durin' the day, and he'd thrown a lot of 'em into the fireplace and
put a match to 'em, and the chimney bein' old and the mortar between
the bricks crumbled away in places, some o' the sparks must 'a' got to
the rafters, and before they found it out the roof was pretty near
ready to fall. The slaves worked hard to save the furniture and things
down-stairs, but they said Hamilton didn't seem to keer whether
anything was saved or not. He'd lost the woman he loved, and the house
was partly the cause of it; and so I reckon the loss of the house was
a small matter. He jest stood with his arms folded and watched the
walls crumble and fall, and then he walked over to the little cabin
where the overseer had his office, and he set down and dropped his
head in his hands and never stirred nor spoke all the rest of the
night. And the next day he was still sittin' there when one of Miss
Amaryllis's slaves come in and handed him a letter. He took it and
read it, and they said he acted like somebody raised from the dead. He
rushed to the stable and saddled his horse and got to The Cedars ahead
of the slave that'd brought the letter, and when he got there every
servant on the place was standin' at the gate bowin' and scrapin' and
sayin': 'Howdy, mahster! Howdy, mahster!' and Miss Sempronia met him
at the door and says she: 'Walk up-stairs, sir. Your room is ready.
Miss Amaryllis herself fixed it for you.' And Hamilton followed her,
not knowin' what it all meant, and expectin' every minute to see Miss
Amaryllis; and when they got up-stairs Miss Sempronia showed him his
room and handed him another letter, and then she went on down-stairs,
leavin' him to read the letter.
"And what do you reckon Miss Amaryllis had done? Why, she'd given him
The Cedars--the house and everything in it and all the slaves that
belonged to the place. I reckon Hamilton was like Brother Wilson when
he got his weddin' fee from the squire. He couldn't take it in at
first, and when he begun to see what she'd done he run out o' the room
and down-stairs callin' her name: 'Amaryllis! Amaryllis!' And the
housekeeper, she met him at the bottom o' the stairs, and says she,
'Miss Amaryllis is not here.' And says he, 'Not here? Then where is
she?' And Miss Sempronia says, 'That's something that nobody knows.
You know Miss Amaryllis is not in the habit of giving an account of
herself to other people, and all I know is that she left The Cedars
early this morning on horseback, but where she went I can't say, and
as to her coming back,' says she, 'the place belongs to you now, and
it wouldn't be proper for her to be here.'
"'Which way did she go?' says Hamilton. 'Tell me that.'
"'She went towards town,' says Miss Sempronia. And before the words
was out of her mouth, Hamilton was out o' the front door and on his
way to town. They said he stopped everybody he met on the road and
asked if they'd seen Miss Amaryllis, and when he got to town, he found
out that Miss Amaryllis had been seen gettin' into the stage and goin'
in the direction of Bell's Tavern. So he set out for the tavern. I
reckon you've heard o' Bell's Tavern, child. That was a great
stoppin'-place in your grandfather's day. Folks was always sure of a
good meal when they got to that tavern, and the drinks Uncle Billy
mixed was famous all over the State.
"Well, Hamilton come gallopin' up to the gate and jumped off and threw
his bridle to the boy that looked after the travelers' horses. He
rushed into the tavern, and says he, 'I'm looking for Miss Amaryllis
Elrod. Has she been this way?'
"Uncle Billy was sittin' in a big hickory chair with one of his feet
all bandaged and propped up on another chair. The old man suffered a
heap from rheumatism. He had a bottle and a tumbler and a bowl of
honey on the table by him, and he was mixin' one of his
peach-and-honey toddies--peach-brandy sweetened with honey instead of
sugar. Well, he didn't even look up, bein' so used to people comin' in
and goin' out. He jest went on stirrin' his toddy and puttin' in a
little more honey and a little more peach. And at last he says, 'Yes,
she's been this way.'
"And Hamilton says: 'Where is she? Where is she?' right quick and
sharp. And Uncle Billy went on stirrin', and at last he says, 'I don't
know.' And Hamilton says: 'Is she here? Has she gone? Which way did
she go?' And Uncle Billy says: 'Maybe it's my time to ask a few
questions. What's your name, and who are you, anyway?' And Hamilton
says, 'My name's Hamilton Schuyler, at your service, sir, if you'll
tell me which way the lady went.'
"And with that Uncle Billy took a good look at him and says he, 'Why,
Hamilton, is this you? I reckon that last toddy must 'a' gone to my
eyes for me not to know you, when I knew your mother and your father
before you.' Says he, 'You've been chasin' Miss Amaryllis for five
years or more. How does it happen you haven't caught up with her yet?
I beg your pardon for talkin' so short a while ago, but,' says he,
'when a man comes along askin' me which way a woman went, I've got to
know somethin' about the man before I tell him what he wants to know.'
Says he, 'Sit down and have a toddy with me.' And Hamilton, he thanked
him and says he, 'No toddy for me, Uncle Billy. Tell me which way the
lady went, and I'm off.'
"Uncle Billy he laughed and stirred his toddy, tryin' to make the
honey and the brandy mix, and says he, 'That's the way with you young
fellers. I've seen the day when a toddy couldn't 'a' stopped me from
follerin' after a gyirl; but now,' says he, 'I'd hate to have to
choose betwixt a woman and this here peach and honey.' And Hamilton,
he was tappin' his boot with his ridin'-whip and walkin' the floor,
and Uncle Billy jest kept on talkin' and stirrin'. 'You're young and
strong,' says he, 'and I'm old and feeble. It's half-past ten in the
mornin' with you, and it's half-past eleven at night with me. You're
on the big road, and jest before you there's a gyirl with yeller hair
and brown eyes, and you'll ketch up with her maybe before night, and
here I am in my old hickory chair and nothin' before me but my old
lame foot and my peach and honey. But,' says he, 'son, take an old
man's advice: don't be in too big a hurry to ketch up with that
yeller-haired gyirl.' Says he, 'You know the old sayin' about a bird
in the hand bein' worth two in the bush, but from long experience,'
says he, 'I've learned that it's the other way with women. A woman in
the bush is worth two in the hand, so keep her in the bush as long as
you can.'
"Well, they said Hamilton burst out laughin', and seein' that the old
man was too far gone to give him any information, he called up all the
servants on the place, and he pulled out a handful o' silver and
threw it around amongst 'em, and by questionin' this one and that one
he found out which way Miss Amaryllis had gone, and away he went after
her as hard as he could gallop. And, to make a long story short, he
hunted around over the biggest half of Warren County, and he wore out
two or three horses, before he found Miss Amaryllis.
"She'd gone to a big country place where one of her cousins on the
Elrod side lived, and when Hamilton got there early one mornin', he
found there was goin' to be a party that night, and everybody for
miles around was to be there. So he rode back to town and went to the
county clerk's office and got his license, and then he found out where
the Presbyterian minister lived, and he went there and told him who he
was and what he'd come for. The minister he thought a minute and says
he, 'I don't know what my congregation will say about me going to a
dance to perform a wedding ceremony. Can't you wait till to-morrow
morning?' They said Hamilton stamped his foot and swore--swearin' was
a Schuyler failin'--and says he, 'I've waited five years, and here you
ask me to wait till to-morrow morning.' Says he, 'Is there water or
milk in your veins?'
"And the minister laughed, and says he, 'No, there's blood in my
veins, the same as there is in yours, and I'm a man before I'm a
preacher. I'll go with you, dancing or no dancing, and see the thing
through.' And Hamilton laughed, and says he, 'It's not a dance you're
going to; it's a wedding.'
"Well, he and the young preacher set out for the country place where
Miss Amaryllis was stayin', and got there jest as the fiddlers was
tunin' up for the first dance and all the men was choosin' their
partners. Hamilton had on his ridin'-clothes, but no matter what kind
o' clothes he had on, he always had a grand sort of a look, and they
said when he come into the big room, everybody turned around and
stopped talkin'. And he stood still a minute, lookin' for Miss
Amaryllis, and as soon as he saw her, he walked straight up and took
hold of her hand, and says he, 'The next dance is mine.' And the young
man that was standin' by Miss Amaryllis he fired up and says he,
'You're mistaken. Miss Amaryllis has promised me this dance.' And
Hamilton, he bowed and says he, 'Five years ago, sir, she promised me
the next dance, and I've been traveling night and day for a week to
have that promise kept.' And he looks down at Miss Amaryllis and says
he, 'Isn't that so?' And she smiles at the young man and nods her
head, and jest then the music struck up and she danced off with
Hamilton.
"And when the dance was over he kept hold of her hand and led her over
to where her cousin was standin', and says he, 'Madam, the minister is
in the next room, and with your leave there'll be a wedding here
to-night.' And Miss Amaryllis tried to pull her hand out of his, and
she was laughin' and blushin', and everybody come crowdin' around to
see what was the matter, and she says, 'Let go my hand, Hamilton. Wait
till I go home, and I'll marry you.' And he laughed and says he, 'You
haven't any home to go to. The Cedars belongs to me, and we might as
well be married here.' And she says, 'Well, let me go up-stairs and
put on a white dress.'
"They said she had on a yeller silk, jest the color of her hair, with
white lace on the waist and sleeves and a string o' pearls around her
neck. And Hamilton jest held on to her hand still tighter. And she
says, 'Hamilton, you hurt my hand; please let go.' And he says, 'I
wouldn't hurt you for worlds, but I'm going to hold your hand till the
minister pronounces us man and wife.' And he put his thumb and finger
together, jest so, around her wrist like a bracelet, and says he,
'That can't hurt you. Now choose your bridesmaids, and we'll call the
minister in and be married at once.' Says he, 'I always intended that
my bride should wear yellow silk.' And one o' the gyirls says, 'But
she must take off the pearl necklace; pearls at a wedding mean tears.'
And Hamilton says, 'Let it alone; every pearl stands for a tear of
joy.' And then he looked around and says he, 'I want four groomsmen.'
And the young man that Miss Amaryllis was about to dance with when
Hamilton come in, he spoke up and says he, 'I'd rather be the
bridegroom, but if I can't be that, I'll be first groomsman.' And
three other young men, they said they'd be groomsmen, too. And they
all stood up, and the preacher come in, and he married 'em jest as
solemn as if they'd been in church.
"They said it was right curious, how they'd been fiddlin' and dancin'
and carryin' on, but the minute the preacher stepped into the room
everybody was as still as death. I've heard folks say that they always
felt like laughin' when they oughtn't to laugh, at a funeral or a
communion service or a babtizin', but, child, when a man and a woman
stands up side by side and the preacher begins to say the words that
binds 'em together for life, nobody ever feels like laughin' then. A
weddin', honey, is the solemnest thing in the world, and they said
before the preacher got through sayin' the ceremony over Hamilton and
Miss Amaryllis, there was tears in nearly everybody's eyes, and when
he stooped down to kiss the bride, it was so still you could hear the
little screech-owls in the woods at the side o' the house. And
Hamilton turned around and bowed to the first groomsman and says he,
'Sir, I robbed you of your partner a while ago, now I give her back to
you for the next dance'; and he took hold o' the first bridesmaid's
hand and motioned to the fiddlers to begin playin', and they struck up
a tune and everybody went to dancin' as if life wasn't made for
anything but pleasure. And the next mornin', Hamilton and his bride
started for home, ridin' horseback and stoppin' along the way as they
come to taverns or their friends' houses, and folks said they looked
like they'd found the pot of gold at the foot o' the rainbow."
Aunt Jane began rolling up her knitting, a sure sign that the story
was ended. But even the tales of childhood went farther than this. It
was not enough to know "and so they were married"; I must hear also
how they "lived happily ever afterward."
"Oh! go on," I cried; "this can't be the end of the story."
"Sometimes it's best not to know the end of a story," said Aunt Jane
gravely.
But I heeded not the warning. I must know more of this girl who drew
to herself the love of men as the ocean draws the rivers. "Tell me a
little more about Miss Amaryllis," I pleaded.
But Aunt Jane was silent, and her eyes were sad. "There's mighty
little more to tell," she said at last, her words coming slowly and
reluctantly. "Miss Amaryllis died when her baby was born. The baby
died, too, and they buried both of 'em in the same grave. It was the
dead o' winter, and one o' the coldest winters we'd had for years. The
ground was froze solid as a rock, and the snow was nearly a foot deep.
It's hard enough, child, to lay the dead in the ground when the sun's
shinin' and the earth's warm and there's plenty of sweet flowers and
green sod to cover the grave with. But when it comes to cuttin' a
grave in the snow and the ice and layin' away the body of a child
that's bone of your bone and flesh of your flesh, or maybe a husband
or a wife that's nearer and dearer yet, why, there's no words, I
reckon, that can tell what a trial that is. I always used to pray
that my funerals might come in the spring or summer when everything
was warm and pretty, and, child, my prayer was answered. I never had a
winter funeral. I ricollect my baby brother dyin' when I was jest a
little child. It was towards the end o' winter, and the first night
after the funeral it rained, a hard, cold, beatin' rain, and mother
walked the floor all night and wrung her hands and cried at the
thought of her child's body lyin' in the grave and the cold rain
fallin' on it; and she never got riconciled to the child's death and
able to sleep right, till spring come and the grass got green, and she
could carry flowers and put 'em on its little grave.
"And that's the way Hamilton Schuyler was, only worse. He had the body
dressed in the dress she was wearin' at the dance the night he married
her, and when they put the corpse in the coffin in the big parlor, he
stayed by it for three days and nights, leanin' over and whisperin'
and smilin' and smoothin' her hair and pattin' the little dead baby on
its hands and face. Every time they'd say anything about buryin' the
body, he'd throw his arms around the coffin and carry on so terrible
that there was nothin' to do but let him have his way. He kept sayin',
'Maybe she's not dead. She may be sleepin' like the baby, and
to-morrow they'll both wake up.' And then he'd say, 'If it was only
summer-time! Can't you find some roses? She ought to have her hands
full of roses.'
"And as soon as dark come, he'd have all the wax candles lighted in
the parlor, and they said it made your flesh creep to hear him talkin'
and laughin' with the dead all night long, and the whole room blazin'
with light jest like there was a weddin' goin' on.
"Well, when the third day come, they said the funeral had to be, and
they dug the grave in the family buryin'-ground and cut branches of
cedar and pine and lined it so you couldn't see the frozen earth
anywhere, and they covered the coffin with ivy off the walls o' the
old house. It was one o' these clear, sunshiny winter days, when the
sky's soft and blue jest like it is in May or June, but the air was
bitter cold, and there was a crust of ice on top o' the snow and the
frozen ground under it. Hamilton had got kind o' quiet by this time,
and he was so weak from loss o' sleep and not eatin' anything that
they thought they wouldn't have any more trouble, but when they let
the coffin down into the ground and the first clod fell on it, it took
the strength of three men to keep Hamilton from throwin' himself into
the grave."
Alas, the sad, sad story, beginning with love and spring and youth,
and ending beside an open grave under wintry skies! Aunt Jane was
wiping her glasses, and my tears were flowing fast.
"Death has mighty few terrors when it comes at the right time, honey,"
said Aunt Jane tremulously. "You know the Bible says 'We all do fade
as a leaf; and when a person's lived out his app'inted time, three
score years and ten, or maybe four score, why, his death is jest like
the fallin' of a leaf. It's had its spring and its summer, and it's
nothin' to cry about when the frost comes and touches it, and it falls
to the ground to make room for the new leaves that'll come next
spring. But jest suppose that the leaves fell as soon as the trees got
green and pretty in the springtime, and suppose all the roses died in
the bud. Wouldn't this be a sorrowful world, if things was that way?
There ain't any bitterness in the tears that's shed over old folks'
coffins, but when I think o' Miss Amaryllis dyin' the way she did,
before she'd lived her life and had the happiness she ought to 'a'
had, I feel like questionin' the ways o' Providence. And then, again,
I think maybe she had as much happiness in that one year as most
folks has in a lifetime. It ain't often a man loves a woman so much
that he can't live without her, but that's the way Hamilton Schuyler
loved Miss Amaryllis, and that's the main reason why I ricollect her
so well after all these years. Her hair and her eyes would keep me
from forgittin' her outright, and when I think of how she looked and
how Hamilton Schuyler loved her, it seems like she was different from
all the other women that ever I've known."
"Dust and ashes! Dust and ashes!" sings the poet; but "Love and
beauty! Love and beauty!" answers the soul. And thus, doubly
immortalized, and radiant as when she played with the hearts of men in
her golden youth, this maiden more beautiful than her name shall live
in the tale I tell as it was told to me.
"You ricollect the Bible says 'Love is strong as death,'" said Aunt
Jane, "but that ain't always so. You'll see a husband or a wife die,
and you'll think the one that's left never will git over grievin' for
the one that's gone, and the first thing you know there's a second
marriage, and that shows that death is stronger than love, and I
reckon it's well that it's so. If one's taken and the other's left,
it's because the livin' has got a work to do in this world. They
can't spend their lives grievin' after the dead, and they oughtn't to
try to foller the dead. But once in a while, honey, it's a good thing
to find a love that's stronger than death. 'Many waters cannot quench
love, neither can the floods drown it.'"
The tremulous old voice ceased again and there was a long silence. At
last, "What became of Hamilton Schuyler?" I asked softly.
Aunt Jane roused herself with a start. She also had known a love that
was stronger than death, and her thoughts were not with Hamilton and
Miss Amaryllis.
"Hamilton?" she said dreamily. "Oh, yes! Poor man! Poor man! It was
all they could do to make him come away from the grave, and when they
got him home and tried to persuade him to go to bed and take some
rest, he'd throw out his arms and push 'em away and say, 'There's no
more rest for me on this earth. How can a man get into his bed and
sleep, when his wife and child are lyin' out in the frozen ground?'
And for weeks he'd go out to the graveyard in the dead o' the night
and wander up and down the house like a ghost. He stayed around the
place till spring come, and when the flowers begun to bloom he got
worse instead o' better. It looked like every flower and tree reminded
him of Miss Amaryllis. And he'd walk down the gyarden lookin' at her
rose-bushes and talkin' to himself, and every time a rose bloomed,
he'd gether it and put it on her grave. And one mornin', about the
last o' May, he told one o' the slaves to saddle his horse, and when
they asked him where he was goin', he said: 'I'm going to find her. I
found her once, and I can find her again.'
"They tried to reason with him, but they might as well 'a' talked to
the air. He rode off like mad, and the next folks heard of him, he was
'way off yonder in some foreign country; and after a while the news
come that he'd been found dead in his bed. Whether he grieved himself
to death or whether he took his own life nobody ever knew. I ricollect
how glad I was when I heard about it, for I knew he'd found Miss
Amaryllis.
"But there's one thing, child, that troubles me and always has
troubled me, especially since Abram died. You know that text that says
there's neither marryin' nor givin' in marriage in heaven, but we'll
all be like the angels? I've thought and thought about that text, but
I can't see how a man and a woman that's loved each other and lived
together as husband and wife for a lifetime in this world can ever be
anything but husband and wife, no matter what other world they go to
nor how long death's kept 'em parted from each other; and when death
comes between 'em at the very beginnin', it looks like they ought to
have their happiness in heaven. I know it's wrong to go against the
words o' the Bible, and yet I can't help hopin' and trustin' that
somehow or other Hamilton Schuyler found his wife and the little child
that never drew a breath in this world; for that was all the heaven he
wanted, and it looks like he had a right to it."
Does it call for laughter or for tears, this splendid audacity of the
soul that gives us strength to stand among the wrecks of human life
and in the face of inexorable law plead our right to love and
happiness? And yet, is not inexorable law, but another name for the
eternal justice that measures out to every man his just deserts? And
who but the fool dare say that eternal justice is but a dream?
For "now abideth faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of
these is love." And if faith and hope fail not, surely the love that
is stronger than death shall one day find its own, and hold its own
through all eternity.
IV
AUNT JANE GOES A-VISITING
[Illustration]
IV
AUNT JANE GOES A-VISITING
"Yes," said Aunt Jane, "I've been up to Lexin'ton to see Henrietta,
and I jest got home day before yesterday. Set down, child, and I'll
tell you all about it."
The old lady's eyes were sparkling with happiness, a faint flush was
in her cheeks, and she looked as if she had drunk from that fount
that all are seeking and that none has ever found.
"Henrietta's been wantin' me to visit her for many a year back," she
went on; "but I've been puttin' it off, one way or another, like old
folks always do when young folks wants 'em to do anything that's for
their good. But you see I've lived right here in this old house pretty
near all my life, and takin' me up and carryin' me to off to Lexin'ton
was jest about like takin' up that old ellum-tree out yonder and
carryin' it over and settin' it out in another county. You've got to
be mighty keerful how you move old folks around. However, I've been
and come back again, and I ain't any the worse for it, and Henrietta's
satisfied because she's had her way. Henrietta used to live in
Danville, you know, but Archibald--that's her husband--sold out and
moved to Lexin'ton about a year ago, and he's built her a house the
like o' which never was seen in the blue-grass region, so they say.
And as soon as they moved into it, Henrietta wrote to me and says,
'Grandma, I'm not goin' to ask you to come to see me. But next week
Archibald and I will be down, and we're goin' to take you home with us
whether you want to go or not.'"
Aunt Jane's laugh had a ring of pride, for the love of this favorite
grandchild was very dear to her.
"And, honey," she said confidentially, "that was the only thing that
made me go. If Henrietta had kept on jest askin' me to come to see
her, I'd 'a' kept on holdin' back. I know Henrietta loves me, but
whenever she'd say anything about me goin' to see her, I'd think to
myself, 'Now, Henrietta's jest askin' me because she thinks I'll feel
bad if she don't; and, like as not, if I was to go up there amongst
all her fine friends, she'd be ashamed of me.' But when she said she
was comin' to take me back with her, I says to myself, 'I'll go, for I
know Henrietta wants me.'
"Henrietta was mightily afraid the ride on the cyars would tire me
out; but I don't reckon goin' to heaven'll be any easier and
pleasanter to me than goin' to Lexin'ton that June day. It looked like
everything was fixed to suit me. The weather was jest the kind I like,
and the seats in the cyar was as comfortable as any chair I ever set
in, and I jest leaned back and looked out o' the winder and thought
about the times when I'd ride to town with father, when I was a little
child, and father'd take care of me and p'int out the sights to me
like Henrietta and Archibald did that day.