
lovely home,' said Nannie."
"Was it?" laughed the youngest clubwoman.
"I thought it was; and, yes, I think it was, now. So specklessly,
radiantly tidy. A tiny house of wood, but painted freshly in gray and
white, and with a most wonderful garden. That belonged to Nannie's aunt.
Nannie said she could make anything with a root grow. I remember she was
out amid the phlox--such brilliant, luxuriant phlox as it was! She had
on a white apron, which the sun made dazzling. By a wonderful
coincidence, the aunt went to Tina's church, and Tina knew her; so Tina
let me go inside the house, and the aunt gave us coffee hot from the
stove, and delicious little spice cakes just out of the oven; and we
carried out some to Harland; and it was a full half-hour before Tina's
conscience stirred, and we had to go. By that time Nannie and I were
very well acquainted. Yet I had always been amazingly slow about making
friends.
"After this episode Nannie and I always nodded and grinned when we saw
each other, going or coming from school. The next month Nannie appeared
at our Sunday school and announced that she would always attend there if
she might be in Miss Browning's class. Miss Browning taught my class.
Fancy my happiness! It impressed me very much the way Nannie could make
people do what she wanted. In summer another wonder happened. Nannie's
father built our new stable. Nannie used to bring him his luncheon
daily. Before the summer ended we were great chums."
"But did your mother approve of your intimacy?" asked Mrs. Waite, who
was bewildered by conduct so opposed to her recollections of the
Ridgelys.
"My mother was a wise woman. One day she sent me away on some pretext,
and she asked Nannie into the house and showed her pictures and talked
to her. Nannie adored my mother; and mamma never threw any obstacles in
the way of my seeing Nannie, while Tina was always willing to take me to
the Marshes; of course I never went alone. Tina thought Nannie one of
the nicest little girls in town; and she had sense enough to see that
while I was most often listless and shy with other girls, I was always
happy with Nannie. I don't think I can quite express her charm. She was
clever, but clever people have bored me. She was pretty, too; and she
was a true, delicate-minded little gentlewoman, though her father was a
mechanic and her aunt helped the family income by taking in fine
washing; but it was none of those things. I think it was that she was so
_wholesome_! Always cheerful. Always fearless. By consequence she was
the most absolutely truthful being I ever knew. Aunt Kate"--to Mrs.
Clymer--"you heard about the red paint? Shall I tell them?" At Mrs.
Clymer's assent she continued, "It was a truly terrible experience. I
was never so scared in my life; and I was always getting scared when I
was little. Nannie's next-door neighbor was a little girl named Elsa
Clarke, whose father was a painter by trade. He was an easy-tempered
man, and sometimes used to let us paint. If we daubed ourselves (which
we seldom failed to do), he would scrub us off with turpentine. I had
some painful scenes with Tina; for even if the paint was gone, the scent
of roses, you know. She was going to put a ban on the whole business,
when Nannie contrived some oilcloth aprons out of a discarded table
covering. This appeased her. One day Elsa's father gave us the dregs of
a can of red paint. Another painter who was doing some work in the shop
glowered at him, and from him to a white window sash that he had just
finished. He was a very gruff old fellow, of whom I stood in dreadful
fear. I thought he was very much such a looking man as the ogre in 'Jack
and the Beanstalk.' 'Them kids will mess up something if you give 'em
paint, you'll see,' the ogre growled, 'but they better keep clear of
_my_ sash, if they know what's good for 'em!' With that he followed
Elsa's father out of the shop. We were left with our artistic fury. I
don't know exactly how the calamity came about, but Elsa wanted the
paint can which Nannie was using. If Elsa wanted anything and didn't get
it, she grew angry. It was her papa's shop and her papa's paint and she
had a right to have it, she _would_ have it! 'But he gave it to us all,'
I protested, rather shocked at the squabble. Nannie didn't say anything;
she went on slapping the paint on a box in vast content. Then Elsa flew
into a rage and laid hold of Nannie. I laid hold of her. And a dog in
the household, hearing our loud voices, bounded joyously into the fray.
And somehow Nannie tripped! The paint, the red, red paint made a ghastly
cascade over the snowy whiteness of the ogre's window frame. Stupefied
by the enormity of our mishap, we stood staring miserably at each other.
Elsa burst into tears. As for me, I could hear my heart thump.
"'He's coming back,' gasped Elsa, 'and papa ain't with him. I saw him
box a little girl's ears once jest for using his brush--let's run! Let's
_run_! He'll think it was Jumper!' (Jumper was wagging his tail and
affectionately sympathizing.)
"'Jumper didn't do it,' said Nannie.
"But Elsa was sprinting across the yard. My own terror seemed to clutch
me and propel me without volition; I was outside and hurrying after Elsa
before I realized. But at the sound of a dreadful, menacing voice I
turned my head. Nannie had not fled. She was facing the brutal man who
had boxed a little girl's ears; and he was demanding who had done
_That_! The rumble of thunder was in his deep tones. I ran back; but I
was in such a panic I had to hold on to the bench to keep me on my feet.
Elsa, from the fortress of her kitchen, screamed that Jumper had done
it.
"'Hay?' exploded the man. It seemed to me an appalling interjection.
"'Jumper didn't do it,' said Nannie. 'I fell and the paint splashed.
I'll paint it over for you, all right.'
"'_You!_' the ogre bellowed, lifting his fist in a passion. 'You've done
enough mischief!' I had been trying to speak, but I was so scared that
my mouth only made little choking sounds, but now I did sob, 'Please,
mister, we _made_ her do it, Elsa and I. Elsa caught her arm and I
caught Elsa's arm--I'll _pay_ you for it!' I had my little purse out in
my trembling fingers and would have given it all to him. Not Nannie. 'It
can't take you an hour to paint it over,' said she. 'Will you take
twenty-five cents--that's an hour's wages--and let _me_ paint it? I'm
awful sorry it happened.'
"'I've a mind to lick you both,' grumbled the man.
"But Nannie didn't flinch; she looked into his face, repeating, 'We're
awful sorry; and we'll pay you. It wouldn't do any good to spank us; and
I'll paint something else first, to show you I won't daub the glass.'
"'Well, you _are_ a cool one,' said the man. I could hardly believe my
eyes; he was grinning. Actually he did let Nannie show him how neatly
she painted; and the end of it was, he taught us a great deal about
painting."
"Didn't Nannie think you were plucky to run back?" said the Southerner.
"Truly, Mrs. Curtis, I think you were braver than she!"
Mrs. Curtis shook her head. "I couldn't have done it but for Nannie.
Merely being in her presence stiffened my limp courage. I was absurdly
timid."
"Well, I don't wonder you were fond of her," cried the youngest member.
"What were her people like?"
"Her mother was dead and she was an only child. Her father was the
kindest, gentlest of men, with a placid shrewdness such as one may draw
from life rather than books. He loved beautiful things. Why, he taught
me more about the loveliness of shadows and trees than the great
artists, since. And I recognize now how fine was his passion for what he
called in his homely way 'a job good enough not to need putty.'"
"I remember Marsh well," said Mrs. Clymer. "He _was_ a wonderful workman
and a particularly considerate person to have about. He always cleaned
up his shavings. I never saw the aunt. She was a nice sort, too, wasn't
she, Connie?"
"Indeed she was! She was a widow with three children. The youngest, as
Nannie told me with somber importance, was 'bedrid'; she hadn't walked
for three years, and the doctor said she 'never would walk in this
world'; but Mr. Marsh had made her a most ingenious wheeled chair, which
was always at the window, with her little pale, smiling face above it.
Then there was little Ned, who was four, and Oscar, who was working his
way through college. They all spoke of Oscar with deep respect. He was
awfully clever, I was sure; and his mother had a handsome photograph of
him on the mantel, under his father's picture."
"That was Jedidiah Marsh," explained Mrs. Waite. "I remember him. He was
a very handsome man and a plumber. He wasn't very much of a plumber as I
recall him; but he was an inventor always going to patent something,
which always turned out to have been discovered before. Finally he did
put some machine on the market, and died leaving the business in a
tangle, and lots of debts, which his widow and Caleb Marsh paid off to
the last cent of interest, although it took them years to do it."
"Yes," said Mrs. Clymer; "he told Mr. Clymer once that maybe he wasn't
legally liable for Jed's debts, but there never was a Marsh yet that
anybody could find fault with for doing anything dishonest; and they
shouldn't begin with Jed, who was all right, whether his washing machine
was or wasn't. I have a sneaking idea myself that Caleb Marsh, who was
shrewd in his simple way, did not take Jed's wonderful genius seriously;
but Jed's wife did. Once I carried Nannie home when she had been to see
you, Connie; and I remember their neat little parlor, with the pictures
of Lincoln and Grant and the Rogers groups and some really fine, simple
furniture which Marsh had made himself. But I remember best the two
portraits over the mantel--a pretty girl I should have known was
Nannie's mother, only an enlarged photograph, but very well done, and an
oil portrait of Jedidiah, which had been done from a photograph by the
gifted daughter of a neighbor, who was learning to paint. It was pretty
awful. I wonder didn't Caleb Marsh think so, too."
"If he did, he never said so, you may be sure," said Mrs. Curtis
quickly; "and somehow I have a kind of affection for that picture, too.
There were always flowers before both of the portraits; perhaps in
winter no more than some sprigs of lemon verbena or a pot of ivy, but
always some green thing. Do you know, the pictures, and the flowers
always before them, that little touch of faithful love, added an
intangible and plaintive charm to the homely attraction of the house. I
did love that room. It was so sunny, so spotless and peaceful, with the
geraniums and the heliotrope in the window, and the white muslin
curtains. There was a rug with a very bright and fierce-looking tiger on
it before the fireplace (Mr. Marsh _would_ have a fireplace), and Mr.
Marsh's grandmother's andirons glittered behind the big peacock fan in
summer time; and there used to float in through the window the lovely
faint odors of old-fashioned flowers--spice pinks and sweetbrier roses
and lemon verbenas."
Mrs. Clymer sighed. "I wish there were a better ending to the story."
"Does it end sadly?" asked the Southerner. "Did the little girls grow up
and forget each other?"