"Is Minnie not well?" said Thomas Carpenter, entering one morning, the
pleasant room, where Anna was labelling some preserves. "She seems to be
so drooping, and scarcely eats anything."
"I don't know. I have not heard her complain; perhaps she is a little
tired and jaded from her journey; and then I think she studies too much.
She spends most of her time in her room, and since I think of it, she
does appear more quiet than usual; but I have been so busy about my
preserves that I have not noticed her particularly."
"Anna," said Thomas suddenly, after a moment's pause, "does thee think
that there is any attachment between Louis and Minnie? He was very
attentive to her when we were in Boston."
"Why, Thomas, I have never thought anything about it. Minnie always
seems so much like a child that I never get her associated in my mind
with courtship and marriage. I suppose I ought to though," said Anna,
with the faintest sigh.
"Anna, I think that something is preying on that child's mind, and
mother, thee knows that you women understand how to manage these things
better than we men do, and I wish thee would find out what is the matter
with the child. Try to find out if there is anything between her and
Louis, and if there is, by all means we must let her know about herself;
it is a duty we owe her and him."
"Well, Thomas, if we must we must; but I shrink from it. Here she comes.
Now I'll leave in a few minutes, and then thee can tell her; perhaps
thee can do it better than I can."
"What makes thee look so serious?" said Thomas, as Minnie entered the
room.
"Do I, father?"
"Yes, thee looks sober as a Judge. What has happened to disturb thee?"
"Nothing in particular; only I was down to Mr. Hickman's this morning,
and they have a colored woman stopping with them. She is a very
interesting and intelligent woman, and she was telling us part of her
history, and it was very interesting, but, mother, I do think it is a
dreadful thing to be a colored person in this country; how I should
suffer if I knew that I was hated and despised for what I couldn't help.
Oh, it must be dreadful to be colored."
"Oh, don't talk so, Minnie, God never makes any mistakes."
"I know that, mother; but, mother, it must be hard to be forced to ride
in smoking cars; to be insulted in the different thoroughfares of
travel; to be denied access to public resorts in some places,--such as
lectures, theatres, concerts, and even have a particular seat assigned
in the churches, and sometimes feel you were an object of pity even to
your best friends. I know that Mrs. Heston felt so when she was telling
her story, for when Mrs. Hickman said, 'Well, Sarah, I really pity you,'
I saw her dark eyes flash, and she has really beautiful eyes, as she
said, 'it is not pity we want, it is justice.'"
"In the first place, mother, she is a widow, with five children. She had
six. One died in the army,--and she had some business in Washington
connected with him. She says she was born in Virginia, and had one
little girl there, but as she could not bear the idea of her child
growing up in ignorance, she left the South and went to Albany. Her
husband was a barber, and was doing a good business there. She was
living in a very good neighborhood, and sent her child to the nearest
district school.
"After her little girl had been there awhile, her teacher told her she
must go home and not come there any more, and sent her mother a note;
the child did not know what she had done; she had been attentive to her
lessons, and had not behaved amiss, and she was puzzled to know why she
was turned out of school.
"'Oh! I hated to tell Mrs. Heston,' said the teacher; 'but the child
insisted, and I knew that it must come sooner or later. And so, said
she, I told her it was because she was colored.'
"'Is that all.' Poor child, she didn't know, that, in that fact lay
whole volumes of insult, outrage, and violence. I made up my mind, she
continued, that I would leave the place, and when my husband came home,
I said, 'Heston, let us leave this place; let us go farther west. I hear
that we can have our child educated there, just the same as any other
child.' At first my husband demurred, for we were doing a good business;
but I said, let us go, if we have to live on potatoes and salt.
"True, it was some pecuniary loss; but I never regretted it, although I
have been pretty near the potatoes and salt. My husband died, but I kept
my children together, and stood over the wash-tub day after day to keep
them at school. My oldest daughter graduated at the High School, and was
quite a favorite with the teachers. One term there was a vacancy in her
room, caused by the resignation of one of the assistant teachers, and
the first teacher had the privilege of selecting her assistants from the
graduates of the High School, their appointment, of course, being
subject to the decision of the Commissioner of Public Schools.
"'Her teacher having heard that she was connected by blood with one of
the first families of Virginia, told the Commissioner that she had
chosen an Assistant, a young lady of high qualifications, and as she
understood, a descendant of Patrick Henry.
"'Ah, indeed,' said the Commissioner, 'I didn't know that we had one of
that family among us. By all means employ her;' but as she was about to
leave, she said: 'I forgot to tell you one thing, she is colored.'
"A sudden change came over him, and he said: 'Do you think I would have
you walk down the street with a colored woman? Of course not. I'll never
give my consent to _that_.' And there the matter ended. And then she
made us feel so indignant when she told us that on her way to Washington
to get her son's pension, she stopped in Philadelphia, and the conductor
tried to make her leave the car, and because she would not, he ran the
car off the track."
"Oh, father," said she, turning to Thomas, "how wicked and cruel this
prejudice. Oh, how I should hate to be colored!"
Anna and Thomas exchanged mournful glances. Their hearts were too full;
and as Minnie left the room, Thomas said, "Not now, Anna. Not just yet."
And so Minnie[6] was permitted to return again to school with the secret
untold.
* * * * *
"Minnie, darling, what are you doing? moping as usual over your books?
Come, it is Saturday morning, and you have worked hard enough for one
week; got all good marks; so now just put up that Virgil, and come go
out with me."
"Where do you wish to go?" said Minnie, to her light-hearted friend,
Carrie Wise.
"I want to go out shopping. Pa has just sent me twenty dollars, and you
know a girl and her money are soon parted."
"What do you wish to get?"
"Well, I want a pair of gloves, some worsted to match this fringe, and a
lot of things. Come, won't you go?"
"Oh, I don't know, I didn't intend going out this morning."
"Well, never mind if you didn't, just say you will go. Where's your hat
and mantle?" said Carrie, going to her wardrobe.
"Well, just wait till I fix my hair; it won't take long."
"Oh, Minnie, do let me fix it for you! If ever I have to work for my
living, I shall be a hair-dresser. I believe it is the only thing that I
have any talent for."
"What an idea! But do, Minnie, won't you, let me arrange your hair? You
always wear it so plain, and I do believe it would curl beautifully. May
I, Minnie?"
"Why yes."
So Carrie sat down, and in a short time, she had beautifully arranged
Minnie's hair with a profusion of curls.
"Do you know what I was thinking?" said Carrie, gazing admiringly upon
her friend. "You look so much like a picture I have seen of yours in
your father's album. He was showing me a number of pictures which
represent you at different ages, and the one I refer to, he said was our
Minnie when she was five years old. Now let me put on your hat. And let
me kiss you for you look so pretty?"
"Oh, Carrie, what an idea! You are so full of nonsense. Which way will
we go first?"
"First down to Carruther's. I saw a beautiful collar there I liked so
much; and then let us go down to Mrs. Barguay's. I want to show you a
love of a bonnet, one of the sweetest little things in ribbon, lace, and
flowers I ever saw."
Equipped for the journey the two friends sauntered down the street; as
they were coming out of a store, Carrie stopped for a moment to speak to
a very dear friend of her mother's, and Minnie passed on.
As she went slowly on, loitering for her friend, she saw a woman
approaching her from the opposite side of the street. There was
something in her look and manner which arrested the attention of Minnie.
She was a tall, slender woman about thirty five years old, with a pale,
care-worn face--a face which told that sorrow had pressed her more than
years. A few threads of silver mingled with the wealth of her raven
hair, and her face, though wearing a sad and weary expression, still
showed traces of great beauty.
As soon as her eyes fell on Minnie, she raised her hands in sudden
wonder, and clasping her in her arms, exclaimed: "Heaven is merciful! I
have found you, at last, my dear, darling, long-lost child. Minnie, is
this you, and have I found you at last?"
Minnie trembled from head to foot; a deadly pallor overspread her cheek,
and she stood still as if rooted to the ground in silent amazement,
while the woman stood anxiously watching her as if her future were
hanging on the decision of her lips.
"Who are you? and where did you come from?" said Minnie, as soon as she
gained her breath.
"I came from Louisiana. Oh, I can't be mistaken. I have longed for you,
and prayed for you, and now I have found you."
Just then, Carrie, who had finished speaking with her friend, seeing
Minnie and the strange woman talking together, exclaimed, "What is the
matter?"
Noticing the agitation of her friend, "Who is this woman, and what has
she said to you?"
"She says that she is my mother, my long-lost mother."
"Why, Minnie, what nonsense! She can't be your mother. Why don't you see
she is colored?"
"Where do you live?" said Minnie, without appearing to notice the words
of Carrie.
"I don't live anywhere. I just came here yesterday with some of the
Union soldiers."
"Come with me then, and I will show you a place to stop."
"Why, Minnie, you are not going to walk down the street with that
Nig--colored woman; if you are, please excuse me. My business calls me
another way."
And without any more ceremony Carrie and Minnie parted. Silently she
walked by the side of the stranger, a thousand thoughts revolving in her
mind. Was this the solution of the mystery which enshrouded her young
life? Did she indeed belong to that doomed and hated race, and must she
share the cruel treatment which bitter, relentless prejudice had
assigned them?
Thomas Carpenter and Anna were stopping in P., at the house of relatives
who knew Minnie's history, but who had never made any difference in
their treatment of her on that account.
"Is father and mother at home?" said Minnie to the servant, who opened
the door. She answered in the affirmative.
"Tell them to come into the parlor, they are wanted immediately."
"Sit down," said Minnie to the stranger, handing her a chair, "and wait
till father comes."
Anna and Thomas soon entered the room, and Minnie approaching them said,
"Father, this woman met me on the street to-day, and says she is my
mother. You know all about my history. Tell me if there is any truth in
this story."
"I don't know, Minnie, I never saw thy mother."
"But question her, father, and see if there is any truth in what she
says; but tell me first, father, am I white or colored?"
"Minnie, I believe there is a small portion of colored blood in thy
veins."
"It is enough," said Minnie, drawing closer to the strange woman. "What
makes you think that I am your child?"
"By this," said she, taking a miniature from her bosom. "By this, which
I carried next to my heart for more than twelve years, and never have
been without it a single day or night."
Thomas looked upon the miniature; it was an exact likeness of Minnie
when she first came to them, and although she had grown and changed
since the likeness was taken, there was too close a resemblance between
it and one which had been taken soon after she came, for him to doubt
that Minnie was the original of that likeness.
Thomas questioned the woman very closely, but her history and narrative
corresponded so well with what he had heard of Minnie's mother, that he
could not for a moment doubt that this was she, and as such he was
willing to give her the shelter of his home, till he could make other
arrangements.
"But why," said Anna, somewhat grieved at the shock, that Minnie had
received, "did thee startle her by so suddenly claiming her in the
street? Would it not have been better for thee to have waited and found
out where she lived, and then discovered thyself to her?"
"I'spect it would, 'Mam," said Ellen, very meekly and sorrowfully, "but
when I saw her and heard the young lady say, Minnie, wait a minute, I
forgot everything but that this was my long-lost child. I am sorry if I
did any harm, but I was so glad I could not help it. My heart was so
hungry for my child."
"Yes, yes," said Anna sadly, "I understand thee; it was the voice of
nature."
Minnie was too nervous and excited to return to her school that day; the
next morning she had a very high fever, and Thomas concluded it would be
better to take her home and have her mother accompany her.
And so on Monday morning Anna and Thomas left P., taking Minnie and her
mother along.
Once again in her pleasant home, surrounded by the tenderest care (for
her mother watched over her with the utmost solicitude) the violence of
her fever abated, but it was succeeded by a low nervous affection which
while it produced no pain yet it slowly unstrung her vitality.
Ellen hovered around her pillow as if she begrudged every moment that
called her from her daughter's side, and never seemed so well contented
as when she was performing for her some office of love and tenderness. A
skilful nurse, she knew how to prepare the most delicate viands to tempt
the failing appetite, and she had the exquisite pleasure of seeing her
care and attention rewarded by the returning health and strength of her
child.
One morning as she grew stronger, and was able to sit in her chair, she
turned her eyes tenderly towards Ellen and said, "Mother, come and sit
near me and let me hold your hand."
"Mother," Oh how welcome was that word. Ellen's eyes filled with sudden
tears.
"Mother," she said, "It comes back to me like a dream. I have a faint
recollection of having seen you before, but it is so long I can scarcely
remember it. Tell me all about myself and how I came to leave you. I
always thought that there was some mystery about me, but I never knew
what it was before, but now I understand it."
"Darling," said the mother, "you had better wait till you get a little
stronger, and then I will tell you all."
"Very well," said Minnie, "you have been so good to me and I am
beginning to love you so much."
It was touching to see the ripening love between those two
long-suffering ones. Ellen would comb Minnie's hair, and do for her
every office in her power. Still Minnie continued feeble. The suffering
occasioned by her refusal of Louis; the hard study and deep excitement
through which she had passed told sadly upon her constitution; but she
was young, and having a large share of recuperative power she slowly
came back to health and strength, and when the spring opened Thomas
decided that she should return again to her school in P.