couldn’t hab no foolishness wid dis chile. My first husband’s name
was Cæsah Mahshall. He b’longed to Kunnel Mahshall, who at dat time
was courtin’ my mastah’s daughtah, Miss Betty, an’ ob course Cæsah he
spen’ a heap ob time ’round dar. Cæsah he a likely boy, an’ all de gals
tort dey gwine git him. But laws! I knowed he didn’t keer for none
o’ dem niggahs. I did keep a mighty keen eye, dough, on Lize. She a
yaller gal allus a-rollin’ her eyes an’ tossin’ her head, an’ thinkin’
herself good as white folkses; one o’ dese yer sly kind, too, a sayin’
flatterin’ things dat make a man think she a-dyin’ for lub o’ him. I
gib her mighty little chance to try any of her sassy tricks on Cæsah.
Men’s dat pow’ful vain--you des know it’s so, honey--dey swallahs
ebry soft an’ sugary speech ob de female sect as ef ’twar de libin’
trufe. But Cæsah he wouldn’t hab no one but des’ me. He sayed I was
like Solomon’s wife dat de Bible tells ob, ‘black but comely.’ I ax
de preachah once ef Solomon was a cullud gemlan. He look scared, an’
sayed he couldn’t ’splain dat tex’ to an ig’nant pusson like me; sayed
it didn’t mean what it sayed, but was a yallerglory ’bout de chu’ch.
Preachahs don’t know ebry thing more’n we’uns, an’ what’s de use for
twis’ de words ob de good book diff’rent from what dey is?
“Well, Cæsah an’ me we done got mahied, an’ lived in a little cabin
neah my mastah’s house, cause I had to wo’k hahd waitin’ on ole mistis
an’ de young ladies. Dey wore heaps ob fine muslins an’ lawns in dem
days an’ no one could do de washin’ an’ i’nin’ to suit dem but me. But
I had a little time in my own house an’ Cæsah he come often. I was dat
happy I went roun’ singin’ from mawnin’ twel night; neber tort ’bout
the nex’ day an’ what it might bring fo’th. Ef I was too happy with de
things ob dis worl’, de Lawd knows my heart been heavy dis many yeahs
to pay foh it. ’Pears like all dat’s happen since has des’ teched de
outside ob my feelin’s an’ lef’ all de heavenly sweetness ob dat time
shet off to itself.
“De time went by twel one mawnin’ in de summah Cæsah he agwine to come
an’ tote de chile ober in de hills to a camp-meetin’. She was two munce
old, an’ I hadn’t neber had her ’way from home befo’. Dar’s no tellin’
how proud we bofe was ob dat baby.
“Dat mawnin’ I dress her an’ I waited. De people roun’ de place dey get
ready an’ go. None ob dem stopped to talk, but I ’membered aft’wards
dey look mighty queah at me. Lize, dat yaller gal I’se tellin’ yo’ ob,
she run back an’ hug de baby. Yo’ pore crittah, I thought, yo’d gib all
dat finery for sich a honey-drop!
“An’ I waited. Plenty things might ob happen for to keep Cæsah away,
so I sang Rosy to sleep. Den somehow I ’gan to ’member de looks an’
de whispers dat I hadn’t noticed at de time, an’ it seem to grow
dark, dough de sun was a-shinin’; an’ de chills crep ober me. Ole
mistis’s mockin’-bird up at de big house, how it did sing! I ’spise
a mockin’-bird eber sence. I waited--an’ aft’ while ole mistis come
walkin’ down the paf. She was bawn an’ raised in de Nawf, was ole
mistis, an’ neber ’peared to like de black people. She hab berry sharp
eyes--’bout de color ob de blade ob a new razah,--an’ when she come
close an’ look at me I felt as ef dey cut me clean froo. She hab a soft
voice, an’ dar was a little smile on her face when she tole me--she
tole me--she stretch up an’ pick some yaller roses from de bush dat
grow’d ober de do’, an’ she say dat if I ’spect to git to camp-meetin’
I better be agwine; dat I’d haf to pack de chile de whole way, for
Cæsah he fur ’nough off now. She tole me he been sold down Souf, whar
he’d be ’bliged to pick cotton an’ git ober some ob his fine notions.
“When she were gone ’way I tore de yaller rosebush down an’ tromp it
undah my feet. Aftah dat for a spell I don’t rightly ’member what
happened. Dey tole me dat Cæsah he try to ’scape frum de tradahs; dat
dey chase him wid de dogs, an’ when de men tort he gwine to cross de
ribah dey done shoot him dead. Heabenly Mastah! an’ I lubed him so!
“I lib through it all. Many a woman, black or white, could tell yo’ dat
she goes on a-libin’ an’ every night a-prayin’ de Lawd her soul to take.
“I foun’ out dat Kunnel Mahshall he felt so mighty pore dat he had to
sell some of his people. De Kunnel he one o’ de real Kentucky gemlen;
great man to be a-bettin’ an’ a-hoss racin’. He’d loss a heap of money
on his fas’ hoss, ’kase it wasn’t so fas’ as some o’ de rest, an’ he
an’ Miss Betty gwine to be mahied; so ob co’se he must hab money--an’
he sold Cæsah.
“Den Rosy died; an’ when I look at her in de little coffin I’s dat glad
I couldn’t cry. I’s glad, honey, ’kase she nebber hab no trouble.
“Well, de time go on, an’ diff’rent men dey ax me to marry, but I tole
dem to go off ’bout deir business. But laws! a man cain’t b’lieve a
woman don’t keer nuffin fer him! So dey kep hangin’ roun’ twel Mistis
she say I mus’ marry. Mistis she hab a thrifty turn an’ wanted all her
people to marry an’ raise chillen, kase chillen proputty in dem days.
Bless de Lawd! I didn’t hab no mo’ chillen fer her to count as I do de
pigs.
“At las’ I mahied Big Tom to git shet ob him, but I done miss it, fer
shore as yo’ lib, dat crittah tuck de kinsumption. He war de mos’
misable, no-’count niggah I ’member to hab knowed. I waited on dat man
night an’ day, an’ like to run my laigs off; tried to be as good to
him as ef he were de light ob my eyes; but nuffin pleased him no ways.
One day he shied a flat-i’n at me an’ cut a gash ober my lef’ year. De
scar’s dah yit. I’s pow’ful mad den, an’ says I, ‘Ole man, ye kin cough
yo’ livah an’ lights up foh all me, an’ de soonah de bettah.’
“’Bout dat time mastah done send him down de ribah on some business.
Tom he were mastah’s right han’, an’ mastah didn’t pay no ’tention to
de kinsumption dat he say ailded him. Well, de steamboat blowed up,
an’ I s’pose Tom done get blowed up too, for I’s neber seed him since.
“Aft’ dat, a spell, I mahied Joe, ’kase he was lively, an’ kept us all
a-laughin’ with his jokes. He played de fiddle like an angel, too, an’
when I sot an’ listened, seemed as ef I could see beyond the stahs
clar into de New Jerusalem. But Joe didn’t have good jedgment ’bout
some mattahs. De wah was gwine on by dis time, an’ nuffin’ would do
but Joe he mus’ go with Kunnel Mahshall down into Jawgy for to jine de
’federate ahmy. De Kunnel was his mastah, but he didn’t hab to go. He
was gwine to be a drummah, an’ was dat heedless he nevah ’flected dad
he was on de wrong side; reckon he nevah s’posed dar’d be anything else
but playin’ on de fife an’ drum. In de berry fust’ skrimmage dey had,
Joe was killed. Might a knowed he’d hab bad luck, an’ I tole him so
’fore he went. Joe had a good heart, dough, an’ I don’t ‘spect de Lawd
will be hahd on him for habin’ been bawn so giddy.
“Aftah while, when de prockelmation set de culled people free, de
family bruck up, an’ I went up to Louieville for to get washin’ an
i’nin’. Dah I met Mistah Smith at pra’r-meetin’. He were pow’ful in
pra’r, an’ he seem struck with my ’pearance (I had on my violent dress
for de fust time). At de second pra’r-meetin’ he tole me he’d had a
hebenly vision which sayed I was to be his second pahtnah. Co’se I
couldn’t stan’ out ’gainst de will ob de Lawd, an’ dat’s why I’s now
Mrs. Smith. His name was Obadiah, but he ’quested me for to call him
Mistah Smith; sayed it ’corded bettah wid de condition ob de woman to
be ’spectful to de husban’; man, he say, bein’ so s’perior.
“Mistah Smith an’ me we done git along comf’tably twel he died, which
was des befo’ I come heah. I nebah had no fault to fine, ’cept dat he
did talk too much ’bout de fust Mrs. Smith. I’s had a heap ob trouble
wid dat boy ob hers, but I’s tried to do my juty by him. I’s whipped
him once a week reg’lah, ’kase he’s pow’ful bad, but he’s mos’ too big
for me now, an’ I’se ’fraid de debbil’ll ketch him.
“What’ll I do in hebben wid so many husban’s? I won’t hab but one,
bless de Lawd, an’ dat’s Cæsah. Tom he won’t be dah; Joe he’ll be so
tuck up wid de harps an’ de banjos dat he won’t think ob nuffin’ else;
an’ Mistah Smith can ’joy hisself wid dat fust wife.
“I’ll hab Cæsah an’ I’ll hab Rosy, an’ we’ll hab a little mansion with
a passion vine an’ roses roun’ de do’; an’ we’ll be happy for ebber an’
ebber. Glory! Glory!”
* * * * *
The light that shone on the black face as she turned away was a token
of faith and hope; an outward sign of an inward grace the whitest of us
seldom wear.
Floating back to the room, like an echo of a thought, came a triumphant
voice:
“Dah ebahlasting spring abides,
An’ nevah fading flowahs.”
AN OCCULT EXPERIENCE
Mrs. Abner Hale and Mrs. Silas Adams walked slowly out Main street
after the regular Thursday meeting of the Branchville Ladies’ Literary
Circle. When these ladies organized their society they decided to call
it a circle instead of a club, because the latter word sounded “so
mannish, somehow.”
“That was a beautiful paper of Alfaretta Miller’s on theosophy,” Mrs.
Hale remarked, in rather a questioning way.
“Oh, lovely!” said her companion, in the tone women use when they wish
to be agreeable, no matter what their real thoughts may be concerning
the matter under discussion. “Yes, Alfaretta can write on most any
subject. She’s got a good mind. She’s a credit to our Circle.”
“What idea did you get from the paper?” pursued Mrs. Hale,
hesitatingly, and then, with an impetuous outburst, “Martha Adams, what
_is_ theosophy, anyway?”
“Land! Mrs. Hale, don’t ask me. I haven’t the faintest idea, and never
expect to have, if I should hear a dozen papers. Alfaretta wanted me
to be prepared to discuss the subject and loaned me a book to read up
in, but it made me dizzy. I did copy a sentence or two out, though,
that I meant to recite off at the proper time, just to show that I
wasn’t ignorant, but I forgot it. To tell the truth, I kind of lost
track of what she was saying in studying out just how the trimming
was fixed on Jennie Wilson’s new silk waist. I’m making one for my
Sis, you know. Near as I can get at it, from all I’ve read and heard,
theosophy is a sort of spiritualism that the heathen believe in and
that our folks have taken up out of curiosity--sort of a moony, spooky
thing, with spheres and mahatmas--whatever they are--and astral bodies,
and ever-so-many-times-on-earth, and all that kind of foolishness.
I ain’t sure that it’s quite the thing to talk about in our Circle.
Some that’s not so well balanced as you and me might be influenced by
it. Not but what there’s deep things that it would be real satisfying
to know about. Sometimes I think there’s something genuine about
spiritualism--the rapping and slate-writing kind.”
Mrs. Hale looked at the speaker with an expression of severe
disapproval, but had no chance to utter a word of protest before that
voluble lady began again.
“Yes, I do, Mrs. Hale. Lemme tell you something.” Here Mrs. Adams’s
voice was lowered to a confidential whisper, although no one was within
sight or hearing. “The most of it’s foolishness, I’ll allow, and
there’s a lot of humbuggery about it, but there’s queer, unaccountable
things, too. Cousin Jim Lawson’s wife was telling me one of ’em the
last time I was in Indianapolis. She’d been to visit a slate-writing
medium and had had a communication from her mother, who’d died suddenly
not long before when she was away from home on a visit. Cousin Jim’s
wife couldn’t reconcile herself to having no last word, and so she went
to this medium, who, it seems, is no common person, but a real lady.
She’d always had the power, but only a few knew about it, and she never
thought of earning money by it until after she was left a widow and had
to do something to make a living for herself and little girl.”
“Well”--and here the whisper grew more impressive--“Cousin Jim’s wife,
she went and never told her name or anything, and right inside of that
double slate, with the medium’s hands laid flat on top in plain sight,
came a message signed by her mother, Eunice Bascom, telling her she
(Mrs. Bascom) was very happy, was glad to have the opportunity to talk
to her and urge her to be reconciled, and also to tell her to give her
(the mother’s) cashmere dress and her wrappers and aprons to Jane,
the other daughter, and to keep the new black silk and the fur collar
herself. Cousin Jim’s wife said you could a’ knocked her down with a
feather. The thought had come to her several times that that would be
a fair way to divide their mother’s things, seeing she had so much
more use for dressy clothes than Jane, who lived in the country and
never went anywhere, but she hadn’t had the clothes in mind that day
at all, and had no notion anything would be said about them. It was
a real comfort to her, though, to have what you might call official
authority for disposing of the garments, for she’d been a little afraid
Jane would be inclined to complain; so she bought the slate with the
writing on and took it home with her. Now, Mrs. Hale, wasn’t that
remarkable?”
“It seems to me,” protested that lady in reply, “that I shouldn’t
like to have my mother come back from the other world to talk about
clothes,” but as she was going on to express her fixed objection
to such doings, such unholy tampering with sacred things, as she
considered it, they reached Mrs. Adams’s gate, and that sprightly
person, after unavailingly urging her companion to enter, hurried in,
saying she would sew a little on Sis’s waist before dark.
Mrs. Hale, who was not really a townswoman at all, but a farmer’s wife,
and lived nearly a mile beyond the point where the highway ceased to
be a street and became the pike, went leisurely on her way over the
quiet country road, saying to herself, with a shake of the head, that
Martha Adams was a good soul, but too ready to believe everything she
heard. Then her mind drifted to other matters. She always remembered
her wandering thoughts of that afternoon, and sometimes spoke of them
long after, as showing how little foreknowledge has the human mind. She
thought complacently of her own paper on the French Revolution, which
she had read before the Circle the week previous. She was sixty years
old and had never done such a thing before, and it was a great event in
her life, but she told her husband, when it was over, that she didn’t
see but what her piece was “full as good as the average.” She owned
frankly that she got the most of it from the encyclopedia and the rest
from an old magazine belonging to Joe, “but, of course, they couldn’t
expect me to write a thing like that out of my own head,” she said,
“and if I used the same language, why, what’s the difference? I’m sure
I couldn’t have said it as well, and, anyway, it was all new to the
Circle.”
But the Circle soon passed into the background on this autumn
afternoon, and Joe, never far from the front in the mother’s mind,
occupied her thoughts exclusively--Joe, the son of her old age, she
called him. He was a young civil engineer, and through the influence of
an instructor in the school of which he was a graduate had had the good
fortune, as he considered it, to be made one of a government surveying
party to Alaska that summer, starting in April. He was on his way home
now. A letter had come from Seattle saying he had left the party,
which was coming east over the northern route, and was about to go
down the coast in a small sailing vessel, whose captain had happened
to take a liking to him. He did this because it was inexpensive and
he wanted a glimpse of California, not knowing when he should visit
the western coast again. He must have reached San Francisco by this
time, his mother reflected, and another letter was nearly due, though
possibly he would not think it worth while to write, he was coming so
soon himself. Mrs. Hale’s fond heart beat faster at the very thought
of seeing her boy once more, and as she looked about her over the
fields, golden with the September sunshine, the sight, dear from long
association, seemed to take on a new charm. It was a beautiful world,
she thought, not realizing that it was the contentment of her soul that
made the Indiana landscape doubly fair.
She entered the door of her home with a song in her heart and upon
her lips. She put her bonnet carefully away, and, with a look at the
clock to assure herself that she had yet a few minutes before it was
time to prepare supper for Abner and the hired man, she sat down to
rest and to glance at the paper she had brought from the post-office.
She opened the sheet and looked over it with mild interest. What fate
turned her eyes straight upon the obscure paragraph that in times of
much news would have found no space in the inland paper? Thus blindly
and unsuspectingly are we led into the tragedies of our lives. It was a
brief dispatch, dated at San Francisco, and mentioning the sinking of
the schooner Yakima through being run down by the steamship Montana.
The Yakima was bound for San Francisco with a cargo of coal, and filled
and sank so rapidly after the collision that only one person on board
escaped. The Montana put out her boats and picked up one sailor, who
reported that in addition to the crew the schooner had had on board one
passenger, a man from Indiana named Hale. The cause of the accident
would be investigated and the responsibility fixed, said the dispatch.
The mind comprehends slowly the full meaning of death when a loved
one has gone. It is only as weeks and months pass that the loss, the
desolation, the awful loneliness are realized. Sitting with her paper
in her hand that afternoon, Mrs. Hale saw her husband coming through
the orchard, and her first conscious thought was one of pity for him
that he had no son. Concerning her own bereavement she had, as yet,
no sensation; the sudden blow had made her numb. She watched him come
slowly and heavily through the gate and up the walk--a gray-haired man,
with bent shoulders, who had not kept his youthful elasticity as had
his wife.
“He has not many years of grief to bear,” she said, as she went out to
him, bearing the message of evil.
* * * * *
The history of the next few days she could hardly have told later. She
went about her household tasks mechanically, for the living must eat
and drink, though the best loved lie dead, but her mind wandered far
and scarce knew what her hands did. There was a sending of telegraphic
messages, a writing of letters and the gathering of all the information
that could be secured, but this was little more than the first
newspaper dispatch had contained. The Yakima had sunk, only one person
on board had been picked up at the time--which was just after midnight
on the 20th of September--and the sea being rough that night there was
no probability, even had any one been overlooked in the careful search
made, that a survivor could have remained afloat till morning.
Hope, catching at the faintest chance, died hard, but when weeks went
by and brought no word Joseph Hale’s death was accepted as a certainty.
His mother put on a black gown; his father went to and fro about his
work with a look that made the neighbors say he was aging fast; they
tried to bear their affliction with the fortitude and resignation
becoming to their Christian professions, but they knew that for them
the zest of life had passed with their son’s going, and that the years
to come must be endured, not enjoyed. They read the grief in each
other’s eyes, but spoke little of it, Abner being taciturn at all
times, and his wife, like so many men and women of the Anglo-Saxon
race, never having learned to express her deepest emotions in words.
One day in October services in memory of the young man were held in
the Presbyterian church. Sympathy with the bereaved parents was deep,
and the curious, but not unkindly, desire of their friends to see how
they were affected by the remarks of the minister, and how they bore
their sorrow, caused the emotion of a young woman near the door to go
unnoticed. She was Nellie Hamilton, a teacher in one of the village
schools. She and Joe Hale had known each other all their lives, and
were on such friendly footing and so free from self-consciousness
that no one had thought of them as lovers. She had been aware for
a long time of the state of her own affections, but it was only a
few days before his departure that Joe had begun to learn where his
heart belonged. She had seen the awakening in his eyes; she had felt
it in the subtle change of manner; she had read his secret through
the prescience of her own love, and her heart leaped in her bosom
and was glad. He had not spoken before he went away, but she did not
feel the less secure, for she saw also that he had not discovered her
secret, and was in that state of doubt where he feared to test his
fate. Maiden-like, and with a touch of coquetry, she had refrained
from betraying a hint of the truth, coyly holding back, confident in
the knowledge that when she chose to offer a sign he would come. Not
long since had come a letter telling her that on his return he had a
question to ask--one which he had “always thought a man ought to be
brave enough to put to a woman face to face, and not by letter.” A
reply would not have reached him had she written it, and now he was
dead; he was dead and would never know; was dead and she had not the
right to weep for him, but must go about with calm face, for she had
not let him speak, and he was not hers in the sight of the world. She
envied his mother the liberty of tears, of outspoken grief and of
unsmiling face. Life was bitter.
The days went on drearily. Mrs. Hale neglected the Ladies’ Circle,
the Missionary Society and all the various interests that had made
her social world, and, shut in her rural home, brooded over her loss.
October passed and November came, with heavier rains and more lowering
clouds, it seemed, than ever November had had before. Thanksgiving day
approached, and Mrs. Hale grew restless. On that day it had been the
custom to invite to dinner all the kinfolk living thereabout, but this
time she and her husband could not make festivity for themselves or
others. When the morning came Mrs. Hale arose and went about her tasks
with an unusual look of determination.
“Father,” she said to her husband at breakfast, “I don’t feel as if I
could go to our church this morning, and I am going into the city. I
know you don’t want to go, so I sha’n’t ask you. I’ll come out on the
one-o’clock train, which will give me time to have dinner by three.
It’ll be a good dinner. I’ve fixed ready for it.”
Abner offered no objection to the plan, but hitched up the horse and
took his wife to the train, meeting her, also, upon her return. Her
face bore a different expression, he noticed, from that it had worn in
the morning--a brighter, more cheerful look. They chatted of various
things on their way home--of Rev. Mr. Willetts’s sermon, which Abner
had heard; of the music by the new choir, which Abner did not like,
because he didn’t know what was being sung--tunes or words.
“That Hamilton girl--Nellie is her name, isn’t it?--took sick in
meeting,” he said casually. “Screamed and had to be helped out to the
air. Hystericky, I guess.”
“Poor thing!” commented his wife. “I expect she’s overworked and run
down. I must ask her out to spend some Sunday. She and Joe used to be
good friends.”
They ate their Thanksgiving dinner rather silently and their thanks
were not fervent, but perhaps the Lord forgave them, knowing their sore
hearts. It was not till dinner was over and Abner’s chores done that
Mrs. Hale disclosed the purpose of her morning’s visit to Indianapolis
and its result. It had not occurred to her husband’s rather slow-moving
mind, until that moment, that she had as yet said nothing about it.
He had assumed that she had attended a city church and had received
consolation from the words of the pastor. If she was nervous over the
confession of a different course of action she did not betray the
feeling, but went boldly about it.
“Father, I’ve got something to tell you. I went in town to-day and
visited a spiritualist medium--a slate-writer. She didn’t know I was
coming. She didn’t know my name. She didn’t ask a question, but she
sat down at a little table, took this little folding slate that Johnny
Miller left here (I carried it with me), laid her hands on it, never
a minute out of my sight, and while I was looking the little pencil
inside began to scratch, and when it stopped here was this writing,”
and Mrs. Hale produced the slate and began to read from its pages.